VERA NEVILL;

 OR, POOR WISDOM'S CHANCE. 

 _A NOVEL_. 

 BY MRS. H. LOVETT CAMERON

 Author of "Pure Gold, " "In a Grass Country, " etc. , etc. 

 PHILADELPHIA: J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY. 1893. 

 "No. Vain, alas! th' endeavour From bonds so sweet to sever. Poor Wisdom's Chance Against a glance Is now as weak as ever. "

 _Moore's Melodies_. 

CONTENTS. 

 CHAPTER I. The Vicar's Family

 CHAPTER II. Kynaston Hall

 CHAPTER III. Fanning Dead Ashes

 CHAPTER IV. The Lay Rector

 CHAPTER V. "Little Pitchers"

 CHAPTER VI. A Soirée at Walpole Lodge

 CHAPTER VII. Evening Reveries

 CHAPTER VIII. The Member for Meadowshire

 CHAPTER IX. Engaged

 CHAPTER X. A Meeting on the Stairs

 CHAPTER XI. An Idle Morning

 CHAPTER XII. The Meet at Shadonake

 CHAPTER XIII. Peacock's Feathers

 CHAPTER XIV. Her Wedding Dress

 CHAPTER XV. Vera's Message

 CHAPTER XVI. "Poor Wisdom"

 CHAPTER XVII. An Unlucky Love-Letter

 CHAPTER XVIII. Lady Kynaston's Plans

 CHAPTER XIX. What She Waited For

 CHAPTER XX. A Morning Walk

 CHAPTER XXI. Maurice's Intercession

 CHAPTER XXII. Mr. Pryme's Visitors

 CHAPTER XXIII. A White Sunshade

 CHAPTER XXIV. Her Son's Secret

 CHAPTER XXV. St. Paul's, Knightsbridge

 CHAPTER XXVI. The Russia-Leather Case

 CHAPTER XXVII. Dinner at Ranelagh

 CHAPTER XXVIII. Mrs. Hazeldine's "Long Eliza"

 CHAPTER XXIX. A Wedding Tour

 CHAPTER XXX. "If I could Die!"

 CHAPTER XXXI. An Eventful Drive

 CHAPTER XXXII. By the Vicarage Gate

 CHAPTER XXXIII. Denis Wilde's Love

 CHAPTER XXXIV. A Garden Party

 CHAPTER XXXV. Shadonake Bath

 CHAPTER XXXVI. At Peace

VERA NEVILL

OR

POOR WISDOM'S CHANCE. 

CHAPTER I. 

THE VICAR'S FAMILY. 

 With that regal indolent air she had So confident of her charm. 

 Owen Meredith. 

 Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear. 

 Shakespeare. 

Amongst the divers domestic complications into which short-sighted man isprone to fall there is none which has been more conclusively proved to bean utter and egregious failure than that family arrangement which, forlack of a better name, I will call a "composite household. "

No one could have spoken upon this subject with greater warmth offeeling, nor out of the depths of a more painful experience, thancould the Rev. Eustace Daintree, sometime vicar of the parish ofSutton-in-the-Wold. 

Mr. Daintree's family circle consisted of himself, his mother, his wife, and his wife's sister, and I should like to know how a man could expectto lead a life of peace and tranquillity with such a combination ofinharmonious feminine elements!

There were two children also, who were a fruitful source of discord anddisunion. It is certain that, had he chosen to do so, the Rev. Eustacemight have made many heart-rending and harrowing revelations concerningthe private life and customs of the inhabitants of his vicarage. It isequally certain, however, that he would not have chosen to do so, for hewas emphatically a man of peace and gentleness, kind hearted and givento good works; and was, moreover, sincerely anxious to do his dutyimpartially to those whom Providence or fate, or a combination of chancesand changes, had somehow contrived to bring together under his roof. 

Things had not always been thus with him. In the early days of theirmarried life Eustace Daintree and Marion his wife had had their home tothemselves, and right well had they enjoyed it. A fairly good livingbacked up by independent means, a small rural parish, a pleasantneighbourhood, a pretty and comfortable vicarage-house--what more can thehearts of a clergyman of the Church of England and his wife desire? Mr. And Mrs. Daintree, at all events, had wished for nothing better. But thisblissful state of things was not destined to last; it was, perhaps, hardly to be expected that it should, seeing that man is born to trouble, and that happiness is known to be as fleeting as time or beauty or anyother good thing. 

When Eustace Daintree had been married five years, his father died, and his mother, accepting his warmly tendered invitation to come toSutton-in-the-Wold upon a long visit, took up her abode in the pleasantvicarage-house. 

Her visit was long indeed. In a weak moment her son consented to herurgent request to be allowed to subscribe her quota to the householdexpenses--this was as good as giving her a ninety-nine years' lease ofher quarters. The thin end of the wedge thus inserted, Mrs. Daintree_mère_ became immovable as the church tower or the kitchen chimney, andthe doomed members of the family began to understand that nothing shortof death itself was likely to terminate the old lady's residence amongstthem. For the future her son's house became her home. 

But, even thus, things were not at their worst. Marion Daintree was asoft-hearted, gentle-mannered little woman. It cannot be said that sheregarded the permanent instalment of her mother-in-law in her home withpleasurable feelings; she would have been more than human had she doneso. But then she was unfeignedly fond of her husband, and desired soearnestly to make his home happy that, not seeing her way to oust theintruder without a warfare which would have distressed him, shedetermined to make the best of the situation, and to preserve thefamily peace and concord at all risks. 

She succeeded in her praiseworthy efforts, but at what cost no one butherself ever knew. Marion's whole life became one propitiatory sacrificeto her mother-in-law. To propitiate Mrs. Daintree was a very simplematter. Bearing in mind that her leading characteristics were a badtemper and an ungovernable desire to ride rough-shod over the feelings ofall those who came into contact with her, in order to secure her favourit was only necessary to study her moods, and to allow her to tread youunder foot as much as her soul desired. Provided that she had her own wayin these little matters, Mrs. Daintree became an amiable old lady. Mariondid all that was needful; figuratively speaking, she laid down in thedust before her, and the Juggernaut of her fate consented to be appeasedby the lowly attitude, and crushed its way triumphantly over her fallenbody. 

Thus Marion accepted her fate, and peace was preserved in her husband'shouse. But by-and-by there came somebody into the family who would by nomanner of means consent to be so crushed and trodden under foot. Thissomebody was Vera Nevill. 

In order duly to set forth who and what was this young woman, who thusaudaciously set at defiance the powers that were, it will be necessarythat I should take a brief survey of Marion's family history. 

Marion, then, be it known, was the eldest of three sisters; so much theeldest, that when Mr. Daintree had met her and married her in Rome duringone of his brief holidays, the two remaining sisters had been at the timehardly more than children. Colonel Nevill, their father, had married anItalian lady, long since dead, and had lived a nomad life ever since hehad become a widower; moving about chiefly between Nice, Rome, and Malta. Wherever pleasant society was to be found, there would Colonel Nevill andhis daughters instinctively drift, and year after year they became moreand more enamoured of their foreign life, and less and less disposed toventure back to the chill fogs and cloudy skies of their native land. 

Three years after Marion had left them, and gone away with her husband tohis English vicarage; Theodora, the second daughter, had at eighteenmarried an Italian prince, whose lineage was ancient, but whose acreswere few; and Colonel Nevill, dying rather suddenly almost immediatelyafter, Vera, the youngest daughter, as was most natural, instantly founda home with Princess Marinari. 

All this time Marion lived at Sutton-in-the-Wold, and saw none of them. She wept copiously at the news of her father's death, regretting bitterlyher inability to receive his parting blessing; but, her little Minniebeing born shortly after, her thoughts were fortunately diverted into ahappier channel, and she suffered from her loss less keenly and recoveredfrom it more quickly than had she had no separate life and no separateinterests of her own to engross her. Still, being essentiallyaffectionate and faithful, she clung to the memory of the two sisters nowseparated so entirely from her. For some years she and Theodora kept up abrisk correspondence. Marion's letters were full of the sayings anddoings of Tommy and Minnie, and Theodora's were full of nothing but Vera. 

What Vera had looked like at her first ball, how Prince this and Marquisso-and-so had admired her; how she had been smothered with bouquets andbonbons at Carnival time; how she had sat to some world-famed artist, whohad entreated to be allowed to put her face into his great picture, andhow the house was literally besieged with her lovers. By all this, andmuch more in the same strain, Marion perceived that her young sister, whom she had last seen in all the raw unformed awkwardness of earlygirlhood, had developed somehow into a beautiful woman. 

And there came photographs of Vera occasionally, fully confirming theglowing accounts Princess Marinari gave of her; fantastic photographs, portraying her in strange and different ways. There was Vera looking outthrough clouds of her own dark hair hanging loosely about her face; Veraas a Bacchante crowned with vine leaves, laughing saucily; Vera draped asa _dévote_, with drooping eyes and hands crossed meekly upon her bosom. Sometimes she would be in a ball-dress, with lace about her whiteshoulders; sometimes muffled up in winter sables, her head covered witha fur cap. But always she was beautiful, always a young queen, even inthese poor, fading photographs, that could give but a faint idea of herloveliness to those who knew her not. 

"She must be very handsome, " Eustace Daintree would say heartily, as hiswife, with a little natural flush of pride, handed some picture of heryoung sister across the breakfast-table to him. "How I wish we could seeher, she must be worth looking at, indeed. Mother, have you seen thislast one of Vera?"

"Beauty is a snare, " the old lady would answer viciously, hardly deigningto glance at the lovely face; "and your sister seems to me, Marion, to bedressed up like an actress, most unlike my idea of a modest Englishgirl. "

Then Marion would take her treasure away with her up into her own room, out of the way of her mother-in-law's stern and repelling remarks. 

But one day there came sad news to the vicarage at Sutton. Theodora, Princess Marinari, caught the Roman fever in its worst form, and aftera few agonizing letters and telegrams, that came so rapidly one upon theother that she had hardly time to realize the dreadful truth, Marionlearnt that her sister was dead. 

After that, the elder sister's English home became naturally the rightand fitting place for Vera to come to. So she left her gay life and herlovers, her bright dresses and all that had hitherto seemed to her worthliving for, and came back to her father's country and took up her abodein Eustace Daintree's quiet vicarage, where she became shortly hersister's idol and her sister's mother-in-law's mortal foe. 

And then it was that the worthy clergyman came to discover that to putthree grown-up women into the same house, and to expect them to livetogether in peace and amity, is about as foolhardy an experiment as toshut up a bulldog, a parrot, and a tom-cat in a cupboard, and expectthem to behave like so many lambs. 

It is now rather more than a year since Vera Nevill came to live in herbrother-in-law's house. Let me waste no further time, but introduce herto you at once. 

The time of the year is October--the time of day is five o'clock. In thevicarage drawing-room the afternoon tea-table has just been set out, andthe fire just lit, for it is chilly; but one of the long French windowsleading into the garden is still open, and through it Vera steps intothe room. 

There is a background of brown and yellow foliage behind her, across thegarden, all aglow with the crimson light of the western sky, againstwhich the outlines of her figure, in its close-fitting dark dress, standout clearly and distinctly. Vera has the figure, not of a sylph, but ofa goddess; it is the absolute perfection of the female form. She istall--very tall, and she carries her head a little proudly, like a youngqueen conscious of her own power. 

She comes in with a certain slow and languid grace in her movements, andpauses for an instant by the hearth, holding out her hand, that is whiteand well-shaped, though perhaps a trifle too long-fingered, to thewarmth. 

The glow of the newly-lit fire flickers up over her face--her face, withits pure oval outlines, its delicate, regular features, and its dreamyeyes, that are neither blue nor gray nor hazel, but something vague andindistinctly beautiful, entirely peculiar to themselves. Her hair, a softdusky cloud, comes down low over her broad forehead, and is gathered upat the back in some strange and thoroughly un-English fashion that wouldnot suit every one, yet that somehow makes a fitting crown to the statelyyoung head it adorns. 

"Tea, Vera?" says Marion, from behind the cups and saucers. 

Old Mrs. Daintree sits darning socks, severely, by the fading light. There is a sound of distant whimpering from the shadowy corner behind thepiano; it is Tommy in disgrace. Vera turns round; Marion's kind facelooks troubled and distressed; the old lady compresses her lips firmlyand savagely. 

Vera takes the cup from her sister's hands, and putting it down again onthe table, proceeds to cut a slice of bread from the loaf, and to spreadit thickly with strawberry jam. 

"Come here, Tommy, and have some of Auntie's bread and jam. "

Out comes a small person, with a very swollen face and a very dirtypinafore, from the distant seclusion of the corner, and flies swiftlyto Vera's sheltering arm. 

Mrs. Daintree drops her work angrily into her lap. 

"Vera, I must beg of you not to interfere with Tom; are you aware that heis in the corner by my orders?"

"Perfectly, Mrs. Daintree; and also that he was there before I went out, exactly three-quarters of an hour ago; there are limits to all humanendurance. "

"I consider it extremely impertinent, " begins the old lady, nodding herhead violently. 

"Darling Vera, " pleads Marion, almost in tears; "perhaps you had betterlet him go back. "

"Tommy is quite good now, " says Vera, calmly passing her hand over therough blonde head. Master Tommy's mouth is full of bread and jam, and helooks supremely indifferent to the warfare that is being carried on onhis account over his head. 

His crime having been the surreptitious purloining of his grandmamma'sdarning cotton, and the subsequent immersion of the same in the inkstand, Vera feels quite a warm glow of approval towards the little culprit andhis judiciously-planned piece of mischief. 

"Vera, I _insist_ upon that child being sent back into the corner!"exclaims Mrs. Daintree, angrily, bringing her large fist heavily downupon her knee. 

"The child has been over-punished already, " she answers, calmly, stilladministering the soothing solace of strawberry jam. 

"Oh, Vera, _pray_ keep the peace!" cries Marion, with clasped hands. 

"Here, I am thankful to say, comes my son;" as a shadow passes thewindow, and Eustace's tall figure with the meekly stooping head comesin at the door. "Eustace, I beg that you will decide who is to be inauthority in this house--your mother or this young lady. It isinsufferable that every time I send the children into the corner Verashould call them out and give them cakes and jam. "

Eustace Daintree looks helplessly from one to the other. 

"My dear mother--my dear girls--what is it all about? I am sure Vera doesnot mean----"

"No, Vera only means to be kind, grandmamma, " cries Marion, nervously;"she is so fond of the children----"

"Hold your tongue, Marion, and don't take your sister's part soshamelessly!"

Meanwhile Vera rises silently and pushes Tommy and all his enormitiesgently by the shoulders out of the room. Then she turns round and facesher foe. 

"Judge between us, Eustace!" the old lady is crying; "am I to be defiedand set at nought? are we all to bow down and worship Miss Vera, the mostuseless, lazy person in the house, who turns up her nose at honest menand prefers to live on charity, a burden to her relations?"

"Vera is no burden, only a great pleasure to me, my dear mother, " saidthe clergyman, holding out his hand to the girl. 

"Oh, grandmamma, how unkind you are, " says Marion, bursting into tears. But Vera only laughs lazily and amusedly, she is so used to it all! Itdoes not disturb her. 

"Is she to be mistress here, I ask, or am I?" continues Mrs. Daintree, furiously. 

"Marion is the mistress here, " says Vera, boldly; "neither you nor I haveany authority in her house or over her children. " And then the old ladygathers up her work and sails majestically from the room, followed by herweak, trembling daughter-in-law, bent on reconciliation, on cajolement, on laying herself down for her own sins, and her sister's as well, beforethe avenging genius of her life. 

The clergyman stands by the hearth with his head bent and his handsbehind him. He sighs wearily. 

Vera creeps up to him and lays her hand softly upon his coat sleeve. 

"I am a firebrand, am I not, Eustace?"

"My dear, no, not that; but if you could try a little to keep the peace!"He stayed the caressing hand within his own and looked at her tenderly. His face is a good one, but not a handsome one; and, as he looks at hiswife's young sister, it is softened into its best and kindest. Who canresist Vera, when she looks gentle and humble, with that rare light inher dark eyes?

"Vera, why don't you look like that at Mr. Gisburne?" he says, smiling. 

"Oh, Eustace! am I indeed a burden to you, as your mother says?" sheexclaims, evasively. 

"No, no, my dear, but it seems hard for you here; a home of your ownmight be happier for you; and Gisburne is a good man. "

"I don't like good men who are poor!" says Vera, with a little grimace. 

Her brother-in-law looks shocked. "Why do you say such hard worldlythings, Vera? You do not really mean them. "

"Don't I? Eustace, look at me: do I look like a poor clergyman's wife? Dosurvey me dispassionately. " She holds herself at arm's length from him, and looks comically up and down the length of her gray skirts. "Think ofthe yards and yards of stuff it takes to clothe me; and should not awoman as tall as I am be always in velvet and point lace, Eustace? Whatis the good of condemning myself to workhouse sheeting for the rest of mydays?"

Mr. Daintree looks at her admiringly; he has learnt to love her; thisbeautiful southern flower that has come to blossom in his home. Womenwill be hard enough on Vera through her life--men, never. 

"You have great gifts and great temptations, my child, " he says, solemnly. "I pray that I may be enabled to do my duty to you. Do not sayyou do not like good men, Vera, it pains me to hear you say it. "

"I like _one_ good man, and his name is Eustace Daintree!" she answers, softly; "is not that a hopeful sign?"

"You are a little flatterer, Vera, " he says, kissing her; but, though heis a middle-aged clergyman and her brother-in-law, he is by no meansimpervious to the flattery. 

Meanwhile, upstairs, Marion is humbling herself into the dust, at thefootstool of her tyrant. Mrs. Daintree is very angry with Marion'ssister, and Mr. Gisburne is also the text whereon she hangs her sermon. 

"I wish her no harm, Marion; why should I? She is most impertinent to me, but of that I will not speak. "

"Indeed, grandmamma, you do not understand Vera. I am sure she----"

"Oh, yes, excuse me, my dear, I understand her perfectly--theimpertinence to myself I waive--I hope I am a Christian, but I cannotforgive her for turning up her nose at Mr. Gisburne--a most excellentyoung man; what can a girl want more?"

"Dear Mrs. Daintree, does Vera look like a poor clergyman's wife?" saidMarion, using unconsciously Vera's own arguments. 

"Now, Marion, I have no patience with such folly! Whom do you suppose sheis to wait for? We haven't got any Princes down at Sutton to marry her;and I say it's a shame that she should go on living on her friends, agirl without a penny! when she might marry a respectable man, and havea home of her own. "

And then even Marion said that, if Vera could be brought to like Mr. Gisburne, it might possibly be happier for her to marry him. 

CHAPTER II. 

KYNASTON HALL. 

 Only the wind here hovers and revels In a round where life seems barren as death. Here there was laughing of old, there was weeping, Haply of lovers none ever will know. 

 Swinburne, "A Forsaken Garden. "

It seemed to be generally acknowledged by the Daintree family that ifVera would only consent to yield to the solicitations of the ReverendAlbert Gisburne, and transfer herself to Tripton Rectory for life, itwould be the simplest and easiest solution of a good many difficultproblems concerning her. 

In point of fact, Vera Nevill was an incongruous element in the Daintreehousehold. In that quiet humdrum country clergyman's life she was as muchout of her proper place as a bird of paradise in a chicken yard, or aGloire de Dijon rose in a field of turnips. 

It was not her beauty alone, but her whole previous life which unfittedher for the things amongst which she found herself suddenly transplanted. She was no young unformed child, but a woman of the world, who had beencourted and flattered and sought after; who had learnt to hold her own, and to fight her battles single-handed, and who knew far more aboutthe dangers and difficulties of life than did the simple-heartedbrother-in-law, under whose charge she now found herself, or the timid, gentle sister who was so many years her senior. 

But if she was cognizant of the world and its ways, Vera knew absolutelynothing about the life of an English vicarage. Sunday schools andmothers' meetings were enigmas to her; clothing clubs and friendlysocieties, hopeless and uninteresting mysteries which she had no desireto solve. She had no place in the daily routine. What was she to doamongst it all?

Vera did what was most pleasant and also most natural to her--she didnothing. She was by habit and by culture essentially indolent. Thesouthern blood she inherited, the life of the Italian fine lady she hadled, made her languid and fond of inaction. To lie late in bed, to sipchocolate, and open her letters before she rose; to be dressed andre-dressed by a fashionable lady's maid; to recline in luxuriouscarriages, and to listen lazily to the flattery and adulation that hadsurrounded her--that had been Vera's life from morning till night eversince she grew up. 

How, with such antecedents, was she to enter suddenly into all theactivity of an English clergyman's home? There were the schools, and thevestry meetings, and the sick and the destitute to be fretted after fromMonday morning till Saturday night--Eustace and Marion hardly ever had amoment's respite or a leisure hour the whole week; whilst Sunday, ofcourse, was the hardest day's work of all. 

But Vera could not turn her life into these things. She would not haveknown how to set about them, and assuredly she had no desire to try. 

So she wandered about the garden in the summer time, or sat dreamily bythe fire in winter. She gathered flowers and decorated the rooms withthem; she spoilt the children, she quarrelled with their grandmother, butshe did nothing else; and the righteous soul of Eustace Daintree wasdisquieted within him on account of her. He felt that her life waswasted, and the responsibility of it seemed, to his over-sensitiveconscience, to rest upon himself. 

"The girl ought to be married, " he would say to his wife, anxiously. "Ahusband and a home of her own is what she wants. If she were happilysettled she would find occupation enough. "

"I don't see whom she could marry, Eustace; men are so scarce, and thereare so many girls in the county. "

"Well, she might have had Barry. " Barry was a curate whom Vera had latelyscorned, and who had, in consequence of the crushed condition of hisaffections, incontinently fled. "And then there is Gisburne. Why couldn'tshe marry Gisburne? He is quite a catch, and a good young man too. "

"Yes, it is a pity; perhaps she may change her mind, and he will ask heragain after Christmas; he told me as much. "

"You must try and persuade her to think better of it by then, my dear. Now I must be off to old Abraham, and be sure you send round the port toMary Williams; and you will find the list for the blanket club on mystudy table, love. "

Her husband started on his morning rounds, and Marion, coming down intothe drawing-room, found old Mrs. Daintree haranguing Vera on the sameall-important topic. 

"I am only speaking for your good, Vera; what other object could I have?"she was saying, as she dived into the huge basket of undarned socks onthe floor before her, and extracted thereout a ragged specimen to beoperated upon. "It is sheer obstinacy on your part that you will notaccept such a good offer. And there was poor Mr. Barry, a most worthyyoung man, and his second cousin a bishop, too, quite sure of a living, I should say. "

"Another clergyman!" said Vera, with a soft laugh, just lifting up herhands and letting them fall down again upon her lap, with a little, half-foreign movement of impatience. "Are there, then, no other men butthe clergy in this country?"

"And a very good thing if there were no others, " glared the old lady, defiantly, over her spectacles. 

"I do not like them, " said Vera, simply. 

"Not like them! Considering that I am the daughter, the widow, and themother of clergymen, I consider that remark a deliberate insult to me!"

"Dear Mrs. Daintree, I am sure Vera never meant----" cried Marion, trembling for fear of a fresh battle. 

"Don't interrupt me, Marion; you ought to have more proper pride than tostand by and hear the Church reviled. "

"Vera only said she did not like them. "

"No more I do, Marion, " said Vera, stifling a yawn--"not when they areyoung; when they are old, like Eustace, they are far better; but whenthey are young they are all exactly alike--equally harmless when out ofthe pulpit, and equally wearisome when in it!"

A few moments of offended silence on the part of the elder lady, during which she tugs fiercely and savagely at the ragged sock in herhands--then she bursts forth again. 

"You may scorn them as much as you like, but let me tell you that thelife of a clergyman's wife--honoured, respected, and useful--is a moreprofitable one than the idle existence which you lead, utterlypurposeless and lazy. You never do one single thing from morning tillnight. "

"What shall I do? Shall I help you to darn Eustace's socks?" reaching atone of them out of the basket. 

Mrs. Daintree wrenched it angrily from her hand. 

"Good gracious! as if you could! What a bungle it would be. Why, I neversaw you with a piece of work in your hand in my life. I dare say youcould not even thread a needle. "

"I am quite sure I have never threaded one yet, " laughed Vera, lazily. "Imight try; but you see you won't let me be useful, so I had better resignmyself to idleness. " And then she rose and took her hat, and went outthrough the French window, out among the fallen yellow leaves, leavingthe other women to discuss the vexed problem of her existence. 

She discussed it to herself as she walked dreamily along under the treesin the lane beyond the garden, her head bent, and her eyes fixed upon theground; she swung her hat idly in her hand, for it was warm for the timeof year, and the gold-brown leaves fluttered down about her head andrustled under the dark, trailing skirts behind her. 

About half a mile up the lane, beyond the vicarage, stood an old irongateway leading into a park. It was flanked by square red-brick columns, upon whose summits two stone griffins, "rampant, " had looked each otherin the face for the space of some two hundred years or so, peering grimlyover the tops of the shields against which they stood on end, upon whichall the family arms and quarterings of the Kynastons had become softlycoated over by an indistinct veil of gray-green moss. 

Vera turned in at this gate, nodding to the woman at the lodge within, who looked out for a minute at her as she passed. It was her daily walk, for Kynaston was uninhabited and empty, and any one was free to wanderunreproved among its chestnut glades, or to stand and gossip to itsancient housekeeper in the great bare rooms of the deserted house. 

Vera did so often. The square, red-brick building, with its stonecopings, the terrace walk before the windows, the peacocks sunningthemselves before the front door, the fountain plashing sleepily in thestone basin, the statues down the square Italian garden--all had acertain fascination for her dreamy poetical nature. Then turning in atthe high narrow doorway, whose threshold Mrs. Eccles, the housekeeper, had long ago given her free leave to cross, she would stroll through thedeserted rooms, touching the queer spindle-legged furniture with gentlereverent fingers, gazing absorbedly at the dark rows of family portraits, and speculating always to herself what they had been like, these dead andgone Kynastons, who had once lived and laughed, and sorrowed and died, inthe now empty rooms, where nothing was left of them save those dim andfaded portraits, and where the echo of her own footsteps was the onlysound in the wilderness of the carpetless chambers where once they hadreigned supreme. 

She got to know them all at last by name--whole generations of them. There was Sir Ralph in armour, and Bridget, his wife, in a ruff and afarthingale; young Sir Maurice, who died in boyhood, and Sir Penrhyn, hisbrother, in long love-locks and lace ruffles. A whole succession of SirMartins and Sir Henrys; then came the first Sir John and his wife inpowder and patches, with their fourteen children all in a row, whoseelaborate marriages and family histories, Vera, although assisted by Mrs. Eccles, who had them all at her fingers' ends, had considerabledifficulty in clearly comprehending. It was a relief to be firmly landedwith Sir Maurice, in a sad-coloured suit and full-bottomed wig, "thepresent baronet's grandfather, " and, lastly, Sir John, "the presentbaronet's father, " in a deputy-lieutenant's scarlet uniform, with acocked hat under his arm--by far the worst and most inartistic paintingin the whole collection. 

It was all wonderful and interesting to Vera. She elaborated wholeromances to herself out of these portraits. She settled their loves andtheir temptations, heart-broken separations, and true lovers' meetingsbetween them. Each one had his or her history woven out of the slendermaterials which Mrs. Eccles could give her of their real lives. Only onething disappointed her, there was no portrait of the present Sir John. She would have liked to have seen what he was like, this man who wasunmarried still, and who had never cared to live in the house of hisfathers. She wondered what the mystery had been that kept him from it. She could not understand that a man should deliberately prefer dark, dirty, dingy London, which she had only once seen in passing from onestation to the other on her way to Sutton, to a life in this quietold-world red-brick house, with the rooks cawing among trees, and thelong chestnut glades stretching away into the park, and all the venerableassociations of those portraits of his ancestors. Some trouble, somesorrow, must have kept him away from it, she felt. 

But she would not question Mrs. Eccles about him; she encouraged her totalk of the dead and gone generations as much as she pleased, but of theman who was her master Vera would have thought it scarcely honourable tohave spoken to his servant. Perhaps, too, she preferred her dreams. Oneday, idly opening the drawer of an old bureau in the little room whichMrs. Eccles always called religiously "My lady's morning room, " Vera cameupon a modern photograph that arrested her attention wonderfully. 

It represented, however, nothing very remarkable; only abroad-shouldered, good-looking young man, with an aquiline noise and aclose-cropped head. On the reverse side of the card was written inpencil, "My son--for Mrs. Eccles. " Lady Kynaston, she supposed, musttherefore have sent it to the old housekeeper, and of course it was SirJohn. Vera pushed it back again into the drawer with a little flush, asthough she had been guilty of an indiscretion in looking at it, and shesaid no word of her discovery to the housekeeper. A day or two later shesought for it again in the same place, but it had been taken away. 

But the face thus seen made an impression upon her. She did not forgetit; and when Sir John Kynaston's name was mentioned, she invested himwith the living likeness of the photograph she had seen. 

On this particular October morning that Vera strolled up idly to the oldhouse she did not feel inclined to wander among the deserted rooms; thesunshine came down too pleasantly through the autumn leaves; the air wastoo full of the lingering breath of the dying summer for her to care togo indoors. She paused a minute by the open window of the housekeeper'sroom, and called the old lady by name. 

The room, however, was empty and she received no answer, so she wanderedon to the terrace and leant over the stone parapet that looked over thegardens and the fountains, and the distant park beyond, and she thoughtof the photograph in the drawer. 

And then and there there came into Vera Neville's mind a thought that, beginning with nothing more than an indistinct and idle fancy, ended ina set and determined purpose. 

The thought was this:--

"If Sir John Kynaston ever comes down here, I will marry him. "

She said it to herself, deliberately and calmly, without the slightestparticle of hesitation or bashfulness. She told herself that what herrelations were perpetually impressing upon her concerning thedesirableness of her marrying and making a home of her own, was perfectlyjust and true. It would undoubtedly be a good thing for her to marry; herlife was neither very pleasant nor very satisfactory to herself or to anyone else. She had never intended to end her days at Sutton Vicarage; ithad only been an intermediate condition of things. She had no vocationfor visiting the poor, or for filling that useful but unexciting familyoffice of maiden aunt; and, moreover, she felt that, with all theirkindness to her, her brother-in-law and his wife ought not to be burdenedwith her support for longer than was necessary. As to turning governess, or companion, or lady-help, there was an incongruity in the idea thatmade it too ludicrous to contemplate even for an instant. There is noother way that a handsome and penniless woman can deliver her friendsof the burden of her existence than by marriage. 

Marriage decidedly was what Vera had to look to. She was in no way averseto the idea, only she intended to look at the subject from the mostpractical and matter-of-fact point of view. 

She was not going to render herself wretched for life by rashlyconsenting to marry Mr. Gisburne, or any other equally unsuitable husbandthat her friends might choose to press upon her. Vera differed in oneimportant respect from the vast majority of young ladies of the presentday--she had no vague and indistinct dreams as to what marriage mightbring her. She knew exactly what she wanted from it. She wanted wealthand position, because she knew what they were and what life becamewithout them; and because she knew that she was utterly unfitted to bethe wife of any one but a rich man. 

And therefore it was that Vera looked from the square red house behindher over the wide gardens and broad lawns, and down the noble avenuesthat spread away into the distance, and said to herself, "This is whatwill suit me, to be mistress of a place like this; I should love itdearly; I should find real happiness and pleasure in the duties that sucha position would bring me. If Sir John Kynaston comes here, it is he whomI will marry, and none other. "

As to what her feelings might be towards the man whom she thus proposedto marry it cannot be said that Vera took them into consideration at all. She was not, indeed, aware whether or no she possessed any feelings; theyhad never incommoded her hitherto. Probably they had no existence. Suchvague fancy as had been ever roused within her had been connected with aphotograph seen once in a writing-table drawer. The photograph of SirJohn Kynaston! The reflection did not influence her in the least, onlyshe said to herself also, "If he is like his photograph, I should be sureto get on with him. "

She was an odd mixture, this Vera. Ambitious, worldly-wise, mercenaryeven, if you will; conscious of her own beauty, and determined to exactits full value; and yet she was tender and affectionate, full of poetryand refinement, honest and true as her own fanciful name. 

The secret of these strange contradictions is simply this. Vera has neverloved. No one spark of divine fire has ever touched her soul or warmedthe latent energies of her being. She has lived in the thick of theworld, but love has passed her scatheless. Her mind, her intellect, herbrain, are all alive, and sharpened acutely; her heart slumbers still. Happier for her, perhaps, had it never awakened. 

She leant upon the stone parapet, supporting her chin upon her hand, dreaming her dreams. Her hat lay by her side, her long dark dress fell instraight heavy folds to her feet. The yellow leaves fluttered about her, the peacocks strutted up and down, the gardeners in the distance weresweeping up the dead leaves on the lawns, but Vera stirred not; onemotionless, beautiful figure giving grace, and life, and harmony to thedeserted scene. 

 * * * * *

Some one was passing along among the upper rooms of the house, followedby Mrs. Eccles, panting and exhausted. 

"I am sure, Sir John, I am quite ashamed that you should see the place sochoked up with dust and lumber. If you had only let me have a day'snotice, instead of being took all of a sudden like, I'd have had thehouse tidied up a bit; but what with not expecting to see any of thefamily, and my being old, and not so quick at the cleaning as I used tobe----"

"Never mind, Mrs. Eccles; I had just as soon see it as it is. I onlywanted to see if you could make three or four rooms tolerably habitablein case I thought of bringing my horses down for a month or so. Thestables, I find, are in good repair. "

"Yes, Sir John, and so is the house; though the furniture is thatold-fashioned, that it is hardly fit for you to use. "

"Oh! it will do well enough; besides, I have not made up my mind at all. It is quite uncertain whether I shall come----Who is that?" stoppingsuddenly short before the window. 

"That! Oh, bless me, Sir John, it's Miss Vera, from the vicarage. I hopeyou won't object to her being here; of course, she could not know you wasback. I had given her leave to walk in the grounds. "

"The vicarage! Has Mr. Daintree a daughter so old as that?"

"Oh, law! no, Sir John. It is Mrs. Daintree's sister. She came fromabroad to live with them last year. A very nice young lady, Sir John, isMiss Nevill, and seems lonely like, and it kind of cheers her up to comeand see me and walk in the garden. I am sure I hope you won't take itamiss that I should have allowed her to come. "

"Take it amiss--good gracious, no! Pray, let Miss--Miss Nevill, did yousay?--come as often as she likes. What about the cellars, Mrs. Eccles?"

"I will get the key, Sir John. " The housekeeper precedes him out of theroom, but Sir John stands still by the window. 

"What a picture, " he says to himself below his breath; "how well shelooks there. She gives to the old place just the one thing it lacks--hasalways lacked ever since I have known it--the presence of a beautifulwoman. Yes, Mrs. Eccles, I am coming. " This last aloud, and he hastensdownstairs. 

Five minutes later, Sir John Kynaston says to his housekeeper, "You need not scare that young lady away from the place by telling herI was here to-day and saw her. And you may get the rooms ready, Mrs. Eccles, and order anything that is wanted, and get in a couple of maids, for I have made up my mind to bring my horses down next month. "

CHAPTER III. 

FANNING DEAD ASHES. 

 Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan, Sorrow calls no time that's gone, Violets plucked, the sweetest rain Makes not fresh, nor grow again. 

 Fletcher. 

"Have you heard of Sir John's latest vagary, grandpapa? He is gone downto Kynaston to hunt--so there's an end of _him_. "

"Humph! Where did you hear that?"

"I've been lunching at Lady Kynaston's. "

The speaker stood by the window of one of the large houses at Prince'sGate overlooking the Horticultural Gardens. She was a small, slightwoman, with fair pale features and a mass of soft yellow hair. She had adelicate complexion and very clear blue eyes. Altogether she was a prettylittle woman. A stranger would have guessed her to be a girl barely outof her teens. Helen Romer was in reality five-and-twenty, and she hadbeen a widow four years. 

Of her brief married life few people could speak with any certainty, although there were plenty of surmises and conjectures concerning it. Allthat was known was that Helen had lived with her grandfather till she wasnineteen; that one fine morning she had walked out of the house and hadbeen married to a man whom her grandfather disapproved of, and to whomshe had always professed perfect indifference. It was also known thateighteen months later her husband, having rapidly wasted his existence bydrink and other irregular courses, had died in miserable poverty; andthat Helen, not being able to set up a home of her own, upon her slenderfortune of some five or six thousand pounds, had returned to hergrandfather's house in Prince's Gate, where she had lived ever since. 

Why she had married William Romer no one ever exactly knew--perhaps Helenherself least of any one. It certainly was not for love; it could hardlyhave been from any worldly motive. Some people averred, and possibly theywere not far wrong, that she had done so out of pique because the man sheloved did not want her. 

However that might be, Mrs. Romer returned a widow, and not a verydisconsolate one, to her grandfather's house. 

It is certain that she would not have lived there could she have helpedit. She did not love old Mr. Harlowe, neither did Mr. Harlowe love her. Asense of absolute duty to his dead daughter's child on the one side, asense of absolute necessity on the other, kept the two together. Theirnatures were inharmonious. They kept up a form of affection and intimacyopenly; in reality, they had not one single thought in common. 

It is not too much to say that Mr. Harlowe positively disliked hisgrand-daughter. He had, perhaps, good reason for it. Helen had beennothing but a trouble to him. He had not desired to bring up a younglady in his house; he had not wished for the society which her presenceentailed, nor for the dissipations of London life into which he wasdragged more or less against his will. Added to which, Helen had notstriven to please him in essential matters. She had married a gambling, drinking blackguard, whom he had forbidden to enter his doors; and now, when she might retrieve her position, and marry well and creditably, sherefused to make the slightest effort to meet his views. 

Helen's life was a mystery to all but herself. To the world she was apretty, lively little widow, with a good house to live in, and sufficientmoney of her own to spend to very good effect upon her back, with not asingle duty or responsibility in her existence, and with no otheroccupation in life than to amuse herself. At her heart Helen knew herselfto be a soured and disappointed woman, who had desired one thing all herlife, and who, having attained with great pains and toil that forbiddenfruit which she had coveted, had found it turn, as such fruits too oftendo, to dust and ashes between her teeth. It was to have been sweet ashoneydew--and behold, it was nothing but bitterness!

She stood at the window looking out at the waning light of the Novemberafternoon. She was handsomely dressed in dark-green velvet, with a heavyold-fashioned gold chain round her neck; every now and then she looked ather watch, and a frown passed over her brow. The old man was bending overthe fire behind her. 

"Gone to Kynaston, is he? Humph! that is your fault, you frightened himoff. "

"Did I set my cap at him so palpably then?" said Helen, with a short, hard laugh. 

"You know very well what I mean, " answered her grandfather, sulkily. "Setyour cap! No, you only do that to the men you know I don't approve of, and who don't want you. "

Helen winced a little. "You put things very coarsely, grandpapa, " shesaid, and laughed again. "I am sorry I have been unable to make love toSir John Kynaston to please you. Is that what you wanted me to do?"

"I want you to look after a respectable husband, who can afford to keepyou. What is the meaning of that perpetual going to Lady Kynaston's then?And why have you dragged me up to town at this confounded time of theyear if it wasn't for that? You have played your cards badly as usual. You might have had him if you had chosen. "

"I have never had the least intention of casting myself at Sir John'shead, " said Helen, scornfully. 

"You can cast yourself, as you call it, at that good-for-nothing youngspendthrift's head fast enough if you choose it. "

"I don't in the least know whom you mean, " she said, shortly. 

The old man chuckled. "Oh, yes, you know well enough--the brother whospends his time racing and betting. You are a fool, Helen; he doesn'twant you; and if he did, he couldn't afford to keep you. "

"Suppose we leave Captain Kynaston's name out of the discussion, grandpapa, " she said, quietly, but her face flushed suddenly and herhands twisted themselves nervously in and out of her heavy chain. "Areyou not going to your study this evening?"

"Oh yes, I'm going, fast enough. You want me out of the way, I suppose. Somebody coming to tea, eh? Oh yes, I'll clear out. I don't want tolisten to your rubbish. "

The old man gathered up his books and papers and shuffled out of theroom, muttering to himself as he went. 

The servant came in, bringing the lamp, replenished the fire and drew thecurtains, shutting out the light of day. 

"Any one to tea, ma'am?" he inquired, respectfully. 

"One gentleman--no one else. Bring up tea when he comes. "

"Very well, ma'am;" and the servant withdrew. Mrs. Romer pacedimpatiently up and down the room, stopping again and again before theclock. 

"Late again! A whole half-hour behind his time! It is insufferable thathe should treat me like this. He would go quickly enough to see some newface--some fresh fancy that had attracted him. "

She took out her watch and laid it on the table. "Let me see if he willcome before the minute-hand touches the quarter; he _must_ be here bythen!"

She continued to pace steadily up and down the room. The clock ticked on, the minute-hand of the watch crept ever stealthily forward over thegolden dial; now and then a passing vehicle without made her heart beatwith sudden hope, and then sink down again with disappointment, as thesound of the wheels went by and died away in the distance. 

Suddenly she sank into an arm-chair, covering her face with her hands. 

"Oh, what a fool--what a fool I am!" she exclaimed aloud. "Why have I notstrength of mind to go out before he comes, to show him that I don'tcare? Why, at least, can I not call up grandpapa, and pretend I hadforgotten he was coming? That would be the best way to treat him; the wayto show him that I am not the miserable slave he thinks me. Why can I, who know so well how to manage all other men, never manage the one manwhose love I want? That horrid old man was right--he does not want me--henever did. Oh, if I only could be proud, and pretend I do not care! But Ican't, I can't--there is always this miserable sickening pain at my heartfor him, and he knows it. I have let him know it!"

A ring at the bell made her spring to her feet, whilst a glad flushsuddenly covered her face. 

In another minute the man she loved was in the room. 

"Nearly three-quarters of an hour late!" she cried, angrily, as heentered. "How shamefully you treat me!"

He stood in front of the fire, pulling off his dogskin gloves:a broad-shouldered, handsome fellow, with an aquiline nose and aclose-cropped head. 

"Am I late?" he said, indifferently. "I really did not know it. I havehad fifty places to go to in as many minutes. "

"Of course I shall forgive you if you have been so busy, " she said, softening at once. "Maurice, darling, are you not going to kiss me?" Shestood up by his side upon the hearthrug, looking at him with all herheart in her eyes, whilst his were on the fire. She wound her arms roundhis neck, and drew his head down. He leant his cheek carelessly towardsher lips, and she kissed him passionately; and he--he was thinking ofsomething else. 

"Poor little woman, " he said, almost with an effort recalling himselfto the present; he patted her cheek lightly and turned round to tosshis gloves into his hat on the table behind him. "How cold it hasturned--aren't you going to give me some tea?" And then he sat down onthe further side of the fire and stretched himself back in his arm-chair, throwing his arms up behind his head. 

Helen rang the bell for the tea. 

"Is that all you have to say to me?" she said, poutingly. 

Maurice Kynaston looked distressed. 

"Upon my word, Helen, I am sure I don't know what you expect. I haven'theard any particular news. I saw you only yesterday, you know. I don'tknow what you want me to say. "

Helen was silent. She knew very well what she wanted, she wanted him tosay and do things that were impossible to him--to play the lover to her, to respond to her caresses, to look glad to see her. 

Maurice was so tired of it all! tired alike of her reproaches and hercaresses. The first irritated him, the second gave him no pleasure. Therewas no longer any attraction to him about her, her love was oppressive tohim. He did not want it, he had never wanted it; only somehow she hadlaid it so openly and freely at his feet, that it had seemed almostunmanly to him not to put forth his hand and take it. And now he wastired of his thraldom, sick of her endearments, satiated with her kisses. And what was it all to end in? He could not marry her, he would not havedesired to do so had he been able; but as things were, there was no moneyto marry on either side. At his heart Maurice Kynaston was glad of it, for he did not want her for a wife, and yet he feared that he was boundto her. 

Man-like, he had no courage to break the chains that bound him, and yetto-night he had said to himself that he would make the effort--the stateof his affairs furnished him with a sufficiently good pretext forbroaching the subject. 

"There is something I wanted to say to you, " he said, after the tea hadbeen brought in and they were alone again. He sat forward in his chairand stroked his moustache nervously, not looking at her as he spoke. 

Helen came and sat on the hearthrug at his feet, resting her cheekcaressingly against his knee. 

"What is it, Maurice?"

"Well, it's about myself. I have been awfully hard hit this last week atNewmarket, you know. "

"Yes, so you told me. I am so sorry, darling. " But she did not care muchas long as he was with her and was kind to her--nothing else signifiedmuch to her. 

"Yes, but I am pretty well broke this time--I had to go to John again. Heis an awfully good fellow, is old John; he has paid everything up for me. But I've had to promise to give up racing, and now I've got to live onmy pay. "

"I could lend you fifty pounds. "

"Fifty pounds! pooh! what nonsense! What would be the good of fiftypounds to me?"

He said it rather ungraciously, perhaps, and her eyes filled with tears. When a man does not love a woman, her little childish offers of help donot touch him as they would if he loved her. He would not have taken fivethousand from her, yet he was angry with her for talking of fifty pounds. 

"What I wanted to say to you, Helen, was that, of course, now I am sohard up it's no good thinking of--of marrying--or anything of that kind;and don't you think it would be happiest if you and I--I mean, wisest forus both--for you, of course, principally----"

"_What!_" She lifted her head sharply. She saw what he meant at once. Awild terror filled her heart. "You mean that you want to throw me over!"she said, breathlessly. 

"My dear child, do be reasonable. Throw you over! of course not--but whatis it all to lead to? How can we possibly marry? It was bad enoughbefore, when I had my few hundreds a year. But now even that is gone. A captain in a line regiment is not exactly in a position to marry. Why, I shall hardly be able to keep myself, far less a wife too. I cannot dragyou down to starvation, Helen; it would not be right or honourable tocontinue to bind you to my broken fortunes. "

She was standing up now before him very white and very resolute. 

"Why do you make so many excuses? You want to be rid of me. "

"My dear child, how unjust you are. "

"Am I unjust? Wait! let me speak. How have we altered things? Could youmarry me any more before you lost this money? You know you could not. Have we not always agreed to wait till better times? Why cannot we go onwaiting?"

"It would not be fair to tie you. "

He had not the courage to say, "I do not love you--money or no money, Ido not wish to marry you. " How indeed is a man who is a gentleman to saysuch a discourteous thing to a lady for whom he has once professedaffection? Maurice Kynaston, at all events, could not say so. 

"It would not be fair to tie you; it would be better to let you be free:"that was all he could find to say. And then Helen burst forthimpetuously, "I wish to be tied--I do not want to be free--I will not marry any otherman on earth but you. Oh! Maurice, my love, my darling!" casting herselfdown again at his feet and clasping her arms wildly round him. "Whom elsedo I want but you--whom else have I ever loved? You know I have alwaysbeen yours--always--long ago, in the old days when you never even gave mea look, and I was so maddened with misery and despair that I did not carewhat became of me when I married poor Willie, hardly knowing what I wasdoing, only because my life was so unbearable at home. And now that Ihave got you, do you think I will give you up? And you love me--surely, surely, you _must_ love me. You said so once, Maurice--tell me so again. You do love me, don't you?"

What was a man to do? Maurice moved uneasily under her embrace as thoughhe would withdraw her arms from about his neck. 

"Of course, " he said, nervously; "of course, I am fond of you, and allthat, but we can't marry upon less than nothing. You must know that aswell as I do. "

"No; but we can wait. "

"What are we to wait for?" he said, irritably. 

"Oh, a hundred things might happen--your brother might die. "

"God forbid!" he said, pushing her from him, in earnest this time. 

"Well, we will hope not that, perhaps; but grandpapa can't live for ever, and he ought to leave me all his money, and then we should be rich. "

"It is horrible waiting for dead people's shoes, " said Maurice, with alittle shudder; "besides, Mr. Harlowe is just as likely as not to leavehis money to a hospital, or to the British Museum, or the NationalGallery--you could not count upon anything. "

"We could at all events wait and see. "

"And be engaged all that time on the off-chance?" he said, drearily;"that is a miserable prospect. "

"Then you do wish to get rid of me!" she said, looking at himsuspiciously; "you have seen some other woman. "

"Pooh! what a little fool you are!" He jumped up angrily from his chair, leaving her there upon the hearthrug. A woman makes a false move when shespeaks of "another woman" to the man whose affection for her is on thewane. In the present instance the accusation was utterly withoutfoundation. Many as were his self-reproaches on her account, that one hadnever been amongst them. If he did not love her, neither had he theslightest fancy for any other woman. Her remark irritated him beyondmeasure; it seemed to annul and wipe out the score of his ownshortcomings towards her, and to make himself, not her, the injured one. 

"Women are the most irrational, the most unjust, the most thoroughlypig-headed set of creatures on the face of the earth!" he burst forth, angrily. 

She saw her mistake by this time. She was no fool; she was quickenough--sharp as a needle--where her love did not, as love invariablydoes, warp and blind her judgment. 

"I am sorry, Maurice, " she said, humbly. "I did not mean to doubt you, ofcourse. Have you not said you love me? Sit down again, please. "

He sat down only half appeased, looking glum and sulky. She felt thatsome concession on her part was necessary. She took his hand and strokedit softly. She knew so well that he did not love her, and yet she clungso desperately to the hope that she could win him back; she would not ownto herself even in the furthermost recesses of her own heart that hislove was dead. She would not believe it; to put it in words to herselfeven would have half killed her; but still she was forced to acknowledgethat unless she met him half-way she might lose him altogether. 

"I will tell you what I will do, Maurice, " she said thoughtfully. "I willconsent to let our engagement be in abeyance for the present; I willcease to write to you unless I have anything particular to say, and Iwill not expect you to write to me. If people question us, we will denyany engagement between us--we will say that we are each of us free--buton one condition only, that you will promise me most solemnly, on yourhonour as a gentleman, that should either of us be left any money--shouldthere be, say, a clear thousand a year between us, within the next fiveyears----"

"My dear Helen, I am as likely to have a thousand a year as to bepresented with the regalia. "

"Never mind. If it is unlikely, so much the worse--or the better, whichever you may like to call it. But if such a thing does happen, giveme your word of honour that you will come to me at once--that, in fact, our engagement shall be renewed. If things are no better, our prospectsno brighter, in five years from now--well, then, let us each be free tomarry elsewhere. "

There was a moment or two of silence between them. Maurice bent forwardin his chair, leaning his arms upon his knees, and staring moodily intothe fire. He was weighing her proposition. It was something; but it wasnot enough. It virtually bound him to her for five years, for, of course, an engagement that is to be tacitly consented to between the principalcontractors is an engagement still, though the whole world be inignorance of it. But then it gave him a chance, and a very good chancetoo, of perfect liberty in five years' time. It was something, certainly;though, as he had wanted his freedom at once, it could hardly be said tobe altogether satisfactory. 

Helen knelt bolt upright in front of him, watching his face. Howpassionately she desired to hear him indignantly repudiate thehalf-liberty she offered him! How ardently she desired that he shouldtake her in his arms, and swear to her that he would never consent to herterms, no one but herself could know. It had been her last expedient torevive the old love, to rekindle the dead ashes of the smouldering fire. Surely, if there was but a spark of it left, it must leap up into lifeand vitality again at her words. But, as she watched him, her heart, thathad beat so wildly, sank cold and colder within her. She felt that hisheart was gone from her; she had cast her last die and lost. But, for allthat, she was not minded to let him go free--her wild, ungoverned passionfor him was too deeply rooted within her; since he would not be herswillingly, he should be hers by force. 

"Surely, " she said, wistfully, "you cannot find my terms too hard toconsent to--you who--who love me?"

He turned to her quickly and took her hands, every feeling ofgentleman-like honour, every spark of manly courtesy towards her, arousedby her gentle words. 

"Say no more, Helen--you are too good--too generous to me. It shall be asyou say. "

And then he left, thankful to escape from her presence and to be aloneagain with his thoughts in the raw darkness of the November evening. 

CHAPTER IV. 

THE LAY RECTOR. 

 Or art thou complaining Of thy lowly lot, And, thine own disdaining, Dost ask what thou hast not? Of the future dreaming, Weary of the past, For the present scheming All but what thou hast. 

 L. E. Landon. 

In the churchyard at Sutton-in-the-Wold was a monument which, fordownright ugliness and bad taste, could hardly find its fellow in thewhole county. It was a wonderful and marvellous structure of graygranite, raised upon a flight of steps, and consisted of an object likeunto Cleopatra's Needle surmounting a family tea-urn. It had been erectedby one Nathaniel Crupps, a well-to-do farmer in the parish, upon thedeath of his second wife. The first partner of his affections had beenpreviously interred also in the same spot, but it was not until the deathof the second Mrs. Crupps, who was undoubtedly his favourite, thatNathaniel bethought him of immortalizing the memory of both ladies by onebold stroke of fancy, as exemplified by this portentous granitemonstrosity. On it the virtues of both wives were recorded, as it wastouchingly and naïvely stated, by their "sorrowing husband with strictimpartiality. "

It was upon this graceful structure that Vera Nevill leant one foggymorning in the first week of November, and surveyed the church in frontof her. She was not engaged in any sentimental musings appropriate to thesituation. She was neither meditating upon the briefness of life ingeneral, nor upon the many virtues of the ladies of the Crupps family, over whose remains she was standing. She was simply waiting for JimmyGriffiths, and looking at the church because she had nothing else to lookat. The church, indeed, afforded her some food for reflection, purely, Iregret to state, of a practical and mundane character. It was a large andhandsome building, with a particularly fine old tower, that was sadly outof repair; but the chancel was a modern and barn-like structure of brickand plaster, which ought, of course, to be entirely swept away, and a newand more appropriate one built in its stead. The chancel belonged, asmost chancels do, to the lay rector, and the lay rector was Sir JohnKynaston. 

As soon as it became bruited abroad that Sir John was coming down to theold house for the winter, there was a general excitement throughout theparish, but no one partook of the excitement to a greater degree than didits worthy vicar. 

It was the dream of Eustace Daintree's life to get his church restored, and more especially to get the chancel rebuilt. There had been arestoration fund accumulating for some years, and could he have had theslightest assistance from the lay rector concerning the chancel, Mr. Daintree would assuredly have sent for the architect, and the builders, and the stone-cutters, and have begun his church at once with thatbeautiful disregard of the future chances of being able to get the moneyto pay for it, and with that sparrow-like trust in Providence, which isusually displayed by those clerical gentlemen who, in the face of anestimate which tells them that eight thousand pounds will be the sumtotal required, are ready to dash into bricks and mortar upon the actualpossession of eight hundred. But there was the chancel! To leave it as itwas whilst restoring the nave would have been too heart-rending; to touchit without Sir John Kynaston's assistance, impossible and illegal. Several times Eustace Daintree had applied to Sir John in writing uponthe subject. The answers had been vague and unsatisfactory. He wouldpromise nothing at all; he would come down and see it some day possibly, and then he would be able to say more about it; meanwhile, for thepresent, things must remain as they were. 

When, therefore, the news was known that Sir John was actually comingdown, Mr. Daintree's thoughts flew at once to his beloved church. 

"Now we shall get the chancel done at last, " he said to his wifegleefully, rubbing his hands. And the very day after Sir John's arrivalEustace went up to the Hall after dinner to see him upon the subject. 

"Had you not better wait a day or two?" counselled his more prudent wife. "Wait till you meet him, naturally. You don't very well know what kind ofman he is, nor how he will take it. "

"What is the use of waiting? I knew him well enough eight years ago; hewas a pleasant fellow enough then. He won't kill me, I suppose, and thechancel is a disgrace--a positive disgrace to him. It is my duty to pointit out to him; the thing can't afford to wait, it ought to be done atonce. "

So he disregarded Marion's advice, and Vera helped him on with hisgreat-coat in the hall, and wound his woollen comforter round his neck, and bade him good luck on his expedition to Kynaston. 

He came back sorrowful and abashed. Sir John had been civil, very civil;he had insisted on his sitting down at his table--for he had apparentlynot finished his dinner--and had opened a bottle of fine old port in hishonour. He had inquired about many of the old people, and had expresseda friendly interest in the parish generally; but with regard to thechancel, he had been as adamant. 

He did not see, he had said, why it could not go on well enough as itwas. If it was in bad repair, Davis should see to it; a man with abarrowful of bricks and a shovelful of mortar should be sent down. That, of course, it was his duty to do. Sir John did not understand that morecould possibly be expected of him. The chancel had been good enough forhis father, it would probably be good enough for him; it would last histime, he supposed, in any case. 

But the soul of the Rev. Eustace became as water within him. It wasnot of a barrowful of bricks and shovelful of mortar that he had beendreaming, but of lancet windows and stone mouldings; of polished oakrafters within, and of high gables and red tiles without. 

He came down from the Hall disheartened and discomfited, with all thespirit crushed out of him; and the ladies of his family, for once, were of one mind about the matter. There arose about him a storm ofindignation and a gush of sympathy, which could not fail to soothe himsomewhat. Eustace went to rest that night sore and heavy-hearted, it istrue, but with all the damnatory verses in the Scriptures concerning thelatter end of the "rich man" ringing in his head; a course of meditationwhich, upon the whole, afforded him a distinct sensation of consolationand comfort. 

And the next morning in the churchyard Vera leant against the Cruppsiansarcophagus, and thought about it. 

"Poor old Eustace, " she said to herself; "how I wish I were very rich, and could do his chancel for him! How pleased he would be; and what agood fellow he is! How odd it is to think what different aims there arein people's lives! There are Eustace and Marion simply miserable thismorning because of that hideous barn they can't get rid of. Well, it _is_hideous certainly; but it doesn't disturb my peace of mind in the least. What a mean curmudgeon Sir John must be, by the way! I should not havethought it from his photograph; such a frank, open, generous face heseemed to have. However, we all know how photographs can mislead one. I wonder where that wretched boy can be!"

The "wretched boy" was Jimmy Griffiths afore-mentioned; he was the youthwho was in the habit of blowing the organ. The schoolmaster, who was alsothe organist, was ill, and had sent word to Mr. Daintree that he would beunable to be at the church on the morrow. Eustace had asked Vera to takehis place. Now Vera was not accomplished; she neither sang, nor played, nor painted in water-colours; but she had once learnt to play the organa little--a very little. So she professed herself willing to undertakethe office of organ-player for once, that is to say, if she found shecould do it pretty well, only she must go into church and try all thechants over. So Jimmy Griffiths was sent for from the village, and Vera, with the church key in her pocket, strolled idly into the churchyard, and, whilst awaiting him, meditated upon the tomb of the two Mrs. Crupps. 

She had come in from the private gate of the vicarage, and the vicaragegarden--very bleak and very desolate by this time--lay behind her. To theright, the public pathway led down through the lych-gate into thevillage. Anybody coming up from the village could have seen her as shestood against the granite monument. She wore a long fur cloak down almostto her feet, and a round fur cap upon her head; they were her sisterTheodora's sables, which she had left to her. Old Mrs. Daintree alwaystold her she ought to sell them, a remark which made Vera very angry. Herback was turned to the village and to the lych-gate, and she was lookingup at poor Eustace's bug-bear--the barn-like chancel. 

Suddenly somebody came up close behind her and spoke to her. 

"Can you tell me, please, where the keys of the church are kept?"

A gentleman stood beside her, lifting his hat as he spoke. Vera starteda little at being so suddenly spoken to, but answered quite quietly andunconfusedly, "They are generally kept at the vicarage, or else in the clerk'scottage. "

"Thank you; then I will go and fetch them. "

"But they are not there now, " said Vera, as though finishing her formerremark. 

"If you will kindly tell me where I can find them, " continued thestranger, very politely, "I will go and get them. "

"I am afraid you can't do that, " said Vera, with just the vestige of asmile playing upon her face, "because they are at present in my pocket. "

"Oh, I beg your pardon;" and the stranger smiled outright. 

"But I will let you into the church, if you like; if that is what youwish?" she said, quite simply. 

"Yes, if you please. " Vera moved up the path to the porch, the gentlemanfollowing her. She turned the key in the heavy door and held it open. "Ifyou will go in, please, I will take the keys; I must not leave them inthe door. " The gentleman went in, and Vera looked at him as he passed by. 

Most uninteresting! was her verdict as he passed her; forty at the veryleast! What a beautiful situation for an adventure! What a romanticincident! And how excessively tame is the _dénouement_! A middle-agedgentleman, tall and slightly bald, with close-cropped whiskers and grave, set features; who on earth could he be? A stranger, evidently; perhaps hewas staying at some neighbouring country house, and had walked over toSutton for the sake of exercise; but what on earth could he want to seethe church for!

The stranger stood just inside the door with his hat off, looking at her. 

"Won't you come in and show it to me?" he asked, rather hesitatingly. 

"The church? oh, certainly, if you like, but there is nothing to see init. " She came in, closing the door behind her, and stood beside him. Itdid not strike her as unusual or interesting, or as anything, in fact, but the most common-place and unexciting proceeding, that she should dothe honours of the church to this middle-aged stranger. 

They stood side by side in the centre of the small nave with all theugly, high, red-cushioned pews around them. Vera looked up and down thefamiliar place as though she and not he were seeing it for the firsttime; from the row of whitewashed pillars to the staring white windows;from the hatchment on the plastered walls to the disfiguring galleryalong the west end. 

"It is very hideous, " she said, almost apologetically, "especially thechancel; Mr. Daintree wants to have it restored, but I suppose that can'tbe done at all now. "

"Why can't it be done?"

"Oh, because nothing can be done unless the chancel is pulled down; thatbelongs to the lay rector, and he has refused to restore it. "

"Sir John Kynaston is the lay rector. "

"Yes!" Vera looked a little startled; "do you know him?"

The gentleman passed his hand over his chin. 

"Slightly, " he answered, not looking at her. 

"It is a pity he cannot be brought to see how necessary it is, for hecertainly ought to do it, " continued Vera. "You see I cannot help beinginterested in it because Mr. Daintree is such a good man, and has workedso hard to get up money to begin the rest of the church. He had quitecounted upon the chancel being done, and now he is so much disappointed;but, I beg your pardon, this cannot interest you. "

"But it interests me very much. Why does not somebody put it in thislight to Sir John; he would not surely refuse?"

"My brother-in-law, Mr. Daintree, I mean, did ask him last night, and hewould not promise to do anything. "

The stranger suddenly left her side and walked up the church by himselfinto the chancel. He went straight up to the east end and made a minuteexamination apparently of the wall; after that, he came slowly downagain, looking carefully into every corner and cranny from thewhitewashed ceiling down to the damp and uneven stone paving at his feet;Vera thought him a very odd person, and wondered what he was thinkingabout. 

He came back to her and stood before her looking at her for a minute. Andthen he made this most remarkable speech:

"If _you_ were to ask Sir John Kynaston this he would restore thechancel!" he said. 

For half-a-second Vera stared at him in blank amazement. Then she turnedhaughtily round, and flushed hotly with angry indignation. 

"There is nothing more to see in the church, " she said, shortly, andwalked straight out of it. 

The stranger had followed her; when they reached the churchyard he saidto her, quite humbly, "I beg your pardon; Miss Nevill; how unlucky I am to have made you angry, to begin with. "

Vera looked at him in astonishment. How did he know her name; who was he?He was looking at her with such a penitent and distressed expression, that for the first time she noticed what a kind face it was. Then, beforeshe could answer him, she saw her brother-in-law over the paling of thevicarage garden, coming towards them. 

The stranger saw him, too, and lifted his hat to her. 

"Good-bye, " he said, rather hastily; "I did not mean to offend you; don'tbe angry about it;" and, before she could say a word, he turned quicklydown the churchyard through the lych-gate into the road, and was gone. 

"Vera, " said Eustace Daintree, coming leisurely up to her through thegarden gate, "how on earth do you come to be talking to Sir John; has hebeen saying anything to you about the chancel?"

"_Who_ was it? _who_ did you say?" cried Vera, aghast. 

"Why, Sir John Kynaston, to be sure. Did you not know it was he?"

She was thunderstruck. "Are you quite sure?" she faltered. 

"Why, of course! I saw him only last night, you know. I wonder why hewent off in such a hurry when he saw me?"

Vera was walking silently down the garden towards the house by his side. The thought in her mind was, "If that was Sir John Kynaston, who then isthe photograph I found in the writing-table drawer?"

"What did he say to you, Vera? How came you to be talking to him?"pursued her brother-in-law. 

"I only let him into the church. I did not know who he was. I told himthe chancel ought to be restored--by himself. "

Eustace Daintree looked dismayed. 

"How very unfortunate. It will, perhaps, make him still more decided todo nothing. "

Vera smiled a little to herself. "I hope not, Eustace, " was all she said. But although she said no word of it to him, she knew at her heart thathis chancel would be restored for him. 

Late that night Vera sat alone by her fireside, and thought over hermorning's adventure; and once again she said to herself, with a littleregretful sigh, "Whose, then, was the photograph?" But she put thethought away from her. 

After all, she said to herself, it made no difference. He was still SirJohn Kynaston of Kynaston Hall, and just as well worth a woman's while tomarry. She had made some mistake, that was all; and the real Sir John wasnot the least romantic or interesting to look at, but Kynaston Hallbelonged to him all the same. 

They were not very exalted or very much to be admired, these dreams ofVera's girlhood. But neither were they quite so coarse and unlovely aswould have been those of a purely mercenary woman. She was free from thevulgarity of desiring the man's money and his name from any desire toraise herself above her relations, or to feed her own vanity and ambitionat their expense. It was only that, marriage being a necessity for her, to marry anything but a rich man would have been, with her tastes and thehabits to which she had been brought up, the sheerest and rankest folly. She thought she could make a good wife to any man whose life she wouldlike to share--that is to say, a life of ease and affluence. She knew shewould make a very bad wife to a poor man. Therefore she determined uponso carving out her own fortunes that she should not make a failure ofherself. It was worldly wisdom of the purest and simplest character. 

She was as much determined as ever upon winning Kynaston's owner if hewas to be won. Only she wished, with a little sigh, that he had happenedto be the man in the photograph. She hardly knew why she wished it--butthe wish was there. 

She sat bending over her fire, with all her soft, dark hair loose abouther face and flowing down her back, and her eyes fixed dreamily upon theflames. Her past life came back to her, her old life in the whirl andturmoil of pleasure which had suited her so well. She compared it, alittle drearily, with the present; with the humdrum routine of thevicarage; with the parish talk about the old women and the schools; andthe small tittle-tattle about the schoolmaster and the choir, going onaround her all day; with old Mrs. Daintree's sharp tongue and hersister's meek rejoinders. She was very tired of it. It did not amuse her. She was not exactly discontented with her lot. Eustace and her sisterwere very kind to her, and she loved them dearly; but she did not livetheir life--she was with them, but not of them. As for herself, for herinterests and her delights, they stagnated amongst them all. How long wasit to last?

And Kynaston, by contrast, appeared very fair, with its smooth lawns andits terrace walks, and its great desolate rooms, that she would so wellunderstand how to fill with life and brightness; but Kynaston's mastercounted for very little to her. She knew the power of her own beauty sowell. Experience had taught her that Vera Nevill had but to smile and towin; it had been so easy to her to be loved and wooed. 

"Only, " she said to herself, as she stood up before her fire, andstretched up her arms so that her long hair fell back like a cloud aroundher, "only he is a different sort of man to what I had pictured him. Itwill, perhaps, not be such an easy matter to win a man like that. "

She went to bed and dreamt--not of Sir John Kynaston--but of the manwhose pictured face once seen had haunted her ever since. 

CHAPTER V. 

"LITTLE PITCHERS. "

 Once at least in a man's life, if only for a brief space, he reverences the saint in the woman he desires. He may love and pursue again and again, but she who has power to hold him back, who can make him tremble instead of woo, who can make him silent when he feels eloquent, and restrained when most impassioned, has won from him what never again can be given. 

It was an easier matter to win him than Vera thought. 

A week later Sir John Kynaston sat alone by his library fire, afterbreakfast, and owned to himself that he had fallen hopelessly andhelplessly in love with Vera Nevill. 

This was all the more remarkable because Sir John was not a very youngman, and that he was, moreover, not of a nature to do things rashly orimpulsively. 

He was, on the contrary, of a slow and hesitating disposition. He was inthe habit of weighing his words and his actions before he spoke or acted, his mind was tardy to take in new thoughts and new ideas, and he wascautious and almost sluggish in taking any steps in a strange andunaccustomed direction. 

Nevertheless, in this matter of Vera, he had succumbed to his fate withall the uncalculating blindness of a boy in his teens. 

Vera was like no other woman he had ever seen; she was as far removedabove common young-ladyhood as Raphael's Madonnas are beyond and aboveGreuze's simpering maidens; there could be no other like her--she wasa queen, a goddess among women. 

From the very first moment that he had caught sight of her on the terraceoutside his house her absolute mastery over him had begun. Her rarebeauty, her quiet smile, her slow, indolent movements, the very tones ofher rich, low voice, all impressed him in a strange and wonderful manner. She seemed to him to be the incarnation of everything that was pure andelevated in womanhood. To have imagined that such a one as she could havethought of his wealth or his position would have been the rankestblasphemy in his eyes. 

He raised her up on a pedestal of his own creating, and then he fell downbefore her and adored her. 

John Kynaston had but little knowledge of women. Shy and retiring inmanner--somewhat suspicious and distrustful also--he had kept out oftheir way through life. Once, in very early manhood, he had beendeceived; he had become engaged to a girl whom he afterwards discoveredto have accepted him only for his money and his name, whilst her heartreally belonged to another and a poorer man. He had shaken himself freeof her, with horror and disgust, and had sworn to himself that he wouldnever be so betrayed again. Since then he had been suspicious--and notwithout just cause--of the young ladies who had smiled upon him, and oftheir mothers, who had pressed him with gracious invitations to theirhouses. He was a rich man, but he did not mean to be loved for hiswealth; he said to himself that, sooner than be so, he would dieunmarried and leave to Maurice the task of keeping up the old name andthe old family. 

But he had seen Vera; and all at once all the old barriers of pride andreserve were broken down! Here was the one woman on earth who realizedhis dreams, the one woman whom he would wait and toil for, even as Jacobwaited and toiled for Rachel!

He had come down to Kynaston to hunt; but hitherto hunting had been verylittle in his thoughts. He had been down to the vicarage once or twice, he had met her once in the lanes, and he had longed for a glimpse of herdaily; as yet he had done nothing else. He opened his letters on thisparticular morning slowly and abstractedly, tossing them into the fire, one after the other, as he read them, and not paying very much attentionto their contents. 

There was one, however, from his brother, "I wish you would ask me downto Kynaston for a week or two, old fellow, " wrote Maurice. "I know youwould mount me--now I have got rid of all my horses to please you--andI should like a glimpse of the old country. Write and tell me if I shallcome down on Monday. "

This letter Sir John did pay attention to. He rose hastily, as though nota moment was to be lost, and answered it:--

"Dear Maurice, --I can't possibly have you down here yet. My own plans arevery uncertain, and if you are going to take your leave after Christmas, you had far better not go away from your work now. If I am still here inJanuary, I shall be delighted if you will come down, and will mount youas much as you like. "

He was happier when he had written and directed this letter. 

"I must be alone just now, " he murmured. "I could not bear Maurice'schatter--it would jar upon me. "

Then he put on his hat and strolled out. He looked in at the stables oneminute, and called the head groom to him. 

"Wright, did not Mr. Beavan say, when I bought that new bay mare of him, that she had carried a lady to hounds?"

"Yes, Sir John; Miss Beavan rode her last season. "

"Ah, she is a good rider. Well, I wish you would put a side-saddle and askirt on her, and exercise her this morning. I might want to--to lend herto a lady; but she must be perfectly quiet. You can take her out everyday this week. "

Sir John went on his way, leaving the worthy Wright a prey to speculationas to who the mysterious lady might be for whom the bay mare was to beexercised. 

His master, meanwhile, bent his steps almost instinctively to thevicarage. 

Vera was undergoing a periodical persecution concerning Mr. Gisburneat the hands of old Mrs. Daintree. She was standing up by the tablearranging some scarlet berries and some long trails of ivy which thechildren had brought to her in a vase. Tommy and Minnie stood by watchingher intently; Mrs. Daintree sat at a little distance, her lap full ofundarned socks, and rated her. 

"It is not as if you were a girl who could earn her living in case ofneed. There is not one single thing you can do. "

"Aunt Vera can make nosegays of berries boofully, grandma, " interpolatesTommy, earnestly; "can't she, Minnie?"

"Yes, she do, " assented the smaller child, with emphasis. 

"I wasn't speaking to you, Tom; little boys should be--"

"Heard and not seen, " puts in Tommy, rapidly; "you always say that, grandma. "

Vera laughs softly. Mrs. Daintree goes on with her lecture. 

"Many girls in your position are very accomplished; can teach the piano, and history, and the elements of Latin; but it seems to me you have beenbrought up in idleness. "

"Idleness is not to be despised in its way, " answers Vera, composedly. "Another bit of ivy, Tommy. What shall I do, Mrs. Daintree?" shecontinues, whilst her deft fingers wind the trailing greenery round andround the glass stem of the vase. "Shall I go down to the village schooland sit at the feet of Mr. Dee? I have no doubt he could teach me a greatmany things I know nothing about. "

"That is nonsense; of course I don't mean that you can educate yourselfto any purpose now; it is too late for that; but you need not, at allevents, turn up your nose at the blessings that Providence sets beforeyou; and I must say, that for a young woman deliberately to choose toremain a burden upon her friends, betokens an amount of servility anda lack of the spirit of independence which I should not have supposedpossible even in you!"

"What do you want me to do?" said Vera, without a sign of impatience. "Shall I walk over to Tripton this afternoon, and make a low curtsey toMr. Gisburne, and say to him very politely, 'Here is an idle andpenniless young woman who would be very pleased to stop here and marryyou!' Would that be the way to do it, Mrs. Daintree?"

"No, no, _no_!" imperatively from Tommy, who was listening with rapidlycrimsoning cheeks; "you shall _not_ go and stop at Tripton, and tell Mr. Gisburne you will marry him!"

Vera laughed. "No, Tommy, I don't think I will; not, that is to say, ifyou are a good boy. I think I can do something better than that withmyself!" she added, softly, as if to herself. Mrs. Daintree caught thewords. 

"And _what_ better, pray? What better chance are you ever likely to have?Let me tell you, bachelors who want penniless wives don't grow on theblackberry bushes down here! If you were not so selfish and so conceited, you would see where your duty to my son, who is supporting you, lay. Youwould see that to be married to an honest, upright man like AlbertGisburne is a chance that most girls would catch at only too thankfully. "

The old lady had raised her voice; she spoke loud and angrily; she wasrapidly working herself into a passion. Tommy, accustomed to family rows, stood on the hearthrug, looking excitedly from his grandmother to hisaunt. He was a precocious child; he did not quite understand, and yet heunderstood partly. He knew that his grandmother was scolding Vera, andtelling her she was to go away and marry Mr. Gisburne. That Vera shouldgo away! That, in itself, was sufficiently awful. Tommy adored Vera withall the intensity of his childish soul; that she should go away from himto Mr. Gisburne seemed to him the most terrible visitation that couldpossibly happen. His little heart swelled within him; the tears were verynear his eyes. 

At this very minute the door softly opened, and Sir John Kynaston, whosering had been unheard in the commotion, was ushered in. 

Tommy thought he saw a deliverer, specially sent in by Providence for theoccasion. He made one spring at him and caught him round the legs, afterthe manner of enthusiastic small boys. 

"Please--please--don't let grandmamma send aunt Vera away to Triptonto marry Mr. Gisburne! He has red hair, and I hate him; and aunt Veradoesn't want to go, she wants to stop at home and do something better!"

A moment of utter confusion on all sides; then Vera, crimson to the rootsof her hair, stepped forward and held out her hand. 

"Little pitchers have long ears!" she said, laughing: "and Tommy is avery silly little boy. "

"No, but, aunt Vera, you said--you said, " cried the child. What furtherrevelations he might have made were fortunately not destined to be known. His aunt placed her hand unceremoniously over his small, eager mouth, andhustled both children in some haste out of the room. 

Meanwhile, Sir John, looking the picture of distress and embarrassment, had shaken hands with the old lady, and inquired if he could speak withher son. 

"Mr. Daintree is in his study; I will take you to him, " she said, rising, and led him away out of the room. She looked at him sharply as she showedhim into the study; and it did come across her mind, "I wonder what youcome so often for. " Still, no thought of Vera entered into her head. SirJohn was the great man of the place, the squire, the potentate in thehollow of whose hand lay Sutton-in-the-Wold and all its inhabitants, andVera was a nobody in the old lady's eyes, --a waif, whose presence was ofno account at all. Sir John was no more likely to notice her than any ofthe village girls; except, indeed, that he would speak politely to herbecause she was Eustace's sister-in-law. Still, it did come across hermind to wonder what he came so often for. 

Five minutes later the two gentlemen were seen going across the vicaragegarden towards the church. 

They remained there a very long time, more than half an hour. When theycame back Marion had finished her housekeeping and was in the room busycutting out unbleached calico into poor men's shirts, on the grand piano, an instrument which she maintained had been specially and originallycalled into existence for no other purpose. Mrs. Daintree still sat inher chimney corner. Vera was at the writing-table with her back to theroom, writing a letter. 

The vicar came in with his face all aglow with excitement and delight;his wife looked up at him quickly, she saw that something unusual and ofa pleasant character had happened. 

"My dear Marion, we must both thank our good friend, Sir John. I am happyto tell you that he has consented to restore the chancel. "

"Oh, Sir John, how can we ever thank you enough!" cried Marion, comingforward breathlessly and pressing his hands in eager gratitude. Sir Johnlooked as if he didn't want to be thanked, but he glanced towards thewriting-table. Vera's back was turned; she made no sign of having heard. 

"I am sure I had given up all hopes of it altogether, " continued thevicar. "You gave such an unqualified refusal when I spoke to you aboutit before, I never dreamt that you would be induced to change your mind. "

"Some one--I mean--I thought it over--and--and it was presented to mynotice--in another light, " stammered Sir John, somewhat confusedly. 

"And it is most kind, most generous of you to allow it to be done in myown way, according to the plans I had wished to follow. "

"Oh, I am quite sure you will understand it much better than I am likelyto do. Besides, I have no time to attend to it; it will suit me better toleave it entirely in your hands. "

"Would you not like to see the plans Mr. Woodley drew for us last year?"

"Not now, I think, thank you; I must be going; another time, Mr. Daintree; I can't wait just now. "

He was standing irresolute in the middle of the room. He looked againwistfully at Vera's back. Was it possible that she was not going to givehim one word, one look, when surely she must know by whose influence hehad been induced to consent to rebuild the chancel!

Almost in despair he moved to the door, and just as he reached it, whenhis hand was already on the handle, she looked up. Her eyes, all softenedwith pleasure and gratitude, nay, almost with tenderness, met his. Hestopped suddenly short. 

"Miss Nevill, might I ask you to walk with me as far as the clerk'scottage? I--I forget which it is!"

It was the lamest and most blundering excuse. Any six-year-old child inthe village could have pointed out the cottage to him. Mrs. Daintreelooked up in astonishment. Vera blushed rosy red; Eustace, man-like, sawnothing, and began eagerly, "I am walking that way myself; we can go together----" Suddenly his coattails were violently pulled from behind. "Quite impossible, Eustace; Iwant you at home for the next hour, " says Marion, quietly standing by hisside, with a look of utter innocence upon her face. The vicar, almostthrottled by the violence of the assault upon his garments, perceivedthat, in some mysterious manner, he had said something he ought not tohave said. He deemed it wisest to subside into silence. 

Vera rose from the writing-table. "I will go and put my hat on, " shesaid, quietly, and left the room. 

Three minutes later she and Sir John went out of the front door together. 

"Well, that is the oddest fellow I ever came across in my life, " saidEustace, fairly puzzled as soon as he was gone. "It is my belief, "tapping his forehead significantly, "that he is a little touched _here_. I don't believe he quite knows what he is talking about. Why, the othernight he would have nothing to say to the chancel, wouldn't even listento me, cut me so short about it I really couldn't venture to pursue thesubject; and here he comes, ten days later, all of his own accord, andproposes to do it exactly as it ought to be done, in the best and mostexpensive way--purbeck columns round the lancet windows, and all, Marion, just what I wanted; gives me absolute _carte blanche_ about it. I onlyhope he won't take a fresh fancy into his head and change his mindagain. "

"Perhaps he found he would make himself unpopular if he did not do it, "suggested his mother. 

Marion held her tongue, and snipped away at her unbleached calico. 

"And then, again, about old Hoggs' cottage, " pursued Mr. Daintree. "Whaton earth could make him forget where it was? He might as well forget theway to his own house. I really do think he must be a little gone in theupper storey, poor fellow! Marion, what have you to say about it?"

"I have to say that if you stand chattering here all the morning, weshall never get anything done. I want to speak to you immediately, Eustace, in the other room. "

She hurried her husband out into the study, and carefully closed the doorupon them. 

What then was the Rev. Eustace's amazement to behold his wife suddenlyexecute a series of capers round the room, which would not have disgraceda _coryphée_ at a Christmas pantomime, but were hardly in keeping withthe demure and highly respectable bearing of the wife of the vicar ofSutton-in-the-Wold!

Mr. Daintree began to think that everybody was going mad this morning. 

"My dear Marion, what on earth is the matter?"

"Oh, you dear, stupid, blunder-headed old donkey!" exclaimed his wife, finishing her _pas seul_ in front of him, and hugging him vehemently as afinale to the entertainment. "Do you mean to say that you don't see it?"

"See it? See what?" repeated the unfortunate clergyman, in mortalbewilderment, staring at her hard. 

"Oh, you dear, stupid old goose! why, it's as plain as daylight. Can'tyou guess?"

Eustace shook his head dolefully. 

"Why, Sir John Kynaston has fallen in love with Vera!"

"_Marion!_ impossible!" in an awe-struck whisper. "What can make youimagine such a thing?"

"Why, everything--the chancel, of course. She must have spoken to himabout it; it is to be done for her; did you not see him look at her? Andthen, asking her to go down the village with him; he knows where Hoggs'cottage is as well as you do, only he couldn't think of anything better. "

Eustace literally gasped with the magnitude of the revelation. 

"Great Heavens! and I offered to go with him instead of her. "

"Yes, you great blundering baby!"

"Oh, my dear, are you sure--are you quite sure? Remember his position andVera's. "

"Well, and isn't Vera good enough, and beautiful enough, for anyposition?" answered her sister, proudly. 

"Yes, yes; that is true; God bless her!" he said, fervently. "Marion, what a clever woman you are to find it out. "

"Of course I am clever, sir. But, Eustace, it is only beginning, youknow; so we must just let things take their course, and not seem tonotice anything. And, mind, not a word to your mother. "

Meanwhile Vera and Sir John Kynaston were walking down the village streettogether. The man awkward and ill at ease, the woman calm and composed, and thoroughly mistress of the occasion. 

"It is very good of you about the chancel, " said Vera, softly, breakingthe embarrassment of the silence between them. 

"You _knew_ I should do it, " he said, looking at her. 

She smiled. "I thought perhaps you would. "

"You know _why_ I am going to do it--for whose sake, do you not?" hepursued, still keeping his eyes upon her downcast face. 

"Because it is the right thing to do, I hope; and for the sake of doinggood, " she answered, sedately; and Sir John felt immediately reproved andrebuked, as though by the voice of an angelic being. 

"Tell me, " he said, presently, "is it true that they want you tomarry--that parson--Gisburne, of Tripton? Forgive me for asking. "

Vera coloured a little and laughed. 

"What dreadful things little boys are!" was all she said. 

"Nay, but I want to know. Are you--are you _engaged_ to him?" with asudden painful eagerness of manner. 

"Most decidedly I am not, " she answered, earnestly. 

Sir John breathed again. 

"I don't know what you will think of me; you will, perhaps, say I am veryimpertinent. I know I have no right to question you. "

"I only think you are very kind to take an interest in me, " she answered, gently, looking at him with that wonderful look in her shadowy eyes thatcame into them unconsciously when she felt her softest and her best. 

They had passed through the village by this time into the quiet lanebeyond; needless to say that no thought of Hoggs, the clerk, or hiscottage, had come into either of their heads by the way. 

Sir John stopped short, and Vera of necessity stopped too. 

"I thought--it seemed to me by what I overheard, " he said, hesitatingly, "that they were tormenting you--persecuting you, perhaps--into a marriageyou do not wish for. "

"They have wished me to marry Mr. Gisburne, " Vera admitted, in a lowvoice, rustling the fallen brown leaves with her foot, her eyes fixed onthe ground. 

"But you won't let them over-persuade you; you won't be induced to listento them, will you? Promise me you won't?" he asked, anxiously. 

Vera looked up frankly into his face and smiled. 

"I give you my word of honour I will not marry Mr. Gisburne, " sheanswered; and then she added, laughingly, "You had no business to make mebetray that poor man's secrets. "

And then Sir John laughed too, and, changing the subject, asked her ifshe would like to ride a little bay mare he had that he thought wouldcarry her. Vera said she would think of it, with the air of a young queenaccepting a favour from a humble subject; and Sir John thanked her asheartily as though she had promised him some great thing. 

"Now, suppose we go and find Hoggs' cottage, " she said, smiling. And theyturned back towards the village. 

CHAPTER VI. 

A SOIRÉE AT WALPOLE LODGE. 

 When the lute is broken, Sweet notes are remembered not; When the lips have spoken, Loved accents are soon forgot. As music and splendour Survive not the lamp and the lute, The heart's echoes render No song when the spirit is mute. 

 Shelley. 

About three miles from Hyde Park Corner, somewhere among the cross-roadsbetween Mortlake and Kew, there stands a rambling, old-fashioned house, within about four acres of garden, surrounded by a very high, red-brickwall. It is one of those houses of which there used to be scores withinthe immediate neighbourhood of London--of which there still are dozens, although, alas! they are yearly disappearing to make room for gay rows ofpert, upstart villas, whose tawdry flashiness ill replaces the sedaterespectability of their last-century predecessors. But, uncoveted by thecontractor's lawless eye, untouched by the builder's desecrating hand, Walpole Lodge stands on, as it did a hundred years ago, hidden behindthe shelter of its venerable walls, and half smothered under masses ofwisteria and Virginia creeper. On the wall, in summer time, growcountless soft green mosses, and brown, waving grasses. Thick masses ofyellow stonecrop and tufts of snapdragon crown its summit, whilst thetopmost branches of the long row of lime-trees within come noddingsweet-scented greetings to the passers-by along the dusty high roadbelow. 

But in the winter the wall is flowerless and the branches of thelime-trees are bare, and within, in the garden, there are only theholly-trees and the yew-hedge of the shrubbery walks, and the empty brownflower-beds set in the faded grass. But winter and summer alike, old LadyKynaston holds her weekly receptions, and thither flock all the wit, andthe talent, and the fashion of London. In the summer they are gardenparties, in the winter they become evening receptions. How she manages itno one can quite tell; but so it is, that her rooms are always crowded, that no one is ever bored at her house, that people are always keen tocome to her, and that there are hundreds who would think it an effort togo to other people's parties across the street who think it no trouble atall to drive nearly to Richmond, to hers. She has the rare talent ofmaking society a charm in itself. No one who is not clever, or beautiful, or distinguished in some way above his or her fellows ever gains afooting in her drawing-rooms. Every one of any note whatever is sure tobe found there. There are savants and diplomatists, poets and painters, foreign ambassadors, and men of science. The fashionable beauty is sureto be met there side by side with the latest type of strong-minded woman;the German composer, with the wild hair, whose music is to regeneratethe future, may be seen chatting to a cabinet minister; the most risingbarrister of the day is lingering by the side of a prima-donna, ordiscoursing to an Eastern traveller. Old Lady Kynaston herself hascharming manners, and possesses the rare tact of making every one feelat home and happy in her house. 

It was not done in a day--this gathering about her of so brilliant anddelightful a society. She had lived many years at Walpole Lodge, eversince her widowhood, and was now quite an old lady. In her early life shehad written several charming books--chiefly biographies of distinguishedmen whom she had known, and even now she occasionally put pen again topaper, and sent some delightful social essay or some pleasantly writtencritique to one or other of the Reviews of the day. 

Her married life had been neither very long nor very happy. She had neverlearnt to love her husband's country home. At his death she had turnedher back thankfully upon Kynaston, and had never seen it again. Of hertwo sons, she stood in some awe of the elder, whose cold and unresponsivecharacter resembled her dead husband's, whilst she adored Maurice, whowas warm-hearted and affectionate in manner, like herself. There were tenyears between them, for she had been married twelve years; and at hersecret heart Lady Kynaston hoped and believed that John would remainunmarried, so that the estates and the money might in time becomeMaurice's. 

It is the second Thursday in December, and Lady Kynaston is "at home" tothe world. Her drawing-rooms--there are three of them, not large, butlow, comfortable rooms, opening one out of the other--are filled, asusual, with a mixed and brilliant crowd. 

Across the square hall is the dining-room, where a cold supper, not verysumptuous or very _recherché_, but still sufficient of its kind for theoccasion, is laid out; and beyond that is Lady Kynaston's boudoir, wherethere is a piano, and which is used on these occasions as a music-room, so that those who are musical may retire there, and neither interfere, nor be interfered with, by the rest of the company. Some one is singingin the music-room now--singing well, you may be sure, or he would not beat Walpole Lodge--but the strains of the song can hardly be heard at allacross dining-room and hall, in the larger of the three rooms, where mostof the guests are congregated. 

Lady Kynaston, a small, slight woman in soft gray satin and old lace, moves about graciously and gracefully still, despite her seventy years, among her guests--stopping now at one group, now at another, talkingpolitics to one, science to a second, whispering a few discreet wordsabout the latest scandal to this great lady, murmuring words of approvalupon her clever book or her charming poem to another. Her smiles areequally dispensed, no one is passed over, and she has the rare talent ofmaking every single individual in the crowded room feel himself to be theone particular person whom Lady Kynaston is especially rejoiced to see. She has tact, and she has sympathy--two invaluable gifts in a woman. 

Conspicuous among the crowd of well-dressed and handsome women is HelenRomer. She sits on an ottoman at the further end of the room, where sheholds a little court of her own, dispensing her smiles and pleasant wordsamong the little knot of men who linger admiringly by her side. 

She is in black, with masses of gold embroidery about her, and shecarries a large black and gold feather fan in her hands, which shemoves rapidly, almost restlessly, up and down; her eyes wander oftento the doorway, and every now and then she raises her hand with a short, impatient action to her blonde head, as though she were half weary ofthe talk about her. 

Presently, Lady Kynaston, moving slowly among her guests, comes near her, and, leaning for a moment on the back of the ottoman, presses her hand asshe passes. 

Mrs. Romer is a favourite of hers; she is pretty, and she is piquant inmanner and conversation; two very good things, which she thinks highly ofin any young woman. Besides that, she knows that Helen loves her youngerson; and, although she hardly understands how things are between them, nor how far Maurice himself is implicated, she believes that Helen willeventually inherit her grandfather's money, and, liking her personally, she has seen no harm in encouraging her too plainly displayed affection. Moreover, the love they both bear to him has been a link between them. They talk of him together almost as a mother and a daughter might do;they have the same anxieties over his health, the same vexations overhis debts, the same rejoicings when his brother comes forward with hismuch-needed help. Lady Kynaston does not want her darling to marry yet, but when the time shall come for him to take unto himself a wife, shewill raise no objection to pretty Helen Romer, should he bring her toher, as a daughter-in-law. 

As the old lady stoops over her, Helen's upturned wistful eyes say asplainly as words can say it--

"Is he coming to-night?"

"Maurice will be here presently, I hope, " says his mother, answering thelook in her eyes; "he was to come up by the six o'clock train; he willdine at his club and come on here later. " Helen's face became radiant, and Lady Kynaston passed on. 

Maurice Kynaston's regiment was quartered at Northampton; he came up totown often for the day or for the night, as he could get leave; but hismovements were never quite to be depended upon. 

Half-an-hour or so more of feverish impatience. Helen watches the gaycrowd about her with a feeling of sick weariness. Two members ofParliament are talking of Russian aggression and Turkish misrule close toher; they turn to her presently and include her in the conversation; Mrs. Romer gives her opinion shrewdly and sensibly. An elderly duchess isdescribing some episode of Royalty's last ball; there is a general laugh, in which Helen joins heartily; a young attaché bends over her andwhispers some admiring little speech in her ear, and she blushes andsmiles just as if she liked it above all things; while all the time hereyes hardly stray for one second from the open doorway through whichMaurice will come, and her heart is saying to itself, over and overagain, "Will he come, will he come?"

He comes at last. Long before the servant, who opens the door to him, hastaken his coat and hat from him, Helen catches sight of his handsome headand his broad shoulders through an opening in the crowd. In anotherminute he is in the room standing irresolute in the doorway, lookinground as if to see who is and who is not there to-night. 

He is, after all, only a very ordinary type of a good-looking soldierlyyoung Englishman, just such a one as may be seen any day in our parks orour drawing-rooms. He has clearly-cut and rather _prononcé_ features, astrong-built, well made figure, a long moustache, close-shaven cheeks, and eyes that are rather deep-set, and are, when you are near enough tosee them well, of a deep blue-gray. In all that Maurice Kynaston is in noway different from scores of other good-looking young men whom we mayhave met. But there is just something that makes his face a remarkableone: it is a strong-looking face--a face that looks as if he had a willof his own and knew how to stick to it; a face that looks, too, as if hecould do and dare much for truth and honour's sake. It is almost sternwhen he is silent; it can soften into the tenderness of a woman when hespeaks. 

Look at him now as he catches sight of his mother, and steps forward fora minute to press her loving hands. All the hardness and all the strengthare gone out of his face now; he only looks down at her with eyes full oflove and gentleness--for life as yet holds nothing dearer or better forhim than that little white-haired old woman. Only for a minute, and thenhe leaves go of her hands, and passes on down the room, speaking to theguests whom he knows. 

"He does not see me, " says Helen, bitterly, to herself; "he will go oninto the next room, and never know that I am here. "

But he had seen her perfectly. Next to the woman he most wishes to see ina room, the one whom a man first catches sight of is the woman he wouldsooner were not there. He had seen Helen the very instant he came in, buthe had noticed thankfully that some one was talking to her, and he saidto himself that there was no occasion for him to hurry to her side; itwas not as if they were openly engaged; there could be no necessity forhim to rush into slavery at once; he would speak to her, of course, by-and-by; and whenever he came to her he well knew that he would beequally welcomed: he was so sure of her. Nothing on earth or under Heavenis so fatal to a man's love as that. There was no longer any uncertainty;there was none of the keenness of pursuit dear to the old huntinginstinct inherent in man; there was not even the charm of variety in hermoods. She was always the same to him; always she pouted a little atfirst, and looked ill-tempered, and reproached him; and always she cameround again at his very first kind word, and poured out her heart in atorrent of worship at his feet. Maurice knew it all by heart, the sulksand the cross words, and then the passionate denials, and the wildprotestations of her undying love. He was sorry for her, too, in his way;he was too tender-hearted, too chivalrous, to be anything but kind toher; but though he was sorry, he could not love her; and, oh! howinsufferably weary of her he was!

Presently he did come up to her, and took the seat by her side justvacated by the attaché. The little serio-comedy instantly repeateditself. 

A little pout and a little toss of the head. 

"You have been as long coming to speak to me as you possibly could be. "

"Do you think it would look well if I had come rushing up to you theinstant I came in?"

"You need not, at all events, have stood talking for ten minutes to thatgreat black-eyed Lady Anderleigh. Of course, if you like her better thanme, you can go back to her. "

"Of course I can, if I choose, you silly little woman; but seeing thatI am by you, and not by her, I suppose it is a proof that I prefer yoursociety, is it not?"

Very polite, but not strictly true, Captain Maurice! At his heart hepreferred talking to Lady Anderleigh, or to any other woman in the room. The admission, however, was quite enough for Helen. 

"Dear Maurice, " she whispered, "forgive me; I am a jealous, bad-temperedwretch, but, " lower still, "it is only because I love you so much. "

And had there been no one in the room, Maurice knew perfectly that atthis juncture Mrs. Romer would have cast her arms around his neck--asusual. 

To his unspeakable relief, a man--a clever lawyer, whose attention was aflattering thing to any woman--came up to Helen at this moment, and tooka vacant chair beside her. Maurice thankfully slipped away, leaving hisinamorata in a state of rage and disgust with that talented and elderlylawyer, such as no words can describe. 

Captain Kynaston took the favourable opportunity of escaping across thehall, where he spent the remainder of the evening, dividing his attentionbetween the music and supper rooms, and Helen saw him no more that night. 

She saw, however, some one she had not reckoned upon seeing. Glancingcarelessly across to the end of the room, she perceived, talking to LadyKynaston, a little French gentleman, with a smooth black head, a neat, pointed, little black beard, and the red ribbon of the Légion d'Honneurin his button-hole. 

What there was in the sight of so harmless and inoffensive a personage toupset her it may be difficult to say; but the fact is that, when Mrs. Romer perceived this polite little Frenchman talking to her hostess, sheturned suddenly so sick and white, that a lady sitting near her asked herif she was going to faint. 

"I feel it a little hot, " she murmured; "I think I will go into the nextroom. " She rose and attempted to escape--whether from the heat or theobservation of the little Frenchman was best known to herself. 

Her maneuver, however, was not destined to succeed. Before she couldwork her way half-way through the crush to the door, the man whom she wasbent upon avoiding turned round and saw her. A look of glad recognitionflashed into his face, and he instantly left Lady Kynaston's side, andcame across the room to speak to her. 

"This is an unlooked-for pleasure, madame. "

"I certainly never expected to meet you here, Monsieur D'Arblet, "faltered Helen, turning red and white alternately. 

"Will you not come and have a little conversation with me?"

"I was just going away. "

"So soon! Oh, bien! then I will take you to your carriage. " He held outhis arm, and Helen was perforce obliged to take it. 

There was a little delay in the hall, whilst Helen waited for her, orrather for her grandfather's carriage, during which she stood with herhand upon her unwelcome friend's arm. Whilst they were waiting hewhispered something eagerly in her ear. 

"No, no; it is impossible!" reiterated Helen, with much apparentdistress. 

Monsieur D'Arblet whispered something more. 

"Very well, if you insist upon it!" she said, faintly, and then got intoher carriage and was driven away. 

Before, however, she had left Walpole Lodge five minutes, she called outto the servants to stop the carriage. The footman descended from the boxand came round to the window. 

They had drawn up by the side of a long wall quite beyond the crowd ofcarriages that was waiting at Lady Kynaston's house. 

"I want to wait here a few minutes, for--for a gentleman I am going todrive back to town, " she said to the servant, confusedly. She was ashamedto give such an order to him. 

She was frightened too, and trembled with nervousness lest any one shouldsee her waiting here. 

It was a cold, damp night, and Helen shivered, and drew her fur cloakcloser about her in the darkness. Presently there came footsteps alongthe pathway, and a man came through the fog up to the door. It was openedfor him in silence, and he got in, and the carriage drove off again. 

Monsieur Le Vicomte D'Arblet had a mean, cunning-looking countenance;strictly speaking, indeed, he was rather handsome, his features beingdecidedly well-shaped, but the evil and vindictive expression of hisface made it an unpleasant one to look upon. As he took his seat in thebrougham by Helen's side she shrank instinctively away from him. 

"So, ma mie!" he said, peering down into her face with odiousfamiliarity, "here I find you again after all this time, beautiful asever! It is charming to be with you again, once more. "

"Monsieur D'Arblet, pray understand that nothing but absolute necessitywould have induced me to drive you home to-night, " said Helen, who wastrembling violently. 

"You are not polite, ma belle--there is a charming _franchise_ about youEnglishwomen, however, which gives a piquancy to your conversation. "

"You know very well why it is that I am obliged to speak to you alone, "she interrupted, colouring hotly under his bold looks of admiration. 

"_Le souvenir du beau passé!_" murmured the Frenchman, laughing softly. "Is that it, ma belle Hélène?"

"Monsieur, " she cried, almost in tears, "pray listen to me; for pity'ssake tell me what you have done with my letters--have you destroyedthem?"

"Destroyed them! What, those dear letters that are so precious to myheart? Ah, madame, could you believe it of me?"

"You have kept them?" she murmured, faintly. 

"Mais si, certainement, that I have kept them, every one--every singleone of them, " he repeated, looking at her meaningly, with a cold glitterin his black eyes. 

"Not that--_that_ one?" pleaded Helen, piteously. 

"Yes--that one too--that charming and delightful letter in which you sogenerously offered to throw yourself upon my protection--do you rememberit?"

"Alas, only too well!" she murmured, hiding her face in her hands. 

"Ah!" he continued, with a sort of relish in torturing her, whichresembled the feline cruelty of a wild beast playing with its prey. "Ah!it was a delightful letter, that; what a pity it was that I was out ofParis that night, and never received it till, alas! it was too late torush to your side. You remember how it was, do you not? Your husband waslying ill at your hotel; you were very tired of him--ce pauvre mari!Well, you had been tired of him for some time, had you not? And he wasnot what you ladies call 'nice;' he did drink, and he did swear, and Ihad been often to see you when he was out, and had taken you to thetheatre and the bal d'Opéra--do you remember?"

"Ah, for Heaven's sake spare me these horrible reminiscences!" criedHelen, despairingly. 

He went on pitilessly, as though he had not heard her, "And you were goodenough to write me several letters--there were one, two, three, four ofthem, " counting them off upon his fingers; "and then came the fifth--thatone you wrote when he was ill. Was it not a sad pity that I had gone outof Paris for the day, and never received it till you and your husband hadleft for England? But think you that I will part with it ever? It is myconsolation, my trésor!"

"Monsieur D'Arblet, if you have one spark of honour or of gentleman-likefeeling, you will give me those mad, foolish letters again. I entreat youto do so. You know that I was beside myself when I wrote them, I was sounhappy--do you not see that they compromise me fatally; that it is mygood name, my reputation, which are at stake?" In her agony she had halfsunk at his feet on the floor of the carriage, clasping her handsentreatingly together. 

Monsieur D'Arblet raised her with _empressement_. 

"Ah, madame, do not thus humiliate yourself at my feet. Why should you beafraid? Are not your good name and your reputation safe in my hands?"

Helen burst into bitter tears. 

"How cruel, how wicked you are!" she cried; "no Englishman would treat alady in this way. "

"Your Englishmen are fools, ma chère--and I--I am French!" he replied, shrugging his shoulders expressively. 

"But what object, what possible cause can you have for keeping thosewretched letters?"

He bent his face down close to hers. 

"Shall I tell you, belle Hélène? It is this: You are beautiful and youhave talent; I like you. Some day, perhaps, when the grandpapa dies, youwill have money--then Lucien D'Arblet will come to you, madame, withthat precious little packet in his hands, and he will say, 'You willmarry me, ma chère, or I will make public these letters. ' Do you see?Till then, amusez vous, ma belle; enjoy your life and your liberty asmuch as you desire; I will not object to anything you do. Only you willnot venture to marry--because I have these letters?"

"You would prevent my marrying?" said Helen, faintly. 

"Mais, certainement that I should. Do you suppose any man would care tobe your husband after he had read that last letter--the fifth, you know?"

No answer, save the choking sobs of his companion. 

Monsieur D'Arblet waited a few minutes, watching her; then, as she didnot raise her head from the cushions of the carriage, where she hadburied it, the Frenchman pulled the check-string of the carriage. 

"Now, " he said, "I will wish you good-night, for we are close to yourhouse. We have had our little talk, have we not?"

The brougham, stopped, and the footman opened the door. 

"Good-night, madame, and many thanks for your kindness, " said D'Arblet, raising his hat politely. 

In another minute he was gone, and Helen, hoping that the darkness hadconcealed the traces of her agitation from the servant's prying eyes, wasdriven on, more dead than alive, to her grandfather's house. 

CHAPTER VII. 

EVENING REVERIES. 

 For nothing on earth is sadder Than the dream that cheated the grasp, The flower that turned to the adder, The fruit that changed to the asp, When the dayspring in darkness closes, As the sunset fades from the hills, With the fragrance of perished roses, And the music of parched-up rills. 

 A. L. Gordon. 

It had been the darkest chapter of her life, that fatal month in Paris, when she had foolishly and recklessly placed herself in the power of aman so unscrupulous and so devoid of principle as Lucien D'Arblet. 

It had begun in all innocence--on her part, at least. She had been verymiserable; she had discovered to the full how wild a mistake her marriagehad been. She had felt herself to be fatally separated from Maurice, theman she loved, for ever; and Monsieur D'Arblet had been kind to her; hehad pitied her for being tied to a husband who drank and who gambled, andHelen had allowed herself to be pitied. D'Arblet had charming manners, and an accurate knowledge of the weakness of the fair sex; he knew whento flatter and when to cajole her, when to be tenderly sympathetic to hersorrows, and when to divert her thoughts to brighter and pleasantertopics than her own miseries. He succeeded in fascinating her completely. Whilst her husband was occupied with his own disreputable friends, Helen, sooner than remain alone in their hotel night after night, was persuadedto accept Monsieur D'Arblet's escort to theatres and operas, and otherpublic places, where her constant presence with him very soon compromisedher amongst the few friends who knew her in Paris. 

Then came scenes with her husband; frantic letters of misery to thisFrench vicomte, whom she imagined to be so devotedly attached to her, and, finally, one ever-to-be-repented letter, in which she offered toleave her husband for ever and to come to him. 

True, this letter did not reach its destination till too late, and Helenwas mercifully saved from the fate which, in her wicked despair, she wasready to rush upon. Twenty-four hours after her return to England she sawthe horrible abyss upon which she had stood, and thanked God from thebottom of her heart that she had been rescued, in spite of herself, fromso dreadful a deed. But the letter had been written, and was in LucienD'Arblet's possession. Later on she learnt, by a chance conversation, thetrue character of the man, and shuddered when she remembered how nearlyshe had wrecked her whole life for him. And when her husband's death hadplaced her once more in the security and affluence of her grandfather'shouse, with fresh hopes and fresh chances before her, she had but onewish with regard to that Parisian episode of her life, --to forget it asthough it had never been. 

She hoped, and, as time went on, she felt sure, that she would never seeMonsieur D'Arblet again. New hopes and new excitements occupied herthoughts. The man to whom in her youth she had given her heart once morecame across her life; she was thrown very much into his society; shelearnt to love him more devotedly than ever, and when at last she hadsucceeded in establishing the sort of engagement which existed betweenthem, she had assured him, and also assured herself, that no other manhad ever, for one instant, filled her fancy. That stormy chapter of hermarried life was forgotten; she resolutely wiped it out of her memory, asif it had never existed. 

And now, after all this time--it was five years ago--she had met himagain--this Frenchman, who had once compromised her name, and who now hadpossession of her letters. 

There was a cruel irony of fate in the fact that she should be destinedto meet him again at Lady Kynaston's, the very house of all others whereshe would least have wished to see him. 

There was, however, had she thought of it, nothing at all extraordinaryin her having done so. No house in all London society was so open toforeigners as Walpole Lodge, and Monsieur Le Vicomte D'Arblet was nounknown upstart; he bore a good old name; he was clever, had taken anactive part in diplomatic life, and was a very well-known individual inParisian society. He had been brought to Lady Kynaston's by a member ofthe French Embassy, who was a frequenter of her soirées. 

Neither, however, was meeting with Mrs. Romer entirely accidental onMonsieur D'Arblet's part. He had never forgotten the pretty Englishwomanwho had so foolishly and recklessly placed herself in his power. 

It is true he had lost sight of her, and other intrigues and otherpursuits had filled his leisure hours; but when he came to England he hadthought of her again, and had made a few careless inquiries after her. Itwas not difficult to identify her; the Mrs. Romer who was now a widow, who lived with her rich grandfather, who was very old, who would probablysoon die and leave her all his wealth, was evidently the same Mrs. Romerwhom he had known. The friend who gave him the information spoke of heras lovely and _spirituelle_, and as a woman who would be worth marryingsome day. "She is often at Lady Kynaston's receptions, " he had added. 

"Mon cher, take me to your Lady Kynaston's soirées, " had been LucienD'Arblet's lazy rejoinder as they finished their evening smoke together. "I would like to meet my friend, la belle veuve, again, and I will see ifshe has forgotten me. "

Bitter, very bitter, were Mrs. Romer's remorseful meditations that nightwhen she reached her grandfather's house at Prince's Gate. Every detailof her acquaintance with Lucien D'Arblet came back to her with a horribleand painful distinctness. Over and over again she cursed her own folly, and bewailed the hardness of the fate which placed her once more in thehands of this man. 

Would he indeed keep his cruel threats to her? Would he bring forwardthose letters to spoil her life once more--to prevent her from marryingMaurice should she ever have the chance of doing so?

Stooping alone over her fire, with all the brightness, and all thefreshness gone out of her, with an old and almost haggard look in theface that was so lately beaming with smiles and dimples, Helen Romerasked herself shudderingly these bitter questions over and over again. 

Had she been sure of Maurice's love, she would have been almost temptedto have confessed her fault, and to have thrown herself upon his mercy;but she knew that he did not love her well enough to forgive her. Toowell she knew with what disgust and contempt Maurice would be likely toregard her past conduct; such a confession would, she knew, only inducehim to shake himself clear of her for ever. Indeed, had he loved her, itis doubtful whether Maurice would have been able to condone so grave afault in the past history of a woman; his own standard of honour stoodtoo high to allow him to pass over lightly any disgraceful ordishonourable conduct in those with whom he had to do. But, loving hernot, she would have been utterly without excuse in his eyes. 

She knew it well enough. No, her only chance was in silence, and in vaguehopes that time might rescue her out of her difficulties. 

Meanwhile, whilst Helen Romer sat up late into the early morning, thinking bitterly over her past sins and her future dangers, MauriceKynaston and his mother also kept watch together at Walpole Lodge afterall the guests had gone away, and the old house was left alone again tothe mother and son. 

"Something troubles you, little mother, " said Maurice, as he stretchedhimself upon the rug by her bedroom fire, and laid his head downcaressingly upon her knees. 

Lady Kynaston passed her hand fondly over the short dark hair. "How wellyou know my face, Maurice! Yes, something has worried me all day--it is aletter from your brother. "

Maurice looked up laughingly. "What, is old John in trouble? That wouldbe something new. Has he taken a leaf out of my book, mother, and droppedhis money at Newmarket, too?"

"No, you naughty boy? John has got more sense. No!" with a sigh--"I wishit were only money; I fear it is a worse trouble than that. "

"My dear mother, you alarm me, " cried Maurice, looking up in mock dismay;"why, whatever has he been and gone and done?"

"Oh, Maurice, it is nothing to laugh at--it is some woman--a girl he hasmet down at Kynaston; some nobody--a clergyman's daughter, or sister, orsomething--whom he says he is going to marry!" Lady Kynaston looked thepicture of distress and dismay. 

Maurice laughed softly. "Well, well, mother; there is nothing verydreadful after all--I am sure I wish him joy. "

"My boy, " she said, below her breath, "I had so hoped, so trusted hewould never marry--it seemed so unlikely--he seemed so completely happyin his bachelor's life; and I had hoped that you--that you----"

"Yes, yes, mother dear, I know, " he said, quickly, and twisted himselfround till he got her hand between his, kissing it as he spoke; "but I--Inever thought of that--dear old John, he has been the best of brothers tome; and, mother dear, I know it is all your love to me; but you and I, dear, we will not grudge him his happiness, will we?"

He knew so well her weakness--how that she had loved him at the expenseof the other son, who was not so dear to her; he loved her for it, andyet he did not at his heart think it right. 

Lady Kynaston wiped a few tears away. "You are always right, my boy, always, and I am a foolish old woman. But oh, Maurice, that is only halfthe trouble! Who is this woman whom he has chosen? Some country girl, ignorant of the ways of the world, unformed and awkward--not fitted to behis wife!"

"Does he say so?" laughed Maurice. 

"No, no, of course not. Stay, where is his letter? Oh, there, on thedressing-table; give it me, my dear. No, this is what he says: 'MissNevill seems to me in every way to fulfil my ideal of a good and perfectwoman, and, if she will consent to marry me, I intend to make her mywife. '"

"Well, a good and perfect woman is a _rara avis_, at all events mother. "

"Oh, dear! but all men say that of a girl when they are in love--itamounts to very little. "

"You see, he has evidently not proposed to her yet; perhaps she willrefuse him. "

"Refuse Sir John Kynaston, of Kynaston Hall! A poor clergyman's daughter!My dear Maurice, I gave you credit for more knowledge of the world. Besides, John is a fine-looking man. Oh, no, she is not in the leastlikely to refuse him. "

"Then all we have got to do is to make the best of her, " said Maurice, composedly. 

"That is easily said for you, who need see very little of her. ButJohn's wife is a person who will be of great importance to myhappiness. Dear me! and to think he might have had Lady Mary Hendriefor the asking: a charming creature, well born, highly educated andaccomplished--everything that a man could wish for. And there were the DeVallery girls--either of them would have married him, and been a suitablewife for him; and he must needs go and throw himself away on a littlecountry chit, who could have been equally happy, and much more suitablymated, with her father's curate. Maurice, my dear, " with a sudden changeof voice, "I wish you would go down and cut him out; if you made love toher ever so little you could turn her head, you know. "

Maurice burst out laughing. "Oh, you wicked, immoral little mother! Did Iever hear such an iniquitous proposition! Do you want _me_ to marry her?"

"No, no!" laughed his mother; "but you might make her think you meant to, and then, perhaps, she would refuse John. "

"I have not Kynaston Hall at my back, remember, after which you havegiven her the credit of angling. Besides, mother dear, to speak plainly, I honestly do not think my taste in women is in the least likely to bethe same as John's. No, I think I will keep out of the way whilst thelove-making is going on. I will go down and have a look at the youngwoman by-and-by when it is all settled, and let you know what I think ofher. I dare say a good, honest country lass will suit John far betterthan a beautiful woman of the world, who would be sure to be miserablewith him. Don't fret, little mother; make the best of her if you can. "

He rose and stretched himself up to his full height before the fire. LadyKynaston looked up at him admiringly. Oh, she thought, if the money andthe name could only have been his! How well he would have made use of it;how proud she would have been of him--her handsome boy, whom all menliked, and all women would gladly love. 

"A good son makes a good husband, " she said aloud, following her ownthoughts. 

"And John has been a good son, mother, " said Maurice, cordially. 

"Yes, yes, in his way, perhaps; but I was thinking of you, my boy, notof him, and how lucky will be the woman who is your wife, Maurice--willit be----"

Maurice stooped quickly, and laid his hand playfully over her lips. 

"I don't know, mother dear--never ask me--for I don't know it myself. "And then he kissed her, and wished her good-night, and left her. 

She sat long over her fire, dreaming, by herself, thinking a little, perhaps, of the elder son, and the bride he was going to bring her, whomshe should have to welcome whether she liked her or no, but thinking moreof the younger, whose inner life she had studied, and who was so entirelydear and precious to her. It was very little to her that he had beenextravagant and thoughtless, that he had lost money in betting andracing--these were minor faults--and she and John between them had alwaysmanaged to meet his difficulties; they had not been, in truth, verytremendous. But for that, he had never caused her one day's anxiety, never given her one instant's pain. "God grant he may get a wife whodeserves him, " was the mother's prayer that night. "I doubt if Helenbe worthy of him; but if he loves her, as I believe he must do, no wordof mine shall stand between him and his happiness. "

And then she went to bed, and dreamed, as mothers dream of the child theylove best. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

THE MEMBER FOR MEADOWSHIRE. 

 Honour and shame from no condition rise; Act well your part, there all the honour lies. 

 Pope, "Essay on Man. "

About five miles from Kynaston Hall, as the crow flies, across thefields, stood, as the house-agents would have described it, "a largeand commodious modern mansion, standing in about eighty acres ofwell-timbered park land. "

I do not know that any description that could be given of Shadonake wouldso well answer to the reality as the above familiar form of words. 

The house was undoubtedly large, very large, and it was also modern, verymodern. It was a handsome stone structure, with a colonnade of whitepillars along the entrance side, and with a multiplicity of largeplate-glass windows stretching away in interminable vistas in everydirection. A broad gravel sweep led up to the front door; to the rightwere the stables, large and handsome too, with a clock-tower and a belfryover the gateway; and to the left were the gardens and the shrubberies. 

There had been an old house once at Shadonake, old and picturesque anduncomfortable; but when the property had been purchased by the presentowner--Mr. Andrew Miller--after he had been returned as Conservativemember for the county, the old house was swept away, and a modernmansion, more suited to the wants and requirements of his family, arosein its place. 

The park was flat, but well wooded. The old trees, of course, remainedintact; but the gardens of the first house, being rambling andold-fashioned, had been done away with, to make room for others on alarger and more imposing scale; and vineries and pineries, orchid-houses, and hot-houses of every description arose rapidly all over the site ofthe old bowling-green and the wilderness, half kitchen garden, halfrosary, that had served to content the former owners of Shadonake, nowall lying dead and buried in the chancel of the village church. 

The only feature of the old mansion which had been left untouched wasrather a remarkable one. It was a large lake or pond, lying south of thegardens, and about a quarter of a mile from the house. It lay in a sortof dip in the ground, and was surrounded on all four sides--for it wasexactly square--by very steep high banks, which had been cut into bysteep stone steps, now gray, and broken, and moss-grown, which led downstraight into the water. This pool was called Shadonake Bath. How longthe steps had existed no one knew; probably for several hundred years, for there was a ghost story connected with them. Somebody was supposed, before the memory of any one living, to have been drowned there, and tohaunt the steps at certain times of the year. 

It is certain that but for the fact of a mania for boating, and punting, and skating indulged in by several of his younger sons, Mr. Miller, inhis energy for sweeping away all things old, and setting up all thingsnew, would not have spared the Bath any more than he had spared thebowling-green. He had gone so far, indeed, as to have a plan submitted tohim for draining it, and turning it into a strawberry garden, and fordoing away with the picturesque old stone steps altogether in order toencase the banks in red brick, suitable to the cultivation of peaches andnectarines; but Ernest and Charley, the Eton boys, had thought abouttheir punts and their canoes, and had pleaded piteously for the Bath; sothe Bath was allowed to remain untouched, greatly to the relief of manyof the neighbours, who were proud of its traditions, and who, in thegeneral destruction that had been going on at Shadonake, had trembled forits safety. 

Where Mr. Miller had originally come from nobody exactly knew. It wasgenerally supposed that he had migrated early in life from northern andmanufacturing districts, where his father had amassed a large fortune. In spite, however, of his wealth, it is doubtful whether he would everhave achieved the difficult task of being returned for so exclusive andaristocratic a county as Meadowshire had he not made a most prudent andpolitic marriage. He had married one of the Miss Esterworths, ofLutterton. 

Now, everybody who has the slightest knowledge of Meadowshire and itsinternal politics will see at once that Andrew Miller could not have donebetter for himself. The Esterworths are the very oldest and best of theold county families; there can be no sort of doubt whatever as to theirposition and standing. Therefore, when Andrew Miller married CarolineEsterworth, there was at once an end of all hesitation as to how he wasto be treated amongst them. Meadowshire might wonder at Miss Caroline'staste, but it kept its wonder to itself, and held out the right hand offellowship to Andrew Miller then and ever after. 

It is true that there were five Miss Esterworths, all grown up, and allunmarried, at the time when Andrew came a-wooing to Lutterton Castle;they were none of them remarkable for beauty, and Caroline, who was theeldest of the five, less so than the others. Moreover, there were manysons at Lutterton, and the daughters' portions were but small. Altogetherthe love-making had been easy and prosperous, for Caroline, who was asensible young woman, had readily recognized the superior advantagesof marrying an excellent man of no birth or breeding, with twentythousand a year, to remaining Miss Esterworth to her dying day, indignified but impecunious spinsterhood. Time had proved the wisdom of herchoice. For some years the Millers had rented a small but pretty littlehouse within two miles of Lutterton, where, of course, everybody visitedthem, and got used to Andrew's squat, burly figure, and agreed tooverlook his many little defects of speech and manner in consideration ofhis many excellent qualities--and his wealth--and where, in course oftime, all their children, two daughters and six sons, were born. 

And then, a vacancy occurring opportunely, Mrs. Miller determined thather husband should stand in the Conservative interest for the county. Shewould have made a Liberal of him had she thought it would answer better. How she toiled and how she slaved, and how she kept her Andrew, who wasnot by any means ambitious of the position, up to the mark, it boots nothere to tell. Suffice it to say, that the deed was accomplished, and thatAndrew Miller became M. P. For North Meadowshire. 

Almost at the same time Shadonake fell into the market, and Mrs. Millerperceived that the time had now come for her husband's wealth to berecognized and appreciated; or, as he himself expressed it, in vernacularthat was strictly to the point if inelegant in diction, the time wascome for him "to cut a splash. "

She had been very clever, this daughter of the Esterworths. She had kepta tight rein over her husband all through the early years of theirmarried life. She would have no ostentation, no vulgar display of wealth, no parading and flaunting of that twenty thousand per annum in theirneighbours' faces. And she had done what she had intended; she hadestablished her husband's position well in the county--she had made himto be accepted, not only by reason of his wealth, but also because he washer husband; she had roused no one's envy--she had never given cause forspite or jealousy--she had made him popular as well as herself. They hadlived quietly and unobtrusively; they had, of course, had everything ofthe best; their horses and carriages were irreproachable, but they hadnot had more of them than their neighbours. They had entertained freely, and they had given their guests well-cooked dinners and expensive wines;but there had been nothing lavish in their entertainments, nothing thatcould make any of them go away and say to themselves, with angrydiscontent, that "those Millers" were purse-proud and vulgar in theirwealth. When she had gone to her neighbours' houses Mrs. Miller had beenhandsomely but never extravagantly dressed; she had praised their cooks, and expressed herself envious of their flowers, and had bemoaned her owninability to vie with their peaches and their pineapples; she had nevertalked about her own possessions, nor had she ever paraded her own eightthousand pounds' worth of diamonds before the envious eyes of women whohad none. 

In this way she had made herself popular--and in this way she had won thecounty seat for her husband. 

When, however, that great end and aim of her existence was accomplished, Caroline Miller felt that she might now fairly launch out a little. Thetime was come when she might reap the advantage of her long years ofrepression and patient waiting. Her daughters were growing up, her sonswere all at school. For her children's sake, it was time that she shouldtake the lead in the county which their father's fortune and new positionentitled them to, and which no one now was likely to grudge them. Shadonake therefore was bought, and the house straightway pulled down, and built up again in a style, and with a magnificence, befitting Mr. Miller's wealth. 

Bricks and mortar were Andrew Miller's delight. He was never so happy asduring the three years that Shadonake House was being built; every stonethat was laid was a fresh interest to him; every inch of brick wall akeen and special delight. He had been disappointed not to have had thespoliation of Shadonake Bath; it had been a distinct mortification to himto have to forego the four brick walls which would have replaced itsancient steps; but then he had made it up to himself by altering theposition of the front door three times before it was finally settledto his satisfaction. 

But all this was over by this time, and when my story begins Shadonakenew House, as it was sometimes called, was built, and furnished andinhabited in every corner of its lofty rooms, and all along the spaciouslength of its many wide corridors. 

One afternoon--it is about a week later than that soirée at WalpoleLodge, mentioned in a previous chapter--Mrs. Miller and her eldestdaughter are sitting together in the large drawing-room at Shadonake. Theroom is furnished in that style of high artistic decoration that is nowthe fashion. There are rich Persian rugs over the polished oak floor; ahigh oak chimney-piece, with blue tiles inserted into it in everydirection, and decorated with old Nankin china bowls and jars; a widegrate below, where logs of wood are blazing between brass bars;quantities of spindle-legged Chippendale furniture all over the room, and a profusion of rich gold embroidery and "textile fabrics" of alldescriptions lighting up the carved oak "dado" and the sombre sage greenof the walls. There are pictures, too, quite of the best, and china ofevery period and every style, upon every available bracket and shelf andcorner where a cup or a plate can be made to stand. Four large windows onone side open on to the lawn; two, at right angles to them, lead intoa large conservatory, where there is, even at this dead season of theyear, a blaze of exotic blossoms that fill the room with their sweet richodour. 

Mrs. Miller sits before a writing bureau of inlaid satin-wood of anancient pattern. She has her pen in her hand, and is docketing hervisiting list. Beatrice Miller sits on a low four-legged stool by hermother's side, with a large Japanese china bowl on her knees filled withcards, which she takes out one after the other, reading the names uponthem aloud to her mother before tossing them into a basket, also ofJapanese structure, which is on the floor in front of her. 

Beatrice is Mrs. Miller's eldest daughter, and she is twenty. Guy is onlyeleven months older, and Edwin is a year younger--they are both atOxford; next comes Geraldine, who is still in the school-room, but who ishoping to come out next Easter; then Ernest and Charley, the Eton boys;and lastly, Teddy and Ralph, who are at a famous preparatory school, whence they hope, in process of time, to be drafted on to Eton, followingin the footsteps of their elder brothers. 

Of all this large family it is Beatrice, the eldest daughter, who causesher mother the most anxiety. Beatrice is like her mother--a plain butclever-looking girl, with the dark swart features and colouring of theEsterworths, who are not a handsome race. Added to which, she inheritsher father's short and somewhat stumpy figure. Such a personal appearancein itself is enough to cause uneasiness to any mother who is anxious forher daughter's future; but when these advantages of looks are renderedstill more peculiar by the fact that her hair had to be shaved off someyears ago when she had scarlet fever, and that it has never grown againproperly, but is worn short and loose about her face like a boy's, withits black tresses tumbling into her eyes every time she looks down--andwhen, added to this, Mrs. Miller also discovered to her mortificationthat Beatrice possessed a will of her own, and so decided a method ofexpressing her opinions and convictions, that she was not likely to beeasily moulded to her own views, you will, perhaps, understand the extentof the difficulties with which she has to deal. 

For, of course, so clever and so managing a woman as Mrs. Miller has notallowed her daughter to grow up to the age of twenty without making themost careful and judiciously-laid schemes for her ultimate disposal. ThatBeatrice is to marry is a matter of course, and Mrs. Miller has welldetermined that the marriage is to be a good one, and that her daughteris to strengthen her father's position in Meadowshire by a union with oneor other of its leading families. Now, when Mrs. Miller came to pass themarriageable men of Meadowshire under review, there was no such eligiblebachelor amongst them all as Sir John Kynaston, of Kynaston Hall. 

It was on him, therefore, that her hopes with regard to Beatrice werefixed. Fortune hitherto had seemed to smile favourably upon her. Beatricehad had one season in town, during which she had met Sir John frequently, and he had, contrary to his usual custom, asked her to dance severaltimes when he had met her at balls. Mrs. Miller said to herself that SirJohn, not being a very young man, did not set much store upon merepersonal beauty; that he probably valued mental qualities in a woman morehighly than the transient glitter of beauty; and that Beatrice's goodsense and sharp, shrewd conversation had evidently made a favourableimpression upon him. 

She never was more mistaken in her life. True, Sir John did like MissMiller, he found her unconventional and amusing; but his only object indistinguishing her by his attentions had been to pay a necessarycompliment to the new M. P. 's daughter, a duty which he would havefulfilled equally had she been stupid as well as plain: moreover, as wehave seen, few men were so intensely sensitive to beauty in a woman aswas Sir John Kynaston. Mrs. Miller, however, was full of hopes concerninghim. To do her justice, she was not exactly vulgarly ambitious for herdaughter; she liked Sir John personally, and had a high respect for hischaracter, and she considered that Beatrice's high spirit and self-willeddisposition would be most desirably moderated and kept in check by ahusband so much older than herself. Lady Kynaston, moreover, was one ofher best and dearest friends, and was her beau-idéal of all that a cleverand refined lady should be. The match, in every respect, would have beena very acceptable one to her. Whether or no Miss Beatrice shared hermother's views on her behalf remains to be seen. 

The mother and daughter are settling together the preliminaries of aweek's festivities which Mrs. Miller has decided shall be held atShadonake this winter. The house is to be filled, and there are to be aseries of dinner parties, culminating in a ball. 

"The Bayleys, the Westons, the Foresters, and two daughters, I suppose, "reads Mrs. Miller, aloud, from the list in her hand, "Any more for thesecond dinner-party, Beatrice?"

"Are you not going to ask the Daintrees, of Sutton, mother?"

"Oh, dear me, another parson, Beatrice! I really don't think we can; Ihave got three already. They shall have a card for the ball. "

"You will ask that handsome girl who lives with them, won't you?"

"Not the slightest occasion for doing so, " replied her mother, shortly. Beatrice lifted her eyebrows. 

"Why, she is the best-looking woman in all Meadowshire; we cannot leaveher out. "

"I know nothing about her, not even her name; she is some kind of poorrelation, I believe--acts as the children's governess. We have too manywomen as it is. No, I certainly shall not ask her. Go on to the next, Beatrice. "

"But, mother, she is so very handsome! Surely you might include her. "

"Dear me, Beatrice, what a stupid girl you are! What is the good ofasking handsome girls to cut you out in your own house? I should havethought you would have had the sense to see that for yourself, " said Mrs. Miller, impatiently. 

"I think you are horribly unjust, mamma, " says Miss Beatrice, energetically; "and it is downright unkind to leave her out becauseshe is handsome--as if I cared. "

"How can I ask her if I do not know her name?" said her mother, irritably, with just that amount of dread of her daughter's rising temperto make her anxious to conciliate her. "If you like to find out who sheis and all about her----"

"Yes, I will find out, " said Beatrice, quietly; "give me the note, I willkeep it back for the present. "

"Now, for goodness sake, go on, child, and don't waste any more time. Whoare coming from town to stay in the house?"

"Well, there will be Lady Kynaston, I suppose. "

"Yes. She won't come till the end of the week. I have heard from her; shewill try and get down in time for the ball. "

"Then there will be the Macpherson girls and Helen Romer. And, as amatter of course, Captain Kynaston must be asked?"

"Yes. What a fool that woman is to advertise her feelings so openly thatone is obliged to ask her attendant swain to follow her wherever shegoes!"

"On the contrary, I think her remarkably clever; she gets what she wants, and the cleverest of us can do no more. It is a well-known fact to allHelen's acquaintances that not to ask Captain Kynaston to meet her wouldbe deliberately to insult her--she expects it as her right. "

"All the same, it is in very bad taste and excessively underbred of her. However, I should ask Captain Kynaston in any case, for his mother'ssake, and because I like him. He is a good shot, too, and the covertsmust be shot that week. Who next?"

"Mr. Herbert Pryme. "

"Goodness me! Beatrice, what makes you think of _him_? We don't knowanything about him--where he comes from or who are his belongings--he isonly a nobody!"

"He is a barrister, mamma!"

"Yes, of course, I know that--but, then, there are barristers of allsorts. I am sure I do not know what made you fix upon him; you only methim two or three times in town. "

"I liked him, " said Beatrice, carelessly; "he is a gentleman, and wouldbe a pleasant man to have in the house. "

Her mother looked at her sharply. She was playing with the gold locketround her neck, twisting it backwards and forwards along its chain, hereyes fixed upon the heap of cards on her lap. There was not the faintestvestige of a blush upon her face. 

"However, " she continued, "if you don't care about having him, strike hisname out. Only it is a pity, because Sophy Macpherson is rather fond ofhim, I fancy. "

This was a lie; it was Miss Beatrice herself who was fond of him, but noteven her mother, keen and quick-scented as she was, could have guessed itfrom her impassive face. Mrs. Miller was taken in completely. 

"Oh, " she said, "if Sophy Macpherson likes him, that alters the case. Oh, yes, I will ask him by all means--as you say, he is a gentleman andpleasant. "

"Look, mamma!" exclaimed Beatrice, suddenly; "there is uncle Tom ridingup the drive. "

Now, Tom Esterworth was a very important personage; he was the presenthead of the Esterworth family, and, as such, the representative of itsancient honours and traditions. He was a bachelor, and reigned insolitary grandeur at Lutterton Castle, and kept the hounds as hisfathers had done before him. 

Uncle Tom was thought very much of at Shadonake, and his visits alwayscaused a certain amount of agitation in his sister's mind. To her dyingday she would be conscious that in Tom's eyes she had been guilty of a_mésalliance_. She never could get that idea out of her head; it made hernervous and ill at ease in his presence. She hustled all her notes andcards hurriedly together into her bureau. 

"Uncle Tom! Dear me, what can he have come to-day for! I thought thehounds were out. Ring the bell, Beatrice; he will like some tea. Whereis your father?"

"Papa is out superintending the building of the new pigsties, " saidBeatrice as she rang the bell. "I think uncle Tom has been hunting; he isin boots and breeches I see. "

"Dear me, I hope your father won't come in with his muddy feet and hishands covered with earth, " said Mrs. Miller, nervously. 

Uncle Tom came in, a tall, dark-faced, strong-limbed man of fifty--anugly man, if you will, but a gentleman, and an Esterworth, every inch ofhim. He kissed his sister, and patted his niece on the cheek. 

"Why weren't you out to-day, Pussy?"

"You met so far off, uncle. I had no one to ride with to the meet. Theboys will be back next week. Have you had a good run?"

"No, we've done nothing but potter about all the morning; there isn't ascrap of scent. "

"Uncle Tom, will you give us a meet here when we have our house-warming?"

"Humph! you haven't got any foxes at Shadonake, " answered her uncle. Hehad drawn his chair to the fire, and was warming his hands over theblazing logs. Beatrice was rather a favourite with him. "I will see aboutit, Pussy, " he added, kindly, seeing that she looked disappointed. Mrs. Miller was pouring him out a cup of tea. 

"Well, I've got a piece of news for you women!" says Mr. Esterworth, stretching out his hand for his tea. "John Kynaston's going to bemarried!"

Mrs. Miller never knew how it was that the old Worcester tea-cup in herhand did not at this juncture fall flat on the ground into a thousandatoms at her brother's feet. It is certain that only a very strongexercise of self-control and presence of mind saved it from destruction. 

"Engaged to be married!" she said, with a gasp. 

"That is news indeed, " cried Beatrice, heartily, "I am delighted. "

"Don't be so foolish, Beatrice, " said her mother, quite sharply. "How onearth can you be delighted when you don't even know who it is? Who is it, Tom?"

"Ah, that is the whole pith of the matter, " said Mr. Esterworth, who wasnot above the weakness of liking to be the bearer of a piece of gossip. "I'll give you three guesses, and I'll bet you won't hit it. "

"One of the Courtenay girls?"

"No. "

"Anna Vivian?"

"I know, " says Beatrice, nodding her head sagely; "it is that girl wholives with the Daintrees. "

"Beatrice, how silly you are!" cries her mother. 

Tom Esterworth turns round in his chair, and looks at his niece. 

"By Jove, you've hit it!" he exclaims. "What a clever pussy you are to besure. "

And then the soul of the member's wife became filled with consternationand disgust. 

"Well, I call it downright sly of John Kynaston!" she exclaims, angrily;"picking out a nobody like that behind all our backs, and keeping it soquiet, too; he ought to be ashamed of himself for such an unsuitableselection!"

Beatrice laughed. "You know, uncle Tom, mamma wanted him to marry me. "

"Beatrice, you should not say such things, " said her mother, colouring. 

"Whew!" whistled Mr. Esterworth. "So that was the little game, Caroline, was it? John Kynaston has better taste. He wouldn't have looked at anugly little girl like our pussy here, would he, Puss? Miss Nevill is oneof the finest women I ever saw in my life. She was at the meet to-day onone of his horses; and, by Jove! she made all the other women look plainby the side of her! Kynaston is a very lucky fellow. "

"I think, mamma, there can be no doubt about sending Miss Nevill aninvitation to our ball now, " said Beatrice, laughingly. 

"She will have to be asked to stay in the house, " said Mrs. Miller, withsomething akin to a groan. "I cannot leave her out, as Lady Kynaston iscoming. Oh, dear! oh, dear! what fools men are, to be sure!"

But Beatrice was wicked enough to laugh again over her mother'sdiscomfiture. 

CHAPTER IX. 

ENGAGED. 

 I wonder did you ever count The value of one human fate, Or sum the infinite amount Of one heart's treasures, and the weight Of one heart's venture. 

 A. Procter. 

It was quite true what Mr. Thomas Esterworth had said, that Vera wasengaged to Sir John Kynaston. 

It had all come about so rapidly, and withal so quietly, that, when Veracame to think of it, it rather took her breath away. She had expected it, of course; indeed, she had even planned and tried for it; but, when ithad actually come to her, she felt herself to be bewildered by thesuddenness of it. 

In the end the climax of the love-making had been prosaic enough. SirJohn had not felt himself equal to the task of a personal interview withthe lady of his affections, with the accompanying risks of a personalrejection, which, in his modesty and humility with reference to her, hehad believed to be quite on the cards. So he had written to her. The notehad been taken up to the vicarage by the footman, and had been broughtinto the dining-room by the vicarial parlour-maid, just as the threeladies were finishing breakfast, and after the vicar himself had left theroom. 

"A note from Kynaston, please 'm, " says rosy-cheeked Hannah, holding itforth before her, upon a small japanned tray, as an object of generalfamily interest and excitement. 

"For your master, Hannah?" says old Mrs. Daintree. "Are they waiting foran answer? You will find him in his study. "

"No, ma'am, it's for Miss Vera. "

"Dear me!" with a suspicious glance across the table; "how very odd!"

Vera takes up the note and opens it. 

"May I have the crest, auntie?" clamours Tommy before she had read threewords of it. 

"Is it about the horse he has offered you to ride?" asks his mother. 

But Vera answers nothing; she gets up quietly, and leaves the roomwithout a word. 

"Extraordinary!" gasps Mrs. Daintree; "Vera's manners are certainly mostabrupt and unlady-like at times, Marion. I think you ought to point itout to her. "

Marion murmurs some unintelligible excuse and follows her sister--leavingthe unfortunate Tommy a prey to his grandmother's tender mercies. Sobrilliant an opportunity is not, of course, to be thrown away. Tommy'sfingers, having incontinently strayed in the direction of thesugar-basin, are summarily slapped for their indiscretion, and anadmonition is straightway delivered to him in forcible languageconcerning the pains and penalties which threaten the ulterior destiny ofnaughty little boys in general and of such of them in particular who arespecially addicted to the abstraction of lumps of sugar from thebreakfast-table. 

Meanwhile, Marion has found her sister in the adjoining room standing upalone upon the hearthrug with Sir John Kynaston's letter in her hands. She is not reading it now, she is looking steadfastly into the fire. Ithas fulfilled--nay, more than fulfilled--her wishes. The triumph of hersuccess is pleasant to her, and has brought a little more than theirusual glow into her cheeks, and yet--Heaven knows what vague andintangible dreams and fancies have not somehow sunk down chill and coldwithin her during the last five minutes. 

Gratified ambition--flattered vanity--the joy of success--all this shefeels to the full; but nothing more! There is not one single othersensation within her. Her pulses have not quickened, ever so little, asshe read her lover's letter; her heart has not throbbed, even once, witha sweeter, purer delight--such as she has read and heard that other womenhave felt. 

"I suppose I have no heart, " said Vera to herself; "it must be that I amcold by nature. I am happy; but--but--I wonder what it feels like--this_love_--that there is so much talked and written about?"

And then Marion came in breathlessly. 

"Oh, Vera, what is it?"

Vera turns round to her, smiling serenely, and places the note in herhands. 

This is what Sir John Kynaston has written:--

 "Dear Miss Nevill, --I do not think what I am about to say will be altogether unexpected by you. You must have surely guessed how sincere an affection I have learnt to feel for you. I know that I am unworthy of you, and I am conscious of how vast a disparity there is between my age and your own youth and beauty. But if my great love and devotion can in any way bridge over the gap that lies between us, believe me, that if you will consent to be my wife, my whole life shall be devoted to making you happy. If you can give me an answer to-day, I shall be very grateful, as suspense is hard to bear. But pray do not decide against me in haste, and without giving me every chance in your power. 

 "Yours devotedly, "John Kynaston. "

"Oh! Vera, my darling sister, I am so glad!" cries Marion, in tearfuldelight, throwing her arms up round the neck of the young sister, who isso much taller than she is; "I had guessed it, dearest; I saw he was inlove with you; and oh, Vera, I shall have you always near me!"

"Yes, that will be nice, " assents Vera, quietly, and a trifle absently, stroking her sister's cheek, with her eyes still fixed on the fire; "andof course, " rousing herself with an effort, "of course I am a very luckywoman. "

And then Mr. Daintree came in, and his wife rushed to him rapturously toimpart the joyful news. There was a little pleasant confusion of brokenwords and explanations between the three, and then Marion whisked away, brimming over with triumphant delight to wave the flags of victoryexultingly in her mother-in-law's face. 

Eustace Daintree and Vera were alone. He took her hands within his, andlooked steadfastly in her face. 

"Vera, are you sure of yourself, my dear, in this matter?"

Her eyes met his for a moment, and then fell before his earnest gaze. Shecoloured a little. 

"I am quite sure that I mean to accept Sir John's proposal, " she said, with a little uneasy laugh. 

"Child, do you love him?"

Her eyes met his again; there was a vague trouble in them. The man had apower over her, the power of sheer goodness of soul. She could never beuntrue to herself with Eustace Daintree; she was always at her very bestwith him, humble and gentle; and she could no more have told him a lie, or put him off with vague conventionalities, than she could havecommitted a deadly sin. 

What is it about some people that, in spite of ourselves, they thus forceout of us the best part of our nature; that base and unworthy thoughtscannot live in us before them, --that they melt out of our hearts as thesnow before the rays of the sun? Even though the effect may be transient, such is the power of their faith, and their truth, and their goodness, that it must needs call forth in us something of the same spirit as theirown. 

Such was Eustace Daintree's influence over Vera. It was not because ofhis office, for no one was less susceptible than Vera--a Protestantbrought up, with but vague ideas of her own faith, in a Catholic land--toany of those recognized associations with which a purely English-bredgirl might have felt the character of the clergyman of the parish whereshe lived to be invested. It was nothing of that sort that made him greatto her; it was, simply and solely, the goodness of the man that impressedher. His guilelessness, his simplicity of mind, his absolute uprightnessof character, and, with it all, the absence in him of any assumption ofauthority, or of any superiority of character over those about him. Hisvery humility made her humble with him, and exalted him into somethingsaintly in her eyes. 

When Eustace looked at her fixedly, with all his good soul in his earnesteyes, and said to her again, "Do you love him, Vera?" Vera could butanswer him simply and frankly, almost against her will, as it were. 

"I don't think I do, Eustace; but then I do not quite know what love is. I do not think, however, that it can be what I feel. "

"My child, no union can be hallowed without love. Vera, you will not runinto so great a danger?" he said anxiously. 

She looked up at him smiling. 

"I like him better than any one else, at all events. Better than Mr. Gisburne, for instance. And I think, I do really think, Eustace, it willbe for my happiness. "

The vicar looked grave. "If Sir John Kynaston were a poor man, would youmarry him?"

And Vera answered bravely, though with a heightened colour--

"No; but it is not only for the money, Eustace; indeed it is not. But--but--I should be miserable without it; and I must do something withmy life. "

He drew her near to him, and kissed her forehead. He understood her. Withthat rare gift of sympathy--the highest, the most God-like of all humanattributes--he felt at once what she meant. It was wonderful that thisman, who was so unworldly, so unselfish, so pure of the stains of earthhimself, should have seen at once her position from her own point ofview; that was neither a very exalted one, nor was it very free from thedross of worldliness. But it was so. All at once he seemed to know by asubtle instinct what were the weaknesses, and the temptations, and theaims of this girl, who, with all her faults, was so dear to him. Heunderstood her better, perhaps, than she understood herself. Her soul wasuntouched by passion; the story of her life was unwritten; there was nodanger for her yet; and perchance it might be that the storms of lifewould pass her by unscathed, and that she might remain sheltered for everin the safe haven which had opened so unexpectedly to receive her. 

"There is a peril in the course you have chosen, " he said, gravely; "butyour soul is pure, and you are safe. And I know, Vera, that you willalways do your duty. "

And the tears were in her eyes as he left her. 

When he had gone she sat down to write her answer to Sir John Kynaston. She dipped her pen into the ink, and sat with it in her hand, thinking. Her brother-in-law's words had aroused a fresh train of thought withinher. There seemed to be an amount of solemnity in what she was about todo that she had not considered before. It was true that she did not lovehim; but then, as she had told Eustace just now, she loved no one else;she did not rightly understand what love meant, indeed. And is a woman towait on in patience for years until love comes to her? Would it evercome? Probably not, thought Vera; not to her, who thought herself to becold, and not easily moved. There must be surely many women to whom thiswonderful thing of love never comes. In all her experience of life therewas nothing to contradict this. It was not as if she had been a girl whohad never left her native village, never tasted of the pleasures of life, never known the sweet incense of flattery and devotion. Vera had known itall. Many men had courted her; one or two had loved her dearly, but shehad not loved them. Amongst them all, indeed, there had been never onewhom she had liked with such a sincere affection as she now felt for thisman, who seemed to love her so much, and who wrote to her so diffidently, and yet so devotedly. 

"I love him as well as I am ever likely to love any one, " said Vera, toherself. Yet still she leant her chin upon her hand and looked out of thewindow at the gray bare branches of the elm-trees across the damp greenlawn, and still her letter was unwritten. 

"Vera!" cries Marion, coming in hurriedly and breaking in upon herreverie, "the footman from Kynaston is waiting all this time to know ifthere is any answer! Shall I send him away? Or have you made up yourmind?"

"Oh yes, I have made up my mind. My note will be ready directly; he mayas well take it. It will save the trouble of sending up to the Halllater. " For Vera remembers that there is not a superfluity of servantsat the vicarage, and that they all of them have plenty to do. 

And thus, a mere trifle--a feather, as it were, on the river oflife--settled her destiny for her out of hand. 

She dipped her pen into the ink once more, and wrote:--

 "Dear Sir John, --You have done me a great honour in asking me to be your wife. I am fully sensible of your affection, and am very grateful for it. I fear you think too highly of me; but I will endeavour to prove myself worthy of your good opinion, and to make you as good a wife as you deserve. 

 "Yours, "Vera Nevill. "

She was conscious herself of the excessive coldness of her note, but shecould not help it. She could not, for the life of her, have made itwarmer. Nothing, indeed, is so difficult as to write down feelings thatdo not exist; it is easier to simulate with our spoken words and ourlooks; but the pen that is urged beyond its natural inclination seems tocool into ice in our fingers. But, at all events, she had accepted him. 

It was a relief to her when the thing was done, and the note sent offbeyond the possibility of recall. 

After that there had been no longer any leisure for her doubtingthoughts. There was her sister's delighted excitement, Mrs. Daintree'soppressive astonishment, and even Eustace's calmer satisfaction in herbright prospects, to occupy and divert her thoughts. Then there came herlover himself, tender and grateful, and with so worshipful a respect inevery word and action that the most sensitive woman could scarcely havebeen ruffled or alarmed by the prospects of so deferential a husband. 

In a few days Vera became reconciled to her new position, which was intruth a very pleasant one to her. There were the congratulations offriends and acquaintances to be responded to; the pleasant flutter ofadulation that surrounded her once more; the little daily excitementof John Kynaston's visits--all this made her happy and perfectlysatisfied with the wisdom of her decision. 

Only one thing vexed her. 

"What will your mother say, John?" she had asked the very first day shehad been engaged to him. 

"It will not make much difference to me, dearest, whatever she may say. "

Nor in truth would it, for Sir John, as we have seen, had never been adevoted son, nor had he ever given his confidence to his mother; he hadalways gone his own way independently of her. 

"But it must needs make a difference to me, " Vera had insisted. "You havewritten to her, of course. "

"Oh, yes; I wrote and told her I was engaged to you. "

"And she has not written?"

"Yes, there was a message for you--her love or something. "

Sir John evidently did not consider the subject of much importance. ButVera was hurt that Lady Kynaston had not written to her. 

"I will never enter any family where I am not welcome, " she had said toher lover, proudly. 

And then Sir John had taken fright, for she was so precious to him thatthe fear of losing her was becoming almost as a nightmare to him, and, possibly, at the bottom of his heart he knew how feeble was his holdover her. He had written off to his mother that day a letter that wasalmost a command, and had told her to write to Vera. 

This letter was not likely to prepossess Lady Kynaston, who was amasterful little lady herself, in her daughter-in-law's favour; it didmore harm than good. She had obeyed her son, it is true, because he wasthe head of the family, and because she stood in awe of him; but theletter, thus written under compulsion, was not kind--it was not evenjust. 

"Horrid girl!" had said Lady Kynaston, angrily, to herself, as she hadsat down to her writing-table to fulfil her son's mandate. "It is notlikely that I can be very loving to her--some wretched, second-rate girl, evidently--for not even Caroline Miller who, goodness knows, rakes up allthe odds and ends of society--ever heard of her before!"

It is not to be supposed that a letter undertaken under such auspicescould be in any way conciliatory or pleasant in its tone. Such as it was, Vera put it straight into the fire directly she had read it; no one eversaw it but herself. 

"I have heard from your mother, " she said to Sir John. 

"Yes? I am very glad. She wrote everything that was kind, no doubt. "

"I dare say she meant to be kind, " said Vera; which was not true, becauseshe knew perfectly that there had been no kindness intended. But shepursued the subject no further. 

"I hope you will like Maurice, " said Sir John, presently; "he is agood-hearted boy, though he has been sadly extravagant, and given mea good deal of trouble. "

"I shall be glad to know your brother, " said Vera, quietly. "Is he comingto Kynaston?"

"Yes, eventually; but you will meet him first at Shadonake when you goto stay there: they have asked a large party for that week, I hear, andMaurice will be there. "

Now, by this time Vera knew that the photograph she had once found in theold writing-table drawer at Kynaston was that of her lover's brotherMaurice. 

CHAPTER X. 

A MEETING ON THE STAIRS. 

 Since first I saw your face I resolved to honour and renown you; If now I be disdained, I wish my heart had never known you. 

 The Sun whose beams most glorious are Rejecteth no beholder, And your sweet beauty past compare Made my poor eyes the bolder. 

Thomas Ford. 

I have often wondered why, in the ordering of human destinies, some special Providence, some guardian spirit who is gifted withforeknowledge, is not mercifully told off to each of us so to order thetrifles of our lives that they may combine to the working together of ourweal, instead of conspiring, as they too often and too evidently do, forour woe. 

Look back upon your own life, and upon the lives of those whose story youhave known the most intimately, and see what straws, what nonentities, what absurd trivialities have brought about the most important events ofexistence. Recollect how, and in what manner, those people whom it wouldhave been well for you never to have known came across you. How thosewhose influence over you is for good were kept out of your way at thevery crisis of your life. Think what a different life you would have led;I do not mean only happier, but how much better and purer, if some absurdtrifle had not seemed to play into the hands, as it were, of yourdestiny, and to set you in a path whereof no one could at the timeforesee the end. 

Some one had looked out their train in last month's Bradshaw, unwittingof the autumn alterations, and was kept from you till the next day. Youtook the left instead of the right side of the square on your way home, or you stood for a minute gossiping at your neighbour's door, and therecame by some one who ultimately altered and embittered your whole life, and who, but for that accidental meeting, you would, probably, never haveseen again; or some evil adviser was at hand, whilst one whose opinionyou revered, and whose timely help would have saved you from taking thatfalse step you ever after regretted, was kept to the house, by Heavenknows what ridiculous trifle--a cold in the head, or finger-ache--anddid not see you to warn and to keep you back from your own folly until itwas too late. 

People say these things are ordered for us. I do not know; it may be so, but sometimes it seems rather as if we were irresponsible puppets, tossedand buffeted about, blindly and helplessly, upon life's river, asfluttering dead leaves are danced wildly along the swift current of aHighland stream. Such a trifle might have saved us! yet there was nopitying hand put forth to avert that which, in our human blindness, appeared to us to be as unimportant as any other incident of our lives. 

Life is an unsolvable problem. Shall we ever, in some other world, I wonder, read its riddles aright?

All these moral dissertations have been called forth because Vera Nevillwent to stay for a week at Shadonake. If she had known--what we none ofus know--the future, she doubtless would have stayed away. Fate--abeneficent fate, indeed--made, I am bound to confess, a valiant effort inher behalf. Little Minnie fell ill the day before her departure; and thesymptoms were such that everybody in the house believed that she wassickening for scarlet fever. The doctor, however, having been hastilysummoned, pronounced the disease to be an infantile complaint of aharmless and innocuous nature, which he dignified by the delusivelypoetical name of "Rosalia. "

"It is not infectious, Mr. Smee, I hope?" asked Marion, anxiously. "Nothing to prevent my sister going to stay at the Millers' to morrow?"

"Not in the least infectious, Mrs. Daintree, and anybody in the house cango wherever they like, except the child herself, who must be kept in awarm room for two days, when she will probably be quite well again. "

"I am glad, dear, there is nothing to put a stop to your visit; it wouldhave been such a pity, " said Marion, in her blindness, to her sisterafterwards. 

So the fates had a game of pitch and toss with Vera's future, and settledit amongst them to their own satisfaction, probably, but not, it will beseen, for Vera's own good or ultimate happiness. 

On the afternoon of the 3rd day of January, therefore, EustaceDaintree drove his sister-in-law over to Shadonake in the openbasket pony-carriage, and deposited her and her box safely at thestone-colonnaded door of that most imposing mansion, which she enteredexactly ten minutes before the dressing-bell rang, and was conductedalmost immediately upstairs to her own room. 

Some twenty minutes later there are still two ladies sitting on in thesmall tea-room, where it is the fashion at Shadonake to linger betweenthe hours of five and seven, who alone have not yet moved to obey themandate of the dressing-bell. 

"What _is_ the good of waiting?" says Beatrice, impatiently; "the trainis often late, and, besides, he may not come till the nine o'clocktrain. "

"That is just what I want to wait for, " answers Helen Romer. "I wantjust to hear if the carriage has come back, and then I shall know forcertain. "

"Well, you know how frightfully punctual papa is, and how angry it makeshim if anybody is late. "

"Just two minutes more, Beatrice; I can dress very quickly when onceI set to work, " pleads Helen. 

Beatrice sits down again on the arm of the sofa, and resigns herself toher fate; but she looks rather annoyed and vexed about it. 

Mrs. Romer paces the room feverishly and impatiently. 

"What did you think of Miss Nevill?" asks Beatrice. 

"I could hardly see her in her hat and that thick veil; but she looked asif she were handsome. "

"She is _beautiful_!" says Beatrice, emphatically, "and uncle Tomsays----"

"Hush!" interrupts Helen, hurriedly. "Is not that the sound ofwheels?--Yes, it is the carriage. "

She flies to the door. 

"Take care, Helen, " says Beatrice, anxiously; "don't open the doorwide, don't let the servants think we have been waiting, it looks sobad--so--so unlady-like. "

But Helen Romer does not even hear her; she is listening intently to theapproaching sounds, with the half-opened door in her hand. 

The tea-room door opens into a large inner hall, out of which leads theprincipal staircase; the outer or entrance-hall is beyond; and presentlythe stopping of the carriage, the opening and shutting of doors from theservants' departments, and all the usual bustle of an arrival are heard. 

The two girls stand close together listening, Beatrice hidden in theshadow of the room. 

"There are _two_ voices!" cries Helen, in a disappointed tone; "he is notalone!"

"I suppose it is Mr. Pryme--mamma said he might come by this train, "answers Beatrice, so quietly that no one could ever have guessed how herheart was beating. 

"Helen, _do_ let us run upstairs; I really cannot stay. Let _me_ go, atall events!" she adds, with a sudden agony of entreaty as the guests wereheard advancing towards the door of the inner hall. And as Helen made notthe slightest sign of moving, Beatrice slipped past her and ran lightlyand swiftly across the hall upstairs, and disappeared along the landingabove just as Captain Kynaston and Mr. Herbert Pryme appeared upon thescene below. 

No such scruples of modesty troubled Mrs. Romer. As the young men enteredthe inner hall preceded by the butler, who was taking them up to theirrooms, and followed by two footmen who were bearing their portmanteaus, Helen stepped boldly forward out of the shelter of the tea-room, and heldout her hand to Captain Kynaston. 

"How do you do? How late your train is. "

Maurice looked distinctly annoyed, but of course he shook hands with her. 

"How are you, Mrs. Romer? I did not expect you to be here till to-morrow. Yes, we are late, " consulting his watch; "only twenty minutes to dressin--I must look sharp. "

Meanwhile the stranger, Mr. Pryme, was following the butler upstairs. 

Helen lowered her voice. 

"I _must_ speak to you a minute, Maurice; it is six weeks since we havemet, and to meet in public would be too trying. Please dress as quicklyas ever you can; I know you can dress quickly if you choose; and wait forme here at the bottom of the stairs--we might get just three minutestogether before dinner. "

There were the footmen and the portmanteaus within six yards of them, andMr. Pryme and the butler still within earshot. What was Maurice to do? Hecould not really listen to a whole succession of prayers, and entreaties, and piteous appeals. There was neither the time, nor was it the place, for either discussion or remonstrance. All he could do was to nod a hastyassent to her request. 

"Then I must make haste, " he said, and ran quickly upstairs in the wakeof the other guest. 

The staircase at Shadonake was very wide and very handsome, andthoroughly in keeping with the spacious character of the house. Itconsisted of one wide flight of shallow steps, with a richly-carvedbalustrade on either side of it, leading straight down from a largesquare landing above. Both landing and steps were carpeted with thickvelvet-pile carpet, so that no jarring footfall was ever heard upon them. The hall into which the staircase led was paved in coloured mosaic tiles, and was half covered over with rich Persian rugs. A great many doors, nearly all the sitting-rooms of the house, in fact, opened into it, and the blank spaces of the wall were filled in with banks of largehandsome plants, palms and giant ferns, and azaleas in full bloom, whichwere daily rearranged by the gardeners in every available corner. 

At the foot of the staircase, and with his back to it, leaning againstthe balustrade, stood Captain Kynaston, exactly four minutes before thedinner was announced. 

Most people were in the habit of calling Maurice a good-looking man, butif anybody had seen him now for the first time it is doubtful whetherthey would have endorsed that favourable opinion upon his personalappearance. A thoroughly ill-tempered expression of face seldom enhancesany one's good looks, and if ever a man looked in a bad temper, MauriceKynaston did so at the present moment. 

He stood with his hands in his trousers pockets, and his eyes fixed uponhis own boots, and he looked as savage as it was well possible for a manto look. 

He was waiting here for Helen, because he had told her that he would doso, and when Captain Kynaston promised anything to a lady he always kepthis word. 

But to say that he hated being there is but a mild term for the rage anddisgust he experienced. 

To be waylaid and attacked thus, directly he had set foot in the house, with a stranger and three servants looking on so as to render himabsolutely helpless; to be uncomfortably hurried over his toilet, andinveigled into a sort of rendezvous at the foot of a public staircase, where a number of people might at any minute enter from any one of thesix or eight surrounding doors, was enough of itself to try his temper;but when he came to consider how Helen, in thus appropriating him andmaking him obey her caprices, was virtually breaking her side of thetreaty between them; that she was exacting from him the full amount ofservitude and devotion which an open engagement would demand, and yet shehad agreed to deny any such engagement between them openly--it was, hefelt, more than he could continue to bear with meekness. 

Meekness, indeed, was in no way Maurice Kynaston's distinguishingcharacteristic. He was masterful and imperious by nature; to be the slaveof any woman was neither pleasant nor profitable to him. Honour, indeed, had bound him to Helen, and had he loved her she might have led him. Herposition gave her a certain hold over him, and she knew how to appeal tohis heart; but he loved her not, and to control his will and his spiritwas beyond her power. 

Maurice said to himself that he would put a stop to this system ofpersecution once and for all--that this interview, which she herself hadcontrived, should be made the opportunity of a few forcible words, thatshould frighten her into submission. 

So he stood fretting, and fuming, and raging, waiting for her at the footof the stairs. 

There was a soft rustle, as of a woman's dress, behind him. He turnedsharply round. 

Halfway down the stairs came a woman whom he had never seen before. A black velvet dress, made high in the throat, with a wide collar ofheavy lace upon her shoulders, hung clingingly about the outlines of hertall and perfect figure; her hands, with some lace ruffles falling abouther wrists, were simply crossed before her. The light of a distanthanging-lamp shone down upon her, just catching one diamond star thatglittered among the thick coils of her hair--she wore no other ornament. She came down the stairs slowly, almost lingeringly, with a certaingrace in her movements, and without a shadow of embarrassment orself-consciousness. 

Maurice drew aside to let her pass him--looking at her--for how could hechoose but look? But when she reached the bottom of the steps, she turnedher face towards him. 

"You are Maurice--are you not?" she said, and put forth both her handstowards him. 

An utter bewilderment as to who she was made him speechless; his mind hadbeen full of Helen and his own troubles; everything else had gone out ofhis head. She coloured a little, still holding out her hands to him. 

"I am Vera, " she said, simply, and there was a little deprecating appealin the words as though she would have added, "Be my friend. "

He took the hands--soft slender hands that trembled a very little in hisgrasp--within his own, and some nameless charm in their gentle touchbrought a sudden flush into his face, but no appropriate words concerninghis pleasure at meeting her, or his gratification at their futurerelations, fell from Maurice Kynaston's lips. He only held her thus byher hands, and looked at her--looked at her as if he could never look ather enough--from her head to her feet, and from her feet up again to herhead, till a sudden wave of colour flooded her face at the earnestnessof his scrutiny. 

"Vera--_Vera Nevill_!" was all he said; and then below his breath, asthough his absolute amazement were utterly irrepressible: "_By Jove!_"And Vera laughed softly at the thoroughly British character of theexclamation. 

"How like an Englishman!" she said. "An Italian would have paid me fiftypretty compliments in half the time you have taken just to stare at me!"

"What a charming _tableau vivant_!" exclaims a voice above them as Mrs. Romer comes down the staircase. "You really look like a scene in a play!Pray don't let me disturb you. "

"I am making friends with my sister-in-law that is to be, Mrs. Romer, "says Maurice, who has dropped Vera's hands with a guilty suddenness, andnow endeavours to look completely at his ease--an effort in which hesignally fails. 

"Were you? Dear me! I thought you and Miss Nevill were practising thepose of the 'Huguenots'!"

Now the whole armoury of feminine weapons--impertinence, spite, and badmanners, born of jealousy--is utterly beneath the contempt of such awoman as Vera; but she is no untried, inexperienced country girl such asMrs. Romer imagines her to be disconcerted or stricken dumb by such anattack. She knew instantly that she had been attacked, and in whatmanner, and she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. 

"I have never seen that picture, the 'Huguenots, ' Mrs. Romer, " shesaid, quietly; "do you think there is a photograph or a print of itat Kynaston, Maurice? If so, you or John must show it to me. "

And how Mrs. Romer hated her then and there, from that very minute untilher life's end, it would not be easy to set forth!

The utter _insouciance_, the lady-like ignoring of Helen's impertinence, the quiet assumption of what she knew her own position in the Kynastonfamily to be, down to the sisterly "Maurice, " whereby she addressed theman whom in public, at least, Mrs. Romer was forced to call by a moreformal name--all proved to that astute little woman that Vera Nevill wasno ordinary antagonist, no village maiden to be snubbed or patronised ather pleasure, but a woman of the world, who understood how to fight herown battles, and was likely, as she was forced to own to herself, to"give back as good as she got. "

Not another single word was spoken between them, for at that very minutea door was thrown open, and the whole of the party in the house cametrooping forth in pairs from the drawing-room in a long procession ontheir way to the dining-room. 

First came Mr. Miller with old Mrs. Macpherson on his arm. Then Mr. Prymeand Miss Sophy Macpherson; her sister behind with Guy Miller; Beatrice, looking melancholy, with the curate in charge; and her mother last withSir John, who had come over from Kynaston to dinner. Edwin Miller, thesecond son, by himself brought up the rear. 

There was some laughter at the expense of the three defaulters, who, ofcourse, were supposed to have only just hurried downstairs. 

"Aha! just saved your soup, ladies!" cried Mr. Miller, laughingly. "Fallin, fall in, as best you can!"

Mrs. Miller came to the rescue, and, by a rapid stroke of generalship, marshalled them into their places. 

Miss Nevill, of course, was a stranger; Helen had been on intimate termswith them all for years; Vera, besides, was standing close to Maurice. 

"Please take in Miss Nevill, Captain Kynaston; and Edwin, my dear, giveyour arm to Mrs. Romer. "

Edwin, who was a pleasant-looking boy, with plenty to say for himself, hurried forward with alacrity; and Helen had to accept her fate with thebest grace she could. 

"Well, how did you get on with Vera, and how did you like her?" asked SirJohn, coming round to his brother's side of the table when the ladies hadleft the room. He had noted with pleasure that Vera and Maurice hadtalked incessantly throughout the dinner. 

"My dear fellow!" cried Maurice, heartily, "she is the handsomest woman Iever met in my life! I give you my word that, when she introduced herselfto me coming downstairs, I was so surprised, she was so utterly differentto what I and the mother have been imagining, that upon my life Icouldn't speak a word--I could do nothing but stare at her!"

"You like her, then?" said his brother, smiling, well pleased at hisopenly expressed admiration. 

"I think you are a very lucky fellow, old man! Like her! of course I do;she's a downright good sort!"

And if Sir John was slightly shocked at the irreverence of alluding to soperfect and pure a woman as his adored Vera by so familiar a phrase as "agood sort, " he was, at all events, too pleased by Maurice's genuineapproval of her to find any fault with his method of expressing it. 

CHAPTER XI. 

AN IDLE MORNING. 

 We loved, sir; used to meet; How sad, and bad, and mad it was; But then, how it was sweet!

 Browning. 

Leaning against a window-frame at the end of a long corridor on thesecond floor, and idly looking out over the view of the wide lawns andempty flower-beds which it commands, stands Mr. Herbert Pryme, on thesecond morning after his arrival at Shadonake House. 

It is after breakfast, and most of the gentlemen of the house havedispersed; that is to say, Mr. Miller has gone off to survey his newpigsties, and his sons and a Mr. Nethercliff, who arrived last night, have ridden to a meet some fifteen miles distant, which the ladies hadvoted to be too far off to attend. 

Mr. Pryme, however, is evidently not a keen sports-man; he has declinedthe offer of a mount which Guy Miller has hospitably pressed upon him, and he has also declined to avail himself of his host's offer of theservices of the gamekeeper. Curiously enough, another guest at Shadonake, whose zeal for hunting has never yet been impeached, has followed hisexample. 

"What on earth do they meet at Fretly for!" Maurice Kynaston hadexclaimed last night to young Guy, as the morrow's plans had beendiscussed in the smoking-room; "it's the worst country I ever was in, allplough and woodlands, and never a fox to be found. Your uncle ought toknow better than to go there. I certainly shan't take the trouble to getup early to go to that place. "

"Not go?" repeated Guy, aghast; "you don't mean to say you won't go, Kynaston?"

"That's just what I do mean, though. "

"What the deuce will you do with yourself all day?"

"Lie in bed, " answered Maurice, between the puffs of his pipe; "we'vehad a precious hard day's shooting to-day, and I mean to take it easyto-morrow. "

And Captain Kynaston was as good as his word. He did not appear in thebreakfast-room the next morning until the men who were bound for Fretlyhad all ridden off and were well out of sight of the house. What he hadstayed for he would have been somewhat puzzled to explain. He was not thekind of man who, as a rule, cared to dawdle about all day with women whenthere was any kind of sport to be had from hunting down to ratting; moreespecially was he disinclined for any such dawdling when Helen Romer wasamongst the number of the ladies so left to be danced attendance upon. And yet he distinctly told himself that he meant to be devoted for thisone day to the fair sex. All yesterday he had been crossed and put out;the men had been out shooting from breakfast till dinner; some of theladies had joined them with the Irish-stew at lunch time; Helen had beenamongst them, but not Miss Nevill. Maurice, in spite of the pheasantshaving been plentiful and the sport satisfactory, had been in a decidedlybad temper all the afternoon in consequence. In the evening the party atdinner had been enlarged by an influx of country neighbours; Vera hadbeen hopelessly divided from him and absorbed by other people the wholeevening; he had not exchanged a single word with her all day. 

Captain Kynaston was seized with an insatiable desire to improve hisacquaintance with his sister-in-law to be. It was his duty, he toldhimself, to make friends with her; his brother would be hurt, he argued, and his mother would be annoyed if he neglected to pay a proper attentionto the future Lady Kynaston. There could be no doubt that it was hisduty; that it was also his pleasure did not strike him so forcibly as itshould have done, considering the fact that a man is only very keen tocreate duties for himself when they are proportionately mingled with thatwhich is pleasant and agreeable. The exigencies of his position, withregard to his elder brother's bride having been forcibly borne in uponhim--combined possibly with the certain knowledge that the elder brotherhimself would be hunting all day--compelled him to stop at home anddevote himself to Vera. Mr. Herbert Pryme, however, had no such excuse, real or imaginary, and yet he stands idly by the corridor window, idly, yet perfectly patiently--relieving the tedium of his position by theunexciting entertainment of softly whistling the popular airs from the"Cloches de Corneville" below his breath. 

Herbert Pryme is a good-looking young fellow of about six-and-twenty; helooks his profession all over, and is a good type of the average youngbarrister of the present day. He has fair hair, and small, close-croppedwhiskers; his face is retrieved from boyishness by strongly-markedand rather heavy features; he studiously affects a solemn and imposinggravity of face and manner, and a severe and elderly style of dress, which he hopes may produce a favourable effect upon the non-legal mindsof his somewhat imaginary clients. 

It is doubtful, however, whether Mr. Pryme has not found a shorter andpleasanter road to fortune than that slow and toilsome route along whichthe legal muse leads her patient votaries. 

Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes elapse, and still Mr. Pryme looks patientlyout of the window, and still he whistles the Song of the Bells. The onlysign of weariness he gives is to take out his watch, which, by the way, is suspended by a broad black ribbon, and lives, not in his waistcoatpocket, but in a "fob, " and is further decorated by a very large andold-fashioned seal. Having consulted a time piece which for size andthickness might have belonged to his great-grandfather, he returns it tohis fob, and resumes his whistling. 

Presently a door at the further end of the corridor softly opens andshuts, and Mr. Pryme looks up quickly. 

Beatrice Miller, looking about her a little guiltily, comes swiftlytowards him along the passage. 

"Mamma kept me such ages!" she says, breathlessly; "I thought I shouldnever get away. "

"Never mind, so long as you are here, " he answers, holding her byboth hands. "My darling, I must have a kiss; I hungered for one allyesterday. "

He looks into her face eagerly and lovingly. To most people Beatrice is aplain girl, but to this man she is beautiful; his own love for her hasinvested her with a charm and a fascination that no one else has seen inher. 

Oh! divine passion, that can thus glorify its object. It is like a dashof sunshine over a winter landscape, which transforms it into theloveliness of spring; or the magic brush of the painter, which can turn aploughed field and a barren common into the golden glories of a Cuyp or aTurner. 

Thus it was with Herbert Pryme. He looked at Beatrice with the blindingglamour of his own love in his eyes, and she was beautiful to him. Truthto say, Beatrice was a woman whom to love once was to love always. Therewas so much that was charming and loveable in her character, so great afreshness of mind and soul about her, that, although from lack of beautyshe had hitherto failed to attract love, having once secured it, shepossessed that rare and valuable faculty of being able to retain it, which many women, even those who are the most beautiful, are incapableof. 

"It is just as I imagined about Mr. Nethercliff, " says Beatrice, laughing; "he has been asked here for my benefit. Mamma has just beentelling me about him; he is Lord Garford's nephew and his heir. LordGarford's place, you know, is quite the other side of the county; he ispoor, so I suppose I might do for him, " with a little grimace. "At allevents, I am to sit next to him at dinner to-night, and make myselfcivil. You see, I am to be offered to all the county magnates insuccession. "

Herbert Pryme still holds her hands, and looks down with grave vexationinto her face. 

"And how do you suppose I shall feel whilst Mr. Nethercliff is makinglove to you?"

"You may make your mind quite easy; it is impossible that there should beanother man foolish enough in all England to want to make love to such an'ugly duckling' as I am!"

"Don't be silly, child, and don't fish for compliments, " he answers, fondly, stroking her short dark hair, which he thinks so characteristicof herself. 

Beatrice looks up happily at him. A woman is always at her very best whenshe is alone with the man she loves. Unconsciously, all the charms shepossesses are displayed in her glistening eyes, and in the colour whichcomes and goes in her contented face. There is no philtre which beautycan use, there is neither cosmetic nor rouge that can give that tender, lovely glow with which successful love transforms even a plain face intoradiance and fascination. 

"I wish, Beatrice, you would let me speak to your father, " continuedHerbert; "I cannot bear to be here under false pretences. Why will younot let me deal fairly and openly with your parents?"

"And be sent about your business by the evening train. No, thank you!My dear boy, speaking to papa would be as much use as speaking to thebutler; they would both of them refer you instantly to mamma; and withan equally lamentable result. Please leave things to me. When mamma hasoffered me ineffectually to every marriageable man in Meadowshire, shewill get quite sick of it, and, I dare say, I shall be allowed to do asI like then without any more fuss. "

"And how long is this process to last?"

"About a year; by which time Geraldine will be nearly eighteen, and readyto step into my shoes. Mamma will be glad enough to be rid of me then, and to try her hand upon her instead. Geraldine is meek and tractable, and will be quite willing to do as she is told. "

"And, meanwhile, what am I to do?"

"You! You are to make love to Sophy Macpherson. Do you not know that sheis the excuse for your having been asked here at all?"

"I don't like it, Beatrice, " repeats her lover, gravely--not, however, alluding to the duties relating to Miss Macpherson, which she had beenurging upon him. "Upon my life, I don't. " He looks away moodily out ofthe window. "I hate doing things on the sly. And, besides, I am a poorman, and your parents are rich. I could not afford to support a wife atpresent on my own income. "

"All the more reason that we should wait, " she interrupts, quickly. 

"Yes; but I ought not to have spoken to you; I'd no business to stealyour heart. "

"You did not steal it, " she says, nestling up to his side. "I presentedit to you, free, gratis. "

Where is the man who could resist such an appeal! Away went duty, prudence, and every other laudable consideration to the winds; andHerbert Pryme straightway became insanely and blissfully oblivious of hisown poverty, of Mr. Miller's wealth, and of everything else upon earthand under the sun that was not entirely and idiotically delightful andecstatic. 

"You will do as I tell you?" whispers Beatrice. 

"Of course I will, " answers her lover. And then there is a completestagnation of the power of speech on both sides for the space of fiveminutes, during which the clock ticking steadily on at the far end of thecorridor has things entirely its own way. 

"There is another couple who are happy, " says Herbert Pryme, breaking thecharmed silence at length, and indicating, by a sign, two people who arewandering slowly down the garden. Beatrice Miller, following thedirection of his eyes, sees Maurice Kynaston and Vera. 

"Those two?" she exclaims. "Oh dear, no! They are not happy--not in ourway. Miss Nevill is engaged to his brother, you know. "

"Umph! if I were Sir John Kynaston, I would look after my brother then. "

"Herbert! what _can_ you mean?" cries Beatrice, opening her eyes inastonishment. "Why, Captain Kynaston is supposed to be engaged to Mrs. Romer; at any rate, she is desperately in love with him. "

"Yes, everybody knows that: but is he in love with her?"

"Herbert, I am sure you must be mistaken!" persists Beatrice, eagerly. 

"Perhaps I am. Never mind, little woman, " kissing her lightly; "I onlysaid they looked happy. If you will take the trouble to remark themthrough the day, you will, perhaps, be struck by the same blissful aspectthat I have noticed. If they are happy, it won't last long. Why shouldnot one be glad to see other people enjoying themselves? Let them behappy whilst they can. "

Herbert Pryme was right. Maurice and Vera wandering side by side alongthe broad gravel walks in the wintry gardens were happy--without so muchas venturing to wonder what it was that made them so. 

"I did not want to hunt to-day, " Maurice is saying; "I thought I wouldstop at home and talk to you. "

"That was kind of you, " answers Vera, with a smile. 

If she had known him better, she would have been more sensible of thecompliment implied. To give up a day's hunting for a woman's sake is whatvery few keen sports-men have been known to do; the attraction must begreat indeed. 

"You will go out, of course, on Monday, the day the hounds meet here?I should like to see you on a horse. "

"I shall at all events put on a habit and get up on the mare John hasgiven me. But I know very little of English hunting; I have only riddenin Italy. We used to go out in winter over the Campagna--that is verydifferent to England. "

"You must look very well in a habit. " He turned to look at her as hespoke. There was no reticence in his undisguised admiration of her. 

Vera laughed a little. "You shall look at me if you like when I have iton, " she said, blushing faintly under his scrutiny. 

"I am grateful to you for the permission; but I am bound to confess thatI should look all the same had you forbidden me to do so. "

Vera was pleased. She felt glad that he admired her. Was it not quiteright and most desirable that her husband's brother should appreciate herbeauty and ratify his good taste?

"When does your mother come?" she said, changing the subject quietly, butwithout effort. 

"Only the very night of the ball, I am afraid. Tuesday, is it not?"

"Have you written to her about me? She does not like me, I fear. "

"No; I will not write. She shall see you and judge for herself. I am notthe least afraid of her not liking you when she knows you; and you willlove her. "

By this time they had wandered away from the house through the belt ofshrubbery, and had emerged beyond upon the margin of the pool of water. 

Vera stood still, suddenly struck with the sight. 

"Is this Shadonake Bath?" she asked, below her breath. 

"Yes; have you never seen it before?" he answered, in some surprise. 

"Never. I have not lived in Meadowshire long, you know, and the Millerswere moving into the house and furnishing it all last summer. I havenever been in the gardens till to-day. How strangely sad the place looks!Let us walk round it. "

They went round to the further side. 

The pool of water lay dark and silent within its stone steps; not aripple disturbed its surface; not a dead leaf rested on its bosom. Onlythe motionless water looked up everlastingly at the gray winter skiesabove, and reflected them back blackly and gloomily upon its solemn face. 

Vera stood still and looked at it. Something in its aspect--she could nothave told what--affected her powerfully. She went down two or three stepstowards the water, and stooped over it intently. 

Maurice, watching her curiously, saw, to his surprise, that she trembled. She turned round to him. 

"Does it not look dark and deep? Is it very deep?"

"I believe it is. There are all sorts of stories about it. Come up, Vera;why do you tremble so?"

"How dreadful to be drowned here!" she said, below her breath, and sheshuddered. 

He stretched out his hand to her. 

"Do not say such horrid things! Give me your hand--the steps areslippery. What has put drowning into your head? And--why, how pale youare; what has frightened you?"

She took his hand and came back again to where he stood. 

"Do you believe in presentiments?" she said, slowly, with her eyes fixedstill, as though by some fascination, upon the dark waters beneath them. 

"Not in the very least, " he answered, cheerily; "do not think of suchthings. John would be the first to scold you--and to scold me forbringing you here. "

He stood, holding her hand, looking at her kindly and compassionately;suddenly she looked at him, and as their eyes met once more, she trembledfrom head to foot. 

"Vera, you are frightened; tell me what it is!"

"I don't know! I don't know!" she cried, with a sudden wail, like aperson in pain; "only--oh! I wish I had not seen it for the first timewith _you_!"

Before he could answer her, some one, _beckoning_ to them from thefurther side of the pool, caused them both to turn suddenly round. 

It was not only Herbert Pryme who had seen them wander away down thegarden from the house. Mrs. Romer, too, had been at another window andhad noticed them. To run lightly upstairs, put on her hat and jacket, andto follow them, had been the work of but a very few minutes. Helen wasnot minded to allow Maurice to wander about all the morning with Vera. 

"Are you going for a walk?" she called out to them across the water. "Wait for me; I am coming with you. "

Vera turned quickly to her companion. 

"Is it true that you are engaged to her?" she asked him rapidly, in a lowvoice. 

Maurice hesitated. Morally speaking, he was engaged to her; but, then, ithad been agreed between them that he was to deny any such engagement. Hefelt singularly disinclined to let Vera know what was the truth. 

"People say you are, " she said, once more. "Will you tell me if it istrue?"

"No; there is no engagement between us, " he answered, gravely. 

"I am very glad, " she answered, earnestly. He coloured, but he had notime to ask her why she was glad--for Helen came up to them. 

"How interested you look in each other's conversation!" she said, lookingsuspiciously at them both. "May I not hear what you have been talkingabout?"

"Anybody might hear, " answered Vera, carelessly, "were it worth one'swhile to take the trouble of repeating it. "

Maurice said nothing. He was angry with Helen for having interruptedthem, and angry with himself for having denied his semi-engagement. Hestood looking away from them both, prodding his stick into the gravelwalk. 

For half a minute they stood silently together. 

"Let us go on, " said Vera, and they began to walk. 

Once again in the days that were to come those three stood side by sideupon the margin of Shadonake Bath. 

CHAPTER XII. 

THE MEET AT SHADONAKE. 

 The desire of the moth for the star, Of the night for the morrow, The devotion to something afar. 

 Shelley. 

Mrs. Macpherson had brought up her daughters with one fixed andpredominant idea in her mind. Each of them was to excel in some one tasteor accomplishment, by virtue of which they might be enabled to shine insociety. They were taught to do one thing well. Thus, Sophy, the eldest, played the piano remarkably, whilst Jessie painted in water-colours withcharming exactitude and neatness. They had both had first-rate masters, and no pains had been spared to make each of them proficient in theaccomplishment that had been selected for her. But, as neither of theseyoung ladies had any natural talent, the result was hardly sosatisfactory as their fond mother could have desired. They did exactlywhat they had been taught to do with precision and conscientiousness; noless and no more; and the further result of their entire devotion to onekind of study was, that they could do nothing else. 

Mrs. Macpherson began to realize that her system of education hadpossibly left something to be desired on the Monday morning that Mr. Esterworth brought up his hounds to Shadonake House. It was provokingto see all the other ladies attired in their habits, whilst her owndaughters had to come down to breakfast in their ordinary morningdresses, because they had never been taught to ride. 

"Are you not going to ride?" she heard Guy Miller ask of Sophy, who wasdecidedly the best looking and the pleasantest of the sisters. 

"No, we have never ridden at all; mamma never thought we had the time forit, " answers Sophy. 

"I think, " said Mrs. Macpherson, turning to her hostess, "that I shallpursue a different course with my younger girls. I feel sorry now thatSophy and Jessie do not ride. Music and painting are, of course, the mostcharming accomplishments that a woman can have; but still it is not atall times that they are useful. "

"No, you cannot be always painting and playing. "

"Neither can you be always riding, " said Mrs. Macpherson, with someasperity, for there was a little natural jealousy between these ladies onthe subject of their girls; "but still----"

"But still, you will acknowledge that I have done right in lettingBeatrice hunt. You may be quite sure that there is no accomplishmentwhich brings a girl so much into notice in the country. Look at her now. "

Mrs. Macpherson looked and saw Beatrice in her habit at the far end ofthe dining-room surrounded by a group of men in pink, and she also sawher own daughters sitting neglected by themselves on the other side ofthe room. She made no observation upon the contrast, for it would hardlyhave been polite to have done so; but she made a mental note of the factthat Mrs. Miller was a very clever woman, and that, if you want an uglydaughter to marry, you had better let her learn how to ride acrosscountry. And she furthermore decided that her third daughter, Alice, whowas not blessed with the gift of beauty, should forthwith abandon thecultivation of a very feeble and uncertain vocal organ and be sent to thenearest riding-school the very instant she returned to her home. 

Beatrice Miller rode very well indeed; it was the secret of her uncle'saffection for her, and many a good day's sport had the two enjoyed sideby side across the flat fields and the strong fences and wide ditches oftheir native country. Her brothers, Guy and Edwin, were fond of huntingtoo, but they rode clumsily and awkwardly, floundering across country inwhat their uncle called, contemptuously, a thoroughly "provincial style. "But Beatrice had the true Esterworth seat and hand; she looked as if shewere born to her saddle, and, in truth, she was never so happy as whenshe was in it. It was a proof of how great and real was her love toHerbert Pryme that she fully recognized that, in becoming his wife, shewould have to live in London entirely and to give up her beloved huntingfor his sake. 

A woman who rides, as did Beatrice, is sure to be popular on a huntingmorning; and, with the consciousness of her lover's hands resting uponthe back of her chair, with her favourite uncle by her side, and withseveral truly ardent admirers of her good riding about her, Miss Millerwas evidently enjoying herself thoroughly. 

The scene, indeed, was animated to the last degree. The long dining-roomwas filled with guests, the table was covered with good things, a repast, half breakfast, half luncheon, being laid out upon it. Everybody helpedthemselves, with much chattering and laughter, and there was a pleasantsense of haste and excitement, and a charming informality about theproceedings, which made the Shadonake Hunt breakfast, which TomEsterworth had been prevailed upon by his niece's entreaties to allow, a thorough and decided success. 

Outside there were the hounds, drawn up in patient expectation on thegrass beyond the gravel sweep, the bright coats and velvet caps of themen, and the gray horses--on which it was the Meadowshire tradition thatthey should be always mounted--standing out well against the darkbackground of the leafless woods behind. Then there were a goodly companywho had not dismounted, and to whom glasses of sherry were being handedby the servants, and who also were chattering to each other, or to thoseon foot, whilst before the door, an object of interest to those within asto those without, Sir John Kynaston was putting Miss Nevill upon herhorse. 

There was not a man present who did not express his admiration for herbeauty and her grace; hardly a woman who did not instantly make somedepreciatory remark. The latter fact spoke perhaps more convincingly forthe undoubted success she had created than did the former. 

Maurice was standing by one of the dining-room windows, Mrs. Romer, asusual, by his side. He alone, perhaps, of all the men who saw her vaultlightly into her saddle, made no audible remark, but perhaps hisadmiration was all too plainly written in his eyes, for it calledforth a contemptuous remark from his companion--

"She is a great deal too tall to look well on a horse; those big womenshould never ride. "

"What! not with a figure so perfect as hers?"

"Yes, that is the third time you have spoken about her figure to-day, "said Helen, irritably. "What on earth can you see in it?" for Mrs. Romer, who was slight almost to angularity, was, as all thin women are, openlyindignant at the masculine foible for more flowing outlines, which wasdisplayed with greater candour than discretion by her quasi-lover. 

"What do I see in it?" repeated Maurice, who was dimly conscious of herjealousy, and was injudicious enough to lose his temper slightly over itsexhibition. "I see in it the beauty of a goddess, and the perfection ofa woman!"

"Really!" with a sarcastic laugh; "how wonderfully enthusiastic andpoetical you become over Miss Nevill's charms; it is something quite newin you, Maurice. Your interest in this 'goddess-like' young lady strikesme as singularly warmly expressed; it is more lover-like than fraternal. "

"What do you mean?" he said, looking at her coldly and angrily. Helen hadseen that look of hard contempt in his face before; she quailed a littlebefore it, and was frightened at what she had said. 

"Of course, " she said, reddening, "I know it's all right; but it doesreally sound peculiar, your admiring her so much; and--and--it is hardlyflattering to me. "

"I don't see that it has anything to do with you, " and he turned shortlyaway from her. 

She made a step or two after him. "You will ride with me, will you not, Maurice? You know I can't go very hard; you might give me a lead or two, and keep near me. "

"You must not ask me to make any promises, " he said, politely, butcoldly. "Guy Miller says there is a groom told off to look after youladies. Of course, if I can be of any use to you, I shall be happy, butit is no use making rash engagements as to what one will do in a run. "

"Come, come, it's time we were off, " cries out Tom Esterworth at thefurther end of the room, and his stalwart figure makes its way in thedirection of the door. 

In a very few minutes the order "to horse" has gone forth, and the wholecompany have sallied forth and are busy mounting their horses in front ofthe house. 

Off goes the master, well in front, at a sharp trot, towards the woods onthe further slope of the hill, and off go the hounds and the whips, andthe riders, in a long and gay procession after him, down the wide avenue. 

"Promise me you will not stop out long, Vera, " says Sir John to her asthey go side by side down the drive. "You look white and tired as it is. Have you got a headache?"

"Yes, a little, " confesses Vera, with a blush. "I did not sleep well. "

"This sitting up late night after night is not good for you, " says herlover, anxiously; "and there is the ball to-morrow night. "

"Yes; and I want to look my best for your mother, " she said, smiling. "Iwill take care of myself, John; I will go home early in time for lunch. "

"You are always so ready to do what I ask you. Oh, Vera, how good youare! how little I deserve such a treasure!"

"Don't, " she answers, almost sharply, whilst an expression of paincontracts her brow for an instant. "Don't say such things to me, John;don't call me good. "

John Kynaston looks at her fondly. "I will not call you anything youdon't wish, " he says, gently, "but I am free to think it, Vera!"

The first covert is successfully drawn without much delay. A fox isfound, and breaks away across the open, and a short but sharp burst offifteen or twenty minutes follows. The field is an unusually large one, and there are many out who are not in it at all. Beatrice, however, iswell up, and so is Herbert Pryme, who is not likely to be far from herside. Close behind them follows Sir John Kynaston, and Mrs. Romer, who iswell mounted upon one of Edwin Miller's horses, keeps well up with therest. 

Vera never quite knew how it was that somehow or other she got thrown outof that short but exciting run. She was on the wrong side of the covertto begin with; several men were near her, but they were all strangers, and at the time "Gone away!" was shouted, there was no one to tell herwhich way to take. Two men took the left side of the copse, three othersturned to the right. Vera followed the latter, and found that the houndsmust have gone in the opposite direction, for when she got round the woodnot a trace of them was to be seen. 

She did not know the country well, and she hardly knew which way to turn. It seemed to her, however, that by striking across a small field to theleft of her she would cut off a corner, and eventually come up with thehounds again. 

She turned her mare short round, and put her at a big straggling hedgewhich she had no fears of her being unable to compass. There was, however, more of a drop on the further side than she had counted upon, and in some way, as the mare landed, floundering on the further side, something gave way, and she found that her stirrup-leather had broken. 

Vera pulled up and looked about her helplessly. She found herself ina small spinney of young birch-trees, filling up the extremity of atriangular field into which she had come. Not a sign of the hounds, or, indeed, of any living creature was to be seen in any direction. She didnot feel inclined to go on--or even to go back home with her brokenstirrup-leather. It occurred to her that she would get off and see whatshe could do towards patching it together herself. 

With some little difficulty, her mare being fidgety, and refusing tostand still, she managed to dismount; but in doing so her wrist caughtagainst the pommel of her saddle, and was so severely wrenched backwards, as she sprang to the ground, that she turned quite sick with the pain. 

It seemed to her that her wrist must be sprained; at all events, herright hand was, for the minute, perfectly powerless. The mare, perceivingthat nothing further was expected of her, amused herself by cropping theshort grass at her feet, whilst Vera stood by her side in dire perplexityas to what she was to do next. Just then she heard the welcome sound of ahorse's hoofs in the adjoining field, and in another minute a hat andblack coat, followed by a horse's head and forelegs appeared on the topof the fence, and a man dropped over into the spinney just ten yards infront of her. 

Vera took it to be her lover, for the brothers both hunted in black, andthere was a certain family resemblance between their broad shoulders andthe square set of their heads. She called out eagerly, "Oh, John! how glad I am to see you! I have come to grief!"

"So I see; but I am not John. I hope, however, I may do as well. What isthe matter?"

"It is you, Maurice? Oh, yes, you will do quite as well. I have broken mystirrup-leather, and I am afraid I have sprained my wrist. "

"That sounds bad--let me see. "

In an instant he had sprung from his horse to help her. 

She looked up at him as he came, pushing the tall brushwood away ashe stepped through it. It struck her suddenly how like he was to thephotograph she had found of him at Kynaston long ago, and what awell-made man he was, and how brave and handsome he looked in hishunting gear. 

"How have you managed to hurt your wrist? Let me see it. "

"I wrenched it somehow in jumping down; but I don't think that it can besprained, for I find I can move it now a little; it is only bruised, butit hurts me horribly. "

She turned back her cuff and held out the injured hand to him. Mauricestooped over it. There was a moment's silence, the two horses stoodwaiting patiently by, the solitary fields lay bare and lifeless on everyside of them, the little birch-trees rustled mysteriously overhead, theleaden sky, with its chill curtain of unbroken gray cloud, spreadmonotonously above them; there was no living thing in all the winterlandscape besides to listen or to watch them. 

Suddenly Maurice Kynaston caught the hand that he held to his lips, andpressed half a dozen passionate kisses upon its outstretched palm. 

It was the work of half a minute, and in the next Maurice felt as if heshould die of shame and remorse. 

"For God's sake, forgive me!" he cried, brokenly. "I am a brute--I forgotmyself--I must be mad, I think; for Heaven's sake tell me that I have notoffended you past forgiveness, Vera!"

His pulses were beating wildly, his face was flushed, the hands thatstill held hers shook with a nameless emotion; he looked imploringly intoher face, as if to read his sentence in her eyes, but what he saw therearrested the torrent of repentance and regret that was upon his lips. 

Upon Vera's face there was no flush either of shame or anger. No stormof indignation, no passion of insulted feeling; only eyes wide open andterror-stricken, that met his with the unspeakable horror that one seessometimes in those of a hunted animal. She was pale as death. Thensuddenly the colour flushed hotly back into her face; she averted hereyes. 

"Let me go home, " she said, in a faint voice; "help me to get on to myhorse, Maurice. "

There was neither resentment nor anger in her voice, only a greatweariness. 

He obeyed her in silence. Possibly he felt that he had stood for oneinstant upon the verge of a precipice, and that miraculously her face hadsaved him, he knew not how, where words would only have dragged him downto unutterable ruin. 

What had it been that had thus saved him? What was the meaning of thatterror that had been written in her lovely eyes? Since she was not angry, what had she feared?

Maurice asked himself these questions vainly all the way home. Not a wordwas spoken between them; they rode in absolute silence side by side untilthey reached the house. 

Then, as he lifted her off her horse at the hall-door, he whispered, "Have you forgiven me?"

"There was nothing to forgive, " she answered, in a low, strained voice. She spoke wearily, as one who is suffering physical pain. But, as shespoke, the hand that he still held seemed almost, to his fancy, to lingerfor a second with a gentle fluttering pressure within his grasp. 

Miss Nevill went into the house, having utterly forgotten that she hadsprained her wrist; a fact which proves indisputably, I suppose, that theinjury could not have been of a very serious nature. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

PEACOCK'S FEATHERS. 

 That practised falsehood under saintly show, Deep malice to conceal, couched with revenge. 

 Milton, "Paradise Lost. "

Old Lady Kynaston arrived at Shadonake in the worst possible temper. Herbutler and factotum, who always made every arrangement for her when shewas about to travel, had for once been unequal to cope with Bradshaw;he had looked out the wrong train, and had sent off his lady and her maidhalf-an-hour too late from Walpole Lodge. 

The consequence was that, instead of reaching Shadonake comfortably athalf-past six in the afternoon, Lady Kynaston had to wait for the nexttrain. She ate her dinner alone, in London, at the Midland Railway Hotel, and never reached her destination till half-past nine on the night of theball. 

Before she had half completed her toilette the guests were beginning toarrive. 

"I am afraid I must go down and receive these people, dear LadyKynaston, " said Mrs. Miller, who had remained in her guest's room fullof regret and sympathy at the _contretemps_ of her journey. 

"Oh, dear me! yes, Caroline--pray go down. I shall be all the quicker forbeing left alone. Not _that_ cap, West; the one with the Spanish point, of course. Dear me, how I do hate all this hurry and confusion!"

"I am so afraid you will be tired, " murmured Mrs. Miller, soothingly. "Would you like me to send Miss Nevill up to your room? It might bepleasanter for you than to meet her downstairs. "

"Good gracious, no!" exclaimed the elder lady, testily. "What on earthshould I be in such a hurry for! I shall see quite as much of her as Iwant by-and-by, I have no doubt. "

Mrs. Miller retired, and the old lady was left undisturbed to finishher toilette, during which it may fairly be assumed that that dignifiedpersonage, Mrs. West, had a hard time of it. 

When she issued forth from her room, dressed, like a little fairygodmother, in point lace and diamonds, the dancing downstairs was infull swing. 

Lady Kynaston paused for a minute at the top of the broad staircase tolook down upon the bright scene below. The hall was full of people. Girlsin many-coloured dresses passed backwards and forwards from the ball-roomto the refreshment-room, laughing and chatting to their partners; elderlypeople were congregated about the doorways gossiping and shaking handswith new-comers, or watching their daughters with pleased or anxiousfaces, according to the circumstances of their lot. Everybody was talkingat once. There came up a pleasant confusion of sound--happy voicesmingling with the measured strains of the dance-music. In a shelteredcorner behind the staircase, Beatrice and Herbert Pryme had settledthemselves down comfortably for a chat. Lady Kynaston saw them. 

"Caroline is a fool!" she muttered to herself. "All the balls in theworld won't get that girl married as she wishes. She has set her heartupon that briefless barrister. I saw it as plain as daylight last season. As to entertaining all this _cohue_ of aborigines, Caroline might spareher trouble and her money, as far as the girl is concerned. "

And then, coming slowly down the staircase, Lady Kynaston saw somethingwhich restored her to good temper at once. 

The something was her younger son. She had caught sight of him through anopen doorway in the conservatory. His back was turned to her, and he wasbending over a lady who was sitting down, and whose face was concealedbehind him. 

Lady Kynaston stood still with that sudden _serrement de coeur_ whichcomes to us all when we see the creature we love best on earth. He didnot see her, and she could not see his face, because it was turned awayfrom her; but she knew, by his very attitude, the way he bent down overhis companion, by the eager manner in which he was talking to her, and bythe way in which he was evidently entirely engrossed and absorbed in whathe was saying--that he was enjoying himself, and that he was happy. 

The mother's heart all went out towards him; the mother's eyes moistenedas she looked. 

The couple in the conservatory were alone. A Chinese lantern, swung highup above, shed down a soft radiance upon them. Tall camellia bushes, covered with waxen blossoms and cool shiny leaves, were behind them;banks of long-fronded, feathery ferns framed them in like a picture. Maurice's handsome figure stood up tall and strong amongst the greenery;the dress of the woman he was with lay in soft diaphanous folds upon theground beyond him. One white arm rested on her lap, one tiny foot peepedout from below the laces of her skirt. But Lady Kynaston could not seeher face. 

"I wonder who she is, " she said to herself. "It is not Helen. She haspeacock's feathers on her dress--bad luck, I believe! Dear boy, he looksthoroughly happy. I will not disturb him now. "

And she passed on through the hall into the large drawing-room, where thedancing was going on. 

The first person she caught sight of there was her eldest son. He wasdancing a quadrille, and his partner was a short young lady in astrawberry-coloured tulle dress, covered with trails of spinach-greenfern leaves. This young person had a round, chubby face, with brightapple-hued cheeks, a dark, bullet-shaped head, and round, bead-like eyesthat glanced about her rapidly like those of a frightened dickey-bird. Her dress was cut very low, and the charms she exhibited were notcaptivating. Her arms were very red, and her shoulders were mottled: thelatter is considered to be a healthy sign in a baby, but is hardly abeautiful characteristic in a grown woman. 

"_That_ is my daughter-in-law, " said Lady Kynaston to herself, and shealmost groaned aloud. "She is _worse_ even than I thought! Countrifiedand common to the last degree; there will be no licking that face or thatfigure into shape--they are hopeless! Elise and Worth combined could donothing with her! John must be mad. No wonder she is good, poor thing, "added the naughty little old lady, cynically. "A woman with _that_appearance can never be tempted to be anything else!"

The quadrille came to an end, and Sir John, after depositing his partnerat the further side of the room, came up to his mother. 

"My dear mother, how are you? I am so sorry about your journey; you mustbe dead beat. What a fool Bates was to make such a mistake. " He waslooking about the room as he spoke. "I must introduce you to Vera. "

"Yes, introduce me to her at once, " said his mother, in a resigned anddepressed tone of voice. She would like to have added, "And pray get itover as soon as you can. " What she did say was only, "Bring her up to menow. The young lady you have just been dancing with, I suppose!"

"What!" cried Sir John, and burst out laughing. "Good Heavens, mother!that was Miss Smiles, the daughter of the parson of Lutterton. You don'tmean to say you thought a little ugly chit like _that_ was my Vera!"

His mother suddenly laid her hand upon his arm. 

"Who is that lovely woman who has just come in with Maurice?" sheexclaimed. 

Her son followed the direction of her eyes, and beheld Vera standing inthe doorway that led from the conservatory by his brother's side. 

Without a word he passed his mother's hand through his arm and led heracross the room. 

"Vera, this is my mother, " he said. And Lady Kynaston owned afterwardsthat she never felt so taken aback and so utterly struck dumb withastonishment in her life. 

Her two sons looked at her with amusement and some triumph. The littlesurprise had been so thoroughly carried out; the contrast of the truth towhat they knew she had expected was too good a joke not to be enjoyed. 

"Not much what you expected, little mother, is it?" said Maurice, laughingly. But to Vera, who knew nothing, it was no laughing matter. 

She put both her hands out tremblingly and hesitatingly--with a prettypleading look of deprecating deference in her eyes--and the little oldlady, who valued beauty and grace and talent so much that she couldbarely tolerate goodness itself without them, was melted at once. 

"My dear, " she said, "you are beautiful, and I am going to love you; butthese naughty boys made me think you were something like little MissSmiles. "

"Nay, mother, it was your own diseased imagination, " laughed Maurice;"but come, Vera, I am not going to be cheated of this waltz--if John doesnot want you to dance with him, that is to say. "

John nodded pleasantly to them, and the two whirled away together intothe midst of the throng of dancers. 

"Well, mother?"

"My dear, she is a very beautiful creature, and I have been a silly, prejudiced old woman. "

"And you forgive her for being poor, and for living in a vicarage insteadof a castle?"

"She would be a queen if she were a beggar and lived in a mud hovel!"answered his mother, heartily, and Sir John was satisfied. 

Lady Kynaston's eyes were following the couple as they danced: for allher admiration and her enthusiasm, there was a little anxiety in theirgaze. She had not forgotten the little picture she had caught a glimpseof in the conservatory, nor had her woman's eyes failed to notice thatVera's dress was trimmed with peacock's feathers. 

Where was Helen? Lady Kynaston said to herself; and why was Mauricedevoting himself to his future sister-in-law instead of to her?

Mrs. Romer, you may be sure, had not been far off. Her sharp eyes hadseen Vera and Maurice disappear together into the conservatory. She couldhave told to a second how long they had remained there; and again, whenthey came out, she had watched the little family scene that had takenplace at the door. She had seen the look of delighted surprise on LadyKynaston's face; she had noted how pleased and how proud of Vera thebrothers had looked, and then how happily Maurice and Vera had gone offagain together. 

"What does it mean?" Helen asked herself, bitterly. "Is Sir John a foolor blind that he does not see what is going on under his nose? She hasgot him, and his money, and his place; what does she want with Mauricetoo? Why can't she let him alone--she is taking him from me. "

She watched them eagerly and feverishly. They stood still for a momentnear her; she could not hear what they said, but she could see the lookin Maurice's eyes as he bent towards his partner. 

Can a woman who has known what love is ever be mistaken about that?

Vera, all wondering and puzzled, might be but dimly conscious of themeaning in the eyes that met hers; her own drooped, half troubled, halfconfused, before them. But to Helen, who knew what love's signals were, there was no mystery whatever in the passion in his down-bent glance. 

"He loves her!" she said to herself, whilst a sharp pang, almost ofphysical pain, shot through her heart. "She shall never get him!--never!never! Not though one of us die for it! They are false, both of them. Iswear they shall never be happy together!"

"Why are you not dancing, Mrs. Romer?" said a voice at her elbow. 

"I will dance with you, Sir John, if you will ask me, " answers Helen, smiling. 

Sir John responds, as in duty bound, by passing his arm around her waist. 

"When are you going to be married, Sir John?" she asks him, when thefirst pause in the dance gives her the opportunity of speech. 

Sir John looks rather confused. "Well, to tell you the truth, I havenot spoken to Vera yet. I have not liked to hurry her--I thought, perhaps----"

"Why don't you speak to her? A woman never thinks any better of a manfor being diffident in such matters. "

"You think not? But you see Vera is----"

"Vera is very much like all other women, I suppose; and you are notversed in the ways of the sex. "

Sir John demurred in his own mind as to the first part of her speech. Vera was certainly not like other women; but then he acknowledged thetruth of Mrs. Romer's last remark thoroughly. 

"No, I dare say I don't know much about women's ways, " he admitted; "andyou think----"

"I think that Vera would be glad enough to be married as soon as she can. An engagement is a trying ordeal. One is glad enough to get settled down. What is the use of waiting when once everything is arranged?"

Sir John flushed a little. The prospect of a speedy marriage was pleasantto him. It was what he had been secretly longing for--only that, in hisslow way, he had not yet been able to suggest it. 

"Do you really think she would like it?" he asked, earnestly. 

"Of course she would; any woman would. "

"And how long do you think the preparations would take?"

"Oh, a month or three weeks is ample time to get clothes in. "

His pulses beat hotly at the bare possibility of such a thing. To possesshis Vera in so short a time seemed something too great and too wonderfulto be true. 

"Do not lose any more time, " continued Helen, following up the impressionshe saw she had made upon him. "Speak to her this evening; get her to fixyour wedding-day within the month; believe me, a man gets no advantage byputting things off too long; and there are dangers, too, in your case. "

"Dangers! How do you mean?" he said, quickly. 

"Oh, nothing particular--only she is very handsome, and she is young, andnot accustomed, I dare say, to admiration. Other men may admire her aswell as you. "

"If they did, it could do her no harm, " he answered, stiffly. 

"Oh, no, of course not; but you can't keep other men from looking ather. When once she is your wife you will have her more completely toyourself. "

Sir John made no particular answer to this; but when he had done dancingwith Mrs. Romer, he led her back to her seat and thanked her gravely andcourteously for her suggestions. 

"You have done me a great service, Mrs. Romer, and I am infinitelyobliged to you, " he said, and then went his way to find Vera. 

He was not jealous; but there was a certain uneasiness in his mind. Itmight be, indeed, true that others would admire and love Vera; othersmore worthy of her, more equally mated with her youth and loveliness; andhe, he said to himself in his humility with regard to her, he had solittle to offer her--nothing but his love. He knew himself to be graveand quiet; there was nothing about him to enchain her to him. He lackedbrilliancy in manner and conversation; he was dull; he was, perhaps, even prosy. He knew it very well himself; but suppose Vera should find itout, and find that she had made a mistake! The bare thought of it wasenough to make him shudder. 

No; Mrs. Romer was a clever, well-intentioned little woman. She had meantto give him a hint in all kindness, and he would not be slow to take it. What she had meant to say was, "Take her yourself quickly, or some oneelse will take her from you. "

And Sir John said to himself that he would so take her, and that asquickly as possible. 

Standing talking to her younger son, later on that evening, Lady Kynastonsaid to him, suddenly, "Why does Vera wear peacock's feathers?"

"Why should she not?"

"They are bad luck. "

Maurice laughed. "I never knew you to be superstitious before, mother. "

"I am not so really; but from choice I would avoid anything that bears anunlucky interpretation. I saw her with you in the conservatory as I camedownstairs. "

Maurice turned suddenly red. "Did you?" he asked, a little anxiously. 

"Yes. I did not know it was her, of course. I did not see her face, onlyher dress, and I noticed that it was trimmed with peacock's feathers;that was what made me recognize her afterwards. "

"That was bad luck, at all events, " said Maurice, almost involuntarily. 

"Why?" asked Lady Kynaston, looking up at him sharply. But Maurice wouldnot tell her why. 

Lady Kynaston asked no more questions; but she pondered, and she watched. Captain Kynaston did not dance again with Vera that night, and he diddance several times with Mrs. Romer; it did not escape her notice, however, that he seemed absent and abstracted, and that his face bore itshardest and sternest aspect throughout the remainder of the evening. 

So the ball at Shadonake came to an end, as balls do, with the firstgleams of daylight; and nothing was left of all the gay crowd who had solately filled the brilliant rooms but several sleepy people creeping upslowly to bed, and a great _chiffonade_ of tattered laces, and flowers, and coloured scraps littered all over the polished floor of theball-room. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

HER WEDDING DRESS. 

 Those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings, Blank misgivings-- High instincts before which our moral nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised. 

 Wordsworth. 

"Vera, are you not coming to look at it?"

"Presently. "

"It is all laid out on your bed, and you ought to try it on; it mightwant alterations. "

"Oh, there is plenty of time!"

"It is downright affectation!" says old Mrs. Daintree, angrily, to herdaughter-in-law, as she and Marion leave the room together; "no girl canreally be indifferent to a wedding dress covered with yards of lovelyBrussels lace flounces; she ought to be ashamed of herself for heringratitude to Lady Kynaston for such a present; she must really wantto see it, only she likes playing the fine lady beforehand!"

"I don't think it is that, " says Marion, gently; "I don't believe Vera iswell. "

"Fiddlesticks!" snorts her mother-in-law. "A woman who is going to marryten thousand a year within ten days is bound to be well. "

Vera sits alone; she leans her head against the window, her hands lieidle in her lap, her eyes mechanically follow the rough, gray clouds thatrack across the winter sky. In little more than a week she will be VeraNevill no longer; she will have gained all that she desired and triedfor--wealth, position, Kynaston--and Sir John! She should be wellcontent, seeing that it has been her own doing all along. No one hasforced or persuaded her into this engagement, no one has urged her on toa course contrary to her own inclination, or her own judgment. It hasbeen her own act throughout. And yet, as she sits alone in the twilight, and counts over on her fingers the few short days that intervene betweento-day and her bridal morning, hot miserable tears rise to her eyes, and fall slowly down, one by one, upon her clasped hands. She does notask herself why she weeps; possibly she dares not. Only her thoughtssomehow--by that strange connection of ideas which links something inour present to some other thing in our past, and which apparently is inno way dependent upon it--go back instinctively, as it were, to her deadsister, the Princess Marinari. 

"Oh, my poor darling Theodora!" she murmurs, half aloud; "if you hadlived, you would have taken care of your Vera; if you had not died, Ishould never have come here, nor ever have known--any of them. "

And then she hears Marion's voice calling to her from the top of thestairs. 

"Vera! Vera! do come up and see it before it gets quite dark. "

She rises hastily and dashes away her tears. 

"What is the matter with me to-day!" she says to herself, impatiently. "Have I not everything in the world I wish for? I am happy--of courseI am happy. I am coming, Marion, instantly. "

Upstairs her wedding dress, a soft cloud of rich silk and fleecy lace, relieved with knots of flowers, dark-leaved myrtle, and waxen orangeblossoms, lies spread out upon her bed. Marion stands contemplating it, wrapt in ecstatic admiration; old Mrs. Daintree has gone away. 

"It is perfectly lovely! I am so glad you had silk instead of satin;nothing could show off Lady Kynaston's lace so well: is it not beautiful?you ought to try it on. Why, Vera! what is the matter? I believe you havebeen crying. "

"I was thinking of Theodora, " she murmurs. 

"Ah! poor dear Theodora!" assents Marion, with a compassionate sigh; "howshe would have liked to have known of your marriage; how pleased shewould have been. "

Vera looks at her sister. "Marion, " she says, in a low earnest voice;"if--if I should break it off, what would you say?"

"Break it off!" cries her sister, horror-struck. "Good heavens, Vera!what can you mean? Have you gone suddenly mad? What is the matter withyou? Break off a match like this at the last minute? You must bedemented!"

"Oh, of course, " with a sudden change of manner; "of course I did notmean it, it only came into my head for a minute; of course, as you say, it is a splendid match for me. What should I want to break it off for?What should I gain? what, indeed?" She spoke feverishly and excitedly, laughing a little harshly as she spoke. 

Marion looked at her anxiously. "I hope to goodness you will never saysuch horrid things to anybody else; it sounds dreadful, Vera, as ifEustace and I were forcing you into it; as if you did not want to marrySir John yourself. "

"Of course I want to marry him!" interrupted Vera, with unreasonablesharpness. 

"Then, pray don't make a fool of yourself, my dear, by talking aboutbreaking it off. "

"It was only a joke. Break it off! how could I? The best match in thecounty, as you say. I am not going to make a fool of myself; don't beafraid, Marion. It would be so inconvenient, too; the trousseau allbought, the breakfast ordered, the guests invited; even the wedding dresshere, all finished and ready to put on, and ten thousand a year waitingfor me! Oh, no, I am not going to be such an utter fool!"

She laughed; but her laughter was almost more sad than her tears, and hersister left her, saddened and puzzled by her manner. 

It was now nearly two months since the ball at Shadonake; and, soon afterthat eventful visit, Vera had begun to be employed in preparing for herwedding-day, which had been fixed for the 27th of February; for Sir Johnhad taken Mrs. Romer's hint, and had pressed an early marriage upon her. Vera had made no objection; what objection, indeed, could she have foundto make? She had acquiesced readily in her lover's suggestions, and hadset to work to prepare herself for her marriage. 

All this time Captain Kynaston had not been in Meadowshire at all; he haddeclined his brother's hospitality, and had gone to spend his leaveamongst other friends in Somersetshire, where he had started a couple ofhunters, and wrote word to Sir John that the sport was of such a verysuperior nature that he was unable to tear himself away. 

Within a fortnight, however, of Sir John's wedding, Maurice did yield atlast to his brother's pressing request, and came up from Somersetshire toKynaston. Last Sunday he had suddenly appeared in the Kynaston pew inSutton Church by Sir John's side, and had shaken hands with Vera and herrelations on coming out of church, and had walked across the vicaragegarden by the side of Mrs. Daintree, Vera having gone on in front withTommy and Minnie. And it was from that moment that Vera had as suddenlydiscovered that she was utterly and thoroughly wretched, and that shedreaded her wedding-day with a strange and unaccountable terror. 

She told herself that she was out of health, that the excitement andbustle of the necessary preparations had over-tried her, that her nerveswere upset, her spirits depressed by reason of the solemnity a womannaturally feels at the approach of so important a change in her life. She assured herself aloud, day after day, that she was perfectly happyand content, that she was the very luckiest and most fortunate of women, and that she would sooner be Sir John's wife than the wife of any oneelse in the world. And she told it to herself so often and soemphatically, that there were whole hours, and even whole days together, when she believed in these self-assurances implicitly and thoroughly. 

All this time she saw next to nothing of Maurice Kynaston; the weatherwas mild and open, and he went out hunting every day. Sir John, on theother hand, was much with her; a constant necessity for his presenceseemed to possess her. She was never thoroughly content but when he waswith her; ever restless and ill at ease in his absence. 

No one could be more thoroughly convinced than Vera of the entire wisdomof the marriage she was about to make. It was, she felt persuaded, thebest and the happiest thing she could have done with her life. Wealth, position, affection, were all laid at her feet; and her husband, moreover, would be a man whose goodness and whose devotion to her couldnever fail to command her respect. What more could a woman who, likeherself, was fully alive to the importance of the good things of thisworld desire? Surely nothing more. Vera, when she was left alone withthe glories of her wedding garment, took herself to task for her foolishwords to her sister. 

"I am a fool!" she said to herself, half angrily, as she bundled all thewhite silk and the rich lace unceremoniously away into an empty drawer ofher wardrobe. "I am a fool to say such things even to Marion. It looks, as she says, as if I were being forced into a rich marriage by myfriends. I am very fond of John; I shall make him a most exemplary wife, and I shall look remarkably well in the family diamonds, and that is allthat can possibly be required of me. "

Having thus settled things comfortably in her own mind, she wentdownstairs again, and was in such good spirits, and so radiant withsmiles for the rest of the evening, that Mr. Daintree remarked to hiswife, when they had retired into their conjugal chamber, that he hadnever seen Vera look so well or so happy. 

"Dear child, " he said, "it is a great comfort to me to see it, for justat first I feared that she had been influenced by the money and theposition, and that her heart was not in it; but now she has evidentlybecome much attached to Sir John, and is perfectly happy; and he is amost excellent man, and in every way worthy of her. Did I tell you, Marion, that he told me the chancel should be begun immediately after thewedding? It is a pity it could not have been done before; but we shalljust get it finished by Easter. "

"I am glad of that. We must fill the church with flowers for the 27th, and then its appalling ugliness will not be too visible. Of course, thebuilding could hardly have been begun in the middle of winter. "

But if Mrs. Eustace Daintree differed at all from her husband upon thesubject of her sister's serene and perfect happiness, she, like a wisewoman, kept her doubts to herself, and spoke no word of them to destroythe worthy vicar's peace of mind upon the subject. 

The next morning Sir John came down from the Hall to the vicarage witha cloud upon his brow, and requested Vera to grant him a few minutes'private conversation. Vera put on her sable cloak and hat, and went outwith him into the garden. 

"What is the matter?"

"I am exceedingly vexed with my brother, " he answered. 

"What has Maurice done?"

"He tells me this morning that he will not stop for the wedding, nor bemy best man. He talks of going away to-morrow. "

Vera glanced at him. He looked excessively annoyed; his face, usually sokind and placid, was ruffled and angry; he flicked the grass impatientlywith his stick. 

"I have been talking to him for an hour, and cannot get him to change hismind, or even to tell me why he will not stay; in fact, he has no goodreason for going. He _must_ stay. "

"Does it matter very much?" she asked, gently. 

"Of course it matters. My mother is not able to be present; it would notbe prudent after her late attack of bronchitis. My only brother surelymight make a point of being at my wedding. "

"But if he has other engagements----"

"He has no other engagement!" he interrupted, angrily; "He cannot findany but the most paltry excuses. It is behaving with great unkindness tomyself, but that is a small matter. What I do mind and will not submit tois, that it is a deliberate insult to you. "

"An insult to me! Oh! John, how can that be?" she said, in some surprise;and then, suddenly, she flushed hotly. She knew what he meant. There hadbeen plenty of people to say that Sir John Kynaston was marrying beneathhimself--a nobody who was unworthy of him: these murmurs had reachedVera's ears, but she had not heeded them since Lady Kynaston had been onher side. She saw, however, that Sir John feared that the absence of hismother and his brother at his wedding might be misconstrued into a signthat they also disapproved of his bride. 

"I don't think Maurice would wish to slight me, " she said, gently. 

"No; but, then, he must not behave as though he did. I assure you, Vera, if he perseveres in his determination, I shall be most deeply hurt. Ihave always endeavoured to be a kind brother to him, and, if he cannot dothis small thing to please me, I shall consider him most ungrateful. "

"That I am sure he is not, " she answered, earnestly; "little as I knowhim, I can assure you that he never loses an occasion of saying how muchhe feels your goodness and generosity to him. "

"Then he must prove it. Look here, Vera, will you go up to the Hall nowand talk to him? He is not hunting to-day; you will find him in thelibrary. "

"I?" she cried, looking half frightened; "what can I do? You had muchbetter ask him yourself. "

"I have asked him over and over again, till I am sick of asking! If youwere to put it as a personal request from yourself, I am sure he wouldsee how important to us both it is that he should be present at ourwedding. "

"Pray don't ask me to do such a thing; I really cannot, " she said, hastily. 

Sir John looked at her in some surprise; there was an amount of distressin her face that struck him as inadequate to the small thing he had askedof her. 

"Why, Vera! have you grown shy? Surely you will not mind doing so small athing to please me? You need not stay long, and you have your hat on allready. I have to speak to your brother-in-law about the chancel; I have aletter from the architect this morning; and everything must be settledabout it before we go. If you will go up and speak to Maurice now, I willjoin you--say in twenty minutes from now, " consulting his watch, "at thelodge gates. You will go, won't you, dear, just to please me?"

She did not know how to refuse; she had no excuse to give, no reason thatshe could put into words why she should shrink with such a dreadfulterror from this interview with his brother which he was forcing uponher. She told him that she would go, and Sir John, leaving her, went intothe house well satisfied to do his business with the vicar. 

And Vera went slowly up the lane alone towards the Hall. She did not knowwhat she was going to say to Maurice; she hardly knew, indeed, what itwas she had been commissioned to ask of him; nor in what words herrequest was to be made. She thought no longer of her wedding-day, nor ofthe lover who had just parted with her. Only before her eyes there cameagain the little wintry copse of birch-trees; the horses standing by, thebare fields stretching around, and back into her heart there flashed thememory of those quick, hot kisses pressed upon her outstretched hand; theone short--and alas! all too perilous--glimpse that had been revealed toher of the inner life and soul of the man whose lightest touch she hadlearnt that day to fear as she feared no other living thing. 

CHAPTER XV. 

VERA'S MESSAGE. 

 Alas! how easily things go wrong, A word too much, or a sigh too long; And there comes a mist and a driving rain, And life is never the same again. 

The library at Kynaston was the room which Sir John had used as his onlysitting-room since he had come down to stay in his own house. When hiswedding with Miss Nevill had been definitely fixed, there had come downfrom town a whole army of decorators and painters and upholsterers, whohad set to work to renovate and adorn the rest of the house for theadvent of the bride, who was so soon to be brought home to it. 

They had altered things in various ways, they had improved a few, andthey had spoiled a good many more; they had, at all events, introduced awholesome and thorough system of cleansing and cleaning throughout thehouse, that had been very welcome to the soul of Mrs. Eccles; but intothe library they had not penetrated. The old bookshelves remaineduntouched; the old books, in their musty brown calf bindings, wereundesecrated by profaning hands. All sorts of quaint chairs and bureaus, gathered together out of every other room in the house, had congregatedhere. The space over the mantelpiece was adorned by a splendid portraitby Vandyke, flanked irreverently on either side by a series of oldsporting prints, representing the whole beginning, continuation, andend of a steeple-chase course, and which, it is melancholy to state, werefar more highly appreciated by Sir John than the beautiful and valuablepicture which they surrounded. Below these, and on the mantelpieceitself, were gathered together a heterogeneous collection of pipes, spurs, horse-shoes, bits, and other implements, which the superintendinghands of any lady would have straightway relegated to the stables. 

In this library Sir John and his brother fed, smoked, wrote and read, and lived, in fact, entirely in full and disorderly enjoyment of theirbachelorhood and its privileges. The room, consequently, was in acondition of untidiness and confusion, which was the despair of Mrs. Eccles and the delight of the two men themselves, who had even forbiddenthe entrance of any housemaid into it upon pain of instant dismissal. Mrs. Eccles submitted herself with resignation to the inevitable, andcomforted herself with the reflection that the time of uncheckedmasculine dominion was well-nigh over, and that the days were very nearat hand when "Miss Vera" was coming to alter all this. 

"Ah, well, it won't last long, poor gentleman!" the worthy lady said toherself, in allusion to Sir John's uninvaded sanctum; "let him enjoy hispigstye while he can. When his wife comes she will soon have the placeswept clean out for him. "

So the papers, and the books, and the pipes, and the tobacco-tins wereleft heaped up all over the tables and chairs, and the fox-terriers satin high places on the sofa cushions; and the brothers smoked their pipesafter their meals, emptied their ashes on to the tables, threw theirempty soda-water bottles into a corner of the room, wore their slippersat all hours, and lapsed, in fact, into all those delightful methods ofliving at ease practised by the vicious nature inherent in man when he isunchecked by female influence; whilst Mrs. Eccles groaned in silence, butpossessed her soul in patience by reason of that change which she knew tobe coming over the internal economy of Kynaston Hall. 

Maurice Kynaston reclines at ease in the most comfortable arm-chair inthe room, his feet reposing upon a second chair; his pipe is in hismouth, and his hands in his trouser pockets; he wears a loose, grayshooting-jacket, and Sir John's favourite terrier, Vic, has curledherself into a little round white ball upon his outstretched legs. Maurice has just been reading his morning's correspondence, and a letterfrom Helen, announcing that her grandfather is ill and confined to hisroom by bronchitis, is still in his hand. He looks gloomily andabstractedly into the red logs of the wood fire. The door opens. 

"Any orders for the stable, Captain?"

"None to-day, Mrs. Eccles. "

"You are not going out hunting?"

"No, I am going to take a rest. By the way, Mrs. Eccles, I shall beleaving to-morrow, so you can see about packing my things. "

"Dear me! sir, I hope we shall see you again, at the wedding. "

"Very unlikely; I don't like weddings, Mrs. Eccles; the only one I evermean to dance at is yours. When you get married, you let me know. "

"Law! sir, how you do go on!" said the old lady, laughing; notill-pleased at the imputation. "Dear me, " she went on, looking round theroom uneasily, "did I ever see such a mess in all my born days. Now SirJohn is out, sir, I suppose you couldn't let me----"

"_Certainly not_--if you mean bring in a broom and a dust-pan! Just letme catch you at it, that's all!"

The housekeeper shook her head with a resigned sigh. 

"Ah, well! it can't last long; when Miss Vera comes she'll turn the wholeplace inside-out, and all them nasty pipes, and dogs and things will becleared away. "

"Do you think so?" suddenly sitting upright in his chair. "Wait a bit, Mrs. Eccles; don't go yet. Do you think Miss Vera will have things herown way with my brother?"

"Oh! sir, what do you ask me for?" she answered, with discreetevasiveness. "Surely you must know more about Miss Vera than I can tellyou. "

Mrs. Eccles went away, and Maurice got up and leant against themantelpiece looking down gloomingly, into the fire. Vic, dislodged fromhis knee, sat up beside him, resting her little white paws on the edge ofthe fender, warming her nose. 

"What a fool I am!" said Maurice, aloud to himself. "I can't even hearher name mentioned by a servant without wanting to talk about her. Yes, it's clear he loves her--but does she love him? Will she be happy? Yes, of course, she will get her own way. Will that be enough for her? Ah!"turning suddenly round and taking half-a-dozen steps across the room. "Itis high time I went. I am a coward and a traitor to linger on here; Iwill go. Why did I say to-morrow--why have I not settled to go this veryday? If I were not so weak and so irresolute, I should be gone by thistime. I ought never, knowing what I do know of myself--I ought never tohave come back at all. " He went back to the fire and sat down again, lifting the little dog back on to his knee. "I shall get over it, Isuppose, " he murmured. "Men don't die of this sort of thing; she willmarry, and she will think me unkind because I shall never come near her;but even if she knew the truth, it would never make any difference toher; and by-and-by I too, I suppose, shall marry. " The soliloquy diedaway into silence. Maurice stroked the dog and looked at the firedreamily and somewhat drearily. 

Some one tapped at the door. 

"Come in! What is it, Mrs. Eccles?" he cried, rousing himself. 

The door softly opened and there entered, not Mrs. Eccles, but VeraNevill. 

Captain Kynaston sprang hastily to his feet. "Oh, Vera! I beg yourpardon--how do you do? I suppose you have come for John? You must havemissed him; he started for the vicarage half-an-hour ago. "

"No, I have seen him. I have come to see you, Maurice, if you don'tmind. " She spoke rather timidly, not looking at him. 

"I am delighted, of course, " he answered, a little constrainedly. 

Vera stood up on the hearth divesting herself of her long fur cloak; sheflung it over the back of a chair, and then took off her hat and gloves. Maurice was strangely unlike himself this morning, for he never offeredto help her in these operations, he only stood leaning against the cornerof the mantelpiece opposite her, looking at her. 

Vera stooped down and stroked the little fox-terrier; when she had doneso, she raised her head and met his eyes. 

Did she see, ere he hastily averted them, all the hunger and all thelonging that filled them as he watched her? He, in his turn, stooped andreplenished the fire. 

"John sent me to talk to you, Maurice, " began Vera, hurriedly, like onerepeating a lesson; "he tells me you will not be with us on the 27th; isthat so?"

"I am sorry, but I am obliged to go away, " he answered. 

"John is dreadfully hurt, Maurice. I hope you will alter your mind. "

"Is it John for whom you are speaking, or for yourself?" he asked, looking at her. 

"For both of us. Of course it will be a great disappointment if you arenot there. You are his only brother, and he will feel it deeply. "

"And you; will you feel it?" he persisted. She coloured a little. 

"Yes, I shall be very sorry, " she answered, nervously. "I should not likeJohn to be vexed on his wedding-day; he has been a kind brother to you, Maurice, and it seems hard that you cannot do this little thing to showyour sense of it. "

"Believe me, I show my gratitude to my brother just as well in stayingaway as in remaining, " he answered, earnestly. "Do not urge me anyfurther, Vera; I would do anything in the world to please John, butI cannot be present at your wedding. "

There was a moment's silence; the fire flickered up merrily between them;a red-hot cinder fell out noisily from the grate; the clock tickedsteadily on the chimney-piece; the little terrier sniffed at the edgeof Vera's dress. 

Suddenly there came into her heart a wild desire _to know_, to eat foronce of that forbidden fruit of the tree of Eden, whence the flamingswords in vain beckoned her back; to eat, and afterwards, perchance, toperish of the poisonous food. 

A wild conflict of thought thronged into her soul. Prudence, wisdom, hervery heart itself counselled her to be still and to go. But somethingstronger than all else was within her too; and something that was new andstrange, and perilously sweet to her; a something that won the day. 

She turned to him, stretching out her hands; the warm glow of the firelit up her lovely face and her eloquent pleading eyes, and flickered overthe graceful and beautiful figure, whose perfect outlines haunted hisfancy for ever. 

"Stay, for my sake, because I ask you!" she cried, with a sudden passion;"or else tell me why you must go. "

There came no answering flash into his eyes, only he lowered them beneathhers; he sat down suddenly, as though he was weary, on the chair whencehe had risen at her entrance, so that she stood before him, looking downat him. 

There was a certain repression in his face which made him look stern andcold, as one who struggles with a mortal temptation. He stooped over thelittle dog, and became seemingly engrossed in stroking it. 

"I cannot stop, " he said, in a cold, measured voice; "it is animpossibility. But, since you ask me, I will tell you why. It can make nopossible difference to you to know; it may, indeed, excite your interestor your pity for a few moments whilst you listen to me; but when it isover and you go away you will forget it again. I do not ask you toremember it or me; it is, in fact, all I ask, that you should forget. This is what it is. Your wedding-day is very near; it is bringing youhappiness and love. I can rejoice in your happiness. I am not so selfishas to lament it; but you will not wish me to be there to see it when Itell you that I have been fool enough to dare to love you myself. It isthe folly of a madman, is it not? since I have never had the slightesthope or entertained the faintest wish to alter the conditions of yourlife; nor have I even asked myself what effect such a confession as thisthat you have wrung from me can have upon you. Whether it excites yourpity or your contempt, or even your amusement, it cannot in any case makeany difference to me. My folly, at all events, cannot hurt you or mybrother; it can hurt no one but myself: it cannot even signify to you. It is only for my own sake that I am going, because one cannot bear morethan a certain amount, can one? I thought I might have been strongenough, but I find that it would be too much; that is all. You will notask me to stay any more, will you?"

Not once had he looked at her; not by a single sign or token had hebetrayed the slightest emotion or agitation. His voice had been steadyand unbroken; he spoke in a low and somewhat monotonous manner; it wasas though he had been relating something that in no way concernedhimself--some story that was of some other, and that other of no greatinterest either to him who told it or to her who listened to the tale. Any one suddenly coming into the room would have guessed him to beentirely engrossed in the contemplation of the little dog between hishands; that he was relating the story of his own heart would not havebeen imagined for an instant. 

When he had done speaking there was an absolute silence in the room. Whathe had spoken seemed to admit of no answer of any sort or kind from hislistener. He had asked for nothing; he had pleaded neither for hersympathy nor her forgiveness, far less for any definite expression of theeffect of his words upon her. He had not, seemingly, cared to know howthey affected her. He had simply told his own story--that was all; itconcerned no one but himself. She might pity him, she might even beamused at him, as he had said: anyhow, it made no difference to him;he had chosen to present a picture of his inner life to her as adoctor might have described some complicated disease to a chanceacquaintance--it was a physiological study, if she cared to look upon itas such; if not, it did not matter. There was no possible answer that shecould make to him; no form of words by which she could even acknowledgethat she had heard him speak. 

She stood perfectly silent for the space of some two or three seconds;she scarcely breathed, her very heart seemed to have ceased to beat; itwas as if she had been turned to stone. She knew not what she felt; itwas neither pain, nor joy, nor regret; it was only a sort of dull apathythat oppressed her very being. 

Presently she put forth her hands, almost mechanically, and reached hercloak and hat from the chair behind her. 

The soft rustle of her dress upon the carpet struck his ear; he looked upwith a start, like one waking out of a painful dream. 

"You are going!" he said, in his usual voice. 

"Yes; I am going. "

He stood up, facing her. 

"There is nothing more to be said, is there?" He said it not as though heasked her a question, but as one asserting a fact. 

"Nothing, I suppose, " she answered, rather wearily, not looking at him asshe spoke. 

"I shall not see you again, as I leave to-morrow morning by the earlytrain. You will, at least, wish me good-bye?"

"Good-bye, Maurice. "

"Good-bye, Vera; God bless you. "

She opened the door softly and went out. She went slowly away down theavenue, wrapping her cloak closely around her; the wind blew cold andchill, and she shivered a little as she walked. Presently she struckaside along a narrow pathway through the grass that led her homewards bya shorter cut. She had forgotten that Sir John was to wait for her at thelodge-gates. 

She had forgotten his very existence. For she _knew_. She had eaten ofthe tree of knowledge, and the scales had fallen for ever from her eyes. 

She knew that Maurice loved her--and, alas! for her--she knew also thatshe loved him. And between them a great gulf was fixed; deep, and wide, and impassable as the waters of Lethe. 

Out of the calm, unconscious lethargy of her maidenhood's untroubleddreams the soul of Vera had awakened at length to the realization of thestrong, passionate woman's heart that was within her. 

She loved! It had come to her at last; this thing that she had scornedand disbelieved in, and yet that, possibly, she had secretly longed for. She had deemed herself too cold, too wise, too much set upon the goodthings of earth, to be touched by that scorching fire; but now she was nocolder than any other love-sick maiden, no wiser than every other foolishwoman who had been ready to wreck her life for love in the world'shistory. 

Surely no girl ever learnt the secret of her own heart with such diredismay as did Vera Nevill. There was neither joy nor gladness within her, only a great anger against herself and her fate, and even against himwho, as he had said, had dared to love her. She had courted the avowalfrom his lips, and yet she resented the words she had wrung from him. But, more than all, she resented the treachery of the heart that waswithin her. 

"Why did I ever see him?" she cried aloud in her bitterness, striking herhands wildly against each other. "What evil fate brought us together?What fool's madness induced me to go near him to-day? I was happy enough;I had all I wanted; I was content with my fate--and now--now!" Herpassionate words died away into a wail. In her haste and her abstractionher foot caught against a long, withered bramble trail that lay acrossher path; she half stumbled. It was sufficient to arrest her steps. Shestood still, and leant against the smooth, whitened trunk of a beechtree. Her hands locked themselves tightly together; her face, white andmiserable, lifted itself despairingly towards the pitiless winter skyabove her. 

"How am I to live out my life?" she asked herself, in her anguish. 

It had not entered into her head that she could alter it. It did notoccur to her to imagine that she could give up anything to which she nowstood pledged. To be John Kynaston's wife, and to love his brother, thatwas what struck upon her with horror; no other possible contingency hadas yet suggested itself to her. 

Presently, as she moved slowly onwards, still absorbed in her new-foundmisfortune, a fresh train of thought came into her mind. She thought nolonger about herself, but about him. 

"How cruel I was to leave him like that, " she said to herself, reproachfully; "without a word, or so much as a look, ofconsolation--for, if I suffer, has not he suffered too!"

She forgot that he had asked her for nothing; she only knew that, littleenough as she had to give him, she had withheld that little from him. 

"What must he think of me?" she repeated to herself, in dismay. "Howheartless and how cold I must be in his eyes to have parted from him thuswithout one single kind word. I might, at least, have told him that I wasgrateful for the love I cannot take. I wonder, " she continued, half aloudto herself, "I wonder what it is like to be loved by Maurice----" Shepaused again, this time leaning against the wicket-gate that led out ofthe park into the high road. 

A little smile played for one instant about her lips, a soft, far-awaylook lingered in her dreaming eyes for just a moment--just the space oftime it might take you to count twenty; she let her fancy carry heraway--_where_?

Ah, sweet and perilous reverie! too dear and too dangerous to be safelyindulged in. Vera roused herself with a start, passing her hand acrossher brow as though to brush away the thoughts that would fain havelingered there. 

"Impossible!" she said aloud to herself, moving on again rapidly. "I mustbe a fool to stand here dreaming--I, whose fate is irrevocably fixed; andI would sooner die than alter it. The best match in the county, it iscalled. Well, so it is; and nothing less would satisfy me. But--but--Ithink I will see him once again, and wish him good-bye more kindly. "

CHAPTER XVI. 

"POOR WISDOM. "

 No; vain, alas! the endeavour From bonds so sweet to sever, Poor Wisdom's chance against a glance Is now as weak as ever!

 Thos. Moore. 

The station at Sutton stood perched up above the village on a highembankment, upon which the railway crossed the valley from the hills thatlay to the north to those that lay to the south of it. Up at the stationit was always draughty and generally cold. To-day, this very earlymorning, about ten minutes before the first up train is due, it is notonly cold and draughty, but it is also wet and foggy. A damp, white mistfills the valley below, and curls up the bare hill sides above; it hangschillingly about the narrow, open shed on the up side of the station, covering the wooden bench within it with thick beads of moisture, so thatno man dare safely sit down on it, and clinging coldly and penetratinglyto the garments of a tall young lady in a long ulster and a thick veil, who is slowly walking up and down the platform. 

The solitary porter on duty eyes her inquiringly. "Going by the up train, Miss?" he says, touching his hat respectfully as he passes her. 

"No, " says Vera, blushing hotly under the thick shelter of her veil, andthen adds with that readiness of explanation to which persons who have aguilty conscience are prone, "I am only waiting to see somebody off. " Anuncalled-for piece of information which has only the effect of settingthe bucolic mind of the local porter agog with curiosity and wonderment. 

Presently the few passengers for the early train begin to arrive; acouple of farmers going into the market town, a village girl in a smartbonnet, an old woman in a dirty red shawl, carrying a bundle; that isall. Maurice is very late. Vera remembers that he always puts offstarting to catch a train till the very last minute. She stands waitingfor him at the further end of the platform, as far away as she can fromthe knot of rustic passengers, with a beating heart and a fever ofimpatience within her. 

The train is signalled, and at that very minute the dog-cart fromKynaston drives up at last! Even then he has to get his ticket, and toconvey himself and his portmanteau across from the other side of theline. Their good-bye will be short indeed!

The train steams up, and Maurice hurries forward followed by the porterbearing his rugs and sticks; he does not even see her, standing a littleback, as she does, so as not to attract more attention than need be. Butwhen all his things are put into the carriage, and the porter has beenduly tipped and has departed, Captain Kynaston hears a soft voice behindhim. 

"I have come to wish you good-bye again. " He turns, flushing at the soundof the sweet familiar voice, and sees Vera in her long ulster, and herface hidden behind her veil, by his side. 

"Good Heavens, Vera! _you_--out on such a morning?"

"I could not let you go away without--without--one kind word, " shebegins, stammering painfully, her voice shaking so, as she speaks, thathe cannot fail to divine her agitation, even though he cannot see thelovely troubled face that has been so carefully screened from his gaze. 

"This is too good of you, " he begins. That very minute a brougham dashesrapidly up to the station. 

"It is the Shadonake carriage!" cried Vera, casting a terrified glancebehind her. "Who can it be? they will see me. "

"Jump into the train, " he answers, hurriedly, and, without a thoughtbeyond an instinct of self-preservation for the moment, she obeys him. Maurice follows her quickly, closing the carriage door behind him. "Nobody can have seen you, " he says. "I daresay it is only some visitorsgoing away; they could not have noticed you. Oh! Vera, " turning withsudden earnestness to her; "how am I ever to thank you for this greatkindness to me?"

"It is nothing; only a five minutes' walk before breakfast. It is notrouble to me; and I did not want you to think me unfeeling, or unkindto you. "

Before she could speak another word the carriage door was violentlyslammed to, and the guard's sharp shrill whistle heralded the departureof the train. With a cry, Vera sprang towards the door; before she couldreach it, Maurice, who had perceived instantly what had happened, had letdown the window and was shouting to the porter. It was too late. Thetrain was off. 

Vera sank back hopelessly upon the seat; and Maurice, according to themanners and customs of infuriated Britons, gave utterance to a verylaconic word of bad import below his breath. 

"I wouldn't have had this happen for ten thousand pounds!" he said, aftera minute, looking at her in blank despair. 

Vera was taking off her veil mechanically; when he could see her face, heperceived that she was very white. 

"Never mind, " she said, with a faint smile; "there is no real harm done. It is unfortunate, that is all. The train stops at Tripton. I can get outthere and walk home. "

"Five miles! and it is I who have got you into this scrape! What aconfounded fool I was to make you get into the carriage! I ought to haveremembered how late it was. How are you to walk all that way?"

"Pray don't reproach yourself, Maurice; I shall not mind the walk a bit. I shall have to confess my escapade to Marion, and tell her why I am latefor breakfast--that is all; as it is, I can, at all events, finish what Iwanted to say to you. "

And then she was silent, looking away from him out of the further window. The train, gradually accelerating its pace, sped quickly on through thefog-blotted landscape. Hills, villages, church spires, all that made thecountry familiar, were hidden in the mist; only here and there, in thenearer hedge-rows, an occasional tree stood out bleak and black againstthe white veil beyond like a sentinel alone on a limitless plain. Absolute silence--only the train rushing on faster and faster throughthe white, wet world without. 

Then, at last, it was Maurice, not Vera, that spoke. 

"I blame myself bitterly for this, Vera, " he said in a low, pained voice. "Had it not been for my foolish, unthinking words to you yesterday, youwould not have been tempted to do this rash act of kindness. I spoke toyou in a way that I had no right to speak, believing that my words wouldmake no impression upon you beyond the fact of showing you that it wasimpossible for me to stay for your wedding. I never dreamt that yourkindly interest in me would lead you to waste another thought upon me. I did not know how good and pitying your nature is, nor give you creditfor so much generosity. "

She turned round to him sharply and suddenly. "What are you saying?" shecried, with a harsh pain in her voice. "What words are you using to me?_Kindness, pity, generosity_!--have they any place here between youand me?"

There was a moment in which neither of them spoke, only their eyes met, and the secret that was hidden in their souls lay suddenly revealed toeach of them. 

In another instant Vera had sunk upon her knees before him. 

"While you live, " she cried, passionately, lifting her beautiful darkeyes, that were filled with a new light and a new glory, to his--"whileyou live I will never be another man's wife!"

And there was no other word spoken. Only a shower of close, hot kissesupon her lips, and two strong arms that drew her nearer and tighter tothe beating heart against which she rested, for he was only human afterall. 

Oh, swift and divine moment of joy, that comes but once in a man's life, when he holds the woman he loves for the first time to his heart! Once, and once only, he tastes of heaven and forgets life itself in the shortand delirious draught. What envious deity shall grudge him those momentsof rapture, all too sweet, and, alas! all too short!

To Vera and Maurice, locked in each other's arms, time had no shore, andlife was not. It might have been ten seconds, it might have been aneternity--they could not have told--no pang entered that serene havenwhere their souls were lapped in perfect happiness; no serpent enteredinto Eden; no harsh note struck upon their enchanted ears, nor jarringsight upon their sun-dazzled vision. Where in that moment was the dutyand the honour that was a part of the man's very self? What to Vera wasthe rich marriage and the life of affluence, and all the glitter andtinsel which it had been her soul's desire to attain? She remembered itnot; like a house of cards, it had fallen shattered to the ground. 

They loved, and they were together. There was neither duty, nor faith, nor this world's wisdom between them; nothing but that great joy which onearth has no equal, and which Heaven itself cannot exceed. 

But brief are the moments whilst joy, with bated breath and folded wings, pauses on his flight; too soon, alas! is the divine elixir dashed awayfrom our lingering lips. 

Already, for Maurice and for Vera, it is over, and they have awakened toearth once more. 

It is the man who is the first to remember. "Good God, Vera!" he cries, pushing her back from him, "what terrible misfortune is this? Can it betrue that you must suffer too, that you love me?"

"Why not?" she answered, looking at him; happy still, but troubled too;for already for her also Paradise is over. "Is it so hard to believe? Andyet many women must have loved you. But I--I have never loved before. Listen, Maurice: when I accepted your brother, I liked him, I thought Icould be very happy with him; and--and--do not think ill of me--I wantedso much to be rich; it was so miserable being poor and dependent, and Iknew life so well, and how hard the struggle is for those who are poor. I was so determined I would do well for myself; and he was good, and Iliked him. "

At the mention of the brother, whom he had wronged, Maurice hid his facein his hands and groaned aloud. 

She laid her hand softly upon his knee; she had half raised herself uponthe seat by his side, and her head, from which her hat had fallen, pillowed itself with a natural caressing action against his shoulder. 

At the soft touch he shivered. 

"It was dreadful, was it not? But then, I am not perfect, and I liked theidea of being rich, and I had never loved--I did not even know what itmeant. And then I met you--long ago your photograph had arrested myfancy; and do you remember that evening at Shadonake when I first sawyou?"

Could he ever forget one single detail of that meeting?

"You stood at the foot of the staircase, waiting, and I came down softlybehind you. You did not see me till I was close to you, and then youturned, and you took my hands, and you looked and looked at me till myeyes could no longer meet yours. There came a vague trouble into myheart; I had never felt anything like it before. Maurice, from thatinstant I must have loved you. "

"For God's sake, Vera!" he cried out wildly, as though the gentle wordsgave him positive pain, "do not speak of it. Do you not see the abysswhich lies between us--which must part us for ever?"

"Loving you, I will never marry your brother!" she answered, earnestly. 

"And I will never rob my brother of his bride. Darling, darling, do nottempt me too far, or God knows what I may say and do! To reach you, love, would be to dip my hands in dishonour and basest treachery. Not even foryou can I do this vile thing. Kiss me once more, sweet, and let me go outof your life for ever; believe me, it is better so; best for us both. Intime you will forget, you will be happy. He will be good to you, and youwill be glad that you were not tempted to betray him. "

"You do not know what you ask of me, " she cried, lifting her face, allwet with tears, to his. "Leave me, if you will--go your way--forgetme--it is all the same to me; henceforth there is no other man on earthto me but you. I will never swear vows at God's altar that I cannot keep, or commit the frightful sin of marrying one man whilst I know that I loveanother. Yes, yes; I know it is a horrible, dreadful misfortune. Have Isought it, or gone out of my way to find it? Have I not struggled tokeep it away from me? striven to blind my eyes to it and to go on as Iwas, and never to acknowledge it to myself? Do I not love wealth aboveall things; do I not know that he is rich, and you poor? And yet I cannothelp loving you!"

He took her clasped, trembling hands within his own, and held themtightly. In that moment the woman was weak, and the man was her master. 

"Listen, " he said. "Yes, you are right, I am poor; but that is not all. Vera, for Heaven's sake, reflect, and pause before you wreck your wholelife. I cannot marry you--not only because I am poor, but also, alas!because I am bound to another woman. "

"Helen Romer!" she murmured, faintly; "and you love _her_?" A sick, coldmisery rushed into her heart. She strove to withdraw her hands from his;but he only held them the tighter. 

"No; by the God above us, I love you, and only you, " he answered her, almost roughly; "but I am bound to her. I cannot afford to marry her--wehave neither of us any money; but I am bound all the same. Only one thingcan set me free; if, in five years, we are, neither of us, better offthan now, she has told me that I may go free. Under no other conditionscan I ever marry any one else. That is my secret, Vera. At any moment shecan claim me, and for five years I must wait for her. "

"Then I will wait for you five years too, " she cried, passionately. "Ismy love less strong, less constant, than hers, do you think? Can I notwait patiently too?" She wound her arms about his neck, and drew his facedown to hers. 

"Five years, " she murmured; "it is but a small slice out of one's lifeafter all; and when it is over, it seems such a little space to look backupon. Dearest, some day we shall remember how miserable, and yet howhappy too, we have been this morning; and we shall smile, as we rememberit all, out of the fulness of our content. "

How was he to gainsay so sweet a prophet? Already the train wasslackening, and the moment when they must part drew near. The beautifulhead lay upon his breast; the deep, shadowy eyes, which love for thefirst time had softened into the perfection of their own loveliness, mirrored themselves in his; the flower-shaped, trembling lips were closeup to his. How could he resist their gentle pleading? There was no timefor more words, for more struggles between love and duty. 

"So be it, then, " he murmured, and caught her in one last, passionateembrace to his heart. 

Five minutes later a tall young lady, deeply veiled as when she hadentered the train, got out of it and walked swiftly away from Triptonstation down the hill towards the high road. So absorbed was she in herown reflections that she utterly failed to notice another figure, alsofemale and also veiled, who, preceding her through the mist, went onswiftly before her down the road. Nor did she pay the slightest attentionto the fact until a turn in the road brought her suddenly face to facewith two persons who stood deep in conversation under the shelter ofthe tall, misty hedge-row. 

As Vera approached these two persons sprang apart with a guiltysuddenness, and revealed to her astonished eyes--Beatrice Miller and Mr. Herbert Pryme. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

AN UNLUCKY LOVE-LETTER. 

 Heaven first taught letters for some wretch's aid, Some banished lover, or some captive maid. 

 Pope, "Eloisa and Abelard. "

To ascertain rightly how Mr. Pryme and Miss Miller came to be found inthe parish of Tripton at nine o'clock in the morning, standing togetherunder a wet hedge-row, it will be necessary to take a slight retrospectof what had taken place in the history of these two people since the timewhen the young barrister had spent that memorable week at Shadonake. 

The visit had come to an end uneventfully for either of them; but twodays after his departure from the house Mr. Pryme had been guilty of agross piece of indiscretion. He had forgotten to observe a golden rulewhich should be strongly impressed upon every man and woman. The maximshould be inculcated upon the young with at least as much earnestness asthe Catechism or the Ten Commandments. In homely language, it runssomething in this fashion: "Say what you like, but never commit yourselfto paper. "

Mr. Pryme had observed the first portion of this maxim religiously, buthe had failed to pay equal regard to the latter. He _had_ committedhimself to paper in the shape of a very bulky and very passionatelove-letter, which was duly delivered by the morning postman and laid atthe side of Miss Miller's plate upon the breakfast-table. 

Now, Miss Miller, as it happened on that particular morning, had avery heavy influenza cold, and had stayed in bed for breakfast. When, therefore, Mrs. Miller prepared to send a small tray up to her daughter'sbedroom with her breakfast, she took up her letters also from the tableto put upon it with her tea and toast. The very thick envelope of oneof them first attracted her notice; then the masculine nature of thehandwriting; and when, upon turning it over, she furthermore perceived avery large-sized monogram of the letters "H. P. " upon the envelope, hermind underwent a sudden revolution as to the sending of her daughter'scorrespondence upstairs. 

"There, that will do, " she said to the lady's maid, "you can take upthe tray; I will bring Miss Miller's letters up to her myself afterbreakfast. "

After which, without more ado, she walked to the window and opened theletter. Some people might have had scruples as to such a strong measure. Mrs. Miller had none at all. Her children, she argued, were her ownproperty and under her own care; as long as they lived under her roof, they had no right over anything that they possessed independently oftheir mother. 

Under ordinary circumstances she would not have opened a letter addressedto any of her children; but if there was anything of a suspicious naturein their correspondence, she certainly reserved to herself the perfectright of dealing with it as she thought fit. 

She opened the letter and read the first line; it ran thus:--

"My dearest darling Beatrice. " She then turned to the end of it and readthe last; it was this: "Your own most devoted and loving Herbert. "

That was quite enough for Mrs. Miller; she did not want to read any moreof it. She slipped the letter into her pocket, and went back to thebreakfast-table and poured out the tea and coffee for her husband and hersons. 

But when the family meal was over, it was with a very angry aspect thatMrs. Miller went upstairs and stood by her eldest daughter's bedside. 

"Beatrice, here is a letter which has come for you this morning, of whichI must ask you an explanation. "

"You have read it, mamma!" flushing angrily, as she took it from hermother's hand. 

"I have read the first line and the last. I certainly should not take thetrouble to wade all through such contemptible trash!" Which was anunprovoked insult to poor Beatrice's feelings. 

She snatched the letter from her mother's hand, and crumpled it jealouslyunder her pillow. 

"How can you call it trash, then, if you have not read it?"

It was hard, certainly; to have her letter opened was bad enough, but tohave it called names was worse still. The letter, which to Beatrice wouldbe so full of sacred charm and delight--such a poem on love and itssweetness--was nothing more to her mother than "contemptible trash!"

But where in the whole world has a love-letter been indited, howeverdelightful and perfect it may be to the writer and the receiver of it, that is nothing but an object of ridicule or contempt to the whole worldbeside? Love is divine as Heaven itself to the two people who areconcerned in its ever new delights; but to us lookers-on its murmurs arebut fooleries, its sighs are ludicrous, and its written words absoluteimbecilities; and never a memory of our own lost lives can make thespectacle of it in others anything but an irritating and idioticexhibition. 

"I have read quite enough, " continued Mrs. Miller, sternly, "tounderstand the nature of it. It is from Mr. Pryme, I imagine?"

"Yes, mamma. "

"And by what right, may I ask, does Mr. Pryme commence a letter to you inthe warm terms of affection which I have had the pleasure of reading?"

"By the right which I myself have given him, " she answered, boldly. 

Regardless of her cold, she sat upright in her bed; a flush of defiancein her face, her short dark hair flung back from her brow in wildconfusion. She understood at once that all had been discovered, and shewas going to do battle for her lover. 

"Do you mean to tell me, Beatrice, that you have engaged yourself to thisMr. Pryme?"

"Certainly I have. "

"You know very well that your father and I will never consent to it. "

"Never is a long day, mamma. "

"Don't take up my words like that. I consider, Beatrice, that you havedeceived me shamefully. You persuaded me to ask that young man to thehouse because you said that Sophy Macpherson was fond of him. "

"So she is. "

"Beatrice, how can you be so wicked and tell such lies in the face ofthat letter to yourself?"

"I never said he was fond of her, " she answered, with just the vestige ofa twinkle in her eyes. 

"If I had known, I would never have asked him to come, " continued hermother. 

"No; I am sure you would not. But I did not tell you, mamma. "

"I have other views for you. You must write to this young man and tellhim you will give him up. "

"I certainly shall not do that. "

"I shall not give my consent to your engagement. "

"I never imagined that you would, mamma, and that is why I did not askfor it. "

And then Mrs. Miller got very angry indeed. 

"What on earth do you intend to do, you ungrateful, disobedient, rebellious child?"

"I mean to marry Herbert some day because I love him, " answered herdaughter, coolly; "but I will not run away with him unless you force meto it; and I hope, by-and-by, when Geraldine is grown up and can take myplace, that you will give us your consent and your blessing. I am quitewilling to wait a reasonable time for the chance of it. "

"Is it likely that I shall give my consent to your marrying a young manpicked up nobody knows where--out of the gutter, most likely? Who are hispeople, I should like to know?"

"I daresay his father is as well connected as mine, " answered Beatrice, who knew all about her mother's having married a _parvenu_. 

"Beatrice, I am ashamed of you, sneering at your own father!"

"I beg your pardon, mamma; I did not mean to sneer, but you say verytrying things; and Mr. Pryme is a gentleman, and every bit as good as weare!"

"And where is the money to be found for this precious marriage, I shouldlike to know? Do you suppose Mr. Pryme can support you?"

"Oh dear, no; but I know papa will not let me starve. "

And Mrs. Miller knew it too. However angry she might be, and howeverunsuitably Beatrice might choose to marry, Mr. Miller would never allowhis daughter to be insufficiently provided for. Beatrice's marriageportion would be a small fortune to a poor young man. 

"It is your money he is after!" she said, angrily. 

"I don't think so, mamma; and of course of that I am the best judge. "

"He shall never set foot here again. I shall write to him myself andforbid him the house. "

"That, of course, you may do as you like about, mamma; I cannot preventyour doing so, but it will not make me give him up, because I shall nevermarry any one else. "

And there Mrs. Miller was, perforce, obliged to let the matter rest. Shewent her way angry and vexed beyond measure, and somewhat baffled too. How is a mother to deal with a daughter who is so determined and sodefiant as was Beatrice Miller? There is no known method in civilizedlife of reducing a young lady of twenty to submission in matters of theheart. She could not whip her, or put her on bread and water, nor couldshe shut her up in a dark cupboard, as she might have done had she beenten years old. 

All she could do was to write a very indignant letter to Mr. Pryme, forbidding him ever to enter her doors, or address himself in any way toher daughter again. Having sent this to the post, she was at the end ofher resources. She did, indeed, confide the situation with very strongand one-sided colouring to her husband; but Mr. Miller had not the stronginstincts of caste which were inherent in his wife. She could not makehim see what dreadful deed of iniquity Herbert Pryme and his daughterhad perpetrated between them. 

"What's wrong with the young fellow?" he asked, looking up from the pileof parliamentary blue-books on the library table before him. 

"Nothing is wrong, Andrew; but he isn't a suitable husband for Beatrice. "

"Why? you asked him here, Caroline. I suppose, if he was good enough tostay in the house, he is no different to the boys, or anybody else whowas here. "

"It is one thing to stay here, and quite another thing to want to marryyour daughter. "

"Well, if he's an honest man, and the girl loves him, I don't see thegood of making a fuss about it; she had better do as she likes. "

"But, Andrew, the man hasn't a penny; he has made nothing at the baryet. " It was no use appealing to his exclusiveness, for he had none; itwas a better move to make him look at the money-point of the question. 

"Oh, well, he will get on some day, I daresay, and meanwhile I shall giveBeatrice quite enough for them both when she marries. "

"You don't understand, Andrew. "

"No, my dear, " very humbly, "perhaps I don't; but there, do as you thinkbest, of course; I am sure I don't wish to interfere about the children;you always manage all these kind of things; and if you wouldn't mind, mydear, I am so very busy just now. You know there is to be this attackupon the Government as soon as the House meets, and I have the whole ofthe papers upon the Patagonian and Bolivian question to look up, and mostfraudulent misstatements of the truth I believe them to be; although, asfar as I've gone, I haven't been able to make it quite out yet, but Ishall come to it--no doubt I shall come to it. I am going to speak uponthis question, my dear, and I mean to tell the House that a grossermisrepresentation of facts was never yet promulgated from the Ministerialbenches, nor flaunted in the faces of an all too leniently credulousOpposition; that will warm 'em up a bit, I flatter myself; those fellowsin office will hang their heads in shame at the word Patagonia for weeksafter. "

"But who cares about Patagonia?"

"Oh, nobody much, I suppose. But there's bound to be an agitation againstthe Government, and that does as well as anything else. We can't affordto neglect a single chance of kicking them out. I have planned my speechpretty well right through; it will be very effective--withering, Ifancy--but it's just these plaguy blue-books that won't quite tally withwhat I've got to say. I must go through them again though----"

"You had better have read the papers first, and settled your speechafterwards, " suggested his wife. 

"Oh dear, no! that wouldn't do at all; after all, you know, between youand me, the facts don't go for much; all we want is, to denounce them;any line of argument, if it is ingenious enough, will do; lay on the bigwords thickly--that's what your constituents like. Law bless you! _they_don't read the blue books; they'll take my word for granted if I say theyare full of lies; it would be a comfort, however, if I could find a few. Of course, my dear, this is only between you and me. "

A man is not always heroic to the wife of his bosom. Mrs. Miller wenther way and left him to his righteous struggle among the Patagonianblue-books. After all, she said to herself, it had been her duty toinform him of his daughter's conduct, but it was needless to discussthe question further with him. He was incapable of approaching it fromher own point of view. It would be better for her now to go her own wayindependently of him. She had always been accustomed to manage things herown way. It was nothing new to her. 

Later in the day she attempted to wrest a promise from Beatrice thatshe would hold no further communication with the prohibited lover. ButBeatrice would give no such promise. 

"Is it likely that I should promise such a thing?" she asked her mother, indignantly. 

"You would do so if you knew what your duty to your mother was. "

"I have other duties besides those to you, mamma; when one has promisedto marry a man, one is surely bound to consider him a little. If I havethe chance of meeting him, I shall certainly take it. "

"I shall take very good care that you have no such chances, Beatrice. "

"Very well, mamma; you will, of course, do as you think best. "

It was in consequence of these and sundry subsequent stormy conversationsthat Mr. Herbert Pryme suddenly discovered that he had a very high regardand affection for Mr. Albert Gisburne, the vicar of Tripton, the sameto whom once Vera's relations had wished to unite her. 

The connection between Mr. Gisburne and Herbert Pryme was a slender one;he had been at college with an elder brother of his, who had died in his(Herbert's) childhood. He did not indeed very clearly recollect what thiselder brother had been like; but having suddenly called to mind that, during the course of his short visit to Shadonake, he had discovered thefact of the college friendship, of which, indeed, Mr. Gisburne hadinformed him, he now was unaccountably inflamed by a desire to cultivatethe acquaintance of the valued companion of his deceased brother's youth. 

He opened negotiations by the gift of a barrel of oysters, sent downfrom Wilton's, with an appropriate and graceful accompanying note. Mr. Gisburne was surprised, but not naturally otherwise than pleased by theattention. Next came a box of cigars, which again were shortly followedby two brace of pheasants purporting to be of Herbert's own shooting, butwhich, as a matter of fact, he had purchased in Vigo Street. 

This munificent succession of gifts reaped at length the harvest forwhich they had been sown. In his third letter of grateful acknowledgmentfor his young friend's kind remembrance of him, Mr. Gisburne, with somediffidence, for Tripton Rectory was neither lively nor remarkablycommodious, suggested how great the pleasure would be were his friend torun down to him for a couple of days or so; he had nothing, in truth, tooffer him but a bachelor's quarters and a hearty welcome; there was nextto no attraction beyond a pretty rural village and a choral dailyservice; but still, if he cared to come, Mr. Gisburne need not say howdelighted he would be, etc. , etc. 

It is not too much to say that the friend jumped at it. On the shortestpossible notice he arrived, bag and baggage, professing himself charmedwith the bachelor's quarters; and, burning with an insatiable desire tobehold the rurality of the village, to listen to the beauty and theharmony of the daily choral performances, he took up his abode in theclergyman's establishment; and the very next morning he sent a ruralvillager over to Shadonake with a half-crown for himself and a note to begiven to Miss Miller the very first time she walked or rode out alone. This note was duly delivered, and that same afternoon Beatrice met herlover by appointment in an empty lime-kiln up among the chalk hills. Thisromantic rendezvous was, however, discontinued shortly, owing to the factof Mrs. Miller having become suspicious of her daughter's frequent andsolitary walks, and insisting on sending out Geraldine and her governesswith her. 

A few mornings later a golden chance presented itself. Mr. And Mrs. Miller went away for the night to dine and sleep at a distant countryhouse. Beatrice had not been invited to go with them. She did not ventureto ask her lover to the house he had been forbidden to enter, but sheordered the carriage for herself, caught the early train to Tripton, metHerbert, by appointment, outside the station, and stood talking to him inthe fog by the wayside, where Vera suddenly burst upon their astonishedgaze. 

There was nothing for it but to take Vera into their confidence; and theywere so much engrossed in their affairs that they entirely failed tonotice how mechanically she answered, and how apathetically she appearedfor the first few minutes to listen to their story. Presently, however, she roused herself into a semblance of interest. She promised not tobetray the fact of the stolen interview, all the more readily because itdid not strike either of them to inquire what she herself was doing inthe Tripton road. 

In the end Vera walked on slowly by herself, and the Shadonake carriage, ordered to go along at a foot's pace from Sutton station towards Tripton, picked both girls up and conveyed them safely, each to their respectivehomes. 

"You will never tell of me, will you, Vera?" said Beatrice to her, forthe twentieth time, ere they parted. 

"Of course not; indeed, I would gladly help you if I could, " sheanswered, heartily. 

"You will certainly be able to help us both very materially some day, "said Beatrice, who had visions of being asked to stay at Kynaston, tomeet Herbert. 

"I am afraid not, " answered Vera, with a sigh. Already there was regretin her mind for the good things of life which she had elected torelinquish. "Put me down at this corner, Beatrice; I don't want to driveup to the vicarage. Good-bye. "

"Good-bye, Vera--and--and you won't mind my saying it--but I like you somuch. "

Vera smiled, and, with a kiss, the girls parted; and Mrs. Daintree neverheard after all the story of her sister's early visit to Tripton, for shereturned so soon that she had not yet been missed. The vicar and hisfamily had but just gathered round the breakfast-table, when, afterhaving divested herself of her walking garments, she came in quietly andtook her vacant place amongst them unnoticed and unquestioned. 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

LADY KYNASTON'S PLANS. 

 Swift as a shadow, short as any dream, Brief as the lightning in the collied night. 

 And ere a man hath power to say, "Behold!" The jaws of darkness do devour it up: So quick bright things come to confusion. 

 "Midsummer Night's Dream. "

Sir John Kynaston sat alone in his old-bachelor rooms in London. Theywere dark, dingy rooms, such as are to be found in countless numbersamong the narrow streets that encompass St. James's Street. They werecheerless and comfortless, and, withal, high-rented, and possessed ofno other known advantage than that of their undeniably central situation. They were not rooms that one would suppose any man would care to lingerin in broad daylight; and yet Sir John remained in them now a daysalmost from morning till night. 

He sat for the most part as he is sitting now--in a shabby, leathernarm-chair, stooping a little forward, and doing nothing. Sometimes hewrote a few necessary letters, sometimes he made a feint of reading thepaper; but oftenest he did nothing, only sat still, staring before himwith a hopeless misery in his face. 

For in these days Sir John Kynaston was a very unhappy man. He hadreceived a blow such as strikes at the very root and spring of a man'slife--a blow which a younger man often battles through and is none theworse in the end for, but under which a man of his age is apt to becrushed and to succumb. Within a week of his wedding-day Vera Nevillhad broken her engagement to him. It had been a nine days' wonder inMeadowshire--the county had rung with the news--everybody had marvelledand speculated, but no one had got any nearer to the truth than that Verawas supposed to have "mistaken her feelings. " The women had cried shameupon her for such capriciousness, and had voted her a fool into thebargain for throwing over such a match; and if a male voice, somewhatless timid than the rest, had here and there uplifted itself in herdefence and had ventured to hint that she might have had sufficient andpraiseworthy motives for her conduct, a chorus of feminine indignationhad smothered the kindly suggestion in a whole whirl-wind of abuse andreviling. 

As to Sir John, he blamed her not, and yet he knew no more about it thanany of them; he, too, could only have told you that Vera had mistaken herfeelings--he knew no more than that--for it was but half the truth thatshe had told him. But it had been more than enough to convince him thatshe was perfectly right. When, after telling him plainly that she foundshe did not love him enough, that there had been other and extraneousreasons that had blinded her to the fact at the time she had acceptedhim, but that she had found it out later on; when, after saying this shehad asked him plainly whether he would wish to have a wife who valued hisname, and his wealth, and his fine old house at least as much as he didhimself, Sir John had been able to give her but one answer. No, he wouldnot have a wife who loved him in such a fashion. And he had thought wellof her for telling him the truth beforehand instead of leaving him tofind it out for himself later. If there had been a little, a very little, falling of his idol from the high pillar upon which he had set her up, inthat she should at any time have been guided by mercenary and worldlymotives; there had been at the same time a very great amount of respectfor her brave and straightforward confession of her error at a time whenmost women would have found themselves unequal to the task of drawingback from the false position into which they had drifted. No, he couldnot blame her in any way. 

But, all the same, it was hard to bear. He said to himself that he wasa doomed and fated man; twice had love and joy and domestic peace beenwithin his grasp, and twice they had been wrested from his arms; thesethings, it was plain, were not for him. He was too old, he told himself, ever to make a further effort. No, there was nothing before him now butto live out his loveless life alone, to sink into a peevish, selfish oldbachelor, and to make a will in Maurice's favour, and get himself out ofthe world that wanted him not with as much expedition as might be. 

And he loved Vera still. She was still to him the most pure and perfectof women--good as she was beautiful. Her loveliness haunted him by dayand by night, till the bitter thought of what might have been and thecontrast of the miserable reality drove him half wild with longingswhich he did not know how to repress. He sat at home in his rooms andmoped; there were more streaks of white in his hair than of old, andthere were new lines of care upon his brow--he looked almost an old mannow. He sat indoors and did nothing. It was April by this time, and theLondon season was beginning; invitations of all kinds poured in upon him, but he refused them all; he would go nowhere. Now and then his mothercame to see him and attempted to cheer and to rouse him; she had evenasked him to come down to Walpole Lodge, but he had declined her requestalmost ungraciously. 

He never had much in common with his mother, and he felt no desire nowfor her sympathy; besides, the first time she had come she had beenangry, and had called Vera a jilt, and that had offended him bitterly; hehad rebuked her sternly, and she had been too wise to repeat the offence;but he had not forgotten it. Maurice, indeed, he would have been glad tosee, but Maurice did not come near him. His regiment had lately moved toManchester, and either he could not or would not get leave; and yet hehad been idle enough at one time, and glad to run up to town upon thesmallest pretext. Now he never came. It added a little to his irritation, but scarcely to his misery. On this particular afternoon, as he sat asusual brooding over the past, there came the sudden clatter of carriagewheels over the flagged roadway of the little back street, followed by asharp ring at his door. It was his mother, of course; no other woman cameto see him; he heard the rustle of her soft silken skirts up the narrowstaircase, and her pleasant little chatter to the fat old landlady whowas ushering her up, and presently the door opened and she came in. 

"Good morning, John. Dear me, how hot and stuffy this room is, " holdingup her soft old face to her son. 

He just touched her cheek. "I am sorry you find it so--shall I open thewindow?"

"Oh!" sinking down in a chair, and throwing back her cloak; "how can youstand a fire in the room, it is quite mild and spring-like out. Have younot been out, John? it would do you good to get a little fresh air. "

"I shall go round to the club presently, I daresay, " he answered, abstractedly, sitting down in his arm-chair again; all the pleasantflutter that the bright old lady brought with her, the atmosphere of lifeand variety that surrounded her, only vexed and wearied him, and jarredupon his nerves. She was always telling him to go somewhere or to dosomething; why couldn't she let him alone? he thought, irritably. 

"To your club? No further than that? Why, you might as well stay at home. Really, my dear, it's a great pity you don't go about and see some ofyour old friends; you can't mean to shut yourself up like a dormouse forever, I suppose!"

"I haven't the least idea what I mean to do, " he answered, notgraciously; she was his mother, and so he could not very well put her outat the door, but that was what he would have liked to do. 

"I don't see, " continued Lady Kynaston, with unwonted courage, "I don'tat all see why you should let this unfortunate affair weigh on you forever; there is really no reason why you should not console yourself andmarry some nice girl; there is Lady Mary Hendrie and plenty more only tooready to have you if you will only take that trouble----"

"Mother, I wish you would not talk to me like that, " he said, interrupting suddenly the easy flow of her consoling suggestions, andthere was a look of real pain upon his face that smote her somewhat. "Never speak to me of marrying again. I shall never marry any one. " Helooked away from her, stern and angry, stooping again over the red ashesin the grate; if he had only given her one plea for her pity--if he hadonly added, "I have suffered too much, I love her still"--all hermother's heart must have gone out to him who, though he was not herfavourite, was her first born after all; but he did not want her pity, he only wanted her to go away. 

"It is a great pity, " she answered, stiffly, "because of Kynaston. "

"I shall never set foot at Kynaston again. "

Her colour rose a little--after all, she was a cunning little old lady. The little fox-terrier lay on the rug between them; she stooped down andpatted it. "Good dog, good little Vic, " she said, a little nervously;then, with a sudden courage, she looked up at her son again. "John, itis a sad thing that Kynaston must be left empty to go to rack and ruin;though I have never cared to live there myself, I have always hoped thatyou would. It would have grieved your poor father sadly to have thoughtthat the old place was always to lie empty. "

"I cannot help it, " he answered, moodily, wishing more than ever that shewould go. 

"John;" she fidgeted with her bonnet strings, and her voice trembled alittle; "John, if you are quite sure you will never live there yourself, why should not Maurice have it?"

"Maurice! Has he told you to ask for it?" He sat bolt upright inhis chair; he was attentive enough now; the idea that Maurice hadcommissioned his mother to ask for something he had not ventured to askfor himself was not pleasant to him. "Is it Maurice who has sent you?"

"No, no, my dear John; certainly not; why, I haven't seen Maurice forweeks and weeks; he never comes to town now. But I'll tell you why theidea came to me. I called just now in Princes Gate; poor old Mr. Harlowehas had a stroke--it is certain he cannot live long now, after the severeattack he had of bronchitis, too, two months ago. I just saw Helen for aminute, she reported him to be unconscious. If he dies, he must surelyleave Helen something; it may not be all, but it will be at least acompetency; and I was thinking, John, that if you did not want Kynaston, and would let them live there, the marriage might come off at last; theyhave been attached to each other a long time, and to live rent free wouldbe a great thing. "

"How are they to keep it up? Kynaston is an expensive place. "

"Well, I thought, John, perhaps, if Maurice looks after the property, youmight consider him as your agent, and allow him something, and that andher money----"

"Yes, yes, I understand; well, I will see; wait, at all events, till Mr. Harlowe is dead. I will think it over. No, I don't see any reason whythey should not live there if they like;" he sighed, wearily, and hismother went away, feeling that she had reason to be satisfied with hermorning's work. 

She was in such a hurry to install her darling there--to see him viceroyin the place where now it was certain he must eventually be king. Whyshould he be doomed to wait till Kynaston came to him in the course ofnature; why should he not enter upon his kingdom at once, since Sir John, by his own confession, would never marry or live there himself?

Lady Kynaston was very far from wishing evil to her eldest son, but foryears she had hoped that he would remain unmarried; for a short time shehad been forced to lay her dreams aside, and she had striven to forgetthem and to throw herself with interest into her eldest son's engagement;but now that the marriage was broken off, all her old schemes and planscame back to her again. She was working and planning again for Maurice'shappiness and aggrandisement. She wanted to see him in his father'shouse, "Kynaston of Kynaston, " before she died, and to know that hisfuture was safe. To see him married to Helen and living at Kynastonappeared to her to be the very best that she could desire for him. Intime, of course, the title and the money would be his too; meanwhile, with old Mr. Harlowe's fortune, an ample allowance from his brother, andall the prestige of his old name and his old house, she should live tosee him take his own rightful place among the magnates of his nativecounty. That would be far better than to be a captain in a line regiment, barely able to live upon his income. That was all she coveted for him, and she said to herself that her ambition was not unreasonable, and thatit would be hard indeed if it might not be gratified. 

As she drove homewards to Walpole Lodge she felt that her schemes were ina fair way for success. She was not going to let Maurice know of them toosoon; by-and-by, when all was settled, she would tell him; she would keepit till then as a pleasant surprise. 

All the same, she had been unable to refrain from telling Helen Romersomething of what was in her mind. 

"If John does not marry, he might perhaps make Maurice his agent and lethim live at Kynaston, " she had said to her a few days ago when they hadbeen speaking of old Mr. Harlowe's illness. 

"How would Maurice like to leave the army?" Helen had asked. 

"If he marries, he must do so, " his mother had replied, significantly;and Helen's heart had beat high with hope and triumph. 

Again to-day, on her way to her eldest son's rooms, she had stopped atPrinces Gate and had alluded to it. 

"I am on my way to see Sir John; I shall sound him about his intentionswith regard to Kynaston, but, of course, I must go to work cautiously;"and Helen had perfectly understood that she herself had entered into theold lady's scheme for her younger son's future. 

Sitting alone in the hushed house, where the doctors are coming andgoing in the darkened room above, Helen feels that at last the rewardof all her long waiting may be at hand. Love and wealth at last seemedto beckon to her. Her grandfather dead; his fortune hers; and this offerof a home at Kynaston, which Maurice himself would be sure to like somuch--everything good seemed coming to her at last. 

And there was something about the idea of living at Kynaston thatgratified her particularly. Helen had not forgotten the week atShadonake. Too surely had her woman's instinct told her that Maurice andVera had been drawn to each other by a strong and mutual attraction. Thewildest jealousy and hatred against Vera burnt fiercely in her lawless, untutored heart. She hated her, for she knew that Maurice loved her. Tolive thus under her very eyes as Maurice's wife, in the very house herrival herself had once been on the point of inhabiting, was a notion thatcommended itself to her with all the sweetness of gratified revenge, withall the charm of flaunting her success and triumph in the face of theother woman's failure which is dear to such a nature as Helen's. 

She alone, of all those who had heard of Vera's broken engagement, haddivined its true cause. She loved Maurice--that was plain to Helen; thatwas why she had thrown over Sir John, and at her heart Helen despised herfor it. A woman must be a fool indeed to wreck herself at the last momentfor a merely sentimental reason. There was much, however, that wasincomprehensible to Helen Romer in the situation of things, which sheonly half understood. 

If Maurice loved Vera, why was it that he was in Manchester whilst shewas still in Meadowshire? that was what Helen could not understand. Asure instinct told her that Maurice must know better than any one why hisbrother's marriage had been broken off. But, if so, then why were he andVera apart? It did not strike her that his honour to his brother and hispromises to herself were what kept him away. Helen said to herself, scornfully, that they were both of them timid and cowardly, and did nothalf know how to play out life's game. 

"In her place, with her cards in my hand, I would have married him bythis, " she said to herself, as she sat alone in her grandfather'sdrawing-room, while her busy fingers ran swiftly through the meshes ofher knitting, and the doctor and the hired nurse paced about the roomoverhead. "But she has not the pluck for it; his heart may be hers, but, for all that, I shall win him; and how bitterly she will repent that sheever interfered with him when she sees him daily there--my husband! Andin time he will forget her and learn to love me; Maurice will never befalse to a woman when once she is his wife; I am not afraid of that. Howdared she meddle with him?--_my_ Maurice!"

The door softly opened, and one of the doctors stepped in on tip-toe. Helen rose and composed her face into a decorous expression of mournfulanxiety. 

"I am happy to tell you, Mrs. Romer, " began the doctor. Helen's heartsank down chill and cold within her. 

"Is he better?" she faltered, striving to conceal the dismay which shefelt. 

"He has rallied. Consciousness has returned, and partial use of thelimbs. We may be able to pull your grandfather through this time, Itrust. "

Put off again! How wretched and how guilty she felt herself to be! It wasalmost a crime to wish for any one's death so much. 

She sank down again pale and spiritless upon her chair as the doctor leftthe room. 

"Never mind, " she said to herself, presently; "it can't last for ever. Itmust be soon now, and I shall be Maurice's wife in the end. "

But all this time she had forgotten Monsieur Le Vicomte D'Arblet, whomshe had not seen again since the night she had driven him home fromWalpole Lodge. 

He had left England, she knew. Helen privately hoped he had left thisearth. Any way, he had not troubled her, and she had forgotten him. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

WHAT SHE WAITED FOR. 

 Go, forget me; why should sorrow O'er that brow a shadow fling? Go, forget me, and to-morrow Brightly smile and sweetly sing. Smile--though I shall not be near thee; Sing--though I shall never hear thee. 

 Chas. Wolfe. 

All this time what of Vera? Would any one of them at the vicarage everforget that morning when she had come in after her walk with Sir JohnKynaston, and had stood before them all and, pale as a ghost, had said tothem, "I am not going to be married; I have broken it off. "

It had been a great blow to them, but neither the prayers of her weepingsister, nor the angry indignation of old Mrs. Daintree, nor even thegentle remonstrances of her brother-in-law could serve to alter herdetermination, nor would she enter into any explanation concerning herconduct. 

It was not pleasant, of course, to be reviled and scolded, to bequestioned and marvelled at, to be treated like a naughty child indisgrace; and then, whenever she went out, to feel herself tabooed by heracquaintances as a young woman who had behaved very disgracefully; orelse to be stared at as a natural curiosity by persons whom she hardlyknew. 

But she lived through all this bravely. There was a certain amount ofunnatural excitement which kept up her courage and enabled her to faceit. It was no more than what she had expected. The glow of her love andher impulse of self-sacrifice were still upon her; her nerves had beenstrung to the uttermost, and she felt strong in the knowledge of thejustice and the right of her own conduct. 

But by-and-by all this died away. Sir John left the neighbourhood;people got tired of talking about her broken-off marriage; there was nolonger any occasion for her to be brave and steadfast. Life began toresume for her its normal aspect, the aspect which it had worn in the olddays before Sir John had ever come down to Kynaston, or ever found herday-dreaming in the churchyard upon Farmer Crupps' family sarcophagus. The tongue of the sour-tempered old lady, snapping and snarling at herwith more than the bitterness of old, and the suppressed sighs andmournful demeanour of her sister, whose sympathy and companionship shehad now completely forfeited, and who went about the house with a faceof resigned woe and the censure of an ever implied rebuke in her voiceand manner. 

Only the vicar took her part somewhat. "Let her alone, " he said, sometimes, to his wife and mother; "she must have had a better reasonthan we any of us know of; the girl is suffering quite enough--leave heralone. "

And she was suffering. The life that she had doomed herself to was almostunbearable to her. The everlasting round of parish work and parish talk, the poor people and the coal-clubs--it was what she had come back to. Shehad been lifted for a short time out of it all, and a new life, congenialto her tastes and to her nature, had opened out before her; and yet withher own hands she had shut the door upon this brighter prospect, and hadleft herself out in the darkness, to go back to that life of dullmonotony which she hated. 

And what had she gained by it? What single advantage had she reapedout of her sacrificed life? Was Maurice any nearer to her--was he nothopelessly divided from her--helplessly out of her reach? She knewnothing of him, no word concerning him reached her ears: a great blankwas before her. When she went over the past again and again in her mind, she could not well see what good thing could ever come to her from whatshe had done. There were moments indeed when the whole story of herbroken engagement seemed to her like the wild delusion of madness. Shehad had no intention of acknowledging her love to Maurice when she hadgone up to the station to see him off; she had only meant to see himonce more, to hold his hand for one instant, to speak a few kind words;to wish him God speed. She asked herself now what had possessed her thatshe had not been able to preserve the self-control of affectionatefriendship when the unfortunate accident of her being taken on in thetrain with him had left her entirely alone in his society. She did notgo the length of regretting what she had done for his sake; but she didacknowledge to herself that she had been led away by the magnetism of hispresence and by the strange and unexpected chance which had thus left heralone with him into saying and doing things which in a calmer moment shewould not have been betrayed into. 

For a few kisses--for the joy of telling him that his love wasreturned--for a short moment of delirious and transient happiness, andalas! for nothing more--she had thrown away her life!

She had behaved hardly and cruelly to a good man who loved her, and whoseheart she had half broken, and she had lost a great many very excellentand satisfactory things. 

And Maurice was no nearer to her. With his own lips he had told herthat he could not marry her. There had been mention, indeed, of thatproblematical term of five years, in which he had bound himself to awaitMrs. Romer's pleasure--but, even had Mrs. Romer not existed, it was plainthat Maurice was the last man in the world to take advantage of a woman'sweakness in order to supplant his brother in her heart. 

Instinctively Vera felt that Maurice must be no less miserable thanherself; that his regret for what had happened between them must be asgreat as her own, and his remorse far greater. They were, indeed, neitherof them blameless in the matter; for, if it was Maurice who had firstspoken of his love to his brother's promised wife, it was Vera who hadmade that irrevocable step along the road of her destiny from which nogoing back was now possible. 

It was a time of utter misery to her. If she sat indoors there wasthe persecution of Mrs. Daintree's ill-natured remarks, and Marion'sdepression of spirits and half-uttered regrets; and there was also thescaffolding rising round the chancel walls to be seen from the windows, and the sound of the sawing of the masonry in the churchyard, as aperpetual, reproachful reminder of the friend whose kindness andaffection she had so ill requited. If she went out, she could not go upthe lane without passing the gates of Kynaston, or towards the villagewithout catching sight of the venerable old house among its terracedgardens, which, so lately, she had thought would be her home. Sometimesshe met her old friend, Mrs. Eccles, in her wanderings, but she did notventure to speak to her; the cold disapproval in the housekeeper'spassing salutation made her shrink, like a guilty creature, in herpresence; and she would hurry by with scarcely an answering sign, withdowncast eyes and heightened colour. 

Somehow, it came to pass in these days that Vera drifted into a degreeof intimacy with Beatrice Miller that would, possibly, never have comeabout had the circumstances of her life been different. Ever since heraccidental meeting with the lovers outside Tripton station Vera had, perforce, become a confidant of their hopes and fears; and Beatrice wasglad enough to have found a friend to whom she could talk about herlover, for where is the woman who can completely hold her tongueconcerning her own secrets?

Against all the long category of female virtues, as advantageouslydisplayed in contradistinction to masculine vices, there is still thisone peculiarity which, of itself, marks out the woman as the inferioranimal. 

A man, to be worthy of the name, holds his tongue and keeps thesecret of his heart to himself, enjoying it and delighting in it themore, possibly, for his reticence. A woman may occasionally--veryoccasionally--be silent respecting her neighbour, but concerning herselfshe is bound to have at least one confidant to whom she will rashly tellthe long story of her loves and her sorrows; and not a considerationeither of prudence or of worldly wisdom will suffice to restrain her tooready tongue. 

Beatrice Miller was a clever girl, with a fair knowledge of the world;yet she was in no way dismayed that Vera should have discovered hersecret; on the contrary, she was overjoyed that she had now found someone to talk to about it. 

Vera became her friend, but Beatrice was not Vera's friend--theconfidences were not mutual. Over and over again Beatrice was on thepoint of questioning her concerning the story that had been on everyone's lips for a time; of asking her what, indeed, was the truth abouther broken engagement; but always the proud, still face restrained hercuriosity, and the words died away unspoken upon her lips. 

Vera's story, indeed, was not one that could be easily revealed. Therewas too much of bitter regret, too great an element of burning shame ather heart, for its secrets to be laid bare to a stranger's eye. 

Nevertheless, Beatrice's society amused and distracted her mind, and kepther from brooding over her own troubles. She was glad enough to go overto Shadonake; even to sit alone with Beatrice and her mother was betterthan the eternal monotony of the vicarage, where she felt like a prisonerwaiting for his sentence. 

Yes, she was waiting. Waiting for some sign from the man she loved. Sooner or later, whether it was for good or for evil, she knew it mustcome to her; some token that he remembered her existence; some indicationas to what he would have her do with the life that she had laid at hisfeet. For, after all, when a woman loves a man, she virtually makes himthe ruler of her destiny; she leaves the responsibility of her fate inhis hands. For the nonce, Maurice Kynaston held the skein of Vera's lifein his grasp; it was for him to do what he pleased with it. Some day, doubtless, he would tell her what she had to do: meanwhile, she waited. 

What else, indeed, can a woman do but wait? To sit still with foldedhands and bated breath, to possess her soul in patience as best she may, to still the wild beatings of her all too eager spirit--that is what awoman has to do, and does often enough. God help her, all too badly. 

It is so easy when one is old, and the pulses are sluggish, and the hotpassions of youth are quelled, it is so easy then to learn that lessonof waiting; but when we are young, and our best days slipping away, andlife's hopes all before us, and life's burdens well-nigh unbearable; thenit is that it is hard, that waiting in itself becomes terrible--moreterrible almost than the worst of our woes. 

So wearily, feverishly, impatiently enough, Vera waited. 

Winter died away into spring. The rough wind of March, worn out with itsown boisterous passions, sobbed itself to rest like a tired child, andlittle green buds came cropping up sparsely and timidly out of the brownbosom of the earth; and, presently, all the glory of the golden crocusesunfolded itself in long golden lines in the vicarage garden; and therewere twittering of birds and flutterings of soft breezes among thetree-tops, and a voice seemed to go forth over the face of the earth. The winter is over, and summer is nigh at hand. 

And then it came to her at last. An envelope by the side of her plateat breakfast; a few scrawled words in a handwriting she had never seenbefore, and yet identified with an unfailing instinct, ere even she brokethe seal. One minute of wild hope, to be followed by a sick, chillnumbness, and the story of her love and its longings shrank away intothe despair of impossibility. 

How small a thing to make so great a misery! What a few words to make awilderness of a human life!

_"Her grandfather is dead, and she has claimed me. Good-bye; forget meand forgive me. "_

That was all; nothing more. No passionate regrets, no unavailingself-pity; nothing to tell her what it cost him to resign her; no word tocomfort her for the hopelessness of his desertion; nothing but those twolines. 

There was a chattering going on at the table around her. Tommy wasclamouring for bread and butter; the vicar was reading out the telegramsfrom the seat of war; Marion was complaining that the butter was notgood; the maid-servant was bringing in the hot bacon and eggs--it allwent on like a dream around her; presently, like a voice out of a fog, somebody spoke to her:

"Vera, are you not feeling well? You look as if you were going to faint. "

And then she crunched the letter in her hand and recalled herself tolife. 

"I am quite well, thanks, " and busied herself with attending to the wantsof the children. 

The vicar glanced up over his spectacles. "No bad news, I hope, my dear. "

Oh! why could they not let her alone? But somehow she sat through thebreakfast, and answered all their questions, and bore herself bravely;and when it was over and she was free to go away by herself with hertrouble, then by that time the worst of it was over. 

There are some people whom sorrow softens and touches, but Vera was notone of them. Her whole soul revolted and rebelled against her fate. Shesaid to herself that for once she had let her heart guide her; she hadcast aside the crust of worldliness and self-indulgence in which she hadbeen brought up. She had listened to the softer whisperings of the betternature within her--she had been true to herself--and lo! what had come ofit?

But now she had learnt her lesson; there were to be no more dreams ofpure and unsullied happiness for her, --no more cravings after what wasgood and true and lovely; henceforth she would go back to the teachingsof her youth, to the experience which had told her that a handsome womancan always command her life as she pleases, and that wealth, which is atangible reality, is better worth striving after than the vain shadowcalled love, which all talk about and so few make any practicalsacrifices for. Well, she, Vera Nevill, had tried it, and had made hersacrifices; and what remained to her? Only the fixed determination tocrush it down again within her as if it had never been, and to carve outher fortunes afresh. Only that she started again at a disadvantage--fornow she knew to her cost that she possessed the fatal power ofloving--the knowledge of good and evil, of which she had eatenthe poisoned fruit. 

There were no tears in Vera's eyes as she wandered slowly up and down thegarden paths between the straight yellow lines of the crocus heads. 

Her lover had forsaken her. Well, let him go. She told herself that, hadhe loved her truly, no power on earth would have been great enough tokeep him from her. She said to herself scornfully--she, Vera Nevill, whowas prepared to sell herself to the highest bidder--that it was Mrs. Romer's money that kept him from her. Well, let him go to her, then? butfor herself life must begin afresh. 

And then she set to work to think about what she could do. To remain hereat Sutton any longer was impossible. It was absolutely necessary that sheshould get away from it all, from the family upon whose hands she wasnothing now but a beautiful, helpless burden, and still more from thehaunting memories of Kynaston and all the unfortunate things that hadhappened to her here. 

Suddenly, out of the memories of her girlhood, she recollected theexistence of a woman who had been her friend once in the old happy days, when she had lived with her sister Theodora. It was one of those passingfriendships which come and go for a month or two in one's life. 

A pretty, spoilt girl, married four, perhaps five, years ago to a richman, a banker; who had taken a fancy to Vera, and had pleased herself bydecking her out in a quaint costume to figure at a carnival party; whohad kissed her rapturously at parting, swearing eternal friendship, giving her her address in London, and making her promise never to be inEngland without going to see her. And then she had gone her way, and hadnever come back again the next winter, as she had promised to do; aletter or two had passed between them, and afterwards Vera had forgottenher. But somewhere upstairs she must have got her direction still. 

It was to this friend she would go; and, turning her back for a timeat least upon Meadowshire and its memories, she would see whether, inthe whirl of London life, she could not crush out the pain at her heart, and live down the fatal weakness that had led her astray from all thetraditions of her youth, and from that cold and prudent wisdom which hadstood her in good stead for so many years. 

CHAPTER XX. 

A MORNING WALK. 

 And e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy, The heart, distrusting, asks if this be joy. 

 Goldsmith. 

A bright May morning, cold, it is true, and with a biting wind from theeast--as indeed our English May mornings generally are--but sunny andcloudless as the heart can desire. On such a morning people do their bestto pretend that it is summer. Crowds turn out into the park, and sitabout recklessly on the iron chairs, or lounge idly by the railings; andthe women-folk, with that fine disregard of what is, when it isantagonistic of what they wish it to be, don their white cottons andmuslins, and put up their parasols against the sun's rays, and, shiveringinwardly, poor things, openly brave the terrors of rheumatism andlumbago, and make up their minds that it _shall_ be summer. 

The sunblinds are drawn all along the front windows of a house in ParkLane, and though the gay geraniums and calceolarias in the flower-boxes, which were planted only yesterday, look already nipped and shrivelled upwith the cold, the house, nevertheless, presents from the exterior abright and well-cared-for appearance. 

Within the drawing-room are two ladies. One, the mistress of the house, is seated at the writing-table with her back to the room, scribbling offinvitations for dear life, cards for an afternoon "at-home, " at the rateof six per minute; the other sits idle in a low basket-chair doingnothing. 

There is no sound but the scratching of the quill pen as it flies overthe paper, and the chirping of a bullfinch in a cage in the bow-window. 

"What time is it, Vera?"

"A quarter to twelve. "

"Almost time to dress; I've only ten more cards to fill up. What are yougoing to wear--white?"

Vera shivers. "Look how the dust is flying--it must be dreadfully coldout--I should like to put on a fur jacket. "

"_Do_, " says the elder lady, energetically. "It will be original, andattract attention. Not that you could well be more stared at than youare. "

Vera smiles, and does not answer. 

Mrs. Hazeldine goes on with her task. 

"There! that's done!" she cries, at last, getting up from the table, andpiling her notes up in a heap on one side of it. "Now, I am at yourorders. "

She comes forward into the room--a pretty, dark-eyed, oval-faced woman, with a figure in which her dressmaker has understood how to supplementall that nature has but imperfectly carried out. A woman with restlessmovements and an ever-ready tongue--a thorough daughter of the Londonworld she lives in. 

Vera leans her head back in her chair, and looks at her. "Cissy, " shesays, "I must really go home, I have been with you a month to-day. "

"Go home! certainly not, my dear. Don't you know that I have sworn tofind you a husband before the season is out? I must really get youmarried, Vera. I have half a mind, " she adds, reflectively, as shesmooths down her shining brown hair at the glass, and contemplates, notill satisfied, her image there--"I have really half a mind to let youhave the boy if I could manage to spare him. "

"Do you think he would make a devoted husband?" asks Vera, with a lazysmile. 

"My dear child, don't be a fool. What is the use of devotion in ahusband? All one wants is a good fellow, who will let one alone. Afterall, the boy might not answer. I am afraid, Vera, " turning round suddenlyupon her, "I am very much afraid that boy is in love with you; it'shorrid of you to take him from me, because he is so useful, and I reallycan't well do without him. I am going to pay him out to-night though: heis to sit opposite you at dinner; he will only be able to gaze at you. "

"That is hard upon us both. "

"Pooh! don't waste your time upon him. I shall do better than that foryou; he is an eldest son, it is true, but Sir Charles looks as young ashis son, and is quite as likely to live as long. It is only married womenwho can afford the luxury of ineligibles. Go and dress, child. "

Half-an-hour later Mrs. Hazeldine and Miss Nevill are to be found upontwo chairs on the broad and shady side of the Row, where a small crowd ofmen is already gathered around them. 

Vera, coming up a stranger, and self-invited to the house of her oldacquaintance a few weeks ago, had already created a sensation in London. Her rare beauty, the strange charm of her quiet, listless manner, theshade of melancholy which had of late imperceptibly crept over her, aroused a keen admiration and interest in her, even in that city, whichmore than all others is satiated with its manifold types of beautifulwomen. 

There was a rush to get introduced to her; a _furore_ to see her. As shewent through a crowd people whispered her name and made way for her topass, staring at her after a fashion which is totally modern anddetestably ill-bred; and yet which, sad token of the _decadence_ ofthings in these later days, is not beneath the dignity or the mannersof persons whose breeding is supposed to be beyond dispute. 

Already the "new beauty" had been favourably contrasted with thewell-known reigning favourites; and it was the loudly expressed opinionof more than one-half of the _jeunesse dorée_ of the day that not one ofthe others could "hold a candle to her, by Jove!"

Mrs. Hazeldine was delighted. It was she to whom belonged the honour ofbringing this new star into notice; the credit of launching her uponLondon society was her own. She found herself courted and flattered andmade up to in a wholly new and delightful manner. The men besieged herfor invitations to her house; the women pressed her to come to theirs. Itwas all for Miss Nevill's sake, of course, but, even so, it was verypleasant, and Mrs. Hazeldine dearly loved the importance of her position. 

It came to pass that, whereas she had been somewhat put out at the letterof her old Roman acquaintance, offering to come and stay with her, andhad been disposed to resent the advent of her self-invited guest as aninfliction, which a few needlessly gushing words in the past had broughtupon herself, she had, in a very short time, discovered that she couldnot possibly exist without her darling Vera, and that she would not andcould not let her go back again to her country vicarage. 

It was, possibly, what Vera had counted upon. It was pretty certain tohave been either one thing or the other. Either her beauty would arouseMrs. Hazeldine's jealousy, and she would be glad to be rid of her asquickly as possible, or else she would be proud of her, and wish toretain her as an attraction to her house. Fortunately for Vera, CissyHazeldine, worldly, frivolous, pleasure-loving as she was, was, nevertheless, utterly devoid of the mean and petty spitefulness whichgoes far to disfigure many a better woman's character. She was notjealous of Vera; on the contrary, she was as unfeignedly proud of her asthough she had created her. Besides, as she said to herself, "Our styleis so different, we are not likely to clash. "

When she found that in a month's time Vera's beauty had made her housethe most popular one in London, and that people struggled for herinvitation-cards and prayed to be introduced to her, Mrs. Hazeldine wasat the zenith of her delight and self-importance. If only Vera herselfhad been a little more practicable!

"I don't despair of getting you introduced to royalty before the seasonis out, " she would say, triumphantly. 

"I don't want to be introduced to royalty, " Vera would answerindifferently. 

"Oh! Vera, how can you be so disloyal? And it's quite wicked too; almostagainst Scripture. Honour the King, you know it says somewhere; of coursethat means the Prince of Wales too. "

"I can honour him very well without being introduced to him, " said Vera, who, however, let me assure you, was filled with feelings of profoundloyalty towards the reigning family. 

"But only think what a triumph it would be over those other horrid womenwho think themselves at the top of the tree!" Mrs. Hazeldine would urge, with a curious conglomeration of ideas, sacred and profane. 

But Vera was indifferent to the honour of becoming acquainted with hisRoyal Highness. 

Another of Mrs. Hazeldine's troubles was that she absolutely refused tobe photographed. 

"Your portrait might be in every shop window if you chose!" Mrs. Hazeldine would exclaim, despairingly. 

"I may be very depraved, Cissy, " Vera would answer, indignantly, "but Ihave not yet sunk so low as to desire that every draper's assistant mayhave the privilege of buying my likeness for a shilling to stick up onhis mantelshelf, with a tight-rope dancer on one side, and a burlesqueactress on the other!"

"My dear, it is done by every one; and women who are beautiful as you areought not to mind being admired. "

"But I prefer being admired by my friends only, and by those of my ownclass. I have no ambition to expose myself, even in effigy, in a shopwindow for the edification of street boys and city clerks. "

"Well, you can't help your name having been in _Vanity Fair_ this week!"

"No, and I only wish I could get hold of the man who put it there!" criedMiss Nevill, viciously; and it is certain that unfortunate literaryperson would not have relished the interview. 

A "beauty" with such strange and unnatural views was, it must beconfessed, as much of a trial as a triumph to an anxious chaperon. 

There was a certain amount of fashionable routine, the daily treadmillof pleasure, to which, however, Vera submitted readily enough, and evenextracted a good deal of enjoyment out of it. There was the morningsaunter into the Row, the afternoons spent at garden parties or"at-homes, " the evenings filled up with dinner parties, to be followedalmost invariably by balls lasting late into the night. All these thingsrepeat themselves year after year: they are utter weariness to some ofus, but to her they were still new, and Vera entered into the daily whirlof the London season with an amount of zest which was almost a surpriseto herself. 

Just at first there had been a daily terror upon her, that of meeting SirJohn Kynaston or his brother; but London is a large place, and you may goout to different houses for many nights running without ever comingacross the friend or the foe whom you desire or dread most to encounter. 

After a little while, she forgot to glance hurriedly and fearfully aroundher every time she entered a ball-room, or to look up shudderingly eachtime the door was opened and a fresh guest announced at a dinner-party. She never met either of them, nor did the name of Kynaston ever strikeupon her ear. 

She told herself that she had forgotten the two brothers, whose fate hadseemed at one time so intimately bound up with her own--the one as wellas the other. They were nothing more to her now--they had passed away outof her life. Henceforth she had entered upon a new course, in which herbeauty and her mother wit were to exact their full value, but in whichher heart was to count for nothing more. It was to be smothered up withinher. That, together with all the best, and sweetest, and truest part ofher, once awakened for a brief space by the magic touch of love, was nowto be extinguished within her as though they had never been. 

Meanwhile Vera enjoys herself. 

She looks happy enough now as she sits by her friend's side in the park, with a little knot of admirers about her; not taking very much trouble totalk to them, indeed, but smiling serenely from one to the other, lettingherself be talked to and amused, with just a word here and there, to showthem she is listening to what they say. It is, perhaps, the secret of hersuccess that she is so thoroughly indifferent to it all. It matters solittle to her whether they come or go; there is so little eagerness abouther, so perfect an _insouciance_ of manner. Other women lay themselvesout to attract and to be admired; Vera only sits still, and waits with acertain queenliness of manner for the worship that is laid at her feet, and which she receives as her due. 

Behind her, with his hand on the back of her chair, stands a young fellowof about two or three and twenty; he does not speak to her much, nor joinin the merry, empty chatter that is going on around her; but it is easyto see by the way he looks down at her, by the fashion in which hewatches her slightest movement, that Vera exercises no ordinary influenceover him. 

He is a tall, slight-figured boy, with very fair yellow hair and delicatefeatures; his blue eyes are frank and pleasant, but his mouth is a trifleweak and vacillating, and the lips are too sensitively cut for strengthof character, whilst his chest is too narrow for strength of body. He iscarefully dressed, and wears a white, heavy-scented flower in his coat, a flower which, five minutes ago, he had ineffectually attempted totransfer to Miss Nevill's dress; but Vera had only gently pushed back hishand. "My dear boy, pray keep your gardenia; a flower in one's dress issuch a nuisance, it is always tumbling out. "

Denis Wilde, "the boy, " as Mrs. Hazeldine called him with a flush on hisfair face, had put it back quietly in his button-hole, too well bred toshow the pain he felt by flinging it, as he would have liked to do, overthe railing, to be trampled under the feet of the horses. 

The little group kept its place for some time, the two well-dressed andgood-looking women sitting down, the two or three idlers who stood infront of them gossiping about nothing at all--last night's ball, to-day'splans, a little bit of scandal about one passer-by, somebody's rumouredengagement, somebody else's reported elopement. Denis Wilde stood behindVera's chair and listened to it all, the well-known familiar chatterof a knot of London idlers. There was nothing new or interesting orentertaining about it. Only a string of names, some of which were strangeto him, but most of which were familiar; and always some little story, ill-natured or harmless as the case might be, about each name that wasmentioned. And Vera listened, smiling, assenting, but only halfattentive, with her eyes dreamily fixed upon the long procession ofriders passing ever ceaselessly to and fro along the ride. 

Suddenly Denis Wilde felt a sudden movement of the chair beneath hishand. Vera had started violently. 

"Here comes Sir John Kynaston, " the man before her was saying to hiscompanion. "What a time it is since he has shown himself; he looks as ifhe had had a bad illness. "

"Some woman jilted him, I've heard, " answered the other man: "some girldown in the country. People say, Miss Nevill, he is going to die of thatold-fashioned complaint, which you certainly will not believe in, abroken heart! Poor old boy, he looks as if he had been buried, and hadcome up again for a breath of air!"

Vera followed the direction of their eyes. Sir John was walking slowlytowards them; he was thin and careworn; he looked aged beyond all belief. He walked slowly, as though it were an effort to him, with his eyes uponthe ground. He had not seen her yet; in another minute he would be withina couple of yards of her. It was next to impossible that he could avoidseeing her, the centre, as she was, of that noisy, chattering group. 

A sort of despair seized her. How was she to meet him--this man whom shehad so cruelly treated? She could _not_ meet him; she felt that it was animpossibility. Like an imprisoned bird that seeks to escape, she lookedabout instinctively from side to side. What possible excuse could sheframe? In what direction could she fly to avoid the glance of reproachthat would smite her to the heart. 

Suddenly Denis Wilde bent down over her. 

"Miss Nevill, there goes a _Dachshund_, exactly like the one you wanted;come quickly, and we shall catch him up. He ran away down here. "

She sprang up and turned after him; a path leading away from the crowdedRow, towards the comparatively empty park at the back, opened outimmediately behind her chair. 

Young Wilde strode rapidly along it before her, and Vera followed himblindly and thankfully. 

After a few minutes he stopped and turned round. 

"Where is--the dog--wasn't it a dog, you said? Where is it?" She waswhite and trembling. 

"There is no dog, " he answered, not looking at her. "I--I saw you wantedto get away for a minute. You will forgive me, won't you?"

Vera looked at him with a sudden earnestness. The watchfulness which hadseen her distress, the ready tact which had guessed at her desire toescape, and had so promptly suggested the manner of it, touched hersuddenly. She put forth her hand gently and almost timidly. 

"Thank you, " she said, simply. "I did not imagine you were so clever--orso kind. "

The boy blushed deeply with pleasure. He did not know her trouble, butthe keen eye of love had guessed at its existence. It had been easy forhim who watched her every look, who knew every shade and every line ofher face, to tell that she was in distress, to interpret her pallor andher trembling terror aright. 

"You don't want to go back?" he asked. 

"Oh, no, I cannot go back! Besides, I am tired; it is time to go home. "

"Stay here, then, and I will call Mrs. Hazeldine. "

He left her standing alone upon the grass, and went back to the crowdedpath. Presently he returned with her friend. 

"My dear Vera, what is the matter? The boy says you have such a headache!I am so sorry, and I wouldn't let any of those chattering fools come backto lunch. Why, you look quite pale, child! Will it be too much for you tohave the boy, because we will send him away, too, if you like?"

But Vera turned round and smiled upon the boy. 

"Oh, no, let him come, certainly; but let us go home, all three of us atonce, if you don't mind. "

The thoughtfulness that had kept her secret for her, even from the eyesof the woman who was supposed to be her intimate friend, surely deservedits reward. 

They walked home slowly together across the park, and, when Vera camedown to luncheon, a white gardenia had somehow or other found its way tothe bosom of her dress. 

That was Denis Wilde's reward. 

CHAPTER XXI. 

MAURICE'S INTERCESSION. 

 Youth is a blunder; manhood a struggle; old age a regret. 

 B. Disraeli, "Coningsby. "

Two or three days later the east wind was still blowing, and the chilledsunshine still feebly shining down upon the nipped lilac and laburnumblossoms. The garden at Walpole Lodge was shorn of half its customarybeauty, yet to Helen Romer, pacing slowly up and down its gravel walks, it had never possibly presented a fairer appearance. For Mrs. Romer hadwon her battle. All that she had waited for so long and striven for sohard was at length within her grasp. Her grandfather was dead, his moneyhad been all left to her, her engagement to Captain Kynaston was anacknowledged fact, and she herself was staying as an honoured and welcomeguest in her future mother-in-law's house. Everything in the present andthe future seemed to smile upon her, and yet there were drawbacks--as arethere not in most earthly delights?--to the full enjoyment of herhappiness. 

For instance, there was that unreasonable and unaccountable codicil toher grandfather's will, of which no one had been able to discern eitherthe sense or the meaning, and which stated that, should his belovedgrand-daughter, Helen Romer, be still unmarried within two months of thedate of his death, the whole of the previous bequests and legacies wereto be revoked and cancelled, and, with the exception of five thousandpounds which she would retain, the whole bulk of his fortune was todevolve upon the Crown, for the special use of the pensioners ofGreenwich and Chelsea Hospitals. 

Why such an extraordinary clause had been added to the old man's will itwas difficult to say. Possibly he feared that his grand-daughter might betempted to remain unmarried, in order that she might the more freelysquander her newly-acquired fortune in selfish pleasures; possibly hedesired to ensure her future by the speedy shelter and support of ahusband's name and authority, or perhaps he only hoped at his heart thatshe would be unable to fulfil his condition; and, whilst his memory wouldbe left free from blame towards his daughter's orphaned child, his moneymight go away from her by her own fault, and enrich the institutions ofhis country at the expense of the grand-daughter, whom he had alwaysdisliked. 

Be that as it may, it was sufficient to place Helen in a very awkward anduncomfortable position. She had not only to claim Maurice's promisedtroth to her, but she had also to urge on him an almost immediatemarriage; the task was a thankless and most unpleasant one. 

Besides that, there was the existence of a certain little French vicomtewhich caused Mrs. Romer not a little anxiety. Now, if ever, was the timewhen she had reason to dread his re-appearance with those fatal letterswith which he had once threatened to spoil her life should she everattempt to marry again. 

But her grandfather had died and had left her his money, and herengagement and approaching marriage to another man was no secret, yetstill Monsieur Le Vicomte D'Arblet made no sign, and gave forth no tokenof his promised vengeance. 

Helen dared not flatter herself that he was dead, but she did hope, and hoped rightly, that he was not in England, and had not heard ofthe change in her fortunes. She had been afraid to make any inquiriesconcerning him; such a step might only excite suspicion, and defeat herown object of remaining hidden from him. If only she could be safelymarried before he heard of her again--all, she thought, might yet be wellwith her. Of what use, then, would be his vengeance? for she did notthink it likely he could be so cruel as to wreak an idle and profitlessrevenge upon her after she herself and her fortune were beyond his power. 

Perhaps, had she known that her enemy had been on a distant journey toConstantinople, from which he was now returning, and that every hour shelived brought him nearer and nearer to her, she would have been less easyin her mind concerning him. As it was, she consoled herself by thinkingin how short a time her marriage would put her out of his power, andhoped, for the rest, that things would all turn out right for her. Nevertheless, strive how she would, she could not quite put away thedread of it out of her mind--it was an anxiety. 

And then there was Maurice himself. She had known, of course, for long, how slight was her hold upon her lover's heart, but never had he appearedso cold, so unloving, so full of apathetic indifference towards her as hehad seemed to be during the few days since he had arrived at his mother'shouse. His every word and look, the very change in his voice when heturned from his mother to her, told her, as plainly as though he hadspoken it, that she was forcing him into a marriage that was hateful andrepulsive to him, and which duty alone made him submit to. However littlepride a woman may retain, such a position must always bring a certainamount of bitterness with it. 

To Helen it was gall and wormwood, yet she was all the more determinedupon keeping him. She said to herself that she had toiled, and waited, and striven for him for too long to relinquish him now that the victorywas hers at length. 

Poor Helen, with all her good looks, and all her many attractions, shehad been so unfortunate with this one man whom she loved! She had alwaysgone the wrong way to work with him. 

Even now she could not let him alone; she was foolishly jealous andsuspicious. 

He had come to her, all smarting and bleeding still with the sacrificehe had made of his heart to his duty. He had shut the woman he loveddeterminedly out of his thoughts, and had set his face resolutely to dohis duty to the woman whom he seemed destined to marry. Even now a littlesoftness, a little womanly gentleness and sympathy, and, above all, awise forbearance from probing into his still open wounds, might have wona certain amount of gratitude and affection from him. But Helen wasunequal to this. She only drove him wild with causeless and senselessjealousy, and goaded him almost to madness by endless suspicions andirritating cross-questioning. 

It is difficult to know what she expected more of him. He slept underthe same roof with her, he dined at his mother's table, and spent theevenings religiously in her society. She could not well expect to keephim also at her side all day long; and yet his daily visits to town, amounting usually to between three and four hours of absence, were aconstant source of annoyance and disquiet to her. Where did he go? Whatdid he do with himself? Whom did he see in these diurnal expeditions intoLondon? She wore herself into a fever with her perpetual effort to fathomthese things. 

Even now she is fretting and fuming because he has promised to be home toluncheon, and he is twenty minutes late. 

She paces impatiently up and down the garden. Lady Kynaston opens theFrench window and calls to her from the house:

"Come, my dear, lunch is on the table; are you not coming in?"

"I had rather wait for Maurice, please; do sit down without me, " sheanswers, with the irritation of a spoilt child. Lady Kynaston closes thewindow. "Oh, these lovers!" she groans to herself, somewhat impatiently, as she sits down alone to the well-furnished luncheon-table; but shebears it pretty composedly because Helen has her grandfather's money, andis to bring her son wealth as well as love, and Lady Kynaston is not atall above being glad of it. One can stand little faults of manner andtemper from a daughter-in-law, who is an heiress, which one would bejustly indignant at were she a pauper. 

A sound of wheels turning in at the lodge-gates--it is Maurice's hansom. 

Helen hurries forward to meet him in the hall; Captain Kynaston ishanding a lady out of the hansom; Helen peers at her suspiciously. 

"I am bringing you ladies a friend to lunch, " says Maurice, gaily, andMrs. Romer's face clears when she sees that it is Beatrice Miller. 

"Oh, Beatrice, it is you! I am delighted to see you! Go in to thedining-room, you will find Lady Kynaston. Maurice, " drawing him back aminute, "how late you are again! What have you been doing?"

"I waited whilst Miss Miller put her bonnet on. "

"Why, where did you meet her?"

"I met her at her mother's, where I went to call. Have you anyobjection?" He looked at her almost defiantly as he answered herquestions; it was intolerable to him that she should put him throughsuch a catechism. 

"You can't have been there all the morning, " she continued, suspiciously;unable or unwilling, perhaps, to notice his rising displeasure. "Wheredid you go first?"

Maurice bit his lip, but controlled himself with an effort. 

"My dear child, " he said, lightly, "one can't sell out of the army, orprepare for the holy estate of matrimony, without a certain amount ofbusiness on one's hands. Suppose now we go in to lunch. " She steppedaside and let him pass her into the dining-room. 

"He is shuffling again, " she said to herself, angrily; "that was noanswer to my question. Is it possible that he sees _her_? But no, whatfolly; if she is at Sutton, how can he get at her?"

"Oh, Helen, " cried out Beatrice to her from the table as she entered, "you and Lady Kynaston are positively out of the world this season. Youknow none of the gossip. "

"I go nowhere, of course, now; my grandfather's death is so recent. Ihave so many preparations to make just now; and dear Lady Kynaston isgood enough to shut herself up on my account. "

"Exactly; you are a couple of recluses, " cried Beatrice. "Now, I daresayyou will never guess who is the new beauty whom all the world is talkingabout; no other than our friend Vera Nevill. She is creating a perfectsensation!"

"Indeed!" politely, but with frigid unconcern, from Lady Kynaston. 

"Yes; I assure you there is a regular rage about her. Oh, how stupid Iam! Perhaps I ought not to have mentioned her, Lady Kynaston, for ofcourse she did not behave very well to Sir John, as we all know; but nowthat is all over, isn't it? and everybody is wild about her beauty. "

"I am glad to hear that Miss Nevill is prospering in any way, " said herladyship, stiffly. "I owe her no ill-will, poor girl. "

Helen Romer is looking at Maurice Kynaston; he has not said one singleword, nor has he raised his eyes once from his plate; but a deep flushhas overspread his handsome face at the sound of Vera's name. 

"_That_ is where he goes, " said Helen, to herself. "I knew it; he hasseen her, and he loves her still. "

The conversation drifted on to other matters. Beatrice passed all thegossip and scandal of the town under review for Lady Kynaston's benefit;presently Maurice roused himself, and joined in the talk. But Mrs. Romeruttered not a word; she sat in her place with a thunder-cloud upon herbrow until the luncheon was over; then, as they rose from the table, shecalled her lover to her side. 

"I want to speak to you, " she said, and detained him until the others hadleft the room. 

"You knew that Vera Nevill was in town, and you have seen her!" she burstforth impetuously. 

"If I had seen her, I do not know that it would signify, would it?" heanswered, calmly. 

"Not signify? when you knew that it was for _your_ sake that she threwover John, because----"

"Be silent, Helen, you have no right to say that, and no authority forsuch a statement, " he said, interrupting her hotly. 

"Do you suppose you can deceive me? Did not everybody see that she couldnot keep her eyes off you? What is the use of denying it? You have seenher probably; you have been with her to-day. "

"As it happens, I have _not_ been with her either to-day or any day; nordid I know she was in town until Beatrice Miller told us so just now. "

"You have not seen her?"

"No, I have not. "

"I don't believe you!" she answered, angrily. Now, no man likes to begiven the lie direct even by a lady; and Maurice was a man who wasscrupulously truthful, and proud of his veracity; he lost his temperfairly. 

"I have never told you a lie yet, " he began furiously; "and if you thinkso, it is time----"

"Maurice! Maurice!" she cried, frantically, stopping the outspoken wordsupon his lips, and seeing in one minute that she had gone too far. "Mydarling, forgive me; I did not mean to say it. Yes, of course, I believeyou; don't say anything unkind to me, for pity's sake. You know how muchI love you; kiss me, darling. No, Maurice, I won't let you go till youkiss me, and say you forgive your foolish, jealous little Helen!"

It was the old story over again; angry reproaches--bitter words--insultsupon her side; to be succeeded, the minute he turned round upon her, bywild cries of regret and entreaties for forgiveness, and by the pleadingof that love which he valued so little. 

She drove him wild with anger and indignation; but she never would lethim go--no, never, however much he might strain against the chain bywhich she held him. 

The quarrel was patched up again; he stooped and kissed her. A man mustkiss a lady when she asks him. How, indeed, is he to refuse to do so? Awoman's kisses are the roses of life--altogether sweet, and lovely, andprecious. No man can say he dislikes a rose, nor refuse so harmless andcharming a gift when it is freely offered to him without absolutechurlishness. Maurice could not well deny her the embrace for which herupturned lips had pleaded. He kissed her, indeed; but it will be easilyunderstood that there was very little spontaneity of affection in thatkiss. 

"Now let me go, " he said, putting her from him gently but coldly; "I wantto speak to my mother. "

The two younger ladies wandered out into the garden, whilst Mauricesought his mother's room. 

"Mother, I have been to see John this morning. I am afraid he is reallyvery ill, " he said, gravely. 

Lady Kynaston shrugged her shoulders. "He is like a baby over thatfoolish affair, " she said, impatiently. "He does not seem able to getover it; why does he shut himself up in his rooms? If he were to go outa little more----"

"He has been out; it is that that has made him ill. He went out a fewmornings ago--the wind was very cold; he says it is that which gave him achill. But, from what he says, I fancy he saw, or he thinks he saw, MissNevill. "

Lady Kynaston sat at her davenport with all the litter of her dailycorrespondence before her; her son stood up by the mantelpiece, leaninghis back against it, and looked away out of window at the figures ofBeatrice and his future wife sauntering up and down the garden walks. Shecould not well see his face as he spoke these last words. 

"Tiresome woman!" cried Lady Kynaston, angrily; "there is no end to thetrouble she causes. John ought to be thankful he is well rid of her. Didyou hear what Beatrice Miller said at lunch about her? I call it shockingbad taste, her coming up to town and flirting and flaunting about underpoor John's nose--heartless coquette! Creating 'a sensation, ' indeed!That is one of those horrible American expressions that are the fashionjust now!"

"It is no wonder she is admired, " said Maurice, dreamily: "she is verybeautiful. "

"I wish to goodness she would keep out of John's way. Where did he seeher?"

"It was in the Row, I think, and, from what he said, he only fancied hesaw her back, walking away. I told him, of course, it could not be her, because I thought she was down at Sutton; but, after what Beatrice toldus at lunch, I make no doubt that it was her, and that John really didsee her. "

"I should have thought that your brother would have had more spirit thanto sit down and whine over a woman in that way, " said her ladyship, sharply; "it is really contemptible. "

"But if he is ill in body as well as in mind, poor fellow?"

"Pooh! fiddlesticks! I am quite sure, if Helen jilted you, you would bearit a great deal better--losing the money and all--than he does. "

Maurice smiled. 

"That is very possible; but a man can't help his disposition, and Johnhas been utterly shattered by it. "

"Well, I am sorry for him, of course; but I confess that I don't see thatanybody can do anything for him. "

And then Maurice was silent for a minute. God only knew what passedthrough his soul at that minute--what agonies of self-renunciation, whatmartyrdom of all that makes life pleasant and dear to a man! It iscertain his mother did not know it. 

"I think, " he said, after a minute, and only a slight harshness in hisvoice marked the internal struggle that the words were to cost him--"Ithink, mother, _you_ might do a great deal for him. Miss Nevill is intown. Could you not see her?"

"I see her! What on earth for?"

"If you were to tell her how ill John is, how desperately he feels hertreatment of him--how----"

"Stop, stop, my dear! You cannot possibly suppose that I am going downupon my knees to entreat Miss Nevill to marry my son after she has thrownhim over!"

"It is no question of going on your knees, mother. A few words wouldsuffice to show her the misery she is causing to John, and if those fewwords would restore his lost happiness----"

"How can I tell that anything I can say would influence her? I supposeshe had good reasons for throwing him over. She cared for some one else, I suppose, or, at all events, she did not care for him. "

"I am quite certain, on the contrary, that she had a very sincereaffection for my brother; and, as to the some one else, I do not thinkthat will prevent her returning to him. Oh, mother!" he cried, with asudden passion, "the world is full of miserable misunderstandings andmistakes. For God's sake, let us try to put some of its blunders right!Do not let any poor, mean feelings of false pride stand in our way if wecan make one single life happy!"

She looked up at him, wondering a little at his earnestness. It did notstrike her at the minute that his interest in Vera was unusual, but onlythat his affection for his brother was stronger than she imagined it tobe. "You know, " she said, "I do not want things to come right in thatway. I do not want John to marry. I want the old place to come to you andyour children; and now that John has agreed to let you and Helen livethere----"

He waved his hand impatiently. "And you know, mother dear, that suchdesires are unlawful. John is the eldest, and I will never move a step totake his birthright from him. To stand in the way of his marriage forsuch a cause would be a crime. Is it not better that I should speakplainly to you, dear? As to my living at Kynaston, I think it highlyunlikely that I should do so in any case, much as you and Helen seem towish it. But that has nothing to do with John's affairs. Promise me, little mother, that you will try and set that right by seeing MissNevill?"

"I do not suppose I should do any good, " she answered, with visiblereluctance. 

"Never mind; you can but try. "

"You can't expect me to go and call upon her for such a purpose, norspeak to her, without John's authority. "

"You might ask her to come here, or go to some house where you will meether naturally in public. "

"Yes, that would be best; perhaps she will be at Lady Cloverdale's ballnext week. "

"It is easy, at all events, to ensure her an invitation to it; askBeatrice Miller to get her one. "

"Oh, yes; that is easy enough. Oh, dear me, Maurice, you always manage toget your own way with me; but you have given me a dreadfully hard taskthis time. "

"As if a woman of your known tact and _savoir faire_ was not capable ofany hard and impossible task!" answered her son, smiling, as he bent andkissed her soft white face. 

The gentle flattery pleased her. The old lady sat smiling happily toherself, with her hands idle before her, for some minutes after he hadleft her. 

How dear he was to her, how good, how upright, how thoroughly generoustoo, and unselfish to think so much of his brother's troubles just now, in the midst of all his own happiness. 

She got up and went to the window, and watched him as he strolled acrossthe garden to join the ladies, smiling and kissing her hand to him whenhe looked back and saw her. 

"Dear fellow, I hope he will be happy!" she said to herself, turning awaywith a half sigh. And then suddenly something brought back the ball atShadonake to her recollection. There flashed back into her memory acertain scene in a cool, dimly-lit conservatory: two people whisperingtogether under a high-swung Chinese lamp, and a background of dark-leavedshrubs behind them. 

She had been puzzled that night. There had been something going on thatshe had not quite understood. And now again that feeling of unsatisfiedcomprehension came back to her. For the first time it struck herpainfully that the son whom she idolized so much--whose life andcharacter had been her one study and her one delight ever since the dayof his birth--was nevertheless a riddle to her. That the secret of hisinner self was as much hidden from her--his mother--as though she hadbeen the merest stranger; that the life she had striven so closely toentwine with her own was nothing after all but a separate existence, inthe story of whose soul she herself had no part. He was a man strugglingsingle-handed in all the heat and turmoil of the battle of life, and she, nothing but a poor, weak old woman, standing feebly aside, powerless tohelp or even to understand the creature to whom she had given birth. 

There fell a tear or two down upon her wrinkled little hands as shethought of it. She could not understand him; there was something in hislife she could not fathom. Oh, what did it all mean?

Alas, sooner or later, is not that what comes to every mother concerningthe child she loves best?

CHAPTER XXIL. 

MR. PRYME'S VISITORS. 

 For courage mounteth with occasion. 

 Shakespeare, "King John. "

Mr. Herbert Pryme stood by a much ink-stained and littered table in hischambers in the Temple, with his hands in his trousers pockets, whistlinga slow and melancholy tune. 

It was Mr. Pryme's habit to whistle when he was dejected or perplexed;and the whistling generally partook of the mournful condition of hisfeelings. Indeed, everything that this young man did was of a ponderousand solemn nature; there was always the inner consciousness of thedignity of the Bar vested in his own person, to be discerned in his outerbearing. Even in the strictest seclusion of the, alas! seldom invadedprivacy of his chambers Mr. Pryme never forgot that he was abarrister-at-law. 

But when this young gentleman was ill at ease within himself he was inthe habit of whistling. He also was given to the thrusting of his handsinto his pockets. The more unhappy he was, the more he whistled, and thedeeper he stuffed in his hands. 

Just now, to all appearances, he was very unhappy indeed. 

The air he had selected for his musical self-refreshment was the livelyand slightly vulgar one of "Tommy make Room for your Uncle;" but letanybody just try to whistle that same vivacious tune to the time of theDead March in "Saul, " and with a lingering and plaintive emphasis uponeach note, with "linked sweetness long drawn out, " and then say whetherthe gloomiest of dirges would not be festive indeed in comparison. 

Thus did Herbert Pryme whistle it as he looked down upon the piles oflegal documents heaped up together upon his table. 

All of them meant work, but none of them meant money. For Herbert wasfain to accept the humble position of "devil" to a great legal light whooccupied the floor below him, and who considered, and perhaps rightly, that he was doing the young man above him, who had been sent up from thecountry with a letter of introduction to him from a second cousin, asufficient and inestimable benefit in allowing him to do his dirty workgratis. 

It was all very useful to him, doubtless, but it was not remunerative;and Herbert wanted money badly. 

"Oh, if I could only reckon upon a couple of hundred a year, " he sighed, half aloud to himself, "I might have a chance of winning her! It seemshard that heaps of these fellows can make hundreds a week by a shortspeech, or a few strokes of the pen, that cost them no labour and littleforethought, whilst I, with all my hard work, can make nothing! Whatuphill work it is! Not that the Bar is not a fine profession; quite thefinest there is, " for not even to himself would Herbert Pryme decry thelegal muse whom he worshipped; "but, I suppose, like every otherprofession, it is overstocked; there are too many struggling for the sameprizes. The fact is, that England is over-populated. Now, if a law wereto be passed compelling one-half of the adult males in this country toremain in a state of celibacy for the space of fifteen years----" buthere he stopped short in his soliloquy and smiled; for was not the onedesire of his life at present to marry Beatrice Miller immediately? Andhow was the extra population to be stayed if every one of the doomedquota of marriageable males were of the same mind as himself?

Presently Mr. Pryme sauntered idly to the window, and stood lookingdrearily out of it, still whistling, of course. 

The prospect was not a lively one. His chambers looked out upon a littlesquare, stone-flagged court, with a melancholy-looking pump in the centreof it. There was an arched passage leading away to one side, down which adistant footstep echoed drearily now and then, and a side glimpse of theempty road at the other end, beyond the corner of the opposite houses. Now and then some member of the learned profession passed rapidly acrossthe small open space with the pre-occupied air of a man who has not aminute to spare, or a clerk, bearing the official red bag, ran hastilyalong the passage; for the rest, the London sparrows had it pretty muchto themselves. As things were, Mr. Pryme envied the sparrows, who wereready clothed by Providence, and had no rates and taxes to pay, as wellas the clerks, who, at all events, had plenty to do and no time tosoliloquize upon the hardness and hollowness of life. To have plenty ofbrains, and an indefinite amount of spare time to use them in; to desireardently to hasten along the road towards fortune and happiness, and tobe forced to sit idly by whilst others, duller-witted, perchance, andwith less capacity for work, are amassing wealth under your verynose--when this is achieved by sheer luck, or good interest, or any otherof those inadequate causes which get people on in life independent oftalent and industry--that is what makes a radical of a man. This is whatcauses him to dream unwholesome dreams about equality and liberty, abouta republic, where there shall be no more principalities and powers, whereplutocracy, as well as aristocracy, shall be unregarded, and where everygood man and true shall rise on his own merits, and on none other. 

Oh, happy and impossible Arcadia! You must wait for the millennium, myfriend, before your aspirations shall come to pass. Wait till jealousy, and selfishness, and snobbism--that last and unconquerable dragon--shallbe destroyed out of the British heart, then, and only then, when jobbery, and interest, and mammon-worship shall be abolished; then will men behonoured for what they are, and not for what they seem to be. 

Something of all this passed through our friend's jaundiced mind as hecontemplated those homely and familiar little birds, born and bred andsmoke-dried in all the turmoil of the City's heart, who ruffled theirfeathers and plumed their wings with contented chirpings upon the dustyflags of the little courtyard. 

Things were exceptionally bad with Herbert Pryme just now. His exchequerwas low--had never been lower--and his sweetheart was far removed out ofhis reach. Beatrice had duly come up with her parents to the familymansion in Eaton Square for the London season, but although he had, it istrue, the satisfaction, such as it was, of breathing the same air as shedid, she was far more out of his reach in town than she had been in thecountry. As long as she was at Shadonake Mr. Pryme had always been ableto run down to his excellent friend, the parson of Tripton, and oncethere, it had been easy to negotiate a surreptitious meeting withBeatrice. The fields and the lanes are everybody's property. If Tom andMaria are caught love-making at the stile out of the wood, and they bothswear that the meeting was purely accidental, I don't see how any one isto prove that it was premeditated; nor can any parents, now that it is nolonger the fashion to keep grown women under lock and key, prevent theirdaughters from going out in the country occasionally unattended, norforbid strange young men from walking along the Queen's highway in thesame direction. 

But remove your daughter to London, and the case is altered at once. Tokeep a girl who goes out a great deal in the whirl of London society outof the way of a man who goes out very little, who is not in the innercircle of town life, and is not in the same set as herself, is theeasiest thing in the world. 

So Mrs. Miller found it. She kept Beatrice hard at work at the routine ofdissipation. Not an hour of her time was unoccupied, not a minute of herday unaccounted for; and, of course, she was never alone--it is not yetthe fashion for young girls to dance about London by themselves--hermother, as a matter of course, was always with her. 

As a natural sequence, the lovers had a hard time of it. Beatrice hadbeen six weeks in London, and Herbert, beyond catching sight of her onceor twice as she was driven past in her mother's carriage down BondStreet, or through the crowd in the Park, had never seen her at all. 

Mrs. Miller was congratulating herself upon the success of her tactics;she flattered herself that her daughter was completely getting over thatunlucky fancy for the penniless and briefless barrister. Beatrice gave nosign; she appeared perfectly satisfied and contented, and seemed to beenjoying herself thoroughly, and to be troubled by no love-sickhankerings after her absent swain. 

"She has forgotten him, " said Mrs. Miller, to herself. 

But the mother did not take into account that indomitable spirit andstubborn determination in her own character which had served to carry outsuccessfully all the schemes of her life, and which she had probablytransmitted to her child. 

In Beatrice's head, under its short thick thatch of dark rough hair, andin her sturdily-built little frame, there lurked the tenacity of abulldog. Once she had taken an idea firmly into her mind, Beatrice Millerwould never relinquish it until she had got her own way. Herbert, inthe dingy solitude of his untempting chambers, might despair and lookupon life and its aims as a hopeless enigma. Beatrice did not despair atall. She only bided her time. 

One day, if she waited for it patiently, the opportunity would come toher, and when it came she would not be slow to make use of it. It came toher in the shape of a morning visit from Captain Maurice Kynaston. 

"Come down and see my mother, " Maurice had said to her; "she has not seenyou for a long while. I am just going back to Walpole Lodge to lunch. "

"I should like to come very much. You have no objection, I suppose, mamma?"

No; Mrs. Miller could have no possible objection. Lady Kynaston wasamongst her oldest and most respected friends; under whose house couldBeatrice be safer? And even Maurice, as an escort, engaged to be marriedso shortly as he was known to be, was perfectly unobjectionable. 

Beatrice went, and, as we have seen, lunched at Walpole Lodge. She hadtold her mother not to expect her till late in the afternoon, as, in allprobability, Lady Kynaston would drive her into town and would drop herin Eaton Square at the end of her drive. Mrs. Miller, to whose watchfulmaternal mind the Temple and Kew appeared to be in such totally differentdirections that they presented no connecting suggestions, agreed, unsuspiciously, not to expect her daughter back until after six o'clock. 

In this way Beatrice secured the whole afternoon to herself to do whatshe liked with it. She was not slow to make use of it. There was allthe pluck of the Esterworths in her veins, together with all thedetermination and energy which had raised her father's family froma race of shopkeepers to take their place amongst gentlemen. 

As soon as Captain Kynaston joined the two ladies in the garden atWalpole Lodge after luncheon Beatrice requested him to order a hansom tobe fetched for her. 

"Why should you hurry away?" said Maurice, politely. "My mother will takeyou back to town in the carriage if you will wait. "

Helen was stooping over the flower-beds, gathering some violets. Beatricestepped closer to Maurice. 

"Don't say a word, there's a good fellow, but get me thehansom--and--and--please don't mention it at home. "

Then Maurice, who was no tyro in such matters, understood that it wasexpected of him that he should ask no questions, but do what he was toldand hold his tongue. 

The sequence of which proceedings was, that a hansom cab drew up at thefar corner of the little stone-flagged court in the Temple between fourand five that afternoon. 

Mr. Pryme was no longer by the window when it did so, so that he wastotally unprepared for the visitor, whose trembling and twice-repeatedtap at his door he answered somewhat impatiently--

"Come in, and be d----d to you, and don't stand rapping at that door allday. "

The people, as a rule, who solicited admittance to his chambers wereeither the boy from the legal light below, who came to ask whether thepapers were ready that had been sent up this morning, or else they weresmiling and sleek-faced tradesmen who washed their hands insinuatinglywhilst they requested that Mr. Pryme would be kind enough to settle thatlittle outstanding account. 

Either of these visitors were equally unwelcome, which must be someexcuse for the roughness of Mr. Pryme's language. 

The door was softly pushed ajar. 

"Now, then--come in, can't you; who the deuce are you--_Beatrice_!"

Enter Miss Miller, smiling. 

"Oh, fie, Herbert! what naughty words, sir. "

"Beatrice, is it possible that it is you! Where is your mother? Are youalone?" looking nervously round at the door, whilst he caught heroutstretched hand. 

"Yes, I am quite alone; don't be very shocked. I know I am a horrid, boldgirl to come all by myself to a man's chambers; it's dreadful, isn't it!Oh, what would people say of it if they knew--why, even _you_ lookhorrified! But oh, Herbert, I did want to see you so. I was determined toget at you somehow--and now I am here for a whole hour; I have managed itbeautifully--no one will ever find out where I have been. Mamma thinks Iam driving with Lady Kynaston!"

And then she sat down and took off her veil, and told him all about it. 

She had got at her lover, and she felt perfectly happy and secure, sitting there with his arm round her waist and her hand in his. Not soHerbert. He was pleased, of course, to see her, and called her by athousand fond names, and he admired her courage and her spirit forbreaking through the conventional trammels of her life in order to cometo him; but he was horribly nervous all the same. Supposing that boy wereto come in from below, or the smiling tradesman, or, still worse, if thegreat Q. C. Were to catch a glimpse of her as she went out, and recognizeher from having met her in society, where would Miss Miller's reputationbe then?

"It is very imprudent of you--most rash and foolish, " he kept onrepeating; but he was glad to see her all the same, and kissed herbetween every other word. 

"Now, don't waste any more time spooning, " says Beatrice, with decision, drawing herself a little farther from him on the hard leather sofa. "Anhour soon goes, and I have plenty to say to you. Herbert, " with greatsolemnity, "_I mean to elope with you!_"

Herbert gives an irrepressible start. 

"_Now!_ this minute?" he exclaims, in some dismay, and reflects swiftlythat, just now he possesses exactly three pounds seven and sixpence inready money. 

"No; don't be a goose; not now, because I haven't any clothes. " Herbertbreathes more freely. "But some day, very soon, before the end of theseason. "

"But, my pet, you are not of age, " objects her lover; whilst sundryclauses in the laws concerning the marriages of minors without theconsent of their parents pass hurriedly through his brain. 

"What do I care about my age?" says Beatrice, with the recklessness of animpetuous woman bent upon having her own way. "Of course, I don't wish todo anything disreputable, or to make a scandal, but mamma is driving meto it by never allowing me to see you, and forbidding you to come to thehouse, and by encouraging all sorts of men whom she wants me to marry. "

"Ah! And these men, do they make love to you?" The instinct of the loverrises instantly superior to the instinct of legal prudence within him. "That is hard for me to bear. "

"Now, Herbert, don't be a fool!" cries Beatrice, jumping up and making agrimace at herself in the dusty glass over his mantelpiece. "Do I looklike a girl whom men would make love to? Am I not too positively hideous?Oh, you needn't shake your head and look indignant. Of course I am ugly, everybody but you thinks so. Of course it's not me, myself, but becausepapa is rich, and they think I shall have money. Oh, what a curse thismoney is!"

"I think the want of it a far greater one, " says Herbert, ruefully. 

"At any rate, " continues Beatrice, "I am determined to put an end to thisstate of things; we must take the law into our own hands. "

"Am I to wait for you in a carriage and pair at the corner of EatonSquare in the middle of the night?" inquires Herbert, grimly. 

"No; don't be foolish; people don't do things now-a-days in the way ourgrandmothers did. I shall go to morning service one day at some outof-the-way church, where you will meet me with a licence in your pocket;it will be the simplest thing in the world. "

"And afterwards?"

"Afterwards I shall go home to lunch. "

"And what am I to do?"

"Oh! you will come back here, I suppose. "

"I don't think that will be very amusing, " objects the bridegroom elect, dubiously. 

"No; but then we shall be really married, and when we know that no onecan part us, we shan't mind waiting; and then, some day, after about sixmonths or so, I shall confess to papa, and there will be a terriblescene, ending in tears on my part, and in forgiveness on the part of myparents. Once the deed is done, you see, they will be forced to make thebest of it; and, of course, they will not allow us to starve. I think itis a very ingenious plan. What do you think of it, Herbert? You don'tlook very much delighted at the idea. "

"I don't think that I should play a very noble part in such a scheme asthat. Dearly as I love you, Beatrice, I do not think I could consent tosteal you away in such a pitiful and cowardly manner. "

"Pooh! you would have nothing to do with it; it is all my doing, ofcourse. Hush! is not that somebody coming up the stairs?"

They were silent for half a minute, listening to the sound of advancingsteps upon the wooden staircase. 

"It is nothing--only somebody to see the man above me. By Jove, though, it _is_ for me!" as somebody suddenly stopped outside and knocked at thedoor. "Wait one minute, sir! Good heavens, Beatrice, what am I to do withyou?"

Herbert looked frightened out of his life. Beatrice, on the contrary, could hardly smother her laughter. 

"I must hide!" she said, in a choked whisper. "Oh, Herbert, it is likea scene out of a naughty French play! I shall die of laughter!"

Without a moment's thought, she fled into the inner room, the door ofwhich stood ajar, and which was none other than Mr. Pryme's bed-chamber!There was no time to think of any better expedient. Beatrice turned thekey upon herself, and Herbert called out "Come in!" to the intruder. Neither of them had noticed that Beatrice's little white lace sunshadelay upon the table with her gloves and veil beside it. 

If Mr. Pryme had been alarmed at the bare fact of an unknown and possiblyunimportant visitor, it may be left to the imagination to describe thestate of his feelings when the door, upon being opened, disclosed theMember for North Meadowshire standing without!

CHAPTER XXIII. 

A WHITE SUNSHADE. 

 For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove An unrelenting foe to love, And when we meet a mutual heart, Come in between, and bid us part?

"Well, Mr. Pryme, how d'ye do?" said Mr. Miller, in his rough, heartyvoice, holding out his hand. "I dare say you are surprised to see mehere. I haven't met you since you were staying down with us at Christmastime. Well, and how goes the world with you, young man?"

Herbert, who at first had thought nothing less than that Mr. Miller hadtracked his daughter to his rooms, and that he was about to have therighteous wrath of an infuriated and exasperated parent to deal with, bythis time began to perceive that, to whatever extraordinary cause hisvisit was owing, Beatrice, at all events, had nothing to do with it. Herecovered himself sufficiently to murmur, in answer to his visitor'sgreeting, that the world went pretty well with him, and to request hisguest to be seated. 

And then, as he pushed an arm-chair forward for him, his eye fell uponBeatrice's things upon the table, and his heart literally stood stillwithin him. What was he to do? They lay so close to the father's elbowthat, to move them without attracting attention was impossible, and toattract attention to them was to risk their being recognized. 

Meanwhile Mr. Miller had put on his spectacles, and was drawing somevoluminous papers out of his breast coat-pocket. 

"Now, I dare say, young man, you are wondering what brings me to see you?Well, the fact is, there is a little matter about which I am going tolaw. I'm going to bring an action for libel against a newspaper; it isthat rascally paper the _Cat o' Nine Tails_. They had an infamousparagraph three weeks ago concerning my early life, which, let me tellyou, sir, was highly respectable in every way, sir--in every way. "

"I am quite sure of that, Mr. Miller. "

"I've brought the paragraph with me. Oh, here it is. Well, I've had agood deal of correspondence with the editor, and he refuses to publish anapology, and so I'm tired of the whole matter, and have placed it in thehands of my solicitors. I'm going to prosecute them, sir, and I don'tcare what it costs me to do it; and I'll expose the whole system of thesetrumped-up fabrications, that contain, as a rule, one grain of truth to ahundredweight of lies. Well, now, Mr. Pryme, I want a clever barrister totake up this case, and I have instructed Messrs. Grainge, my solicitors, to retain you. "

"I am sure, sir, you are very kind; I hardly know how to thank you, "faltered poor Herbert. Never in the whole course of his life had he feltso overcome with shame and confusion! Here was this man come to do him areally great and substantial benefit, whilst his own daughter was hiddenaway in a shameful fashion in the next room! Herbert would sooner thatMr. Miller had pointed a pistol at his head and threatened to shoot him. The deception that he was practising towards this kind-hearted andexcellent gentleman struck him to the heart with a sense of guiltyremorse. 

But what on earth was he to do? He could not reveal the truth to theunconscious father, nor open the door and disclose Beatrice hiding in hisbedroom, without absolutely risking the reputation of the girl he loved. There was nothing for it but to go on with the serio-comedy as best hecould, and to try and get Mr. Miller off the premises as speedily aspossible. 

He made an effort to decline the proffered employment. 

"It is most kind, most generous of you to have thought of me, but I musttell you that there are many better men, even amongst the juniors, whowould do your case more justice than I should. "

"Oh! I believe you have plenty of talent, Mr. Pryme. I've been makinginquiries about you. You only want an opportunity, and I like giving ayoung fellow a chance. One must hold out a helping hand to the young onesnow and then. "

"Of course, sir, I would do my very best for you, but I really think youare risking your own case by giving it to me. "

"Nonsense--take it and do what you can for me; if you fail, I shall notblame you;" and here suddenly Mr. Miller's eyes rested upon the sunshadeand the gloves upon the table half-a-yard behind his arm. Now, had itbeen Miss Miller's mother who, in the place of her father, had beenseated in Herbert's wooden arm-chair, the secret of her proximity wouldhave been revealed the very instant the maternal eyes had been set uponthat sunshade and those gloves. Mrs. Miller could have sworn to thatlittle white lace, ivory-handled toy, with its coquettish pink ribbonbows, had she seen it amongst a hundred others, nor would it have beeneasy to have deceived the mother's eyes in the matter of the gray _peaude suède_ gloves and the dainty little veil, such as her daughter was inthe habit of wearing. But a father's perceptions in these matters are notaccurate. Mr. Miller had not the remotest idea what his child's sunshadewas like, nor, indeed, whether she had any sunshade at all. Nevertheless, as his eyes alighted upon these indications of a feminine presence whichlay upon the young barrister's table, they remained fixed there withdistinct disapproval. These obnoxious articles of female attire of courseconveyed clearly to the elder man's perceptions, in a broad and generalsense, the fatal word "woman, " and woman in this case meant "vice. "

Mr. Miller strove to re-direct his attention to his case and the papersin his hand. Herbert made a faint and ineffectual attempt to remove theoffending objects from the table. Mr. Miller only looked back at themwith an ever-increasing gloom upon his face, and Herbert's hand, morallyparalyzed by the glance, sank powerlessly down by his side. He imagined, of course, that the father had recognized his daughter's property. 

"Well, to continue the subject, " said Mr. Miller, looking away withan effort, and turning over the papers he had brought with him; "thereare several points in the case I should like to mention to you. " Hepaused for a minute, apparently to collect his thoughts, and toHerbert's sensitive ears there was a sudden coldness and constraintin his voice and manner. "You will, of course, take instructions inthe main from Grainge and Co. ; but what I wished to point out to youwas--ahem----" here his voice unaccountably faltered, and his eyes, asthough drawn by a magnet, returned once more with ominous displeasure tothat little heap of feminine finery that lay between them. Mr. Millerflung down his papers, and turning round in his chair, rested both elbowsupon the table. 

"Mr. Pryme, " he said, with decision, "I think it is best that I should befrank with you!" He looked the young barrister full in the face. 

"Certainly, certainly, if you please, Mr. Miller, " said Herbert, notquite knowing what he had to fear, and turning hot and cold alternatelyunder his visitor's scrutinizing gaze. 

"Well, then, let me tell you fairly that I came to seek you to-day withthe friendliest motives. "

"I am sure you did, and you are most kind to me, sir, " murmured Herbert, playing nervously with an ivory paper-cutter that lay on the table. 

Mr. Miller waved his hand, as though to dispense with his gratefulacknowledgments. 

"The fact is, " he continued, "I had understood from Mrs. Miller that youwere a suitor for my daughter's hand. Well, sir, Mrs. Miller, as youknow, disapproves of your suit. My daughter will be well off, Mr. Pryme, and you, I understand, have no income at all. You have no other resourcethan a profession, at which, as yet, you have made nothing. There is somereason in Mrs. Miller's objection to you. Nor should I be willing to letmy daughter marry an idle man who will live upon her money. Then, on theother hand, Mr. Pryme, I find that my girl is fond of you, and, if thisis the case, I am unwilling to make her unhappy. I said to myself that Iwould give you an opening in this case of mine, and if you will work hardand make yourself known and respected in your profession, I should notobject, in the course of time, to your being engaged to her, and I wouldendeavour to induce her mother to agree to it. I came here to-day, Mr. Pryme, to give you a fair chance of winning her. "

"You are too good, Mr. Miller, " cried Herbert, with effusion, stretchingforth his hand. "I do not know how to thank you enough, nor how to assureyou of my grateful acceptance of your terms. "

But Mr. Miller drew back from the young man's proffered hand. 

"Wait, there is no occasion to thank me;" and again his eyes fell sternlyupon that unlucky little heap of lace and ribbon. "I am sorry to tell youthat, since I have come here, my friendly and pleasant intentions towardsyou have undergone a complete change. "

"Sir!"

"Yes, Mr. Pryme; I came here prepared to treat you--well, I may as wellconfess it--as a son, under the belief that you were an upright andhonourable man, and were sincerely and honestly attached to my daughter. "

"Mr. Miller, is it possible that you can doubt it?"

The elder man pointed with contemptuous significance to the sunshadebefore him. 

"I find upon your table, young man, the evidences of the recent presenceof some wretched woman in your rooms, and your confusion of manner showsme too plainly that you are not the kind of husband to which a man maysafely entrust his daughter's happiness. "

"Mr. Miller, I assure you you are mistaken; it is not so. "

"Every man in this country has a right to justify himself when he isaccused. If I am mistaken, Mr. Pryme, explain to me the meaning of_that_, " and the heavy forefinger was again levelled at the offendingobjects before him. 

Not one single word could Herbert utter. In vain ingenious fabricationsconcerning imaginary sisters, maiden aunts, or aged lady clients rushedrapidly through his brain; the natural answer on Mr. Miller's part to allsuch inventions would have been, "Then, where is she?"

Mr. Miller must know as well as he did himself that the lady, whoever shemight be, must still be in his rooms, else why should her belongings beleft on his table; and if in the rooms, then, as there was no otheregress on the staircase than the one by which he had entered, clearly, she must be secreted in his bedroom. Mr. Miller was not a young man, andhis perceptions in matters of intrigue and adventure might no longer bevery acute, but it was plain to Herbert that he probably knew quite aswell as he did himself that the owner of the gloves and sunshade was inthe adjoining room. 

"Have you any satisfactory explanation to give me?" asked Mr. Miller, once more, after a solemn silence, during which he glared in a stern andinquisitorial manner over his spectacles at the young man. 

"I have nothing to say, " was the answer, given in a low and dejectedvoice. 

Mr. Miller sprang to his feet and hurriedly gathered up his papers. 

"Then, sir, " he said, furiously, "I shall wish you good afternoon; andlet me assure you, most emphatically, that you must relinquish all claimto my daughter's hand. I will never consent to her union with a man whoseprivate life will not bear investigation; and should she disobey me inthis matter, she shall never have one single shilling of my money. "

There was a moment's silence. Mr. Miller was buttoning-up his coat withthe air of a man who buttons up his heart within it at the same time. Heregarded the young man fiercely, and yet there was a lingeringwistfulness, too, in his gaze. He would have given a good deal to hear, from his lips, a satisfactory explanation of the circumstances which toldso suspiciously against him. He liked the young barrister personally, andhe was fond enough of his daughter to wish that she might be happy in herown way. He spoke one word more to the young man. 

"Have you nothing to say; Mr. Pryme?"

Herbert shook his head, with his eyes gloomily downcast. 

"I can only tell you, sir, that you are mistaken in what you imagine. Ifyou will not believe my word, I can say nothing more. "

"And what of _these_, Mr. Pryme--what of _these_?" pointing furiouslydownwards to Beatrice's property. 

"I cannot explain it any further to you, Mr. Miller. I can only ask youto believe me. "

"Then, I do not believe you, sir--I do not believe you. Would any man inhis senses believe that you haven't got a woman hidden in the next room?Do you suppose I'm a fool? I have the honour of wishing you good day, sir, and I am sorry I ever took the trouble of calling upon you. It is, of course, unnecessary for you to trouble yourself concerning my case, inthese altered circumstances, Mr. Pryme; I beg to decline the benefit ofyour legal assistance. Good afternoon. "

The door closed upon him, and the sound of his retreating footstepsechoed noisily down the stairs. Herbert sank into a chair and covered hisface with his hands. So lately hope and fortune seemed to have smiledupon him for one short, blissful moment, only to withdraw the sunshineof their faces again from him more completely, and to leave him moreutterly in the dark than ever. Was ever man so unfortunate, and sounlucky?

But for the _contretemps_ concerning that wretched sunshade, he would nowhave been a hopeful, and almost a triumphant, lover. Now life was allaltered for him!

The door between the two rooms opened softly, and Beatrice, no longerbrave, and defiant, and laughing as she had been when she went in, butwhite, and scared, and trembling, crept hesitatingly forth, and kneltdown by her lover's side. 

"Oh, Herbert! what has happened? It was papa--I heard his voice; but Icould not hear what you talked about, only I heard that he was angry atthe last, when he went away. Oh! tell me, dearest, what has happened?"

Herbert pointed bitterly to her belongings on the table. 

"What fatality made me overlook those wretched things?" he cried, miserably; "they have ruined us!"

Beatrice uttered an exclamation of dismay. 

"Papa saw them--he recognized them!"

"Not as _yours_, thank God!"

"What then?"

"He thinks me unworthy of you, " answered the lover, in a low voice, andBeatrice understood. "He has forbidden me ever to think of you now; andhe will leave you penniless if you disobey him; it is a terriblemisfortune, my darling; but still, thank God that your good name issafe!"

"Yes, at the expense of yours, Herbert!" cried the girl, frantically; "Isee it all now, and, if I dared, I would confess to papa the truth. "

"Do not think of it!"

"I dare not; but, Herbert, don't despair; I see now how wicked and howfoolish I was to come here to-day, and what a terrible risk I have run, for if papa knew that it was I who was in the next room, he would neverforgive me; we can do nothing now but wait until brighter and happierdays; believe me, Herbert, if you will be true to me, I will be true toyou, and I will wait for you till I am old and grey. "

He strained her passionately to his heart. 

"I will never forget what you have done for me to-day, never!" said thegirl, as she clung to his neck. 

And then she put on her gloves and veil, and took up the sunshade thathad been the cause of such a direful ending to her escapade, and went herway. And after she was gone, Mr. Pryme, with his hands in his pockets, began once more to whistle, as though the events of the afternoon hadnever taken place. 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

HER SON'S SECRET. 

 But love is such a mystery, I cannot find it out, For when I think I'm best resolved, I then am most in doubt. "

 Sir J. Suckling. 

Lady Kynaston sat alone in her little morning-room; as far as she knew, she was alone in the house; Mrs. Romer had driven into London, on thecares of her trousseau intent, and she believed that Maurice had gonewith her; at all events, she had heard him state his intention of going, and the departing carriage had, some time since, driven away from thedoor. 

The morning-room looked on to the garden side of the house, and thewindows were wide open; the east wind had departed, and summer had set inat last. Real summer, coming in with a rush when it did come, with warmwhiffs of flower-scented wind, with flutterings of lime blossoms from thetrees along the high brick wall, with brown bees and saffron butterflieshovering over the reviving flower-borders, and dragon-flies darting outof the shadows into the hot blinding sunshine. Summer at last; and oh, how welcome when it comes upon our rain-drenched and winter-pinched land. 

The gardener was bedding out the geraniums along the straight ribbonborder. Lady Kynaston went out once to superintend his operations, holding up a newspaper in her hand to shield her head from the rays ofthe sun. But it was hot, and old McCloud, the Scotch gardener, wasintelligent enough to be safely left to his own devices, so she did notstop out long. 

She came in again, and sat down in a low basket-chair by the window, andthought how wise she had been to settle herself down in the old housewith its velvet lawns and its wide shadowy trees, instead of in the heatand turmoil of a London home. 

She looked a little anxious and worried to-day--she was not happy abouther eldest son--somebody had told her last night that he was talkingabout going to Australia, and turning sheep farmer. Lady Kynaston wasannoyed at the report; it did not strike her as seemly or right that thehead of the Kynaston family should become a sheep farmer. Moreover, sheknew very well that he only wanted to get himself away out of the countrywhere no one would know of his story, or remind him of his trouble again. The man's heart was broken. He did not want to farm sheep, or to take toany other rational or healthful employment; he only wanted, like a sickanimal, to creep away and hide his hurt. Little as Lady Kynaston had incommon with her eldest son, she was sorry for him. She would have donewhat she could to help him had she known how. She had written to him onlyyesterday, begging him to come to her, but he had not replied to herletter. 

The Cloverdales' ball had come and gone, and Lady Kynaston had takenpains to ensure that an invitation might be sent to Mrs. Hazeldine andMiss Nevill. She had also put herself to some inconvenience in order tobe present at it herself, but all to no purpose--Vera was not there. Perhaps she had had another engagement that evening. 

The old lady's promise to her youngest son was still unfulfilled. Shehalf repented now that she had given him any such promise. What good wasshe to do by interceding between her son and Miss Nevill? and why was sheto lay herself open to the chance of a rebuff from that young lady? Ithad been a senseless and quixotic idea on Maurice's part altogether. Young women do not take back a jilted lover because the man's motheradvises them to do so; nor is a broken-off marriage likely to get itselfre-settled in consequence of the interference of a third person. 

The old lady had taken out her fancy-work, a piece of crewel work such asis the fashion of the day. But she was not fond of work; the leaves ofmuddy-shaded greens grew but slowly under her fingers, and, truth to say, the occupation bored her. It was artistic, certainly, and it wasfashionable; but Lady Kynaston would have been happier over a pair ofcross-stitch slippers for her son, or a knitted woollen petticoat for theold woman at her lodge gate. All the same, she took out her crewels andput in a few stitches; but the afternoon was warm, there was a humming ofinsects in the summer air, a click-clicking from the gardener as hedropped one empty red flower-pot into the other along the edge of theribbon border, a cawing of rooks from the elms over the wall, a veryharmony of soft soothing sounds, just enough to lull worry to rest, notenough to scare drowsiness from one's brain. 

By degrees, it all became mixed up in a delicious confusion. The rooks, and the bees, and the gardener made one continuous murmur to her, likethe swishing of summer waves upon a sandy shore, or the moaning of softwinds in the tree tops. 

Then the crewel work slipped off her lap, and Lady Kynaston slept. 

How long she was asleep she could not rightly have said: it might havebeen an hour, it might have been but twenty minutes; but suddenly sheawoke with a start. 

The rustle of a woman's dress was beside her, and somebody spoke hername. 

"Lady Kynaston! Oh, I am so sorry I have disturbed you; I did not see youwere asleep. "

The old lady opened her eyes wide, and came back suddenly from dreamland. Vera Nevill stood before her. 

"Vera, is it _you_? Good gracious! how did you get in? I never even heardthe door open. "

"I came in by the front-door quite correctly, " said Vera, smiling andreaching out her hand for a chair, "and was duly announced by thefootman; but I had no idea you were asleep. "

"Only dozing. Sit down, my dear, sit down; I am glad to see you. " And, somehow, all the awkwardness of the meeting between the two vanished. Itwas as though they had parted only yesterday on the most friendly terms. In Vera's absence, Lady Kynaston had thought hard things of her, and hadspoken condemning words concerning her; but in her presence all thisseemed to be altered. 

There was something so unspeakably refreshing and soothing about Vera;there was a certain quiet dignity in her movements, a calm serenity inher manner, which made it difficult to associate blame and displeasurewith her. Faults she might have, but they could never be mean or ignobleones; there was nothing base or contemptible about her. The pure, proudprofile, the broad grave brow, the eyes that, if a trifle cold, were astrue withal as the soul that looked out, sometimes earnestly, sometimeswistfully, from their shadowy depths; everything about her bade one judgeher, not so much by her actions, which were sometimes incomprehensible, but by a certain standard that she herself created in the minds ofall who knew her. 

Lady Kynaston had called her a jilt and a heartless coquette; she hadmade no secret of saying, right and left, how badly she had behaved: whatshameful and discreditable deductions might be drawn from her conducttowards Sir John. Yet, the very instant she set eyes upon her, she feltsorry for the hard things she had said of her, and ashamed of herselfthat she should have spoken them. 

Vera drew forward a chair, and sat down near her. The dress she wore waswhite, of some clear and delicate material, softened with creamy lace; ithad been one of kind-hearted Cissy Hazeldine's many presents to her. Looking at her, Lady Kynaston thought what a lovely vision of youth andbeauty she made in the sombre quiet of the little room. 

"They tell me half the men in London have gone mad over you, " were herfirst words following the train of her own thoughts, and she liked hervisitor none the less, that world-loving little old woman, because shecould not but acknowledge the reasonableness of the madness of whichshe accused her of being the object. 

"I care very little for the men in London, Lady Kynaston, " answered Vera, quietly. 

"My dear, what _do_ you care for?" asked her ladyship, with earnestness, and Vera understood that she was expected to state her business. 

"Lady Kynaston, I have come to ask you about your son, " she answered, simply. 

"About John?"

"Of course, it is Sir John I mean, " she said, quickly, a hot flushrising for one instant to her face, and dying away rapidly again, toleave her a trifle paler than before. "I know, " she continued, with alittle hesitation--"I know that I have no right to inquire--but I cannotforget all that is past--all his goodness and generosity to me. I shallnever forget it; and oh, I hear such dreadful things of him, that he isill--that he is talking of going to Australia. Oh, Lady Kynaston, is itall true?"

She had clasped her hands together, and bent a little forward towardsthe old lady in her earnestness; she looked at her piteously, almostentreatingly. 

"Does she love him after all?" thought Lady Kynaston, as she watched her;and the meaning of the whole story of her son's love seemed moreunfathomable than ever. 

"John is neither well nor happy, " she said, aloud. "I think, Vera, youmust know the reason of it better than any of us. "

"It is my fault--my doing, " cried the girl, with a ring of deep regret inher voice. "Yes, " she added, looking away sadly out of the open window;"that is why I have come. Do you know that I saw him once? I don't thinkhe saw me--it was in the Park one morning. He looked so aged, sosaddened, I realized then what I had done--his face haunts me. "

"Vera, you could alter all that if you chose, " said the old lady, earnestly. 

A sudden flush sprang to her face; she looked startled. 

"You don't suppose I came here to say _that_, LadyKynaston?"

"No, my dear; but I have decided to say it to you. Vera, I entreat you totell me the truth. What is it that stands between you and John?"

She was silent, looking down upon her hands that lay crossed one over theother upon her knee. 

"I cannot tell you, Lady Kynaston, " she answered, at length, in a lowvoice. 

Lady Kynaston sighed; she was a little disappointed. 

"And you cannot, marry him?"

Vera shook her head. 

"No, it would not be right. "

The old lady bent forward and laid her hand upon her visitor's arm. 

"Forgive me for asking you. Do you love some one else? is it that?"

She bent her head silently. 

"Have you any hopes of marrying the man you love?"

"Oh no, none--not the slightest, " she said, hurriedly; "I shall nevermarry. "

"Then, Vera, will you listen to an old woman's advice?"

"Yes, dear Lady Kynaston. "

"My dear, if you cannot marry the man you love, put him out of yourmind. "

"I must do that in any case, " she said, wearily. 

"Listen to me, my dear. Don't sacrifice your own life and the life of aman who is good and loves you dearly to a caprice of your heart. Hush!don't interrupt me; I dare say you don't think it a caprice; you think itis to last for ever. But there is no 'for ever' in these matters; thething comes to us like an ordinary disease; some of us take it strongly, and it half kills us; some of us are only a very little ill; but we allget over it. There is a pain that goes right through one's heart: it isworse to bear than any physical suffering: but, thank God, that painalways wears itself out. My dear, I, who speak to you, have felt it, andI tell you that no man is worth it. You can cure yourself of it if youwill; and the remedy is work and change of the conditions of your life. You don't think I look very much like a blighted being, do you? and yet Idid not marry the man I loved. I could not; he was poor, and my parentswould not allow it. I thought I should die, but you see I did not. I tookup my life bravely, and I married a most estimable man; I lived an activeand healthy life, so that by degrees it became a happy one. Now, Vera, why should you not do the same? Your people have a right to expect thatyou should marry; they cannot afford to support you for always. Becauseyou are disappointed in one thing, why are you not to make the best youcan of your life?"

"I do mean to marry--in time, " said Vera, brokenly, with tears in hereyes. 

"Then why not marry John?"

There was a minute's silence. Was it possible that Lady Kynaston did notknow? Vera asked herself. Was it possible that she could, in cold blood, advise her to marry one son whilst the other one loved her! That was whatwas so terrible to her mind. To marry was simple enough, but to marry SirJohn Kynaston! She thought of what such an action might bring upon themall. The daily meetings, the struggles with temptation, the awfultampering with deadly sin. Could any one so constituted as she was walkdeliberately and with open eyes into such a situation?

She shuddered. 

"I cannot do it, " she said, wringing her hands together; "don't ask me;I cannot do it!"

Lady Kynaston got up, and went and stood by her chair. 

"Vera, I entreat you not to let any false pride stand in the way ofthis. Do not imagine that I ask you to do anything that would wound yourvanity, or humble you in your own eyes. It would be so easy for me toarrange a meeting between you and John; it shall all come about simplyand naturally. As soon as he sees you again, he will speak to you. "

"It is not that, it is not that!" she murmured, distractedly; but LadyKynaston went on as if she had not heard her. 

"You must know that I should not plead like this with you if I were notdeeply concerned. For myself, I had sooner that John remained unmarried. I had sooner that Maurice's children came into Kynaston. It is wrong, Iknow, but it is the case, because Maurice is my favourite. But when wehear of John shutting himself up, of his refusing to see any of hisfriends, and of his talking of going to Australia, why, then we all feelthat it is you only who can help us; that is why I have promised Mauriceto plead with you. "

She looked up quickly. 

"You promised Maurice! It is _Maurice_ who wants me to marry hisbrother. " She turned very pale. 

"Certainly he does. You don't suppose Maurice likes to see his brother sounhappy. "

The darkened room, the spindle-legged furniture, Lady Kynaston's littlefigure, in her black dress and soft white tulle cap, the bright gardenoutside, the belt of trees beyond the lawn, all swam together before hereyes. 

She drew a long breath; then she rose slowly from her place, a littleunsteadily, perhaps, and walked across the Persian rug to the emptyfireplace. She stood there half a minute leaning with both hands upon themantelshelf, her head bent forwards. 

_Maurice wished it!_ To him, then, there were no fears, and no dangers. He could look forward calmly to meeting her constantly as his brother'swife; it would be nothing to him, that temptation that she dreaded somuch; nothing that an abyss which death itself could never bridge overwould be between them to all eternity!

And then the woman's pride, without which, God help us, so many of uswould break our hearts and die, came to her aid. 

Very well, then, if he was strong, she would learn to be strong too;if the danger to him was so slight that he could contemplate it withcalmness and with indifference, then she, too, would show him that it wasnothing to her. Only, then, what a poor thing was this love of his! Andsurely the man she had loved so fatally was not Maurice Kynaston at all, but only some creature of her own imagination, whom she had invested withthings that the man himself had not lost because he had never possessedthem. 

If this was so, then why, indeed, listen to the voice of her heart wheneverything urged her to stifle it? Why not make Sir John Kynaston happyand herself prosperous and rich, as everybody round her seemed toconsider it her duty to do?

It passed rapidly through her mind what a fine place Kynaston was; howdear everything that wealth can bring had always been to her, what a wiseand prudent match it was in every way for her, and what a good indulgenthusband Sir John would be. 

Who in the wide world would blame her for going back to him? Would noteverybody, on the contrary, praise her for reconsidering her folly, andfor becoming Lady Kynaston, of Kynaston? The errors of the successfulin this world's race are leniently treated; it is only when we areunfortunate and our lives become failures that our friends turn theirbacks upon our misdeeds in righteous condemnation. 

"So long as thou doest well unto thyself men will speak good of thee. "

Surely, surely, it was the best and the wisest thing she could do. Andyet even at that moment Eustace Daintree's pale, earnest face came forone instant before her. What side in all this would he take--he of thepure heart, of the stainless life? If he knew all, what would he say?

Pooh! he was a dreamer--an idealist, a man of impossible aims; histheories, indeed, were beautiful, but impracticable. Vera knew that heexpected better things of her; but she had striven to be what he wouldhave desired, and if she had failed, was it her fault? was it not ratherthe fault of the world and the generation in which her life had beencast?

She had struggled, and she had failed; henceforth let her life be as fateshould ordain for her. 

"What is it you wish me to say, Lady Kynaston?" she asked, turningsuddenly towards Maurice's mother. 

"My dear child, I only want you to say that if John asks you again to behis wife, you will consent, or say only, if you like it better, that youwill agree to meet him here. There shall be nothing unpleasant for you; Iwill write to him and settle everything. "

"If you write to him, I will come, " she said, briefly, and then LadyKynaston came up to her and kissed her, taking her hands within her own, and drawing her to her with motherly tenderness. "My dear, everybody willthink well of you for this. "

And the words ran so nearly in the current of her own bitter thoughtsthat Vera laughed, shortly and disdainfully, a low laugh of scorn at theworld, whose mandates she was prepared to obey, even though she despisedherself for doing so. 

"You will be glad by-and-by that you were so sensible and so reasonable, "said Lady Kynaston. 

"Yes--I dare say I shall be glad by-and-by; and now I am going, dear LadyKynaston; I have a hansom waiting all this time, and Mrs. Hazeldine willbe wondering what has become of me. "

At this moment they both heard the sound of a carriage driving up to thedoor. 

"It must be some visitors, " said Lady Kynaston; "wait a minute, or youwill meet them in the hall. Oh, stay, go through this door into thedining-room, and you can get through the dining-room window by the gardenround to the front of the house; I dare say you would rather not meetanybody--you might know them. "

"Thank you--yes, I should much prefer to get away quickly and quietly--Iwill go through the dining-room; do not come with me, I can easily findmy way. "

She gathered up her gloves and her veil and opened the door whichcommunicated between the morning-room and the dining-room. She heard thechatter of women's voices and the fluttering of women's garments in thehall; it seemed as though they were about to be ushered into the room shewas leaving. 

She did not want to be seen; besides, she wanted to get away quickly andreturn to London. She closed the morning-room door behind her, and took acouple of steps across the dining-room towards the windows. 

Then she stopped suddenly short; Maurice sat before her at the table. Helifted his eyes and looked at her; he did not seem surprised to see her, but there was a whole world of grief and despair in his face. It was asthough he had lived through half a lifetime since she had last seen him. 

Pride, anger, wounded affection, all died away within her--only the womanwas left, the woman who loved him. Little by little she saw him onlythrough the blinding mist of her own tears. 

Not one single word was spoken between them. What was there that theycould say to each other? Then suddenly she turned away, and went swiftlyback into the room she had just left, closing the door behind her. 

It was empty. Lady Kynaston was gone. Vera stooped over thewriting-table, and, taking up a sheet of paper, she wrote in pencil:--

"Do not write to Sir John--it is beyond my strength--forgive me andforget me. Vera. " And then she went out through the other door, and got herself away from the place in her hansom. 

Twenty minutes later, when her bevy of chattering visitors had left her, Lady Kynaston came back into her morning-room and found the little pencilnote left upon her writing-table. Wondering, perplexed and puzzled beyondmeasure, she turned it over and over in her fingers. 

What had happened? Why had Vera so suddenly altered her mind again? Whathad influenced her? Half by accident, half, perhaps, with an instinct ofwhat was the truth, she softly opened the door of communication betweenthe morning-room and the dining-room, opened it for one instant, and thendrew back again, scared and shocked, closing it quickly and noiselessly. What she had seen in the room was this--

Maurice, half stretched across the table, his face downwards upon hisarm, whilst those tearless, voiceless sobs, which are so terrible towitness in a man, sobs which are the gasps of a despairing heart, shookthe strong broad shoulders and the down-bent head that was hidden fromher sight. 

And then the mother knew at last the secret of her son's heart. It wasVera whom Maurice loved. 

CHAPTER XXV. 

ST. PAUL'S, KNIGHTSBRIDGE. 

 Hide in thy bosom, poor unfortunate, That love which is thy torture and thy crime, Or cry aloud to those departed hosts Of ghostly lovers! can they be more deaf To thy disaster than the living world? Who, with a careless smile, will note the pain Caused by thy foolish, self-inflicted wound. 

 Violet Fane, "Denzil Place. "

Upon the steps of the Charing Cross Hotel stood, one morning in June, alittle French gentleman buttoning his lavender gloves. He wore a glossynew hat, a frock-coat, and a flower in his button-hole; he had altogethera smart and jaunty appearance. 

He hailed a passing hansom and jumped into it, taking care as he did soto avoid brushing against the muddy wheel, lest he should tarnish theglories of his light-coloured trousers. Monsieur D'Arblet was more thanusually particular about his appearance this morning. He said to himself, with a chuckle, as he was driven west-ward, that he was on his way to wina bride, and a rich bride, too. It behoved him to be careful of his outerman on such an occasion. 

He had heard of Mr. Harlowe's death and of his grand-daughter's goodfortune when he was at Constantinople, for he had friends in London whokept him _au courant_ with the gossip of society, and he had straightwaymade his preparations to return to England. He had not hurried himself, however, for what he had not heard of was that clause in the old man'swill which made his grand-daughter's marriage within two months the _sinequâ non_ of her inheriting his fortune. Such an idea as that had nevercome into Monsieur D'Arblet's head; he had no conception but that heshould be in plenty of time. 

When he got to the house in Princes Gate he found it shut up. This, however, did not disconcert him, it was no more than he expected. Aftera considerable amount of ringing at both bells, there was a grating soundwithin as of the unfastening of bolts and chains, and an elderly woman, evidently fresh from her labours over the scouring of the kitchen grate, appeared at the door, opening it just a couple of inches, as though shedreaded the invasion of a gang of housebreakers. 

"Will you please tell me where Mrs. Romer is now living?"

The woman grinned. "She has been living at Walpole Lodge, at Kew--LadyKynaston's, sir. "

"Oh, thank you;" and he was preparing to re-enter his hansom. 

"But I don't think you will see her to-day, sir. "

"Why not?" turning half-round again. 

"It is Mrs. Romer's wedding-day. "

"_What?_"

That elderly female, who had been at one time a housemaid in Mr. Harlowe's household, confided afterwards to her intimate friend, thekitchenmaid next door, that she was so frightened at the way thatforeign-looking gentleman shouted at her, that she felt as if she shouldhave dropped. "Indeed, my dear, I was forced to go down and get a drop ofwhisky the very instant he was gone, I felt so fluttered, like. "

Monsieur Le Vicomte turned round to her, with his foot midway between thepavement and the step of the hansom, and shouted at her again. 

"_What_ did you say it was, woman?"

"Why, Mrs. Romer's wedding-day, to be sure, sir; and no such wonder afterall, I should say; and a lovely morning for the wedding it be, too. "

Lucien D'Arblet put his hand vaguely up to his head, as though he hadreceived a blow; she had escaped him, then, after all. 

"So soon after the old man's death, " he murmured, half aloud; "who couldhave expected it?"

"Well, sir, and soon it is, as you say, " replied the ancientex-housemaid, who had caught the remark; "but people do say as how Mr. Harlowe, my late master, wished it so, and of course Mrs. Romer, she werequite ready, so to speak, for the Captain had been a-courting her forever so long, as we who lived in the house could have told. "

The vicomte was fumbling at his breast-coat pocket, his face was asyellow as the rose in his button-hole. 

"Where was the wedding to be? At Kew?"

"No, sir; at Saint Paul's church, in Wilton Crescent. Mrs. Romer wouldhave it so, because that's the place of worship she used to go to whenshe lived here. You'd be in time to see them married now, sir, if you wasto look sharp; it was to be at half-past eleven, and it's not that yet;my niece and a young friend has just started a-foot to go there. I lether go, because she'd never seen a grand wedding. I'd like to have gonemyself, but, in course, we couldn't both be out of the house----"

The gentleman was listening no longer; he had sprung into his hansom. 

"Drive to Saint Paul's, Knightsbridge, as fast as your horse can go, " hecalled out to the cabman. "I might even now be in time; it would be a_coup d'état_, " he muttered. 

Round the door of Saint Paul's church a crowd had gathered, waiting tosee the bridal party come out; there was a strip of red cloth across thepavement, and a great many carriages were standing down the street; bigfootmen were lounging about, chatting amicably together; a knot ofdecently-dressed women were pressing up as close to the porch as theofficial personage, with a red collar on his coat and gold lace on hishat, would allow them to go; and an indiscriminate collection of thosechance passers-by who never seem to be in any hurry, or to have anythingbetter to do than to stand and stare at any excitement, great or small, that they may meet on their road, were blocking up the pavement on eitherside of the red cloth carpeting. 

Two ladies came walking along from the direction of the Park. 

"There's a wedding going on; do let us go in and see it, Vera. "

"My dear Cissy, I detest looking at people being married; it always makesme low-spirited. "

"And I love it. I always get such hints for dresses from a wedding. I'dgo anywhere to see anybody married. I've been to the Jewish synagogue, toSpurgeon's tabernacle, and to the pro-cathedral, all in one week, beforenow just to see weddings. "

"There must be a sameness about the performances. Don't you get sick ofthem?"

"Never. I wonder whose wedding it is; there must be thirty carriageswaiting. I'll ask one of these big footmen. Whose wedding is it?"

"Captain Kynaston's, ma'am. "

"Oh, I used to know him once; he is such a handsome fellow. Come along, Vera. "

"Cissy, I _cannot_ come. "

"Nonsense, Vera; don't be so foolish; make haste, or we shan't get in. "

Somebody just then dashed up in a hansom, and came hurrying up behindthem. Somehow or other, what with Mrs. Hazeldine dragging her by the arm, and an excited-looking gentleman pushing his way through the crowd behindher, Vera got swept on into the church. 

"You are very late, ladies, " whispered the pew-opener, who supposed themto belong to the wedding guests; "it is nearly over. You had better takethese seats in this pew; you will see them come out well from here. " Andshe evidently considered them to be all one party, for she ushered themall three into a pew; first, Mrs. Hazeldine, then Vera, and next to herthe little foreign-looking gentleman who had bustled up so hurriedly. 

It was an awful thing to have happened to Vera that she should have beenthus entrapped by a mere accident into being present at Maurice'swedding; and yet, when she was once inside the church, she felt notaltogether sorry for it. 

"I can at least see the last of him, and pray that he may be happy, " shesaid to herself, as she sank on her knees in the shelter of the pew, andburied her face in her hands. 

The church was crowded, and yet the wedding itself was not a particularlyattractive one, for, owing to the fact that the bride was a widow, therewas, of course, no bevy of bridesmaids in attendance in diaphanousraiment. Instead of these, however, there was a great concourse of thebest-dressed women in London, all standing in rows round the upper end ofthe nave; and there was a little old lady, in brown satin and point lace, who stood out conspicuously detached from the other groups, who bent herhead solemnly over the great bouquet of exotics in her hands, and prayedwithin herself, with a passionate fervour such as no other soul presentcould pray, save only the pale, beautiful girl on her knees, far awaydown at the further end of the church. Surely, if God ever gave happinessto one of his creatures because another prayed for it, Maurice Kynaston, with the prayers of those two women being offered up for him, would havebeen a happy man. 

And the mother, by this time, knew that it was all a mistake--a mistake, alas, which she, in her blindness, had fostered. 

No wonder that she trembled as she prayed. 

The service, that portion of it which makes two people man and wife, was over; the clergyman was reading the final exhortation to thenewly-married pair. 

They stood together close to the altar rails. The bride was in a palelavender satin, covered with lace, which spread far away behind heracross the tesselated pavement. The bridegroom stood by her side, erectand handsome, but pale and stern, and with a far-away look in his eyesthat would have made any one fancy, had any one been near enough orattentive enough to remark it, that he was only an indifferent spectatorof the scene, in no way interested in what was going on. He looked as ifhe were thinking of something else. 

He was thinking of something else. He was thinking of a railway carriage, of a train rushing onwards through a fog-blotted landscape, and of twoarms, warm and soft, cast up round his neck, and a trembling, passionatevoice, ever crying in his ears--

"While you live I will never marry another man. "

That was what the bridegroom was thinking about. 

As to the bride, she was debating to herself whether she should have thebody of her wedding-dress cut V or square when she left it with herdressmaker to be altered into a dinner-dress. 

Meanwhile the clergyman, who mumbled his words slightly, and whoseglasses kept on tumbling off his nose, waded through the several dutiesof husbands towards their wives, and of wives towards their husbands, asexpounded by Scripture, in a monotonous undertone, until, to the greatrelief of the weary guests, the ceremony at last came to an end. 

Then the best man, Sir John, who stood behind his brother, looking, ifpossible, more like a mute at a funeral even than the bridegroom himself, stepped forward out of the shadow. The new-married couple went into thevestry, followed by Sir John, his mother, and a select few, upon whichthe door was closed. All the rest of the company then began to chatterin audible whispers together; they fidgeted backwards and forwards, from one pew to the other. There were jokes, and smiles, and nods, andhand-shakings between the different members of the wedding party. All ina low and decorous undertone, of course, but still there was a distinctimpression upon every one that all the religious part of the businessbeing well got over, they were free to be jolly about it now, and toenjoy themselves as much as circumstances would admit of. 

All at once there was a sudden hush, everybody scuffled back into theirplaces. The best man put his nose out of the vestry door, and the"Wedding March" struck up. Then came a procession of chorister boys downthe church, each bearing a small bouquet of fern and white flowers. Theyranged themselves on either side of the porch, and the bride andbridegroom came down the aisle alone. 

Then it was that Monsieur D'Arblet, leaning forward with the rest to seethem pass, caught sight of the face of the girl who stood by his side. 

She was pale as death; a look as of the horror of despair was in hereyes, her teeth were set, her hands were clenched together as one who hasto impose a terrible and dreadful task upon herself. Nobody in all thatgaily-dressed chattering crowd noticed her, for were not all eyes fixedupon the bride, the queen of the day? Nobody save the man who stood byher side. Only he saw that fixed white look of despair, only he heard thelong shuddering sigh that burst from her pale lips as the bridegroomwent by. Monsieur D'Arblet said, to himself:

"This woman loves Monsieur le Capitaine! _Bon!_ Two are better than one;we will avenge ourselves together, my beautiful incognita. "

And then he looked sharply at her companion, and found that her face wasfamiliar to him. Surely he had dined at that woman's house once. Oh, yes!to be sure, it was that insufferable little chatterbox, Mrs. Hazeldine. He remembered all about her now. 

There was a good deal of pushing and cramming at the doorway. By the timeVera could get out of the stifling heat of the crowded church most of thewedding party had driven off, and the rest were clamouring wildly fortheir carriages; she herself had got separated from her companion, andwhen she could rejoin her in the little gravelled yard outside, she foundher shaking hands with effusion with the foreign-looking gentleman whohad sat next her in the church, but whom, truth to say, she had hardlynoticed. 

"Let me present to you my friend, " said Cissy. "Miss Nevill, MonsieurD'Arblet--you will walk with us as far as the park, won't you?"

"I shall be enchanted, Mrs. Hazeldine. "

"And wasn't it a pretty wedding, " continued Mrs. Hazeldine, rapturously, as they all three walked away together down the shady side of the street;"so remarkably pretty considering that there were no bridesmaids; butMrs. Romer is so graceful, and dresses so well. I don't visit her myself, you know; but of course I know her by sight. One knows everybody by sightin London; it's rather embarrassing sometimes, because one is tempted tobow to people one doesn't visit, or else one fancies one ought not to bowto somebody one does. I've made some dreadfully stupid mistakes myselfsometimes. Did you notice the rose point on that old lady's brown satin, Vera?"

"That was Lady Kynaston. "

"Oh, was it? By the way, of course, you must know some of the Kynastons, as they come from your part of the world. I wonder they didn't ask you tothe wedding. "

Vera murmured something unintelligible. Monsieur D'Arblet looked at hersharply. He saw that she had in no way recovered her agitation yet, andthat she could hardly bear her companion's brainless chatter over thiswedding. 

"That has been no ordinary love affair, " said this astute Frenchman tohimself. "I must decidedly cultivate this young lady's acquaintance, forI mean to pay you out well yet, ma belle Hélène. "

"How fortunate it was we happened to be passing just as it was going on. I wouldn't have missed seeing that lovely lavender satin the bride worefor worlds; did you notice the cut of the jacket front, Vera; it wassomething new; she looked as happy as possible too. I daresay her firstmarriage was a _coup manqué_; they generally are when women marry again. "

"Suppose we take these three chairs in the shade, " suggested MonsieurD'Arblet, cutting short, unceremoniously the string of her remarks, whichapparently were no more soothing to himself than to Miss Nevill. 

They sat down, and for the space of half an hour Monsieur D'Arbletproceeded to make himself politely agreeable to Miss Nevill, and hesucceeded so well in amusing her by his conversation, that by the timethey all got up to go the natural bloom had returned to her cheeks, andshe was talking to him quite easily and pleasantly, as though nocatastrophe in her life had happened but an hour ago. 

"You will come back with us to lunch, Monsieur D'Arblet?"

"I shall be delighted, madame. "

"If you will excuse me, Cissy, I am not going to lunch with you to-day, "said Vera. 

"My dear! where are you going, then?"

"I have a visit to pay--an engagement, I mean--in--in Cadogan Place. Iwill be home very soon, in time for your drive, if you don't mind myleaving you. "

"Oh, of course, do as you like, dear. "

Lucien D'Arblet was annoyed at her defection, but, of course, havingaccepted Mrs. Hazeldine's invitation, there was nothing for it but to goon with her; so he swallowed his discomfiture as best he could, andproceeded to make himself agreeable to his hostess. 

As to Vera, she turned away and retraced her steps slowly towards St. Paul's Church. It was a foolish romantic fancy, she could not tell whatimpelled her to it, but she felt as though she must go back there oncemore. 

The church was not closed. She pushed open the swing-door and went in. Itwas all hushed and silent and empty. Where so lately the gay throng ofwell-dressed men and women had passed in and out, chattering, smiling, nodding--displaying their radiant toilettes one against the other, therewere only now the dark, empty rows of pews, and the bent figure of oneshabbily-dressed old woman gathering together the prayer-books andhymn-books that had been tumbled out of their places in the scuffle, andpicking up morsels of torn finery that had dropped about along the nave. 

Vera passed by her and went up into the chancel. She stood where Mauricehad stood by the altar rails. A soft, subdued light came streaming inthrough the coloured glass window; a bird was chirping high up somewhereamong the oak rafters of the roof, the roar of the street without wasmuffled and deadened; the old woman slammed-to the door of a pew, theecho rang with a hollow sound through the empty building, and herdeparting footsteps shuffled away down the aisle into silence. 

Vera lifted her eyes; great tears welled down slowly, one by one, overher cheeks--burning, blistering tears, such as, thank God, one sheds butonce or twice in a lifetime--that seem to rend our very hearts as theyrise. 

Presently she sank down upon her knees and prayed--prayed for him, thathe might be happy and forget her, but most of all for herself, that shemight school her rebellious heart to patience, and her wild passion ofmisery into peace and submission. 

And by degrees the tempest within her was hushed. Then, ere she rose fromher knees, something lying on the ground, within a yard of where sheknelt, caught her eye. It was a little Russia-leather letter-case. Sherecognized it instantly; she had often seen Maurice take it out of hispocket. 

She caught at it hungrily and eagerly, as a miser clutches atreasure-trove, pressing it wildly to her bosom, and covering it withpassionate kisses. Dear little shabby case, that had been so near hisheart; that his hand, perchance, only on hour ago had touched. Couldanything on earth be more priceless to her than this worn and fadedobject!

It seemed to be quite empty. It had fallen evidently from his pocketduring the service. If he ever missed it, there was nothing in it tolose; and now it was hers, hers by every right; she would never part withit, never. It was all she had of him; the one single thing he had touchedwhich she possessed. 

She rose hurriedly. She was in haste now to be gone with her treasure, lest any one should wrest it from her. She carried it down the churchwith a guilty delight, kissing it more than once as she went. And then, as she opened the church door, some one ran up the steps outside, and shestood face to face with Sir John Kynaston. 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

THE RUSSIA-LEATHER CASE. 

 "Never again, " so speaketh one forsaken, In the blank desolate passion of despair: Never again shall the bright dream I cherished Delude my heart, for bitter truth is there: The Angel Hope shall still my cruel pain; Never again, my heart--never again!

 A. Procter. 

"Vera!"

Sir John Kynaston fell back a step or two and turned very white. 

"How do you do?" said Vera, quietly, and put out her hand. 

They stood in the open air. There was a carriage passing, some idlecabmen on the stand with nothing to do but to stare at them, a gapingnursery-maid and her charges at the gate. Whatever people may feel onsuddenly running against each other after a deadly quarrel, or aheart-rending separation, or after a long interval of heart-burnings andmisunderstandings, there are always the externals of life to be observed. It is difficult to rush into the tragedy of one's existence at a gulp; itis safer to shake hands and say, "How do you do?"

That is what Vera felt, and that was what these two people did. Sir Johntook her proffered hand, and responded to her stereotyped greeting. Bythe time he had done so he had recovered his presence of mind. 

"What an odd thing to meet you at the door of this church, " he said, rather nervously. "Do you know that my brother was married here thismorning?"

"Yes; I was in the church. "

"Were you? How glad I am I did not know it, " almost involuntarily. 

There was a little pause; then Vera asked him if he was going to WalpoleLodge. 

"Eventually; but I have come back here to look for something. My brotherhas lost a little Russia-leather case; he thinks he may have dropped itin the church; there were two ten-pound notes in it. I am going in tolook for it. Why, what is that in your hand? I believe that is the verything. "

"I--I--just picked it up, " stammered Vera. She began searching in thepockets of the case. "I did not think there was anything in it. Yes, hereare the notes, quite safe. "

She took them out and gave them to him. He held out his hand mechanicallyfor the case also. 

"Thank you; you have saved me the trouble of looking for it. I will takeit back to him at once. "

But she could not part with her treasure; it was all she had got of him. 

"The letter-case is very shabby, " she said, crimsoning with a painfulconfusion. "I do not think he can want it at all; it is quite worn out. "

Sir John looked at her with a slight surprise. 

"It can be very little use to him. One likes sometimes to have a littleremembrance of those--of people--one has known; he would not mind mykeeping it, I think. Tell him--tell him I asked for it. " The tears werevery near her voice; she could scarcely keep them back out of her eyes. 

John Kynaston dropped his hand, and Vera slipped the little case quicklyinto her pocket. 

"Would you mind walking a little way with me, Vera?" he said, gently andvery gravely. 

She drew down her veil, and went with him in silence. They had walkedhalf-way down Wilton Crescent before he spoke to her again; then heturned towards her, and looked at her earnestly and sadly. 

"Why did you go back again into the church, Vera?"

"I wanted to think quietly a little, " she murmured. There was anotherpause. 

"So _that_ is what parted us!" he exclaimed, with a sudden bitterness, atlength. 

She looked up, startled and pale. 

"What do you mean?" she stammered. 

"Oh, child! I see it all now. How blind I have been. Ah, why did you nottrust me, love? Why did you fear to tell me your secret? Do you not thinkthat I, who would have laid down my life for you to make you happy, doyou not suppose I would have striven to make your path smooth for you?"

She could not answer him; the kind words, the tender voice, were too muchfor her. Her tears fell fast and silently. 

"Tell me, " he said, turning to her almost roughly, "tell me the truth. Has he ill-treated you, this brother of mine, who stole you from me, andthen has left you desolate?"

"No, no; do not say that; it was never his fault at all, only mine; andhe was always bound to her. He has been everything that is good and loyaland true to you and to her; it has been only a miserable mistake, and nowit is over. Yes, thank God, it is over; never speak of it again. He wasnever false to you; only I was false. But it is ended. "

They were walking round Belgrave Square by this time, not near thehouses, but round the square garden in the middle. All recollection ofhis brother's marriage, of the wedding breakfast at Walpole Lodge, of thespeech the best man would be expected to make, had gone clean out of hishead; he thought of nothing but Vera and of the revelation concerning herthat had just come to him. It was the quiet hour of the day; there werevery few people about; everybody was indoors eating heavy luncheons, with sunblinds drawn down to keep out the heat. They were almost as muchalone as in a country lane in Meadowshire. 

"What are you going to do with yourself?" he said to her, presently. "What use are you going to make of your life?"

"I don't know, " she answered, drearily; "I suppose I shall go back toSutton. Perhaps I shall marry. "

"But not me?"

She looked up at him piteously. 

"Listen, child, " he said, eagerly. "If I were to go away for a year, andthen come back to you, how would it be? Oh, my darling! I love you sodeeply that I could even be content to do with but half your heart, sothat I could win your sweet self. I would exact nothing from you, love, no more than what you could give me freely. But I would love you so well, and make your life so sweet and pleasant to you, that in time, perhaps, you would forget the old sorrow, and learn to be happy, with a quiet kindof happiness, with me; I would ask for no more. Look, child, I havegrieved sorely for you; I have sat down and wept, and mourned for you asthough I had no strength or life left in me. But now I am ashamed of myweakness, for it is unworthy of _you_. I am going away abroad, across theworld, I care not where, so long as I can be up and doing, and forget thepain at my heart. Vera, tell me that I may come back to you in a year. Think with what fresh life and courage I should go if I had but that hopebefore my eyes. In a year's time your pain will be less; you will haveforgotten many things; you will be content, perhaps, to come to me, knowing that I will never reproach you with the past, nor expect morethan you can give me in the future. Vera, let me come back and claim youin a year!"

How strange it was that the chance of marrying this man was perpetuallybeing presented to her. Never, perhaps, had the temptation been strongerto her than it was now. He had divined her secret; there would be noconcealment between them; he would ask her for no love it was not in herpower to give; he would be content with her as she was, and he would loveher, and worship her, and surround her with everything that could makeher life pleasant and easy for her. Could a man offer more? Oh! why couldshe not take him at his word, and give him the hope he craved for?

Alas! for Vera; she had eaten too deeply of the knowledge of good andevil--that worldly wisdom in whose strength she had started in life'srace, and in the possession of which she had once deemed herself sostrong--so absolutely invulnerable to the things that pierce and woundweaker woman--this was gone from her. The baser part of her nature, wherewith she would so gladly have been content, was uppermost no longer;her heart had triumphed over her head, and, with a woman of strongcharacter, this is generally only done at the expense of her happiness. 

To marry Sir John Kynaston, to be lapped in luxury, to receive all thegood things of this world at his hands, and all the while to love hisbrother with a guilty love, this was no longer possible to Vera Nevill. 

"I cannot do it; do not ask me, " she said, distractedly. "Your goodnessto me half breaks my heart; but it cannot be. "

"Why not, child? In a year so much may be altered. "

"I shall not alter. "

"No; but, even so, you might learn to be happy with me. "

"It is not that; you do not understand. I daresay I could be happyenough; that is not why I cannot marry you. "

"Why not, then?"

"_I dare not_, " she said, in a low voice. 

He drew in his breath. "Ah!" he said, between his teeth, "is it so badwith you as that?"

She bent her head in silent assent. 

"That is hard, " he said, almost to himself, looking gloomily before him. Presently he spoke again. "Thank you, Vera, " he said, rather brokenly. "You are a brave woman and a true one. Many would have taken my all, and given me back only deception and falseness. But you are incapable ofthat, and--and you fear your own strength; is that it?"

"Whilst he lives, " she said, with a sudden burst of passion, "I can knowno safety. Never to see his face again can be my only safeguard, and withyou I could never be safe. Why, even to bear your name would be to scorchmy heart every time I was addressed by it. Forgive me, John, " turning tohim with a sudden penitence, "I should not have pained you by sayingthese things; you who have been so infinitely good to me. Go your wayacross the world, and forget me. Ah! have I not been a curse to every onewho bears the name of Kynaston?"

He was silent from very pity. Vera was no longer to him the goddess ofhis imagination; the one pure and peerless woman, above all other women, such as he had once fancied her to be. But surely she was dearer to himnow, in all her weakness and her suffering, than she had ever been onthat lofty pedestal of perfection upon which he had once lifted her. 

He pitied her so much, and yet he could not help her; her malady was pastremedy. And, as she had told him, it was no one's fault--it was only amiserable mistake. He had never had her heart--he saw it plainly now. Many little things in the past, which he had scarcely remembered at thetime, came back to his memory--little details of that week at Shadonake, when Maurice had lived in the same house with her, whilst he had onlygone over daily to see her. Always, in those days, Maurice had been byher side, and Vera had been dreamily happy, with that fixed look ofcontent with which the presence of the man she loves best beautifies andpoetises a woman's face. Sir John was not a very observant man; but now, after it was all over, these things came back to him. The night of theball, Mrs. Romer's mysterious hints, and his own vague disquietude at herwords; later on Maurice's reasonless refusal to be present at hiswedding, and Vera's startled face of dismay when he had asked her to goand plead with him to stay for it. 

They had struggled against their hearts, it was clear, these poor lovers, whose lives were both tied up and bound before ever they had met eachother. But nature had been too strong for them; and the woman, at least, had torn herself free from the chains that had become insupportable toher. 

They walked on silently, side by side, round the square. Some girls wereplaying at lawn-tennis within the garden. There was an occasional shoutor a ringing laugh from their fresh young voices. A footman was walkingalong the pavement opposite, with two fat pugs and a white Spitz in thelast stage of obesity in tow, which it was his melancholy duty to paradedaily up and down for their mid-day airing. An occasional hansom dashingquickly by broke the stillness of the "empty" hour. Years and yearsafterwards every detail of the scene came back to his memory with thedistinctness of a photograph when he passed once more through the square. 

"You have been no curse to me, Vera, " he said, presently, breaking thesilence. "Do not reproach yourself; it is I who was a madman to deem thatI could win your love. Child, we are both sufferers; but time heals mostthings, and we must learn to wait and be patient. Will you ever marry, Vera?"

"I don't know. Perhaps I may be obliged to. It might be better for me. Icannot say. Don't speak of it. Why, is there nothing else for a woman todo but to marry? John, it must be late. Ought you not to go back--to--toyour mother's?"

Insensibly, she resumed a lighter manner. On that other subject there wasnothing left to be said. She had had her last chance of becoming JohnKynaston's wife. After what she had said to him, she knew he would neverask her again. That chapter in her life was closed for ever. 

They parted, unromantically enough, in front of St. George's Hospital. Hecalled a hansom for her, and stood holding her hand, one moment longer, possibly, than was strictly necessary, looking intently into her face ashe did so. 

"Will you think of me sometimes?"

"Yes, surely. "

"Good-bye, Vera. "

"Good-bye, John. God bless you wherever you may go. "

She got into her hansom, and he told the cabman where to drive her; thenhe lifted his hat to her with grave politeness, and walked away in theopposite direction. It was a common-place enough parting, and yet thesetwo never saw each other's faces again in this world. 

So it is with our lives. Some one or other who has been a part of ourvery existence for a space goes his way one day, and we see him no more. For a little while our hearts ache, and we shed tears in secret for himwho is gone, but by-and-by we get to understand that he is part of ourpast, never, to be recalled, and after a while we get used to hisabsence; we think of him less and less, and the death of him, who wasonce bound up in our very lives, strikes us only with a mild surprise, hardly even tinged with a passing melancholy. 

"Poor old so-and-so, he is dead, " we say. "What a time it is since wemet, " and then we go our way and think of him no more. 

But Vera knew that, in all human probability, she would never see himagain, this man, who had once so nearly been her husband. It was anotherlink of her past life severed. It saddened her, but she knew it wasinevitable. 

The little letter-case, at all events, was safely hers; and for many anight Vera slept with it under her pillow. 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

DINNER AT RANELAGH. 

 Here is the whole set, a character dead at every word. 

 Sheridan. 

It was the fag end of the London season; people were talking aboutGoodwood and the Ryde week, about grouse and about salmon-fishing. Members of Parliament went about, like martyrs at the stake, groaningover the interminable nature of every debate, and shaking their headsover the prospect of getting away. Women in society knew all their ownand their neighbours' dresses by heart, and were dead sick of them all;and even the very gossip and scandal that is always afloat to keep up thespirits of the idlers and the chatterers had lost all the zest, all thecharm of novelty that gave flavour and piquancy to every _canard_ thatwas started two months ago. 

It was all stale, flat, and unprofitable. 

What was the use of constantly asserting, on the very best authority, that Lady So-and-so was on the eve of running away with that handsomeyoung actor, whose eyes had taken the female population by storm, whenLady So-and-so persisted in walking about arm-in-arm with her husband dayafter day, with a child on either side of them, in the most provokingway, as though to prove the utter fallacy of the report, and her ownincontestable domestic felicity? Or, what merit had a man any longer whohad stated in May that the heiress _par excellence_ of the season wasabout to sell herself and her gold to that debauched and drunken marquis, who had evidently not six months of life left in him in which to enjoyhis bargain, when the heiress herself gave the lie to the _on dit_ inJuly by talking calmly about going to Norway with her papa for a month'sretirement and rest after the fatigues of the season?

What a number of lies are there not propounded during the months of Mayand June by the inventive Londoner, and how many of them are there notproved to be so during the latter end of July!

Heaven only knows how and where the voice of scandal is first raised. Isit at the five o'clock tea-tables? Or, is it in the smoking-rooms of theclubs that things are first spoken of, and the noxious breath of slanderstarted upon its career? Or, are there evil-minded persons, both men andwomen, prowling about, like unclean animals, at the skirts of thatsociety into whose inner recesses they would fain gain admittance, picking up greedily, here and there, in their eaves-dropping career, some scrap or morsel of truth out of which they weave a well-varnishedtale wherewith to delight the ears of the vulgar and the coarse-minded?There are such men and such women; God forgive them for their wickedness!

Do any of these scandal-mongers ever call to mind, I wonder, an ancientand, seemingly, a well-nigh forgotten injunction?

"Thou shalt not bear false witness, " said the same Voice who has alsosaid, "Thou shalt do no murder. "

And which is the worst--to kill a man's body, or to slay a man's honour, or a woman's reputation?

In truth, there seems to me to be but little difference between the two;and the man or the woman who will do the one might very possibly beguilty of the other--but for the hanging!

We should all do a great many more wicked things than we do if there wereno consequences. 

It is a very trite observation, which is, nevertheless, never spoken withmore justice or more truth than at or about Hyde Park Corner between Mayand July, that the world we live in is a very wicked one. 

Well, the season, as I have said, was well-nigh over, and all the scandalhad run dry, and the gossip, for the most part, been proved to beincorrect, and there was nobody in all London who excited so muchirritation among the talkers as the new beauty, Vera Nevill. 

For Vera was Miss Nevill still, and there was every prospect of herremaining so. What on earth possessed the girl that she would not marry?Had not men dangled at her elbow all the season? Could she not have hadsuch and such elder sons, or such and such wealthy commoner? What was shewaiting for? A girl without a penny, who came nobody knew from where, ushered in under Mrs. Hazeldine's wings, with not a decent connectionin the world to her name! What did she want--this girl who had only herbeauty to depend upon? and everybody knows how fleeting _that_ is!

And then, presently, the women who were envious of her began to whisperamongst themselves. There was something against her; she was not what sheseemed to be. The men flirted, of course--men will always flirt! butthey were careful not to commit themselves! And even that mysterious word"adventuress, " which has an ugly sound, but of which no one exactly knowsthe precise meaning, began to be bruited about. 

"There was an unpleasant story about her, somebody told me once, " saidone prettily-dressed nonentity to another, as they wandered slowly up anddown the velvet lawns at Ranelagh. "She was mixed up in some way with theKynaston family. Sir John was to have married her, and then somethingdreadful came out, and he threw her over. "

"Oh, I thought she jilted him. "

"I daresay it was one or the other; at all events, there was some fracasor other. I believe her mother was--hum, hum--you understand--shecouldn't be swallowed by the Kynastons at any price; they must have beenthankful to get out of it. "

"It looks very bad, her not marrying any one, with all the fuss there hasbeen made over her. "

"Yes; even Cissy Hazeldine told me, in confidence, yesterday, she couldnot try her again next season. It wouldn't do, you know; it would looktoo much as if she had some object of her own in getting her married. Cissy must find something else for another year. Of course, with ahusband, she could sail her own course and make her own way; but a girlcan't go on attracting attention with impunity--she gets herself talkedabout--it is only we married women can do as we like. "

"Exactly. Do you suppose _that_ will come to anything?" casting a glancetowards the further end of the lawn, where Vera Nevill sat in a lowbasket-chair, under the shadow of a spreading tulip-tree, whilst a slightboyish figure, stretched at her feet, alternately chewed blades of grassand looked up worshippingly into her face. 

"_That!_" following the direction of her companion's eyes. "Oh dear, no!Denis Wilde is too wideawake to be caught, though he is such a boy! Theysay she is crazy to get him; everybody else has slipped through herfingers, you see, and he would be better than nothing. Now we are in thelast week in July, I daresay she is getting desperate; but young Wildeknows pretty well what he is about, I expect!"

"He seems to admire her. "

"Oh, yes, I daresay; those large kind of women do get admired; men lookupon them as fine animals. _I_ should not care to be admired in that way, would you?"

"No, indeed! it is disgusting, " replied the other, who was fain toconceal the bony corners of her angular figure with a multiplicity oflace ruchings and puffings. 

"As to Miss Nevill, she is nothing else. A most material type; why, herwaist must be twenty-two inches round!"

"Quite that, dear, " with sweetness, from the owner of a nineteen-incharticle, which two maids struggled with daily in order to reduce it tothe required measurement. 

"Well, I never could--between you and me--see much to admire in her. "

"Neither could I, although, of course, it has been the fashion to raveover her. "

And, with that, these two amiable young women fell at it tooth and nail, and proceeded to cry down their victim's personal appearance in the mostunmeasured and sweeping terms. 

After the taking away of a fellow-woman's character, comes as a naturalsequence the condemnation of her face and figure, and it is doubtfulwhich indictment is the most grave in eyes feminine. Meanwhile theobject of all this animadversion sat tranquilly unconscious under hertulip-tree, whilst Denis Wilde, that astute young gentleman, whom theyhad declared to be too well aware of what he was about to be entrappedinto matrimony, was engaged in proposing to her for the fourth time. 

"I thought we had settled this subject long ago, Mr. Wilde, " says Vera, tranquilly unfolding her large, black, feather fan--for it is hot--andslowly folding it up again. 

"It will never be settled for me, Vera; never, so long as you areunmarried. "

"What a dreadful mistake life is!" sighs Vera, wearily, more to herselfthan to the boy at her feet. Was anybody ever happy in this world? shebegan to wonder. 

"I know very well, " resumed Denis Wilde, "that I am not good enough foryou; but, then, who is? My prospects, such as they are, are very distant, and your friends, I daresay, expect you to marry well. "

"How often must I tell you that that has nothing to do with it, " criesVera, impatiently. "If I loved a beggar, I should marry him. "

Young Wilde plucked at the grass again, and chewed a daisy up almostviciously. There was a supreme selfishness in the way she had ofperpetually harping upon her lack of love for him. 

"There is always some fellow or other hanging about you, " grumbles theyoung man, irritably; "you are an inveterate flirt!"

"No woman is worthy of the name who is not!" retorts Vera, laughing. 

"I _hate_ a flirt, " angrily. 

"This is very amusing when you know that your flirtation with Mrs. Hazeldine is a chronic disease of two years' standing!"

"Pooh!--mere child's play on both sides, and you know it is! You are verydifferent; you lead a fellow on till he doesn't know whether his verysoul is his own, and then you turn round and snap your fingers in hisface and send him to the devil. "

"What an awful accusation! Pray give me an instance of a victim to thisshocking conduct. "

"Why, there's that wretched little Frenchman whom you are playing thesame game with that you have already done with me; he follows you likea shadow. "

"Poor Monsieur D'Arblet!" laughed Vera, and then grew suddenly serious. "But do you know, Mr. Wilde, it is a very singular thing about thatman--I can't think why he follows me about so. "

"_Can't_ you!" very grimly. 

"I assure you the man is in no more love with me than--than----"

"_I_ am! I suppose you will say next. "

"Oh dear, no, you are utterly incorrigible and quite in earnest; butMonsieur D'Arblet is _pretending_ to be in love with me. "

"He makes a very good pretence of it, at all events. Here he comes, confound him! If I had known Mrs. Hazeldine had asked _him_, I wouldnever have come. "

At which Vera, who had heard these outbursts of indignant jealousybefore, and knew how little poor Denis meant the terrible threats heuttered, only laughed with the pitiless amusement of a woman who knowsher own power. 

Lucien D'Arblet came towards her smiling, and sank down into a vacantbasket-chair by her side with the air of a man who knows himself to bewelcome. 

He had been paying a great deal of attention latterly to the beautifulMiss Nevill; he had followed her about everywhere, and had made it patentin every public place where he had met her that she alone was the soleaim and object of his thoughts. And yet, with it all, Monsieur Le Vicomtewas only playing a part, and not only that, but he was pretty certainthat she knew it to be so. He gazed rapturously into her beautiful face, he lowered his voice tenderly in speaking to her, he pressed her handwhen she gave it to him, and even on occasions he raised it furtively tohis lips; but, with all this, he knew perfectly well that she was not onewhit deceived by him. She no more believed him to be in love with herthan he believed it of himself. She was clever and beautiful, and headmired and even liked her, but in the beginning of their acquaintanceMonsieur D'Arblet had had no thought of making her the object of anysentimental attentions. He had been driven to it by a discovery that hehad made concerning her character. 

Miss Nevill had a good heart. She was no enraged, injured woman, thirsting for revenge upon the woman who had stolen her lover fromher--such as he had desired to find in her; she was only a true-heartedand unhappy girl, who was not in any case likely to develop into theinstrument of vengeance which he sought for. 

It was a disappointment to him, but he was not completely disheartened. It was through her that he desired to punish Helen for daring to bravehim, and he swore to himself that he would do it still; only he must nowset about it in a different way, so he began to make love to Miss Nevill. 

And Vera was shrewd enough to perceive that he was only playing a part. Nevertheless, there were times when she felt so completely puzzled by hispersistent adoration, that she could hardly tell what to make of it. Washe trying to make some other woman jealous? It even came into her head, once or twice, to suspect that Cissy Hazeldine was the real object of hisdevotion, so utterly incomprehensible did his conduct appear to her. 

If she had been told that Lucien D'Arblet's real quest was not love, butrevenge, she would have laughed. An Englishman does not spend his timenor his energies in plotting a desperate retaliation on a lady who hasdisregarded his threats and evaded his persecution; it is not in thenature of any Briton, however irascible, to do so; but a Frenchman isdifferently constituted. There is something delightfully refreshing tohim in an atmosphere of plotting and intrigue. There is the same instinctof the chase in both nationalities, but it is more amusing to theFrenchman to hunt down his fellow-creatures than to pursue unhappy littlebeasts of the field; and he understands himself in the pursuit of thelarger game infinitely better. 

Nevertheless, Monsieur D'Arblet had no intention of getting himself intotrouble, nor of risking the just fury of an indignant British husband, who stood six feet in his stockings, nor did he desire, by any anonymouslibel, to bring himself in any way under the arm of the law. All he meantto do was to dig his trench and to lay his mine, to place the fuse inVera Nevill's hands--leave her to set fire to it--and then retirehimself, covered with satisfaction at his cleverness, to his own sideof the Channel. 

Who could possibly grudge him so harmless an entertainment?

Monsieur D'Arblet, as he sat down by her side under the tulip-tree, beganby paying Miss Nevill a prettily turned compliment upon her fresh whitetoilette; as he did so Vera smiled and bent her head; she had seen himbefore to-day. 

"Fine evening, Mr. Wilde, " said the Frenchman, turning civilly, but withno evident _empressement_, towards the gentleman he addressed. 

Denis only answered by a sulky grunt. 

Then began that process between the two men which is known in politesociety as the endeavour to sit each other out. 

Monsieur D'Arblet discoursed upon the weather and the beauty of thegardens, with long and expressive pauses between each insignificantremark, and the air of a man who wishes to say, "I could talk about muchmore interesting things if that other fellow was out of the way. "

Denis Wilde simply reversed himself, that is to say, he lay on hisback instead of his face, stared up at the sky, and chewed grassperseveringly. He had evidently no intention of being driven off thefield. 

"I had something of great importance to say to you this evening, "murmured Monsieur D'Arblet, at length, looking fixedly at his enemy'supturned face. 

"All right, go ahead, don't mind me, " says the young gentleman, amiably. "I'm never in the way, am I, Miss Nevill?"

"Never, Mr. Wilde, " answers Vera, sweetly. Like a true woman, she quiteappreciates the fun of the situation, and thoroughly enjoys it; "praytell me what you have to say, monsieur. "

"Ah! Ces choses-là ne se disent qu'à deux!" murmurs he Frenchman, with asentimental sigh. 

"It is no use your saying it in French, " says Denis, with a chuckle, twisting himself round again upon his chest, "because I have the goodfortune, D'Arblet, to understand your charming language like a native, absolutely like a native. "

"You have a useful proverb in English, which says, that two is company, and three is none, " retorts D'Arblet, with a smile. 

"I'm awfully sorry, old fellow; but I am so exceedingly comfortable, Ireally can't get up; if I could oblige you in any other way, I certainlywould. "

"Come to dinner!" cries out Mrs. Hazeldine, coming towards them from thegarden side of the lawn; "we are all here now. "

The two men sprang simultaneously to their feet. This is, of course, themoment that they have both been waiting for. Each offers an arm to MissNevill; Monsieur D'Arblet bends blandly and smilingly forward; DenisWilde has a thunder-cloud upon his face, and holds out his arm as thoughhe were ready to knock somebody down with it. 

"What am I to do?" cries Vera, laughing, and looking with feignedindecision from one to the other. 

"Make haste and decide, my dear, " says Mrs. Hazeldine; "for whichever ofyou two gentlemen does _not_ take in Miss Nevill must go and take thateldest Miss Frampton for me. "

The eldest Miss Frampton is thirty-five if she is a day; she is large andbony, much given to beads and bangles, and to talking about the militarymen she has known, and whom she usually calls by their surnames alone, like a man. She goes familiarly amongst her acquaintance by the name ofthe Dragoon. 

A cold shiver passes visibly down Mr. Wilde's back; unfortunately MissNevill perceives it, and makes up her mind instantly. 

"I would not deprive you of so charming a companion, " she says, smilingsweetly at him, and passes her arm through that of the French vicomte. 

At dinner, poor Denis Wilde curses Monsieur D'Arblet; Miss Frampton, andhis own fate, indiscriminately and ineffectually. He is sitting exactlyopposite to his divinity, but he cannot even enjoy the felicity ofstaring at her, for Miss Frampton will not let him alone. She chattersunceasingly and gushingly. At an early period of the repast the string ofher amber-bead necklace suddenly gives way with a snap. The beads trickleslowly down, one by one; half a dozen of them drop with a cracking noise, like little marbles, upon the polished floor, where there is a generalscramble of waiters and gentlemen under the table together after them;two fall into her own soup, three more on to Denis Wilde's table-napkin;as fast as the truants are picked up others are shed down in their wakefrom the four apparently inexhaustible rows that garnish her neck. 

Miss Frampton bears it all with serene and smiling good temper. 

"Dear me, I am really very sorry to give so much trouble. It doesn'tsignify in the least, Mr. Wilde--thanks, that is one more. Oh, there goesanother into the sweet-breads; but I really don't mind if they are lost. Jameson, of the 17th, gave them to me. Do you know Jameson? cousin ofJameson, in the 9th; he brought them from Italy, or Turkey, or somewhere. I am sure I don't remember where amber comes from; do you, Mr. Wilde?"

Mr. Wilde, if he is vague as to where it comes from, is quite decidedas to where he would desire it to go. At this moment he had crunched atender tooth down upon one of these infernal beads, having helped himselfto it unconsciously out of the sweetbread dish. 

Is he doomed to swallow amber beads for the remainder of the repast? heasks himself. 

"Did you ever meet Archdale, the man who was in the 16th?" continues MissFrampton, glibly, unconscious of his agonies; "he exchanged afterwardsinto the 4th--he is such a nice fellow. I lunched every day at Ascot thisyear on the 16th's drag. The first day I met Lester--that's the major, you know--and Lester is _such_ a pet! He told me to come every day tolunch, and bring any of my friends with me; so, of course, I did, andthere wasn't a better lunch on the course; and, on the cup-day, Archdalecame up and talked to me--he abused the champagne-cup, though; he saidthere was more soda-water than champagne in it--the more he drank of itthe more dreadfully sober he got. However, I am invited to lunch with the4th at Goodwood. They are going to have a spread under the trees, so Ishall be able to compare notes about the champagne-cup. I know two othermen in the 4th; Hopkins and Lambert; do you know them?" and so on, untilpretty well half the army list and all the luncheon-giving regiments inthe service had been passed under review. 

And there, straight opposite to him, was Vera, laughing at hisdiscomfiture, he was sure, but also listening to the flattering rubbishwhich that odious little Frenchman was pouring into her ears. 

Did ever young man sit through such a detestable and abominable repast?

If Denis Wilde had been rash enough to nourish insane hopes with regardto moonlight wanderings in the pleasant garden after dinner, these hopeswere destined to be blighted. 

They were a party of twelve; the waiting was bad, and the coursesnumerous; the dinner was a lengthy affair altogether. By the time it wasover, and coffee had been discussed on the terrace outside the house, thecarriages came round to the door, and the ladies of the party voted thatit was time to go home. 

Soon everybody stood clothed in summer ulsters or white dust-cloaks, waiting in the hall. The coach started from the door with much noiseand confusion, with a good deal of plunging from the leaders, and somejibbing from the wheelers, accompanied by a very feeble performance onthat much-abused instrument, the horn, by an amateur who occupied a backseat; and after it had departed, a humble train of neat broughams andvictorias came trooping up in its wake. 

"You will see, " said nonentity number one, in her friend's ear; "you willsee that Nevill girl will go back in some man's brougham--that is whatshe has been waiting for; otherwise, she would have perched herself up onthe box-seat of the coach, in the most conspicuous place she could find. "

"What a disgraceful creature she must be!" is the indignantly virtuousreply. 

The "Nevill girl, " however, disappointed the expectations of both thesecharitable ladies by quietly taking her place in Mrs. Hazeldine'sbrougham, by her friend's side, amid a shower of "Good-nights" from theremainder of the party. 

"Ah!" said the nonentity, with a vicious gasp, "you may be sure she hassome disreputable supper of men, and cigars, and brandies and sodaswaiting for her up in town, or she would never go off so meekly as thatin Mrs. Hazeldine's brougham. Still waters run deep, my dear!"

"She is a horrid, disreputable girl, I am quite sure of that, " is theanswer. "I am very thankful, indeed, that I haven't the misfortune ofknowing her. "

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

MRS. HAZELDINE'S "LONG ELIZA. "

 Now will I show myself to have more of the serpent than the dove; that is, more knave than fool. 

 Christopher Marlowe. 

 For every inch that is not fool is rogue. 

 Dryden. 

The scene is Mrs. Hazeldine's drawing-room, in Park Lane, the hour isfour o'clock in the afternoon, and the _dramatis personæ_ are MissNevill, very red in the face, standing in a corner, behind an oblongvelvet table covered with china ornaments, and Monsieur Le VicomteD'Arblet, also red in the face, gesticulating violently on the furtherside of it. 

Miss Nevill, having retired behind the oblong table, purely fromprudential motives of personal safety, is devoured with anxietyconcerning the too imminent fate of her hostess' china. There is a littleLowestoft tea-service that was picked up only last week at Christie andManson's, a turquoise blue crackle jar that is supposed to be priceless, and a pair of "Long Eliza" vases, which her hostess loves as much as shedoes her toy terrier, and far better than she loves her husband. 

What will become of her, Vera Nevill, if Mrs. Hazeldine comes inpresently and finds these treasures lying in a thousand pieces upon thefloor? And yet this is what she is looking forward to, as only tooprobable a catastrophe. 

Vera feels much as must have felt the owner of the proverbial bullin the crockery shop--terror mingled with an overpowering sense ofresponsibility. All personal considerations are well-nigh merged inthe realization of the danger which menaces her hostess' property. 

"Monsieur D'Arblet, I must implore you to calm yourself, " she says, desperately. 

"And how, mademoiselle, I ask you, am I to be calm when you speak ofshattering the hopes of my life?" cries the vicomte, who is dancing aboutfrantically backwards and forwards, in a clear space of three squareyards, between the different pieces of furniture by which he issurrounded, all equally fragile, and equally loaded with destructibleobjects. 

"_Pray_ be careful, Monsieur D'Arblet, your sleeve nearly caught then inthe handle of that Chelsea basket, " cries Vera, in anguish. 

"And what to me are Chelsea baskets, or china, or trash of that kind, when you, cruel one, are determined to scorn me?"

"Oh, if you would only come outside and have it out on the staircase, "murmurs Vera, piteously. 

"No, I will never leave this room, never, mademoiselle, until you giveme hope; never will I cease to importune you until your heart relentstowards the _miserable_ who adores you!"

Here Monsieur D'Arblet made an attempt to get at his charmer by cominground the end of the velvet table. 

Vera felt distracted. To allow him to execute his maneuver was to runthe chance of being clasped in his arms; to struggle to get free was thealmost certainty of upsetting the table. 

She cast a despairing glance across the room at the bell-handle, whichwas utterly beyond her reach. There was no hope in that direction. Apparently, moral persuasion was her only chance. 

"Monsieur D'Arblet, I _forbid_ you to advance a step nearer to me!"

He fell back with a profound sigh. 

"Mademoiselle, I love you to distraction. I am unable to disobey yourcommands. "

"Very well, then, listen to me. I cannot understand this violent outburstof emotion. You have done me the honour to propose to marry me, and Ihave, with many thanks for your most flattering distinction, declinedyour offer. Surely, between a lady and a gentleman, there can be nothingfurther to say; it is not incumbent upon you to persecute me in thisfashion. "

"Miss Nevill, you have treated me with a terrible cruelty. You haveencouraged my ardent passion for you until you did lift me up to Heaven. "Here Monsieur D'Arblet stretched up both his arms with a suddenness whichendangered the branches of the tall Dresden candelabra on the highmantelpiece behind him. "After which you do reject me and cast me downto hell!" and down came both hands heavily upon the velvet table betweenthem. The blue crackle jar, the two "Long Eliza" vases, and all theLowestoft cups and saucers, literally jumped upon their foundations. 

"For Heaven's sake!" cried Vera. 

"Ah!" in a tone of deep reproach, "do not plead with me, mademoiselle;you have broken my heart. "

"And you have nearly broken the china, " murmured Vera. 

"What is this miserable china that you talk about in comparison with myhappiness?" and the vicomte made as though he would tear his hair outwith both hands. 

The comedy of the situation began to be too much for Vera's self-control;another ten minutes of it, and she felt that she should becomehysterical; all the more so because she knew very well that the wholething was nothing but a piece of acting; with what object, however, shewas at a loss to imagine. 

"For goodness sake, do be reasonable, Monsieur D'Arblet; you knowperfectly well that I never encouraged you, as you call it, for the verygood reason that there has never been anything to encourage. We have beenvery good friends, but never anything more. "

"Mademoiselle, you do me injustice. "

"On the contrary, I give you credit for a great deal more common sense, as a rule, than you seem disposed to evince to-day. I am quite certainthat you have never entertained any warmer feeling towards me thanfriendship. "

This was an injudicious statement. Monsieur D'Arblet felt that hisreputation as a _galant homme_ and an adorer of the fair sex wasimpugned; he instantly flew into the most violent passion, and jumpedabout amongst the gipsy tables and the _étagères_, and the dainty littlespindle-legged cabinets more vehemently than ever. 

"_I_, not love you! Lucien D'Arblet profess a sentiment which he does notexperience! _Ah! par exemple, Mademoiselle, c'est trop fort!_ Next youwill say that I am a _menteur_, a _fripon_, a _lâche_! You will tell methat I have no honour, and no sense of the generosity due to a woman;that I am a brute and an imbecile, " and at every epithet he dashed hishands violently out in front of him, or thrust them wildly through hisdisordered locks. The whole room shook, every ornament on every tableshivered with the strength of his agitation. 

"Oh, I will say any single thing you like, " cried Vera, "if only you willkeep still----"

"Do not insult me by denying my affection!"

"I will deny nothing, " said poor Vera, at her wits' ends. "If what I havesaid has pained you, I am sincerely sorry for it; but for Heaven's sakecontrol yourself, and--and--_do_ go away!"

Then Monsieur D'Arblet stood still and looked at her fixedly andmournfully; his hands had dropped feebly by his side, there was an airof profound melancholy in his aspect; he regarded her with a searchingintensity. He was asking himself whether his agitation and his despairhad produced the very slightest effect upon her; and he came to theconclusion they had not. 

"_Peste soit de cette femme!_" he said to himself. "She is the first Iever came across who refused to believe in vows of eternal love. As arule, women never fail to give them credit, if they are spoken oftenenough and shouted out loud enough the more one despairs and declaresthat one is about to expire, the more the dear creatures are impressed, and the more firmly they are convinced of the power of their own charms. But this woman does not believe in me one little bit. Love, despair, rage--it is all the same to her--I might as well talk to the winds! Sheonly wants to get rid of me before her friend comes in, and before Ibreak her accursed china. Ah it is these miserable little pots and jugsthat she is thinking about! Very well, then, it is by them that I will dowhat I want. A great genius can bend to small things as well as soar tolarge ones--Voyons done, ma belle, which of us will be the victor!"

All this time he was gazing at her fixedly and dejectedly. 

"Miss Nevill, " he said, gloomily, "I will accept your rejection;to-morrow I will say good-bye to this country for ever!"

"We are all going away this week, " said Vera, cheerfully: "this is theend of July. You will come back again next year, and enjoy your season asmuch as ever. "

"Never--never. Lucien D'Arblet will visit this country no more. The wordsthat I am about to speak to you now--the request that I am about to makeof you are like the words of a dying man; like the parting desire of onewho expires. Mademoiselle, I have a request to make of you. "

"I am sure, " began Vera, politely, "if there is anything I can dofor you----" She breathed more freely now he talked about going awayand dying; it would be much better that he should so go away, and sodie, than remain interminably on the rampage in Mrs. Hazeldine'sdrawing-room. Vera had stood siege for close upon an hour. The moment ofher deliverance was apparently drawing near; in the hour of victory shefelt that she could afford to be generous; any little thing that he likedto ask of her she would be glad enough to do with a view to expeditinghis departure. Perhaps he wanted her photograph, or a lock of her hair;to either he would be perfectly welcome. 

"There is something I am forced to go away from England without havingdone; a solemn duty I have to leave unperformed. Miss Nevill, will youundertake to do it for me?"

"Really, Monsieur D'Arblet, you are very mysterious; it depends, ofcourse, upon what this duty is--if it is very difficult, or veryunpleasant. "

"It is neither difficult nor unpleasant. It is only to give a smallparcel to a gentleman who is not now in England; to give it him yourself, with your own hands. "

"That does not sound difficult, certainly, " said Vera, smiling; afterall, she was glad he had not asked for a photograph, or a lock of hair;"but how am I to find this friend of yours?"

"Miss Nevill, do you know a man called Kynaston? Captain MauriceKynaston?" He was watching her keenly now. 

Vera turned suddenly very white: then controlling herself with an effort, she answered quietly. 

"Yes, I know him. Why?"

"Because that is the man I want you to give my parcel to. " He drewsomething out of his breast coat-pocket, and handed it to her across theoblong table that was still between them. She took it in her hands, andturned it over doubtfully and uneasily. It was a small square parcel, done up in brown paper, fastened round with string, and sealed at bothends. 

It might have been a small book; it probably was. She had no reason togive why she should not do his commission for him, and yet she felt astrange and unaccountable reluctance to undertake it. 

"I had very much rather that you asked somebody else to do this for you, Monsieur D'Arblet, " she said, handing the packet back to him. He did notattempt to take it from her. 

"It concerns the most sacred emotions of my heart, mademoiselle, " hesaid, sensationally. "I could not entrust it to an indifferent person. You, who have plunged me into such an abyss of despair by your cruelrejection of my affection, cannot surely refuse to do so small a thingfor me. "

Miss Nevill was again looking at the small parcel in her hands. 

"Will it hurt or injure Captain Kynaston in any way?" she asked. 

"Far from it; it will probably be of great service to him. Come, MissNevill, promise me that you will give it to him; any time will do beforethe end of the year, any time that you happen to see him, or to be nearenough to visit him; I only want to be sure that it reaches him. All youhave to do is to give it him into his hands when no one else is near. After all, it is a very small favour I ask you. "

"And it is precisely because it is so small, Monsieur D'Arblet, " saidVera, decidedly, "that I cannot imagine why you should make such a pointof a trifle like this; and as I don't like being mixed up in things Idon't understand, I must, I think, decline to have anything to do withit. "

"_Allons donc!_" said the vicomte to himself. "I am reduced to thechina. "

He took an excited turn up and down the room, then came back again towhere she stood. 

"Miss Nevill!" he cried, with rising anger, "you seem determined to woundmy feelings and to insult my self-respect. You reject my offers, yousneer at my professions of affection; and now you appear to me to throwsinister doubts upon the meaning of the small thing I have asked you todo for me. " At each of these accusations he waved his arm up and down toemphasize his remarks; and now, as if unconsciously, his hand suddenlyfell upon the neck of one of the "Long Eliza" vases on the table beforehim. He lifted it up in the air. 

"For Heaven's sake, Monsieur D'Arblet, take care--please put down thatvase, " cried Vera; suddenly returning to her former terrors. 

He looked at the object in his hand as though it were utterly beneathconsideration. 

"Vase! what is a vase, I ask? Do you not suppose, before relinquishingwhat I ask of you, I would dash a hundred vases such as this into tenthousand fragments to the earth?" He raised his arm above his head asthough on the point of carrying his threat into execution. 

Vera uttered a scream. 

"Good gracious! What on earth are you doing? It is Mrs. Hazeldine'sfavourite piece of china; she values it more than anything she has got. If you were to break it, she would go half out of her mind. "

"Never mind this wretched vase. Answer me, Mademoiselle Nevill, will yougive that parcel to Captain Kynaston?"

"I am not at all likely to meet him; I assure you nothing is soimprobable. I know him very little. Ah! what are you doing?"

The infuriated Frenchman was whirling the blue-and-white treasure madlyround in the air. 

"You are, then, determined to humiliate and to insult me; and to prove toyou how great is my just indignation, I will dash----"

"No, no, no!" cried Vera, frantically; "for Heaven's sake, do not be somad. Mrs. Hazeldine will never forgive me. Put it down, I entreat you. Yes, yes, I will promise anything you like. I am sure I have no wish toinsult you. "

"Ah, then, you will give that to him?" He paused with the vase stilluplifted, looking at her. 

Vera felt convinced by this time that she had to do with a ravinglunatic. After all, was it not better to do this small thing for him, andto get rid of him. She knew that, sooner or later, down at Sutton, or upin London, she and Maurice were likely to meet. It would not be muchtrouble to her to place the small parcel in his hands. Surely, to deliverherself from this man--to save Cissy's beloved china, and, perchance, her own throat--for what might he not take a fancy to next!--from theclutches of this madman, it would be easier to do what he wanted. 

"Yes, I will give it to him. I promise you, if you will only put thatvase down and go away. "

"You will promise me faithfully?"

"Faithfully. "

"On your word of honour, and as you hope for salvation?"

"Yes, yes. There is no need for oaths; if I have promised, I will do it. "

"Very well. " He placed the vase back upon the table and walked to thedoor. "Mademoiselle, " he said, making her a low bow, "I am infinitelyobliged to you;" and then, without another word, he opened the door andwas gone. 

Three minutes later Mrs. Hazeldine came in. She was just back fromher drive. She found Vera lying back exhausted and breathless in anarm-chair. 

"My dear, what have you done to Monsieur D'Arblet? I met him running outof the house like a madman, and laughing to himself like a little fiend. He nearly knocked me down. What has happened! Have you accepted him?"

"No, I have refused him, " gasped Vera; "but, thank God, I have saved your'Long Eliza, ' Cissy!"

Early the following morning one of Mrs. Hazeldine's servants wasdespatched in a hansom with a small brown paper parcel and a note to theCharing Cross Hotel. 

During the night watches Miss Nevill had been seized with misgivingsconcerning the mysterious mission wherewith she had been charged. 

But the servant, the parcel, and the note all returned together just asthey had been sent. 

"Monsieur D'Arblet has left town, Miss; he went by the tidal train lastnight on his way to the Continent, and has left no address. "

So Vera tore up her own note, and locked up the offending parcel in herdressing-case. 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

A WEDDING TOUR. 

 Thus Grief still treads upon the heels of Pleasure; Married in haste, we may repent at leisure. 

 Congreve. 

We all know that weddings are as old as the world, but who is itthat invented wedding tours? Owing to what delusion were they firstinstituted?

For a wedding feast there is a reasonable cause, just as there is fora funeral luncheon, or a christening dinner. There has been in eachinstance a trying ordeal to be gone through in a public church. It isquite right that there should be eating and drinking, and a certainamount of jollification afterwards amongst the unoffending guests whohave been dragged in as spectators on the occasion. But why on earth, when the day is over, cannot the unhappy couple be left alone to eata Darby-and-Joan dinner together in the house in which they propose tolive, and return peacefully on the morrow to the avocation of theirdaily lives? Why must they be sent off amid a shower of rice andshabby satin shoes into an enforced banishment from the society of theirfellow-creatures, and so thrown upon each other that, in nine cases outof ten, for want of something better to do, they have learnt the way toquarrel, tooth and nail, before the week is out?

I believe that a great many marriages that are as likely as not to turnout in the end very happily are utterly prevented from doing so by thatpernicious and utterly childish custom of keeping up the season known asthe honeymoon. "Honey, " by the way, is very sweet, doubtless; but thereis nothing on earth which sensible people get sooner tired of. Three daysof an exclusively saccharine diet is about as much as any grown man orwoman can be reasonably expected to stand; after that period there comesupon the jaded appetite unlawful longings after strong meats andanchovies, after turtle-soup and devilled bones, such as no sugar-fedcouple has the poetic right to indulge in. Nevertheless, like a snake inthe grass, the insidious desire will creep into the soul of one or otherof the two. There will be, doubtless, a noble struggle to stifle thetreacherous thought; a vigorous effort to bring back the wandering mindinto the path of duty; a conscientious effort to go on enjoying honeycombas though no flavour of richer viands had been wafted to the nostrils ofthe imagination. The sweet and poetical food will be lifted once moreresolutely to the lips, but only to create a sickening satiety from whichthe nauseated victim finally revolts in desperation. Then come yearningsand weariness, loss of appetite, and consequent loss of temper; tears onthe one side, an oath or two on the other, and the "happy couple" comehome eventually very much wiser, as a rule, than they started, andcertainly in a position to understand several unpleasant truthsconcerning each other of which they had not a suspicion before they wentaway. 

Now, if this is too often the melancholy finale to a wedding trip, evenwith regard to persons who start forth on it full of hopes of happiness, of faith in each other, and of fervent affection on both sides, how muchworse is not the case when there are small hopes of happiness, no faithwhatever on one side, and of affection none at all on the other?

This was how it was with Captain and Mrs. Maurice Kynaston on their sixweeks' wedding trip abroad. They went to a great many places they hadneither of them seen before. They stayed a week in Paris, where Helenbought more dresses and declared herself supremely happy; they visitedthe falls of the Rhine, which Maurice said deafened him; and ranthrough Switzerland, which they both voted detestably uncomfortable anddirty--the hotels, _bien entendu_, not the mountains. They stopped anight on the St. Gothard, which was too cold for them, and a week or twoat the Italian lakes, which were too hot. They sauntered through thepicture-galleries of Milan and Turin, at which places Maurice's yawnsbecame prolonged and audible; and they floated through the canals ofVenice in gondolas, which Helen asserted to be more ragged and full offleas than any London four-wheeler. And then they turned homewards, andby the time they neared the shores of the Channel once more they had hadso many quarrels that they had forgotten to count them, and they had bothprivately discovered that matrimony is an egregious and, alas! anirreparable mistake. Such a discovery was possibly inevitable; perhapsthey would have come in time to the same conclusion had they remained athome, but they certainly found it out all the quicker for having goneabroad. 

Helen, perhaps, was the most to be pitied of the two. For Maurice therehad been no illusions to dispel, no dreams to be dissipated, no castlesbuilt upon the sand to fall shattered into atoms; he had known very wellwhat he had to expect; he did not love the wife he was marrying, and hedid love somebody else. It had not, therefore, been a brilliant prospectof bliss. Nevertheless, he had certainly hoped, with that vague kind ofhope in which Englishmen are prone to indulge, that things would "comeright" in some fashion, and that he and Helen would manage "to get on"together. That they did not do so was an annoyance, but hardly a surpriseto him. 

But to Helen there was a good deal of unexpected grief and mortificationof soul. She, at all events, had loved him; it was her own strength ofwill, the fervour of her own lawless passion for him that had carried theday, and had, in the end, made her his wife. And she had said to herselfthat, once married to him, she would make him love her. 

Alas, in love there is no such thing as compulsion! The heart that loves, loves freely, spontaneously, unreasonably; and, where love is dead, thereneither entreaties nor prayers, nor yet a whole ocean of tears can serveto re-awaken the frail blossom into life. 

But Helen had made sure that, once absolutely her own, once irrevocablyseparated from the girl whom instinct had taught her to regard as herrival, Maurice would return to the old allegiance, and learn to love heronce more, as in days now long gone by. 

A very short experience served to convince her of the contrary. Mauriceyawned too openly, was too evidently wearied and bored with her society, too utterly indifferent to her sayings and her doings, for her to deludeherself long with the hope of regaining his affection. It was all thesame to him whatever she did. If she showered caresses upon him, hesubmitted meekly, it is true, but with so evident a distaste to theoperation that she learnt to discontinue the kisses he cared for solittle; if she tried to amuse him with her conversation, he appeared tobe thinking of other things; if she gave her opinion, he hardly seemed tolisten to it. Only when they quarrelled did the slightest animation enterinto their conjugal relations; and it was almost better to quarrel thanto be at peace on such terms as these. 

And then Helen got angry with him; angry and sore, wounded in her heart, and hurt in her vanity. She said to herself that she had been ready tobecome the best and most devoted of wives; to study his wishes, to deferto his opinion, to surround him with loving attentions; but since hewould not have it so, then so much the worse for him. She would be nomodel wife; no meek slave, subservient to his caprices. She would go herown way, and follow her own will, and make him do what she liked, whetherit pleased him or not. 

Had Maurice cared to struggle with her for the mastery, things might haveended differently, but it did not seem worth his while to struggle; aslong as she let him alone, and did not fret him with her incessantjealousies and suspicions, he was content to let her do as she liked. 

Even in that matter of living at Kynaston he learnt, in the end, togive way to her. Sir John, who had already started for Australia, hadparticularly requested him to occupy the house. Lady Kynaston did nothingbut urge it in every letter. Helen herself was bent upon it. There wasno good reason that he could bring forward against so reasonable andsensible a plan. The house was all ready, newly decorated, and newlyfurnished; they had nothing to do but to walk into it. It would saveall trouble in looking out for a country home elsewhere, and would, doubtless, be an infinitely pleasanter abode for them than any otherhouse could be. It was the natural and rational thing for them to do. Maurice knew of only one argument against it, and that one was in his ownheart, and he could speak of it to no one. 

And yet, after all, what did it matter, what difference would it make? Alittle nearer, a little further, how could it alter things for either ofthem? How lessen the impassable gulf between her and him? It was in thenatural course of things that he must meet her at times; there would bethe stereotyped greeting, the averted glance, the cold shake of handsthat could never hope to meet without a pang; these things were almostinevitable for them. A little oftener or a little seldomer, would itmatter very much then?

Maurice did not think it would; bound as he was to the woman whom he hadmade his wife--tied to her by every law of God and of man, of honour, andof manly feeling--that there should be any actual danger to be run by thenear proximity of the woman he had loved, did not even enter into hishead. If he had known how to do his duty towards Helen before he hadmarried her, would he not tenfold know how to do so now? Possibly heover-rated his own strength; for, however high are our principles, however exalted is our sense of honour--after all, we are but mortals, and unspeakably weak at the very best. 

It did not in any case occur to him to look at the question from Vera'spoint of view. It is never easy for a man to put himself into a woman'splace, or to enter into the extra sensitiveness of soul with which she isendowed. 

So it was that he agreed to go straight back to Kynaston, and to make theold house his permanent home according to his wife's wishes. 

It was whilst the newly-married couple were passing through Switzerlandon their homeward journey that they suddenly came across Mr. HerbertPryme, who had been performing a melancholy and solitary pilgrimage inthe land of tourists. 

It was at the table d'hôte at Vevay, upon coming down to that lengthyand untempting repast, chiefly composed of aged goats and stringy hens, which the inventive Swiss waiter exalts, with the effort of a soaringimagination, into "Chamois, " and "Salmi de Poulet, " that Captain and Mrs. Kynaston, who had scarcely recovered from a passage of arms in theseclusion of their bed-chamber, suddenly descried a familiar face amongstthe long array of uncongenial people ranged down either side of thetable. 

What the print of a hob-nailed boot must be to the lonely travelleracross the desert, what the sight of a man from one's own club going downPall Mall is in mid-September, or as a draught of Giesler's '68 to anepicure who has been about to perish on ginger-beer--so did HerbertPryme's face shine upon Maurice Kynaston out of the arid waste of thatVevay _salle-à-manger_. 

In England he had been only an acquaintance--at Vevay he became his mostintimate friend. The delight of having a man to speak to, and a man whoknew others of his friends, was almost intoxicating. To think of gettingone evening--nay, one hour of liberty from that ever-present chain ofmatrimonial intercourse which was galling him so sorely, was a bliss forwhich he could hardly find words to express his gratitude. 

Herbert, who could not quite understand the reason of it, was almostoverpowered by the warmth of Captain Kynaston's greeting. To have hisplace removed next to his own, and to grasp him heartily by both hands, wringing them with affectionate fervour, was the work of a few seconds. And then, who so lively, so full of anecdote and laughter, so interestedin all that could be said to him, as Maurice Kynaston during that dinner?

It made Helen angry to hear him. He could be agreeable enough, shethought, bitterly, to a chance acquaintance, picked up nobody knew where;he could find plenty of conversation for this almost unknown young man;it was only when they were alone together that he sat by glumly andsilently, without a smile and without a word!

She did not take it into account how surfeited the man was with hishoneycomb. Herbert Pryme, individually, was nothing much to him; but hecame as the sight of a distant sail is to a shipwrecked mariner. It isdoubtful, indeed, whether, under the circumstances, Maurice would nothave been equally delighted to have met his tailor or his bootmaker. After dinner was over the two men went out and smoked their cigarstogether. This was a fresh offence to Mrs. Kynaston; usually she enjoyedan evening stroll with her husband after dinner, but when he asked her tocome out with him on this occasion, she refused, shortly andungraciously. 

"No, thank you; if you and Mr. Pryme are going to smoke, I could notpossibly come; you know that I hate smoke. "

Poor Herbert was about to protest that nothing would induce him to smoke;but Maurice passed his arm hurriedly through his. 

"Come along, then, and have a cigar in the garden, " he said, withscarcely concealed eagerness; he felt like a schoolboy let out of school. 

Helen went up to her bedroom, and sat sulkily by her open window, lookingover the lake on to the mountains. Long after it was dark she could seethe two red specks of their cigars wandering about like fire-flies in thegarden, and could hear the crush of the rough gravel under theirfootsteps, and the low murmur of their voices as they talked. 

"You are coming into Meadowshire, are you not?" asked Maurice, ere theyparted. 

Herbert shook his head. 

"Not to the Millers?"

"No, I am afraid I shall never be asked to Shadonake again, " answered theyounger man, gloomily. 

"Why, I thought you and Beatrice--forgive me--but is it not the case?"

"Her parents have stopped all that, Kynaston. "

"But I am sure Beatrice herself will never let it stop; I know her toowell, " said Maurice, cheerily. 

"There are laws in connection with minors, " began Mr. Pryme, solemnly. 

"Fiddlesticks!" was Maurice's rejoinder. "There are no laws to preventyoung women falling in love, or the world would not be in such aconfounded muddle as it frequently is. Don't be downhearted, Pryme; youstick to her, and it will all come right; and look here, if they won'task you to Shadonake, I ask you to Kynaston; drop me a line, and comewhenever you like--as soon as you get home. "

"You are exceedingly kind; I shall be only too delighted. "

"When will you be home?"

"I can be home at any time--there is nothing to keep me. "

"Well, then, come as soon as you like, the sooner the better. And nowI must say good-night and good-bye too, I fear, for we are off earlyto-morrow. I shall be glad enough to be home; I'm dead sick of thetravelling. Good-night, old fellow; it has been a real pleasure to meetyou. "

And, positively, this was the only evening out of his whole wedding-tripthat Maurice had thoroughly enjoyed. 

"What on earth kept you out so late with that solemn young prig?" sayshis wife to him as he opens her door. 

"I find him a very pleasant companion, and I have asked him to come toKynaston, " answers Maurice, shortly. 

"Umph!" grunts Helen, and inwardly determines that his visit shall be ashort one. 

Four days later they were in England again. 

It was only when the train had actually stopped at Sutton, and he washanding his wife into her own carriage under the arch of greenery acrossthe road, and amid the ringing cheers of the rustics, who had gatheredto see them arrive, that Maurice began to realise how powerfully thathome-coming was to be tinged in his own mind with thoughts of her who wasonce so nearly going as a bride to the same house where now he was takingHelen. 

All along the lane, as they drove under the arches of flags and flowersthat had been put up from the station to the park gates, and as theyresponded to the hearty welcome from the village-folk who lined the road, Maurice was asking himself, with a painful anxiety, whether _she_ was atSutton now; whether her eyes had rested upon these rustic decorations, whether her steps had passed along under these mottoes of welcome and ofhappiness. And then, as they neared the church, the clang of the bellsburst forth loudly and jarringly. 

Was _she_, perchance, there in the house, kneeling alone, white andstricken by her bedside, whilst those joy-bells rang out their deafeningclamour from the church hard by?

For the life of him, Maurice could not help casting a glance at thevicarage as they drove swiftly by it. 

The windows were wide open, but no one looked out of them, the muslinblinds fluttered in the wind, the Gloire de Dijon roses nodded upon thewall, the Virginia creeper hung in crimson festoons over the porch; butthere was not a living creature to be seen. 

He had caught no glimpse of the woman that was ever in his heart; and itwas a great pity that he had looked for her, because his wife, whosesharp eyes nothing ever escaped, had seen him look. 

CHAPTER XXX. 

"IF I COULD DIE!"

 Why cannot I forgo, forget That ever I loved thee, that ever we met? There is not a single link or sign To bind thy life in this world with mine. 

 M. W. Praed. 

But it was not until Captain and Mrs. Maurice Kynaston had been at homefor more than a fortnight that Vera came back to her brother-in-law'shouse. 

She had kept away, poor girl, as long as she could. She had put off theevil hour of her return as long as possible. The Hazeldines had gone toScotland, and Vera had, in desperation, accepted an invitation to staywith some acquaintances whom she neither knew very well nor likedovermuch. It had kept her from Sutton a little longer. But the visit hadcome to an end at last, and what was she to do? She had no other visitsto prolong her absence, and her sister wrote to her perpetually, urgingher to return. Her home was at Sutton; she had no other place to go to. She had told Sir John that in absence from his brother lay her only hopeof safety. But where was she to seek that safety? Where find security, when he; reckless, or, perchance, heedless of her danger, had come toplant himself at her very doors? They should have been far as the polesasunder, and a malevolent fate had willed that the same parish shouldcontain them. 

For whatever Maurice did, Vera in no way underrated the danger. Too wellshe knew her own heart; too surely she estimated the strength of apassion which, repressed and thwarted, and half-smothered, as it had beenwithin her, yet burnt but the fiercer and the wilder. For that is the waywith love: if it may not flourish and thrive openly and bravely beforethe eyes of the world, it will eat into the very heart and life, till allthat is fair and sweet in the garden of the soul is choked and blightedand overgrown, till the main-spring of life becomes poisoned, and allthings that are happy, withered and dried up. 

In Vera's love for Maurice there had been nothing of joy, and all ofpain. There had never been for her that sweet illusion of dawningaffection--that intangible sense of delight in the consciousness of anunspoken sympathy that is the very essence of a happy love. She had nomemories that were serene and untroubled--no days of calm and delicioushappiness to recall. His first conscious look had been a terror to her;his words of hopeless love had given her a shock that had been almostphysical; and his few passionate kisses had burnt into her very soul tillthey had seemed to have been printed upon her lips in fire. Vera's lovehad brought her no good thing that she could count. But it had done onething for her: if it had cursed her life, it had purified her soul. 

The Vera who had come back to Sutton Vicarage in August was no longer thesame woman who had stood months ago on the terrace at Kynaston among thefalling autumn leaves, and who had told herself that it was moneyalone that was worth living for. 

She came back to everything that was full of pain, and to much in whichthere was absolute fear. 

Five minutes after she had entered the vicarage drawing-room her torturesbegan. 

"You have not asked after the bride and bridegroom, " says old Mrs. Daintree, as she sits in her corner, darning everlastingly at those brownworsted socks of her son's. Vera thinks she must have been sitting theredarning incessantly, day and night, ever since she had been away. "We areall full of it down here. Such a pretty welcome home they had--archesacross the road, and processions with flags, and a band inside thelodge-gates. You should have been here to have seen it. Everybody ismaking much of Mrs. Kynaston; she is a very pretty woman, I must say, and called here three days ago in the most beautiful Paris gown. "

"She seemed very sorry not to see you, " says Marion, "and quite disposedto be friendly. I do hope you and she will get on, Vera, in spite of theawkwardness of her being in your place, as it were. "

"What do you mean?" rather sharply. 

"Only, of course, dear, that it will be rather painful to you just atfirst to see anybody else the mistress at Kynaston, where you yourselfmight have been----"

"If you had not been a fool, " interpolated the old lady, bluntly. 

"I don't think I shall mind that much, " says Vera, quietly. "Where isEustace?"

"Oh, he will be in presently; he has gone up to the Hall about thechancel. The men have made all kinds of mistakes about the tesselatedpavement; the wrong pattern was sent down from town, and we have had somuch trouble about it, and there has been nobody to appeal to to setthings right. Captain Kynaston is all very well, and now he is back, Ihope we may get things into a little order; but I am sorry to say hetakes very little interest in the church or the parish; he is not halfso good a squire as poor dear Sir John. " And there was a whole volume ofunspoken reproach in the sigh with which Marion wound up her remarks. 

"Decidedly, " said Vera, to herself, as she went slowly upstairs to herown little room; "decidedly I must get away from all this. I shall haveto marry. " She leant out of her open window in a frame-work of rosesand jessamine, and looked out over the lime-trees towards the Hall. Now that the trees were in full leaf, she could catch no glimpse of itsred-stacked chimneys and its terraced gardens; but, by-and-by, when theleaves were down and the trees were bare, she knew she should see it. Every morning when she got up the sun would be shining full upon it;every night when she went to bed she would see the twinkling lights ofthe many windows gleaming through the darkness; she would be in herroom alone, and _he_ would be out there, happy with his wife. 

"I shall not be able to bear it, " said Vera, slowly, speaking aloud toherself. "I had better marry, and go away; there is nothing else to bedone. Poor Denis! He is worthy of a better woman; but I think he will begood to me. "

For it had come to this now, that when Vera thought about marrying, itwas upon Denis Wilde that she also pondered. 

To be at Sutton, and not to come face to face with Maurice, was of coursean impossibility. Carefully as Vera confined herself to the house andgarden for the next three days, she could not avoid going to church whenSunday came. And at church were Captain and Mrs. Kynaston. During theservice she only saw his back, erect and broad-shouldered, in the seat infront of her, for the pews had been cleared away, and open sittings hadbeen substituted all through the church. Maurice looked neither to theright nor to the left; he stood, or sat, or knelt, and scarcely turnedhis head an inch, but Helen's butterfly bonnet was twisted in everydirection throughout the service. It is certain that she very soon knewwho it was who had come into the vicarage seat behind her. 

When Vera came out of church, having purposely lingered as long as shecould inside, until the rest of the congregation had all gone out, shefound the bride and bridegroom waiting for her in the churchyard. 

Helen stood with her hand twined with easy familiarity round herhusband's arm; possibly she had studied the attitude with a view toimpressing Vera with the perfection of her conjugal happiness. She turnedquite delightedly to greet her. 

"Oh, here you are at last, Miss Nevill. We have been waiting for you, have we not, Maurice dear? We both felt how pleased we should be to seeyou. I am very glad you have come back; it will make it much morepleasant for me at Kynaston; you will come up to see me, won't you?I should like you to see my boudoir, it is lovely!"

"You forget that Miss Nevill has seen it all long ago, " said Maurice, gravely; their hands had just met, but he had not looked at her. 

"Oh, yes, to be sure; how stupid I am! Of course, I remember now, it wasall done up for _you_ by poor dear old John. Doesn't it seem funny thatI should be going to live in the house? Ah, how d'ye do, Mr. Daintree?"as Eustace came out of the vestry door; "here we are, chattering to yoursister. What a delightful sermon, dear Mr. Daintree, and what a treat tobe in a Christian church--I mean a Protestant church--again after thosedreadful Sundays on the Continent. "

Vera had turned to Maurice. 

"Have you any news of Sir John yet?"

"No; we cannot expect to hear of his arrival till next month. I dare sayyou will like to hear about him. I will let you know as soon as hewrites. "

"Thank you; I should like to know about him very much. "

Helen, in the middle of Eustace's polite acknowledgment of her complimentto his sermon, was casting furtive glances at her husband; even the twoor three grave words he had exchanged with Vera were sufficient to makeher uneasy. She desired to torture Vera with envy and with jealousy; shehad forgotten to take into account how very easily her own suspiciousjealousy could be aroused. She interrupted the vicar in the very middleof his speech. 

"Now, really, we must run away. Come, Maurice, darling, we shall be latefor lunch; you and Miss Nevill must finish your confidences another day. You will come up soon, won't you? Any day at five I am in--good-bye. "She shook hands with them, and hurried her husband away. 

"What an odd thing it is that you and that girl never can meet withouthaving all sorts of private things to say to each other, " she said, angrily, as soon as they were out of earshot. 

"Private things! what can you possibly mean, Helen? Miss Nevill wasasking me if I had heard of John's arrival. "

"I wonder she has the face to mention John's name!"

"Why, pray?"

"After her disgraceful conduct to him. "

"I think you know very little about Miss Nevill's conduct, Helen. "

"No, I dare say not. And _you_ have always known a great deal more aboutit than anybody else. That I have always understood, Maurice. "

Maurice looked very black, but he was silent. 

"I am very glad I told her about the boudoir, " continued Helen, spitefully. "How mortified she must feel to think that it has all slippedthrough her fingers and into mine. I do hope she will come up to thehouse. I shall show her all over it; she will wish she had not beensuch a fool!"

Maurice was looking at his wife with a singular expression. 

"I begin to think you have a very bad heart, Helen, " he said, witha contempt in his voice that was very near akin to disgust. 

She looked up, a little startled, and put her hand back, caressingly, under his arm. 

"Oh, don't look at me like that, Maurice; I don't want to vex you. Youknow very well how much I love you--and--and"--looking up with a littlesmile into his face that was meant as a peace offering--"I suppose I amjealous!"

"Suppose you wait to be jealous until I give you cause to be so, "answered her husband, gravely and coldly, but not altogether unkindly, for he meant to do his duty to her, God helping him, as far as he knewhow. 

But all the way home he walked silently by her side, and wondered whetherthe sacrifice he had made of his love to his duty had been, indeed, worthit. 

It had been hard for him, this first meeting with Vera. He had felt itmore than he had believed possible. Instinctively he had realized whatshe must have suffered; and that her sufferings were utterly beyond hispower to console. It began to come into his mind that, meaning to dealrightly by Helen, he had dealt cruelly and badly by Vera. He hadsacrificed the woman he loved to the woman he did not love. 

Had it, indeed, been such a right and praiseworthy action on his part?Maurice lost himself in speculation as to what would have happened had hebroken his faith to Helen, and allowed himself to follow the dictates ofhis heart rather than those of his conscience. 

That was what Vera had done for his sake; but what he had been unable todo for hers. 

There was a certain hardness about the man, a rigid sense of honour thatwas almost a fault; for, if it be a virtue to cleave to truth and goodfaith above everything, to swear to one's neighbour and disappoint himnot--even though it be to one's own hindrance--it is certainly not a fineor noble thing to mistake tenderness for a weakness only fit to becrushed out of the soul with firm hands and an iron determination. 

Guilty once of one irreparable action of weakness, Maurice had sethimself determinedly ever after to undo the evil that he had done. 

To be true to his brother, to keep his faith with Helen, these had beenthe only objects he had steadily kept in view: he had succeeded in hisefforts, but had scarcely realized that, in doing so, he had not onlywrecked his own life, but also that of the woman whom he had soinfinitely wronged. 

But when he saw her once again--when he held for an instant the cold handwithin his own--when he marked, with a pang, the dark circles round theaverted eyes that spoke so mutely and touchingly of sleepless vigils andof many tears--when he noted how the lovely sensitive lips trembled alittle as she spoke her few common-place words to him--then Maurice beganto understand what he had done to her; and, for the first time, somethingthat was almost remorse, with regard to his own conduct towards her, cameinto his soul. 

Such meditations were not, however, safe or profitable to indulge in forlong. Maurice recalled his wandering thoughts with an effort, and withsomething of repentance for having given them place, turned his attentionresolutely to his wife's chatter during the remainder of the walk home. 

Meanwhile Vera and the vicar are walking back, side by side, to thevicarage. 

"Something, " says Eustace, with solemn displeasure, "something mustreally be done, and that soon, about Ishmael Spriggs; that man will driveme into my grave before my time! Anything more fearfully and awfully outof tune than the Te Deum I never heard in the whole course of my life. Ican hear his voice shouting and bellowing above the whole of the rest ofthe choir; he leads all the others wrong. It is not a bit of use to tellme that he is the best behaved man in the parish; it is not a matter ofconduct, as I told Mr. Dale; it is a matter of voice, and if the mancan't be taught to sing in tune, out of the choir he shall go; it's apositive scandal to the Service. Marion says we shall turn him into anenemy if we don't let him sing, and that he will go to the dissentingchapel, and never come to church any more. Well, I can't help that; Imust give him up to the dissenters. As to keeping him in the choir, it isout of the question after that Te Deum. I shall never forget it. It willgive me a nightmare to-night, I am convinced. Wasn't it dreadful, Vera?"

"Yes, very likely, Eustace, " answered Vera, at random. She has not heardone single word he has said. 

Eustace Daintree looks round at her sharply. He sees that she is verywhite, and that there are tears upon her cheeks. 

"Why, Vera!" he cries, standing still, you have not listened to a wordI have been saying. "What is the matter, child? Why are you crying?"

They are in the vicarage garden now; among the beds of scarlet geraniums, and the tall hollyhocks, and the glaring red gladioli; a whole bank ofgreenery, rhododendrons and lauristinas, conceals them from the windowsof the house; a garden bench sheltered beneath a nook of the laurelbushes is close by. 

With a sudden gesture of utter misery Vera sinks down upon it, and burstsinto a passion of tears. 

"My dear child; my poor Vera! What is it? What has happened? What can bethe reason of this?"

Mr. Daintree is infinitely distressed and puzzled; he bends over her, taking her hand between his own. There is something in this wild outburstof grief, from one habitually so calm and self-contained as Vera, that isan absolute shock to him. He had learnt to love her very dearly; he hadthought he had understood all the workings of her candid maiden soul; hehad fancied that the story of her broken engagement was no secret to him, that it was but the struggle of a conscientious nature after what wastrue and honest. It had seemed to him that there had been no mystery inher conduct, for he could appreciate all her motives. And surely, as shehad done right, she must be now at peace. He had told himself that thepure instincts of a naturally stainless soul had triumphed in Vera overthe carelessness and worldliness of her early training; and lo, here wasthe passionate weeping of a tempest-tossed woman, whose agony he couldnot fathom, and whose sorrows he knew not how to divine. 

"Vera, will you not tell me?" he asked her, in his distress. "Will younot make a friend of me? My dear, forget that I am a clergyman; rememberonly that I am your brother, and that I shall know how to feel foryou--for you, my dear sister. "

But she could not tell him. There are some troubles that must be kept forever buried within our own souls; to speak of some things is only to makethem worse. Only she choked back her sobs, and lifted her face, whiteand tear-stained; there was a look of hunted despair in her eyes, thatbewildered, and even half-terrified him. 

"Tell me, " she said, with a sort of anger, "tell me, you that are aclergyman--Do you think God has made us only to torment us? You have gota daughter, Eustace; pray God, night and morning, that she may have ahard heart, and that she may never have one gleam of womanly tendernesswithin her; for only so are women happy!"

He did not answer her wild words. Instinctively he felt that common-placespeeches of rebuke or of consolation would be trivial and out of placebefore the great anguish of her heart. The man's soul was above thenarrow limits of his training; he felt, dimly, that here was somethingwith which it were best not to intermeddle, some trouble for which hecould offer no consolation. 

She rose and stood before him, holding his hands and gazing earnestly athis anxious face. 

"It has come to this with me, " she said, below her voice, "that there aretimes when there is but one good thing in all the world that I know anylonger how to desire. God has so ordered my life that there is no roadopen for me that does not lead to sin or to misery. Surely, if He weremerciful, He would take back the valueless gift. "

"Vera! what do you mean?"

"I mean, " she exclaimed, wearily, "that if I could die, I should be atpeace. "

She had walked slowly on; her voice, that had trembled at first with apassionate wildness, had sunk into the spiritless apathy of despair; herhead was bent, her hands clasped before her; her dress trailed with asoft rustle across the grass, sweeping over a whole wilderness of whitedaisies, that bent their heads beneath its folds as she walked. A gleamof sunshine fell upon her hair, and a bird sang loud and shrill in thelime trees overhead. 

Often and often, in the after days, Eustace Daintree thought of her thus, and remembered with a pang the sole sad gift that she had craved atHeaven's hands. Often and often the scene came back to him; the sunnygarden, the scarlet geraniums flaring in the borders, the smooth greenlawn, speckled with shadows from the trees, the wide open windows of hispleasant vicarage beyond, and the beautiful figure of the girl at hisside, with her bent head, and her low broken voice--the girl who, attwenty-three, sighed to be rid of the life that had become too hard forher; that precious gift of life which, too often, at three-score yearsand ten, is but hardly resigned!

"If I could die, I should be at peace, " she had said. And she was onlytwenty-three!

Eustace Daintree never forgot it. 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

AN EVENTFUL DRIVE. 

 Ill blows the wind that profits nobody. 

 Shakespeare, "Henry IV. "

I imagine that the most fretting and wearing of all the pains andpenalties which it is the lot of humanity to undergo in this troublesomeand naughty world are those which, by our own folly, our ownshortsightedness, and our own imprudence, we have brought upon ourselves. 

There is a degree of irritation in such troubles which adds a wholearmoury of small knife-cuts to intensify the agony of the evil from whichwe suffer. It is more dreadful to be moaning over our own mistakes thanover the inscrutable perversity of an unpropitious fate. 

Somebody once has said that most men grieve over the smallest mistakemore bitterly than over the greatest sin. This is decidedly a perversionof the moral nature; nevertheless, there is a good deal of truth in it. 

"If only I had not been such a fool! If I could only have foreseen suchand such results?"

These are more generally the burden of our bitterest self-reproaches. 

And this was what Miss Miller was perpetually repeating to herself duringthe months of August and September. Beatrice, in these days, was athoroughly miserable young woman. She was more utterly separated thanever from her lover, and that entirely by her own fault. That foolishescapade of hers to the Temple had been fatal to her; her father, whohad been inclined to become her lover's friend, had now peremptorilyforbidden her ever to mention his name again, and her own lips weresealed as to the unlucky incident in which she had played so prominenta part. 

Beatrice knew that, in going alone and on the sly to her lover'schambers, she had undoubtedly compromised her own good name. To confessto her own folly and imprudence was almost beyond her power, and to clearher lover's name at the expense of her own was what she felt he himselfwould scarcely thank her for. 

Mr. Miller had, of course, said something of what he had discovered atMr. Pryme's chambers to the wife of his bosom. 

"The young man is not fit for her, " he had said; "his private life willnot bear investigation. You must tell Beatrice to put him out of herhead. "

Mrs. Miller had, of course, been virtuously indignant over Mr. Pryme'soffences, but she had also been triumphantly elated over her ownsagacity. 

"Did I not tell you he was not a proper husband for her? Another time, Andrew, you will, I hope, allow that I am the best judge in thesematters. "

"My dear, you are always right, " was the meekly conjugal reply, and thenMrs. Miller went her way and talked to Beatrice for half-an-hour over thesinful lives which are frequently led by young men of no family residingin the Temple, and the shame and disgrace which must necessarily accrueto any well-brought-up young woman who, in an ill-advised moment, shallallow her affections to rove towards such unsanctified Pariahs ofsociety. 

And Beatrice, listening to her blushingly, knew what she meant, and yethad no words wherewith to clear her lover's character from the defamatoryevidence furnished against him by her own sunshade and gloves. 

"Your father has seen with his own eyes, my dear, that which makes itimpossible for us ever to consent to your marrying that young man. "

How was Beatrice to say to her mother, "It was I--your daughter--who wasthere, shut up in Mr. Pryme's bedroom. " She could not speak the words. 

The sunshine twinkled in Shadonake's many windows, and flooded itsvelvet lawns. Below, the Bath slumbered darkly in the shadow of itsancient steps and its encircling belt of fir-trees; and beyond theflower-gardens, half-an-acre of pineries, and vineries, andorchard-houses glittered in a dazzling parterre of glass-roofs and whitepaint. Something new--it was an orchard-house--was being built. There wasalways something new, and Mr. Miller was superintending the building ofit. He stood over the workmen who were laying the foundation, watchingevery brick that was laid down with delighted and absorbed interest. Heheld a trowel himself, and had tucked up his shirt cuffs in order to lenda helping hand in the operations. There was nothing that Andrew Millerloved so well. Fate and his Caroline had made him a member of Parliament, and had placed him in the position of a gentleman, but nature hadundoubtedly intended him for a bricklayer. 

Beatrice came out of the drawing-room windows across the lawn to him. Shewas in her habit, and stood tapping her little boot with her riding whipfor some minutes by her father's side. 

"I am going to see uncle Tom, papa, " she said; "have you any message?"

"Going to Lutterton? Ah, that's right; the ride will do you good, mydear. No; I have no message. "

Beatrice went back into the house; her little bay mare stood at the door. She met her mother in the hall. 

"I am going to see uncle Tom, " she said, to her also. 

Mrs. Miller always encouraged her children in their attentions to herbrother. He was rich, and he was a bachelor; he must have saved a gooddeal one way or another. Who could tell how it would be left? And thenBeatrice was undoubtedly his favourite. She nodded pleasantly to herdaughter. 

"Tell uncle Tom to come over to lunch on Sunday, and, of course, he mustcome here early for Guy's birthday next week, " for there were to be greatdoings on Guy's birthday. "Ride slowly, Beatrice, or you will get sohot. "

Lutterton Castle was a good six miles off. The house stood well, and evenimposingly, on a high wooded knoll that overlooked the undulating park, and the open valley at its feet. It was a great rambling building with acentral tower and four smaller ones at each corner. When Mr. Esterworthwas at home, which was almost always, it was his vanity to keep a redflag flying from the centre tower as though he had been royalty. All thereception-rooms and more than half the bedrooms were permanentlyshuttered up, and there was a portly and very dignified housekeeper, who rattled her keys at her châtelaine, and went through all the unusedapartments daily, followed by a meek phalanx of housemaids, to see thatall the rooms were well-aired and well kept in order, so that at anyminute they might be fit for occupation. Five or six times during thehunting season the large rooms were all thrown open, and there was a huntbreakfast held in the principal dining-hall; but, with that exception, Mr. Esterworth rarely entertained at all. 

He occupied three rooms opening out of each other in the small westerntower. They consisted of a bedroom, a dressing-room, and a small andrather inconvenient study, where the huntsman, whips, and other officialpersonages connected with the hunt were received at all hours of the dayand night. The room was consequently pervaded by a faint odour of stablesand tobacco; there were usually three or four dogs upon the hearthrug, and it was a rare thing to find Mr. Esterworth in it unaccompanied bysome personage in breeches and gaiters, wearing a blue spotted neckclothand a horseshoe pin. 

Such an individual was receiving an audience at the moment of MissMiller's arrival, and shuffled awkwardly and hurriedly out of the room byone door as she entered it by another. 

"All right, William, " calls the M. F. H. After his departing satellite. "Look in again to-night. I shall have her fired, I think, and throw herup till December. Hallo! Pussy, how are you?"

All the four dogs rose from the hearthrug and wagged their tails solemnlyin respectful greeting to her. Beatrice had a pat and a word for each, and a kiss for her uncle, before she sat down on the chair he pulledforward for her. 

"What brings you, Pussy? What are you riding?"

"Kitty; they have taken her round to the stable. I thought I'd have lunchwith you, uncle Tom. "

"Very well; you won't get anything but a mutton-chop. "

"I don't ask for anything better. "

Beatrice felt that her heart was beating. She had taken a desperateresolution during her six miles' solitary ride; she had determined totake her uncle into her confidence. He had always been indulgent and kindto her; perhaps he would not view her sin in so heinous a light as hermother would; and who knows? perhaps he would help her. 

"Uncle Tom, I'm in dreadful trouble, and I want to tell you about it, "she began, trembling. 

"I'm very sorry, Pussy; what is it?"

"I did a shocking, dreadful thing when I was in London. I went to a youngman's rooms, and got shut up in his bedroom. "

"The deuce you did!" says Tom Esterworth, opening his eyes. 

"Yes, " continues Beatrice, desperately, and crimson with shame andconfusion; "and the worse of it is, that I left my sunshade in thesitting-room; and papa came in, and, of course, he did not know it wasmine, and--and--he thinks--he thinks----"

"That's the best joke I ever heard in my life!" cries Mr. Esterworth, laying his head back in the chair and laughing aloud. 

"Uncle Tom!" Beatrice could hardly believe her ears. 

"Good lord, what a situation for a comedy!" cries her uncle, between theoutbursts of his mirth. "Upon my word, Pussy, you are a good plucked one;there isn't much Miller blood in your veins. You are an Esterworth allover. "

"But, uncle, indeed, it's no laughing matter. "

"Well, I don't see much to cry at if your father did not find you out;the young man is never likely to talk. "

"Oh, but uncle Tom; papa and mamma think so badly of him, and I can'ttell them that I was there; and they will never let me marry him. "

"Oh! so you are in love, Pussy?"

"Yes, uncle. "

Tom Esterworth smote his hand against his corduroy thigh. 

"What a mistake!" he exclaimed; "a girl who can go across country as youdo--what on earth do you want to be married for? Is it Mr. Pryme, Pussy?"

Beatrice nodded. 

"And he can't go a yard, " said her uncle, sorrowfully and reproachfully. 

"Oh, I think he goes very well, uncle; his seat is capital; it is onlyhis hands that are a bit heavy; but then he has had very littlepractice. "

"Tut--tut, don't talk to me, child; he is no horseman. He may be a goodyoung man in his way, but what can have made you take a fancy to a fellowwho can't ride is a mystery to me! Now tell me the whole story, Pussy. "

And then Beatrice made a clean breast of it. 

"I will see if I can help you, " said her uncle, seriously, when she hadfinished her story; "but I can't think how you can have set your heartupon a fellow who can't ride!"

This was evidently a far more fatal error in Tom Esterworth's eyes thanthe other matter of her being shut up in Mr. Pryme's rooms. Beatricebegan to think she had not done anything so very terrible after all. 

"I must turn it over in my mind. Now come and eat your mutton-chop, Pussy, and when we have finished our lunch, you shall come out with mein the dog-cart. I am going to put Clochette into harness for the firsttime. "

"Will she go quietly?"

"Like a lamb, I should say. You won't be nervous?"

"Dear, no! I am never nervous; I shall enjoy the fun. "

The mutton-chop over, Clochette and the dog-cart came round to the door. She was a raking, bright chestnut mare, with a coat like satin. Even asshe stood at the door she chafed somewhat at her new position betweenthe shafts. This, however, was no more than might have been expected. Mr. Esterworth declining the company of the groom, helped his niece up andtook the reins. 

"We will go round by Tripton and back by the common, " he said, "and talkthis matter well over, Pussy; we shall enjoy ourselves much better withnobody in the back seat. A man sits there with his arms crossed and hisface like a blank sheet of paper, but one never knows how much they hear, and their ears are always cocked, like a terrier's on the scent of arat. "

Clochette went off from the door with a bound, but soon settled down intoa good swinging trot. She kept turning her head nervously from side toside, and there was evidently a little uncertainty in her mind as towhether she should keep to the drive, or deviate on to the grass by theside of it; but, upon the whole, she behaved fairly well, and turned outof the lodge gates into the high road with perfect docility and goodbreeding. 

There was a whole avalanche of dogs in attendance. A collie, rushing ontumultuously in front; a "plum-pudding" dog between the wheels; a coupleof fox-terriers snapping joyfully at each other in the rear; and therewas also an ill-conditioned animal--half lurcher, half terrier--whokilled cats, and murdered fowls, and worried sheep, and flew at theheels of unwary strangers; and was given, in short, to every sort ofcanine iniquity, and who possessed but one redeeming feature in hischaracter--that of blind adoration to his master. 

This animal, who followed uncle Tom whithersoever he went, came skurryingout of the stables as the dog-cart drove off, and joined in the generalscamper. 

Perhaps the dogs may have been too much for Clochette's nerves, orperhaps the effort of behaving well as far as the park gates with thosehorrible wheels rattling behind her was as much as any hunter born andbred could be expected to do, or perhaps uncle Tom was too free with thatwhip with which he caressed her shining flanks; but be that as it may, nosooner was Clochette's head well turned along the straight high-road withits high-tangled hedge-rows on either side than she began to show symptomsof behaving very badly indeed. She bucked and pranced, and stood on herhind legs; she whipped suddenly round, pirouetted upon her own axis withthe dexterity of a circus performer, and demonstrated very plainly that, if she only dared, she would like to take to her heels in the reversedirection to that which her driver desired her to go. 

All this was, however, equally delightful and exciting both to TomEsterworth and his niece. There was no apprehension in Beatrice's mind, for her uncle drove as well as he rode, and she felt perfectly secure inthe strong, supple hands that guided Clochette's erratic movements. 

"There is not a kick in her, " uncle Tom had said, as they started, and herepeated the observation now; and kicking being out of the category ofClochette's iniquities, there was nothing else to fear. 

No sooner, however, had the words left his lips than a turn of the roadbrought them within sight of a great volume of black smoke rushing slowlybut surely towards them; whilst a horrible roaring and howling, as of anantediluvian monster in its wrath, filled the silence of the summerafternoon with a hideous and unholy confusion. 

Talk about there being no wild animals in our peaceful land! Whatcould have been the Megatherium and the Ichthyosaurus, and all thefire-spitting dragons of antiquity compared to the traction engines ofthe nineteenth century?

"It's a steam plough!" ejaculated Beatrice, below her breath. 

"D----n!" cried her uncle, not at all below _his_ breath. 

As to Clochette, she stood for an instant stock still, with her earspricked and her head well up, facing the horrors of her situation; nextshe gave an angry snort as though to say, "No! _this_ is too much!" Thenshe turned short round and began a series of peculiar bounds and plunges, accompanied by an ominous uplifting of her hind quarters, which hadplainly but one object in view--the correct conjugation of the verbactive "to kick. "

There was a crunching of woodwork, a cracking as of iron hoofs againstthe splash-board. Beatrice instinctively put up her hands before herface, but she did not utter a sound. 

"Do you think you could get down, Pussy, and go to her head?"

"Shall I hold the reins, uncle?"

"No, you couldn't hold her; she'll be over the hedge if I let go of her. Get down if you can. "

It was not easy. Beatrice was in her habit, and to jump from thevacillating height of a dog-cart to the earth is no easy matter even toa man unencumbered with petticoats. 

"Try and get over the back, " said her uncle, who was in momentary terrorlest the mare's heels should be dashed into her face. And Beatrice, withthat finest trait of a woman's courage in danger, which consists in doingexactly what she is told, began to scramble over the back of her seat. 

The situation was critical in the extreme; the traction engine came onapace, the man with the red flag having paused at a public-house roundthe corner, was only now running back into his place. Uncle Tom shoutedvainly to him; his voice was drowned in the deafening roar of theadvancing monster. 

But already help was at hand, unheard and unperceived by either uncle orniece; a horseman had come rapidly trotting up the road behind them. Tospring from his horse, who was apparently accustomed to traction engines, and stood quietly by, to rush to the plunging, struggling mare, and toseize her by the head was the work of a moment. 

"All right, Mr. Esterworth, " shouted the new comer. "I can hold her ifyou can get down; we can lead her into the field; there is a gate tenyards back. "

Uncle Tom threw the reins to his niece and slipped to the ground; betweenthem the two men contrived to quiet the terrified Clochette, and to leadher towards the gate. 

In another three minutes they were all safely within the shelter of thehedge. The traction engine passed, snorting forth fire and smoke, on itsdevastating way; and Clochette stood by, panting, trembling, and coveredwith foam. Beatrice, safely on the ground, was examining ruefully theamount of damage done to the dog-cart, and Mr. Esterworth was shakinghands with his deliverer. 

It was Herbert Pryme. 

"That's the last time I ever take a lady out, driving without aman-servant behind me, " quoth the M. F. H. "What we should have donewithout your timely assistance, sir, I really cannot say; in anotherminute she would have kicked the trap into a thousand bits. You havesaved my niece's life, Mr. Pryme. "

"Indeed, I did very little, " said Herbert, modestly, glancing at Beatricewho was trembling and rather pale; but, perhaps, that was only from herrecent fright. She had not spoken to him, only she had given him onebewildered glance, and then had looked hastily away. 

"You have saved her life, " repeated Mr. Esterworth, with decision. "Ihope you do not mean to contradict my words, sir? You have savedBeatrice's life, sir, and it's the most providential thing in this worldfor you, as Clochette very nearly kicked her to pieces under your nose. I shall tell Mr. And Mrs. Miller that they are indebted to you for theirdaughter's life. Young people, I am going to lead this brute of a marehome, and, if you like to walk on together to Lutterton in front of me, why you may. "

That was how Herbert Pryme came to be once more re-instated in the goodgraces of his lady love's father and mother. 

Mr. Esterworth contrived to give them so terrifying an account ofthe danger in which Beatrice had been placed, and so graphic andhighly-coloured a description of Herbert Pryme's pluck and sagacity inrushing to her rescue, that Mr. And Mrs. Miller had no other course leftthan to shake hands gratefully with the man to whom, as uncle Tom said, they literally owed her life. 

"I could not have saved her without him, " said uncle Tom, drawingslightly upon his imagination; "in another minute she must have beenkicked to pieces, or dashed violently to the earth among the brokenfragments of the cart, and"--with a happy after-thought--"the steamplough would have crushed its way over her mangled body. "

Mrs. Miller shuddered. 

"Oh, Tom, I never can trust her to you again!"

"No, my dear; but I think you must trust her to Mr. Pryme; that young mandeserves to be rewarded. "

"But, my dear Tom, there are things against his character. I assure you, Andrew himself saw----"

"Pooh! pooh!" interrupted Mr. Esterworth. "Young men who sow their wildoats early are all the better husbands for it afterwards. I will give hima talking to if you like, but you and your husband must let Pussy haveher own way; it is the least you can do after his conduct; and don'tworry about his being poor, Caroline; I have nothing better to do with mymoney, and I shall take care that Pussy is none the worse off for mydeath. She is worth all the rest of your children put together--anEsterworth, every inch of her!"

That, it is to be imagined, was the clenching argument in Mrs. Miller'smind. Uncle Tom's money was not to be despised, and, by reason of hismoney, uncle Tom's wishes were bound to carry some weight with them. 

Mr. Pryme, who had been staying for a few days at Kynaston, where, however, the cordial welcome given to him by its master was, in a greatmeasure, neutralised by the coldness and incivility of its mistress, removed himself and his portmanteau, by uncle Tom's invitation, toLutterton, and his engagement to Miss Miller became a recognised fact. 

"All the same, it is a very bad match for her, " said Mrs. Miller, inconfidence, to her husband. 

"And I should very much like to know who that sunshade belonged to, "added the M. P. For Meadowshire, severely. 

"I think, my dear, we shall have to overlook that part of the business, for, as Tom will leave them his money, why----"

"Yes, yes, I quite understand; we must hope the young man has had a goodlesson. Let bygones be bygones, certainly, " and Mr. Miller took a pinchof snuff reflectively, and wondered what Tom Esterworth would "cut upfor. "

"But I am _determined_, " said Mrs. Miller, ere she closed the discussion, "I am determined that I will do better for Geraldine. "

After all, the mother had a second string to her bow, so the edict wentforth that Beatrice was to be allowed to be happy in her own way, and theshadow of that fatal sunshade was no longer to be suffered to blacken themoral horizon of her father's soul. 

CHAPTER XXXII. 

BY THE VICARAGE GATE. 

 Before our lives divide for ever, While time is with us and hands are free, (Time swift to fasten, and swift to sever Hand from hand. . . . ) I will say no word that a man might say Whose whole life's love goes down in a day; For this could never have been. And never (Though the gods and the years relent) shall be. 

 Swinburne. 

The peacocks had it all to themselves on the terrace walk at Kynaston. They strutted up and down, craning and bridling their bright-hued neckswith a proud consciousness of absolute proprietorship in the place, andtheir long tails trailed across the gravel behind them with the softrustle of a woman's garments. Now and then their sad, shrill cries echoedweirdly through the deserted gardens. 

There was no one to see them--the gardeners had all gone home--and no onewas moving from the house. Only one small boy, with a rough head and ared face, stood below the stone balustrade, half-hidden among thehollyhocks and the roses, looking wistfully up at the windows of thehouse. 

"What am I to do with it?" said Tommy Daintree, half-aloud to himself, and looked sorely perplexed and bewildered. 

Tommy had a commission to fulfil, a commission from Vera. He carried alittle note in his hands, and he had promised Vera faithfully that hewould wait near the house till he saw Captain Kynaston come in from hisday's shooting, and give him the note into his own hands. 

"You quite understand, Tommy; no one else. "

"Yes, auntie, I quite understand. "

And Tommy had been waiting there an hour, but still there was no sign ofCaptain Kynaston's return; he was getting very tired and very hungry bythis time, for he had had no tea. He had heard the dressing-bell ringlong ago in the house--it must be close upon their dinner hour. Tommycould not guess that, by an unaccustomed chance, the master of the househad gone in by the back-door to-day, and that he had been in some time. 

Presently some one pushed aside the long muslin curtains, and camestepping out of the long French window on to the terrace. It was Helen. 

She was dressed for dinner; she wore a pale blue dress, cut open at theneck, a string of pearls and a jewelled locket hung at her throat; sheturned round, half laughing, to some one who was following her. 

"You will see all the county magnates at Shadonake to-morrow. You willhave quite enough of them, I promise you; they are neither lively norentertaining. "

A young man, also in evening dress, had followed her out on to theterrace; it was Denis Wilde; he had arrived from town by the afternoontrain. Why he should have thrown over several very good invitations tocountry houses in Norfolk and Suffolk, where there were large andcheerful parties gathered together, and partridge shooting to make a mandream of, in order to come down to the poor sport of Kynaston and theinsipid society of a newly married couple, with whom he was not on veryintimate terms, is a problem which Mr. Wilde alone could havesatisfactorily solved. Being here, he was naturally disposed to makehimself extremely agreeable to his hostess. 

"You can't think how anxious I am to inspect the _élite_ of Meadowshire!"he said, laughing. "My life is an incomplete thing without a sight ofit. "

"You will witness the last token of mental aberration in adecently-brought up young woman in the person of Beatrice Miller. Youknow her. Well, she has actually engaged herself to a barrister whomnobody knows anything about, and who--_bien entendu_--has no briefs--theynever have any. He was staying here for a couple of days; a slow, heavyyoung man, who quoted Blackstone. Maurice took a fancy to him abroad;however, he was clever enough to save Beatrice's life by stopping arun-away horse. Some people say the accident was the invention of thelovers' own imaginations; however, the parents believed in it, and itturned the scales in his favour; but he has taken himself off, I amthankful to say, and is staying at Lutterton with her uncle. Beatricemight have married well, but girls are such fools. Hallo, Topsy, what areyou barking at?"

Mrs. Kynaston's pug had come tearing out of the house with a whole chorusof noisy yappings. The peacocks, deeply wounded in their tenderestfeelings, instantly took wing, and went sailing away majestically overthe crimson and gold parterre of flowers below. 

"What can possess her to bark at the peacocks?" said Helen. "Be quiet, Topsy. "

But Topsy refused to be tranquillized. 

"She is barking at something below the terrace; perhaps there is a catthere, " said Denis. 

"If so, it would be Dutch courage, indeed, " answered Helen, laughing. They went to the edge of the stone parapet and looked over; there stoodTommy Daintree below them, among the hollyhocks. 

"Why, little boy, who are you, and what do you want? Why, are you not Mr. Daintree's little boy?"

"Yes. "

"Then what are you waiting for?"

"I want to give a note to Captain Kynaston, " said Tommy, crimson withconfusion. "Is he ever coming in?"

"He is in now; give me the note. "

"I was to give it to himself, to nobody else. "

"Who told you?"

"Aunt Vera. "

"Oh!" There was a whole volume of meaning in the simple exclamation. Mrs. Kynaston held out her hand. "You can give it to me, I am CaptainKynaston's wife, you know. Give it to me, Tommy. Your name is Tommy, isn't it? Yes, I thought so. Mr. Wilde, will you be so kind as to fetchTommy a peach off the dinner-table? Give the note to me, my dear, and youcan tell your aunt that it shall be given to Captain Kynaston directly. "

When Denis returned from his mission to the dining-room he only foundTommy waiting for his peach upon the terrace steps. Mrs. Kynaston hadgone back into the house. 

Tommy went off devouring his prey with, it must be confessed, rather aguilty conscience over it. Somehow or other, he felt that he had failedin the trust his aunt had placed in him; but then, Mrs. Kynaston had beenvery kind and very peremptory; she had almost taken the letter out of hishand, and she had smiled and looked quite like a fairy princess out ofone of Minnie's story-books in her pretty blue silk dress and shininglocket--and then, peaches were so very nice!

What happened to Denis Wilde after the small boy's departure was this. Hesauntered back to the drawing-room windows and looked in; no one wasthere. He then wandered further down the terrace till he came oppositethe window of the boudoir--Mrs. Kynaston's own boudoir--which Sir John'sloving hands had once lined with blue and silver for his Vera. Here hecaught sight of Mrs. Kynaston's fair head and slender figure. Her backwas turned to him; he was on the point of calling out to her, whensuddenly the words upon his lips were arrested by something which he sawher doing. Instead of speaking, he simply stood still and stared at her. 

Mrs. Kynaston, unconscious of observation, held the note which Tommy hadjust given her over the steam of a small jug of hot water, which she hadhastily ordered her maid to bring to her. In less than a minute theenvelope unfastened of itself. Helen then deliberately took out the noteand read it. 

What she read was this:--

 "Dear Captain Kynaston, --I have something that I have promised to give to you when you are alone. Would you mind coming round to the vicarage after dinner to-night, at nine o'clock? You will find me at the gate. --Sincerely yours, "Vera Nevill. "

Then Helen lit a candle, and fastened the letter up again withsealing-wax. 

And Denis Wilde crept away from the window on tip-toe with a sense ofshocked horror upon him such as he never remembered having experienced inhis life before. 

All at once his pretty, pleasant hostess, with whom he had been gladenough to banter, and with whom even he had been ready to enter upon amild and innocent flirtation, became horrible and hateful to him; andthere came into his mind, like an inspiration, the knowledge of herenmity to Vera; for it was Vera's note that she had opened and read. Thenhis instincts were straightway all awake with the acuteness of a danger, to something--he knew not what--that threatened the woman he loved. 

"Thank God, I am here, " he said to himself. "That woman is her foe, andshe will be dangerous to her. I would not have come to her house had Iknown it; but now I am here, I will stay, for it is certain that she willneed a friend. "

At dinner-time the note lay by Maurice's side on the table. Whilst thesoup was being helped he took it up and opened it. He little knew hownarrowly both his wife and his guest watched him as he read it. 

But his face was inscrutable. Only he talked a little more, and seemed, perhaps, in better spirits than usual; but that is what a stranger couldnot have noticed, although it is possible that Helen may have done so. 

"By the vicarage gate, " she had said, and it was there that he found her. Behind her lay the dark and silent garden, beyond it the house, with itswide-open drawing-room windows, and the stream of yellow light from thelamp within, lying in a golden streak across the lawn. She leant over thegate; an archway of greenery, dark in the night's dim light, was aboveher head, and clusters of pale, creamy roses hung down about her on everyside. 

It was that sort of owl's light that has no distinctness in it, and yetis far removed from darkness. Vera's perfect figure, clad in some white, clinging garment that fell about her in thick, heavy folds, stood outwith a statue-like clearness against the dark shrubs behind her. Sheseemed like some shadowy queen of the night. Out of the dimness, theclear oval of her perfect face shone pale as the waning moon far awaybehind the church tower, whilst the dusky veil of her dark hair lostitself vaguely in the shadows, and melted away into the background. A poet might have hymned her thus, but no painter could have painted her. 

And it was thus that he found her. For the first time for many wearyweeks and months he was alone with her; for the first time he could speakto her freely and from his heart. He knew not what it was that had madeher send for him, or why it was that he had come. He did not remember hernote, or that she had said that she had something for him. All he knewwas, that she had sent for him, and that he was with her. 

There was the gate between them, but her white soft hands were claspedloosely together over the top of it. He took them feverishly between hisown. 

"I am late--you have waited for me, dear? Oh, Vera, how glad I am to bewith you!"

There was a dangerous tenderness in his voice that frightened her. Shetried to draw away her hands. 

"I had something for you, or I should not have sent--please, CaptainKynaston--Maurice--please let my hands go. "

He was alone under the star-flecked heavens with the woman he loved, there was all the witchery of the pale moonlight about her, all thesweet perfumes of the summer night to intensify the fascination of herpresence. There was a nameless glamour in the luminous dimness--a subtleseduction to the senses in the silence and the solitude; a bird chirrupedonce among the tangled roses overhead, and a soft, sighing breezefluttered for one instant amid its long, trailing branches. And then, God knows how it came to pass, or what madness possessed the man;but suddenly there was no longer any faith, or honour, or truth forhim--nothing on the face of the whole earth but Vera. 

He caught her passionately in his arms, and showered upon her lips themaddest, wildest kisses that man ever gave to woman. 

For one instant she lay still upon his heart; all the fury of her miserywas at rest--all the storm of her sorrow was at peace--for one instant oftime she tasted of life's sublimest joy ere the waters of blackness anddespair closed in once more over her soul. For one instant only--then sheremembered, and withdrew herself shudderingly from his grasp. 

"For God's sake, have pity upon me, Maurice!" she wailed. It was the cryof a broken heart that appealed to his manhood and his honour more surelyand more directly than a torrent of reproach or a storm of indignation. 

"Forgive me, " he murmured, humbly; "I am a brute to you. I had forgottenmyself. I ought to have spared you, sweet. See, I have let you go; I willnot touch you again; but it was hard to see you alone, to be near you, and yet to remember how we are parted. Vera, I have ruined your life; itis wonderful that you do not hate me. "

"A true woman never hates the man who has been hard on her, " sheanswered, smiling sadly. 

"If it is any comfort to you to know it, I too am wretched; now it is toolate: I know that my life is spoilt also. "

"No; why should that comfort me?" she said, wearily. She leant half backagainst the gate--if he could have seen her well in the uncertain light, he would have been shocked at the worn and haggard face of his beautifulVera. 

Presently she spoke again. 

"I am sorry that I asked you to come--it was not wise, was it, Maurice?How long must you stop at Kynaston? Can you not go away? We are neitherof us strong enough to bear this--I, I cannot go--but you, _must_ you bealways here?"

"Before God, " he answered, earnestly, "I swear to you that I will go awayif it is in my power to go. "

"Thank you. " Then, with an effort, she roused herself to speak to him:"But that is not what I wanted to say; let me tell you why I sent foryou. I made a promise, a wretched, stupid thing, to a tiresome little manI met in London--a Monsieur D'Arblet, a Frenchman; do you know him?"

"D'Arblet! I never heard the name in my life that I know of. "

"Really, that seems odd, for I have a little parcel from him to you, and, strangely enough, he made me promise on my word of honour to give it toyou when no one was near. I did not know how to keep my promise, for, though we may sometimes meet in public, we are not often likely to meetalone. I have it here; let me give it to you and have done with thething; it has been on my mind. "

She drew a small packet from her pocket, and was about to give it to him, when suddenly his ear caught the sound of an approaching footstep; helooked nervously round, then he put forth his hand quickly and stoppedher. 

"Hush, give me nothing now!" he said, in a low, hurried voice. "To-morrowwe shall meet at Shadonake; if you will go near the Bath some timeduring the day after lunch is over, I will join you there, and you cangive it to me; it can be of no possible importance; go in now quickly;good-night. It is my wife. "

She turned and fled swiftly back to the house through the darkness, andMaurice was left face to face with Helen. 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

DENIS WILDE'S LOVE. 

 A mighty pain to love it is, And 'tis a pain that love to miss; But, of all pains, the greatest pain Is to love, but love in vain. 

 Cowley. 

He had not been mistaken. It was Helen who had crept out after him in thedarkness, and whose slight figure, in her pale blue dress, stood close byhim in an angle of the road. 

How long she had stood there and what she had heard he did not know. Heexpected a torrent of abuse and a storm of reproaches from her, but sherefrained from either. She passed her arm within his, and walked besidehim for several minutes in silence. Maurice, who felt rather guilty, wasweak enough to say, hesitatingly, "The night was so fine, I strolled out to smoke----"

"_Qui s'excuse s'accuse_, " quoted Helen; "only you are not smoking, Maurice!"

"My cigar has gone out; I--I met Miss Nevill at the gate of thevicarage. "

"So I saw, " rather significantly. 

"I stopped to have a little talk to her. There is no harm, I suppose, inthat!" he added, irritably. 

Helen laughed shortly and harshly. 

"Harm! oh dear, no; whoever said there was? By the way, is not this freakof yours of going out into the roads to smoke, as you say, alone, rathera slight on your guest? Here is Mr. Wilde; how very amusing! we all seemto be drawn out towards the vicarage to-night. "

Denis Wilde, in fact, had followed in the wake of his hostess, and theymet him now by the lodge gates. 

"How very strange!" called out Helen to him, in her scornful, banteringvoice; "how strange that we should all have gone out for solitaryrambles, and all meet in the same place; and there was Miss Nevill outin the vicarage garden, also on a solitary ramble. "

"Is Miss Nevill there? I think I will go on and call upon her, " saidDenis. 

"You too, Mr. Wilde!" cried Helen. "Have you fallen a victim to thebeauty? We heard enough of her in town; she turned all the men's heads;even married men are not safe from her snares, and yet it is singularthat none of her admirers care to marry her; there are some women whomall men make love to, but whom none care to make wives of!"

And Maurice was a coward, and spoke no word in her defence; he did notdare; but young Denis Wilde drew himself up proudly. 

"Mrs. Kynaston, " he said, sternly, "I must ask you not to speakslightingly of Miss Nevill. "

"Good gracious, why not? I suppose we are all free to use our tongues andour eyes in this world! Why should you become the woman's champion?"

"Because, " answered Denis, gravely, "I hope to make her my wife. "

Maurice was man enough to hold out his hand to him in the darkness. 

"I am glad of it, " he said, rather hoarsely; "make her happy, Denis, ifyou can. "

"Thanks. I shall go on to see her now. "

Helen murmured an unintelligible apology, and Denis Wilde passed onwardstowards the vicarage. 

He had taken her good name into his keeping, he had shielded her fromthat other woman's slandering tongue; but he had done so in his despair. He had spoken no lie in saying that he hoped to make her his wife; but itwas no doubt a fact that Helen and her husband would now believe him tobe engaged to her. Would Vera be induced to verify his words, and toplace herself and her life beneath the shelter of his love, or would sheonly be angry with him for venturing to presume upon his hopes? Deniscould not tell. 

Ten minutes later he stood alone with her in the vicarage dining-room;he had sent in his card with a pencilled line upon it to ask for a fewminutes' conversation with her. 

Vera had desired that her visitor might be shown into the dining-room. Old Mrs. Daintree had been amazed and scandalized, and even Marion hadopened her eyes at so unusual a proceeding; but the vicar was out by asick bedside in the village, and no one else ever controlled Vera'sactions. 

Nevertheless, she herself looked somewhat surprised at so late a visitfrom him. And then, somehow or other, Denis made it plain to her how itwas he had come, and what he had said of her. Her name, he told her, hadbeen lightly spoken of; to have defended it without authority would havebeen to do her more harm than good; to take it under his lawfulprotection had been instinctively suggested to him by his longing toshield her. Would she forgive him?

"It was Mrs. Kynaston who spoke evil things of me, " said Vera, wearily. She was very tired, she hardly understood, she scarcely cared about whathe was saying to her; it mattered very little what was said to her. Therewas that other scene under the shadow of the roses of the gateway sovividly before her; the memory of Maurice's passionate kisses upon herlips, the sound of his beloved voice in her ears. What did anything elsesignify?

And meanwhile Denis Wilde was pouring out his whole soul to her. 

"My darling, give me the right to defend you now and always, " he pleaded;"do not refuse me the happiness of protecting your dear name from suchwomen. I know you don't love me, dear, not as I love you, but I will notmind that; I will ask you for nothing that you will not give me freely;only try me--I think I could make you happy, love. At any rate, you shallhave anything that tenderness and devotion can give you to bring peaceinto your life. Vera, darling, answer me. "

"Oh, I am very tired, " was all she said, moaningly and wearily, passingher hand across her aching brow like a worn-out child. 

It was life or death to him. To her it was such a little matter! Whatwere all his words and his prayers beside that heartache that was drivingher into her grave! He could do her no good. Why could he not leave herin peace?

And yet, at length, something of the fervour and the passion of his lovestruck upon her soul and arrested her attention. There is something sotouching and so pitiful in that first boy-love that asks for nothing inreturn, craves for no other reward than to be suffered to exist; thatamongst all the selfish and half-hearted passions of older and wiser men, it must needs elicit some response of gratitude at least, if not ofanswering love, in the heart of the woman who is the object of such raredevotion. 

It dawned at length upon Vera, as she listened to his fervent pleading, and as she saw the tears that rose in poor Denis's earnest eyes, andthe traces of deep emotion on his smooth, boyish face, that here was, perchance, the one utterly pure and noble love that had ever been laidat her feet. 

There arose a sentiment of pity in her heart, and a vague wonder as tohis grief. Did he suffer, she asked herself, as she herself suffered?

"Vera, Vera, I only ask you to be my wife. I do not ask you for yourheart; only give me your dear self. Only let me be always with you tobrighten your life and to take care of you. "

How was she to resist such absolute unselfishness?

"Oh, Denis, how good you are to me!" burst from her lips. "How can I takeyou at your word? Do you not know that my heart is gone from me? I haveno love to give you. "

"Yes, yes, darling, " he said, quickly, pressing her hand to his lips. "Donot pain yourself by speaking of it. I have guessed it. I have alwaysseemed to know it. But it is hopeless, is it not? And I--I would sogladly take you away and comfort you if I could. "

And so, in the end, she half yielded to him. What else was she to do? Shegave him a sort of promise. 

"If I can, it shall be as you wish, " she said; "but give me tillto-morrow night. I will think of it all day, and if you will come hereagain to-morrow evening, I will answer you. Give me one more day--onlyone, " she repeated, with a dull reiteration, out of her utter weariness. 

"One day will soon be gone, " he said, joyfully, as he bade her goodnight. 

Alas, how little he knew what that day was to bring forth!

That night the heavens were overcast with heavy clouds, and torrents ofrain poured down upon the face of the earth, and peal after peal ofthunder boomed through the heavy heated air. Helen could not sleep; sherose, feverish and unrested from her husband's side, and paced wildly andmiserably about the room. Then she went to the window and drew back thecurtain, and looked out upon the storm-driven world. The clouds rackedwildly across the sky; the trees bent and swayed before the howling wind;the rain beat in floods upon the ground; yet greater and fiercer stillwas the tempest that raged in Helen Kynaston's heart. Hatred, jealousy, and malice strove and struggled within her, and something direr still--aterror that she could not quench nor stifle; for late that night herhusband had said to her suddenly, without a word of warning orpreparation--

"Helen, do you know a Frenchman called D'Arblet?"

Helen had been at her dressing-table--her back was turned to him--he didnot see the livid pallor which blanched her cheeks at his question. 

A little pause, during which she busied herself among the trifles uponthe table. 

"No, I never heard the name in my life, " she said, at length. 

"That is odd--because neither have I--and yet the man has sent me aparcel. " It was of so little importance to him, that it did not occurto him that there could possibly be any occasion for secresy concerningVera's commission. What could an utter stranger have to send to him thatcould possibly concern him in any way?

It did not strike him how strained and forced was the voice in which hiswife presently asked him a question. 

"And the parcel! You have opened it?"

"No, not yet, " began Maurice, stifling a yawn; and he would have goneon to explain to her that it was not yet actually in his possession, although, probably, he would not have told her that it was Vera who wasto give it to him; only at that minute the maid came into the room, andhe changed the subject. 

But Helen had guessed that it was Vera who was the bearer of that parcel. How it had come to pass she could not tell, but too surely she divinedthat Vera had in her possession those fatal letters that she had oncewritten to the French vicomte; the letters that would blast her for everin her husband's estimation, and turn his luke-warmness and his coldnessinto actual hatred and repulsion. 

And was it likely that Vera, with such a weapon in her hands, would spareher? What woman, with so signal a revenge in her power, would forego thedelight of wreaking it upon the woman who had taken from her the man sheloved? Helen knew that in Vera's place she would show no mercy to herrival. 

It was all clear as daylight to her now; the appointment at the vicaragegate, the something which she had said in her note she had for him; thewhole mystery of the secret meeting between them--it was Vera's revenge. Vera, whom Maurice loved, and whom she, Helen, hated with such a deadlyhatred!

And then, in the silence of the night, whilst her husband slept, andwhilst the thunder and the wind howled about her home, Helen crept forthfrom her room, and sought for that fatal packet of letters which herhusband had told her he had "not yet" opened. 

Oh, if she could only find them and destroy them before he ever saw themagain! Long and patiently she looked for them, but her search was invain. She ransacked his study and his dressing-room; she opened everydrawer, and fumbled in every pocket, but she found nothing. 

She was frightened, too, to be about the house like a thief in the night. Every gust of wind that creaked among the open doors made her start, every flash of lightning that lighted up the faces of the old familyportraits, looking down upon her with their fixed eyes, made her turnpale and shiver, lest she should see them move, or hear them speak. 

Only her jealousy and her hatred burnt fiercely above her terror; shewould not give in, she told herself, until she found it. 

Denis Wilde, who was restless too, had heard her soft footsteps along thepassage outside his door; and, with a vague uneasiness as to who could beabout at such an hour, he came creeping out of his room, and peeped in atthe library door. 

He saw her sitting upon the floor, a lighted candle by her side, an opendrawer, out of her husband's writing-table, upon her lap, turning overpapers, and bills, and note-books with eager, trembling hands. And he sawin her white, set face, and wild, scared eyes, that which made him drawback swiftly and shudderingly from the sight of her. 

"Good God!" he murmured to himself, as he sought his room again, "thewoman has murder in her face!"

And at last she had to give it up; the letters were not to be found. Thestorm without settled itself to rest, the thunder died away in the fardistance over the hills, and Helen, worn out with fatigue and emotion, sought a troubled slumber upon the sofa in her dressing-room. 

"She cannot have given it to him, " was the conclusion she came to atlast. "Well, she will do so to-morrow, and I--I will not let her out ofmy sight, not for one instant, all the day!"

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

A GARDEN PARTY. 

 I have done for ever with all these things: The songs are ended, the deeds are done; There shall none of them gladden me now, not one. There is nothing good for me under the sun But to perish--as these things perished. 

 A. L. Gordon. 

Mr. Guy Miller is a young gentleman who has not played an important partin these pages; nevertheless, but for him, sundry events which took placeat Shadonake at this time would not have had to be recorded. 

It so happened that Guy Miller's twenty-first birthday was in the thirdweek of September, and that it was determined by his parents to celebratethe day in an appropriate and fitting manner. Guy was a youth of noparticular looks, and no particular manners; he had been at Oxford, but his father had lately taken him away from it, with a view to histravelling, and seeing something of the world before he settled downas a country gentleman. He had had no opportunity, therefore, ofdistinguishing himself at college; but as he was not overburdened withbrains, and had, moreover, never been known to study with interest anyprofounder literature than "Handley Cross" and "Mr. Sponge's SportingTour, " it is possible that, even had he been left undisturbed to pursuehis studies at the university, he would never have developed into abright or shining ornament at that seat of learning. 

As it was, Guy came home to the paternal mansion an ignorant but amiableand inoffensive young man, with a small, fluffy moustache, and noparticular bent in life beyond smoking short pipes, and loafing about thepremises with his hands in his trousers pockets. 

He was a tolerable shot, and a plucky, though not a graceful horseman. Hehated dancing because he trod on his partner's toes, and shunned ladies'society because he had to make himself agreeable to them. Nevertheless, having been fairly "licked into shape" by a course successively of Etonand of Oxford, he was able to behave like a gentleman in his mother'shouse when it was necessary for him to do so, and he quite appreciatedthe fact of his being an important personage in the Miller family. 

It was to celebrate the coming of age of this interesting young gentlemanthat Mr. And Mrs. Miller had settled to give a monster entertainment toseveral hundreds of their fellow-creatures. 

The proceedings were to include a variety of instructive and amusingpastimes, and were to last pretty nearly all day. There was to be acountry flower-show in a big tent on the lawn; that was pure business, and concerned the farmers as much as the gentry. There were also to beathletic sports in a field for the active young men, lawn-tennis for theactive young women, an amateur polo match got up by the energy and pluckof Miss Beatrice and her uncle Tom; a "cold collation" in a second tentto be going on all the afternoon; the whole to be finished up with adance in the large drawing room, for a select few, after sunset. 

The programme, in all conscience, was varied enough; and the day brokehopefully, after the wild storm of the previous night, bright and cooland sunny, with every prospect of being perfectly fine. 

Beatrice, happy in the possession of her lover, was full of life andenergy; she threw herself into all the preparations of the _fête_ withher whole heart. Herbert, who came over from Lutterton at an early hour, followed her about like a dog, obeying her orders implicitly, butimpeding her proceedings considerably by a constant under-current oflove-making, by which he strove to vary and enliven the operation ofsticking standard flags into the garden borders, and nailing up wreathsof paper roses inside the tent. 

Mrs. Miller, having consented to the engagement, like a sensible woman, was resolved to make the best of it, and was, if not cordial, at leastpleasantly civil to her future son-in-law. She had given over Beatriceas a bad job; she had resolved to find suitable matches for Guy and forGeraldine. 

By one o'clock the company was actually beginning to arrive, the smallfry of the neighbourhood being, of course, the first to appear. By-and-bycame the rank and fashion of Meadowshire, and by three o'clock thegardens were crowded. 

It was a brilliant scene; there was the gaily-dressed crowd going in andout of the tents, groups of elderly people sitting talking under thetrees, lawn-tennis players at one end of the garden, the militia bandplaying Strauss's waltzes at the other, the scarlet and white flagsfloating bravely over everybody in the breeze, and a hum of many voicesand a sound of merry laughter in every direction. 

Mr. And Mrs. Miller, and Guy, the hero of the day, moved about amongstthe guests from group to group. Guy, it must be owned, lookingconsiderably bored. Beatrice, with her lover in attendance, lookingflushed and rosy with the many congratulations which the news of herengagement called forth on every side; and the younger boys, home fromschool for the occasion, getting in everybody's way, and directing theirmain attention to the ices in the refreshment-tent. Such an afternoonparty, it was agreed, had not been held in Meadowshire within the memoryof man; but then, dear Mrs. Miller had such energy and such a real talentfor organization; and if the company _was_ a little mixed, why, ofcourse, she must recollect Mr. Miller's position, and how important itwas for him, with the prospect of a general election coming on, to makehimself thoroughly popular with all classes. 

No one in all the gay crowd was more admired or more noticed than "thebride, " as she was still called, young Mrs. Kynaston. Helen had surpassedherself in the elaboration of her toilette. The country dames anddamsels, in their somewhat dowdy home-made gowns, could scarcely remembertheir manners, so eager were they to stare at the marvels of thatwondrous garment of sheeny satin, and soft, creamy gauze, sprinkled overwith absolute works of art in the shape of wreaths of many-huedembroidered birds and flowers, with which the whole dress was cunninglyand dexterously adorned. It was a masterpiece of the great Worth; richwithout being gaudy, intricate without losing its general effect ofcolour, and, above all, utterly and absolutely inimitable by the handsof any meaner artist. 

Mrs. Kynaston looked well; no one had ever seen her look better; therewas an unusual colour in her cheeks, an unusual glitter in her blue eyes, that always seemed to be roving restlessly about her as though in searchof something even all the time she was saying her polite commonplaces inanswer to the pleasant and pretty speeches that she received on all sidesfrom men and women alike. 

But through it all she never let Vera Nevill out of her sight; where Veramoved, she moved also. When she walked across the lawn, Mrs. Kynastonmade some excuse to go in the same direction; when she entered either ofthe tents, Helen also found it necessary to go into them. But the crowdwas too great for any one to remark this; no one saw it save Denis Wilde, whose eyes were sharpened by his love. 

Once Helen saw that Maurice and Vera were speaking to each other. Shecould not get near enough to hear what they said, but she saw him benddown and speak to her earnestly, and there was a sad, wistful look inVera's upturned eyes as she answered him. Helen's heart beat with a wild, mad jealousy as she watched them; and yet it was but a few words that hadpassed between them. 

"Vera, young Wilde says you are going to marry him; is it true?"

"He wants me to do so, but I don't think I can. "

"Why not? It would be happier for you, child; forget the past and beginafresh. He is a good boy, and by-and-by he will be well off. "

"You, too--you advise me to do this?" she answered with unwontedbitterness. "Oh, how wise and calculating one ought to be to live happilyin this miserable world!"

He looked pained. 

"I cannot do you any good, " he said, rather brokenly. "God knows I wouldif I could. I can only be a curse to you. Give me at least the credit ofunselfishly wishing you to be less unhappy than you are. "

And then the crowd, moving onwards, parted them from each other. 

"Do not forget to meet me at the Bath, " she called out to him as he went. 

"Oh, to be sure! I had forgotten. I will be there just before the dancingbegins. "

And then Denis Wilde took his place by her side. 

If Mrs. Kynaston surpassed herself in looks and animation that day, Vera, on the contrary, had never looked less well. 

Her eyes were heavy with sleepless nights and many tears; her movementswere slower and more languid than of wont, and her face was pale andthin. 

Meadowshire generally, that had ceased to trouble itself much about herwhen she had thrown over the richest baronet in the county, considereditself, nevertheless, to be somewhat aggrieved by the falling off in herappearance, and passed its appropriate and ill-natured comments upon thefact. 

"How ill she looks, " said one woman to another. 

"Positively old. I suppose she thought she could whistle poor Sir Johnback again whenever she chose; now he is out of the country she wouldgive her eyes for him!"

"I daresay; and looks as if she had cried them out; but he must be gladto have escaped her! Well, it serves her right for behaving so badly. I'msure I don't pity her. "

"Nor I, indeed. "

And the two amiable women passed onwards to discuss some other ill-fatedvictim. 

But to the two men who loved her Vera that day was as beautiful as ever;for love sees no flaw in the face that reigns supreme in the soul. AndVera sat still in her corner of the tent where she had taken refuge, andleant her tired, aching head against a gaudy pink-and-white stripedpillar. It was the tent where the flower-show was going on. From hersheltered nook there was not much that was lovely to be seen, not avestige of a rose or a carnation to refresh her tired eyes, only acounter covered with samples of potatoes and monster cauliflowers;and there was a slab of white wood with pats of yellow butter, done up inmoss and ferns, which had been sent from the principal dairy-farms of thecounty, and before which there was a constant succession of elderly andinterested housewives tasting and comparing notes. There seemed somedifficulty in deciding to whom the butter prize was to be awarded, and atlast a committee of ladies was formed; they all tasted, solemnly, of eachsample all round, and then they each gave their verdict differently, sothat it had all to be done over again amidst a good deal of laughter andmerriment. 

Vera was vaguely amused by this scene that went on just in front of her. When the knotty point was settled, the committee moved on to decide uponsomething else, and she was left again to the uninterrupted contemplationof the Flukes and the York Regents. 

Denis Wilde had sat by her for some time, but at last she had begged himto leave her. Her head ached, she said; if he would not mind going, andhe went. 

Presently, Beatrice, beaming with happiness, found her out in her corner. 

"Oh, Vera!" she said, coming up to her, all radiant with smiles, "you arethe only one of my friends who has not yet wished me joy. "

"That is not because I have not thought of you, Beatrice, dear, " sheanswered, heartily grasping her friend's outstretched hands. "I was sovery glad to hear that everything has come right for you at last. How didit all happen?"

"I will come over to the vicarage to-morrow, and tell you the wholestory. Oh! do you remember meeting Herbert and me, that foggy morning, outside Tripton station?"

Would Vera ever forget it?

"I little thought then how happily everything was to end for us. I usedto think we should have to elope! Poor Herbert, he was always frightenedout of his life when I said that. But we have had a very narrow escapeof being blighted beings to the end of our lives. If it hadn't been foruncle Tom and that dear darling mare, Clochette, whom I should liketo keep in a gold and jewelled stall to the end of her ever-blesseddays!----Ah, well! I've no time to tell you now--I will come over toSutton to-morrow, and I may bring him, may I not?"

"Him, " of course, meaning Mr. Herbert Pryme. Vera requested that he mightbe brought by all means. 

"Well, I must run away now--there are at least a hundred of these stupidpeople to whom I must go and make myself agreeable. By the way, Vera, howdull you look, up in this corner by yourself. Why do you sit here allalone?"

"My head aches; I am glad to be quiet. "

"But you mean to dance by-and-by, I hope?"

"Oh, yes, I daresay. Go back to your guests, Beatrice; I am getting onvery well. "

Beatrice went off smiling and waving her hand. Vera could watch heroutside in the sunshine, moving about from group to group, shaking handswith first one and then another, laughing at some playful sally, orsmiling demurely over some graver words of kindness. She was alwayspopular, was Beatrice, with her bright talk and her plain clever face, and there was not a man or woman in all that crowd who did not wish herhappiness. 

And so the day wore away, and the polo match--very badly played--wasover, and the votaries of lawn-tennis were worn out with running up anddown, and the flowers and the fruits in the show-tent began to looklimp and dusty. The farmers and those people of small importance who hadonly been invited "from two to five, " began now to take their departure, and their carriage wheels were to be heard driving away in rapidsuccession from the front door. Then the hundred or so of the "bestcounty people, " who were remaining later for the dancing, began to thinkof leaving the lawns before the dew fell. There was a general movetowards the house, and even the band "limbered up, " and began to transferitself from the garden into the hall, where its labours were to beginafresh. 

Then it was that Vera crept forth out of her sheltered corner, and, unseen and unnoticed save by one watchful pair of eyes, wended her waythrough the shrubbery walks in the direction of the Bath. 

CHAPTER XXXV. 

SHADONAKE BATH. 

 A jolly place--in times of old, But something ails it now: The spot is cursed!

 Wordsworth. 

Calm and still, like the magic mirror of the legend, Shadonake Bath layamongst its everlasting shadows. 

The great belt of fir-trees beyond it, the sheltering evergreens onthe nearer side, the tiers of grey, moss-grown steps that encompassedit about, all found their image again upon its smooth and untroubledsurface. There was a golden light from the setting sun to the west, and the pale mist of a shadowy crescent moon had risen in the east. 

It was all quiet here--faint echoes of distant voices and far-awaylaughter came up in little gusts from the house; but there was no traceof the festivities down by the desolate water, nothing but the darkfir-trees above it, and the great white heads of the water-lilies thatlay like jewels upon its silent bosom. 

Vera sat down upon the steps, and rested her chin in her hands, andwaited. The house and the gardens behind her were shut out by the thickscreen of laurels and rhododendrons. Before her, on the other side, werethe fir-trees, with their red, bronzed trunks, and the soft, dark browncarpet that lay at their feet; there was not even a squirrel stirringamong their branches, nor a bird that fluttered beneath their shadows. 

Vera waited. She was not impatient nor anxious. She had nothing to sayto Maurice when he came--she did not mean to keep him, not even for fiveminutes, by her side; she did not want to run any further risks withhim--it was better not--better that she should never again be alone withhim. She only meant just to give him that wretched little brown paperparcel that weighed upon her conscience with the sense of an unfulfilledvow, and then to go back with him to the house at once. They could havenothing more to say to each other. 

Strangely enough, as she sat there musing all her life came back inreview before her. The old days at Rome, with the favourite sister whowas dead and gone; her own gay, careless life, with its worldly aims anddesires; her first arrival at Sutton, her determination to make herselfSir John Kynaston's wife, and then her fatal love for his brother; it allcame back to her again. All kinds of little details that she had longforgotten came flooding in upon her memory. She remembered how she hadfirst seen Maurice standing at the foot of the staircase, with the lightof the lamp upon his handsome head; and then, again, how one morning sheand he had stood together in this very place by the Bath, and how she hadtold him, shuddering, that it would be dreadful to be drowned there, andshe had cried out in a nameless terror that she wished she had not seenit for the first time with him by her side; and then Helen had come downfrom the house and joined them, and they had all three gone awaytogether. She smiled a little to herself over that foolish, reasonlessterror. The quiet pool of water did not look dreadful to her now--onlycool, and still, and infinitely restful. 

By-and-by other thoughts came into her mind. She recalled her interviewwith old Lady Kynaston at Walpole Lodge, when she had so nearly promisedher to give back her hand to her eldest son, when she would have done sohad it not been for that sight of Maurice's face in the adjoining room. She wondered what Lady Kynaston had thought of her sudden change of mind;what she had been able to make of it; whether she had ever guessed atwhat had been the truth. It seemed only yesterday that the old lady hadtold her to be wise and brave, and to begin her life over again, and tomake the best of the good things of this world that were still left toher. 

"There is a pain that goes right through the heart, " Maurice's mother hadsaid to her; "I who speak to you have felt it. I thought I should die ofit, but you see I did not. "

Alas! did not Vera know that pain all too well; that heartache thatbanishes peace by day and sleep by night, and that will not wear itselfout?

And yet other women had borne it, and had lived and been even happy inother ways; but she could not be happy. Was it because her heart wasdeeper, or because her sense of pain was greater than that of others?

Vera could not tell. She only wished, and longed, and even prayed thatshe might have the strength to become Denis Wilde's wife; that she mighttaste once more of peace, if not of joy; and yet all her longings and allher prayers only made her realize the more how utterly the thing wasbeyond her power. 

To Maurice, and Maurice alone, belonged her life and her soul, and Verafelt that it would be easier for her to be true to the sad, dim memoryof his love than to give her heart and her allegiance to any other uponearth. 

So she sat and mused, and pondered, and the amber light in the east fadedaway into palest saffron, and the solemn shadows deepened and lengthenedupon the still bosom of the water. 

Suddenly there came a sharp footstep and the rustle of a woman's silkenskirts across the stone flags behind her. She looked up quickly; Helenstood beside her. Helen, in all the sheen of her gay Paris garments, with the evening light upon her uncovered head, and the glow of apassion, fiercer than madness, in her glittering eyes. Some prescienceof evil--she knew not of what--made Vera spring to her feet. 

Helen spoke to her shortly and defiantly. 

"Miss Nevill, you are waiting here for my husband, are you not?"

A faint flush rose in Vera's face. 

"Yes, " she answered, very quietly. "I am waiting to speak a few words tohim. "

"You have something to give him, have you not? Some letters that aremine, and which you have probably read. "

Helen said the words quickly and feverishly; her voice shook andtrembled. Vera looked surprised and even indignant. 

"I don't understand you, Mrs. Kynaston, " she began, coldly. 

"Oh, yes, you understand me perfectly. Give me my letters, Miss Nevill;you have no doubt read them all, " and she laughed harshly and sneeringly. 

"Mrs. Kynaston, you are labouring under some delusion, " said Vera, quietly; "I have no letters of yours, and if I had, " with a ring of uttercontempt, "I should not be likely to have opened them. "

For it did not occur to her that Helen was speaking of MonsieurD'Arblet's parcel; that did not in the least convey the idea of lettersto her mind; nor had it ever entered into her head to speculate aboutwhat that unhappy little packet could possibly contain; she had nevereven thought about it. 

"I have no letters of yours, " she repeated. 

"You are saying what is false, " cried Helen, angrily. "How can you dareto deny it? You know you have got them, you are here to give them toMaurice, knowing that they will ruin me. You _shall_ not give them tohim. I have come to take them from you--I _will_ have them. "

"I do not even know what you are speaking about, " answered Vera. "Whyshould I want to ruin you, if, indeed, such a thing is to be done?"

"Because you hate me as much as I hate you. "

"Hate is an ugly word, " said Vera, rather scornfully. "I have no reasonto hate you, and I do not know why you should hate me. "

"Don't imagine you can put me off with empty words, " cried Helen, wildly. She made a step forward; her white hands clenched themselves togetherwith a reasonless fury; she was as white as the crescent moon that rosebeyond the trees. 

"Give me my letters--the letters you are waiting here to give to myhusband!" she cried. 

"Mrs. Kynaston, do not be so angry, " said Vera, becoming almostbewildered by her violence; "you are really mistaken--pray calm yourself. I have no letters: what I was going to give your husband was only alittle parcel from a man who is abroad--he is a foreigner. I do not thinkit is of the slightest importance to anybody. I have not opened it, Ihave no idea what it contains, and your husband himself said it wasnothing--only I have promised to give it him alone; it was a whim of thelittle Frenchman who entrusted me with it, and whom, I must honestly tellyou, I believe to have been half-mad. Only, unfortunately, I havepromised to deliver it in this manner. "

Mrs. Kynaston was looking at her fixedly; her anger seemed to have diedaway. 

"Yes, " she said, "it was Monsieur D'Arblet who gave them to you. "

"That was his name, D'Arblet. I did not like the man; but he bothered meuntil I foolishly undertook his commission. I am sorry now that I did so, as it seems to vex you so much; but I do not think there are letters inthe parcel, and I certainly have not opened it. "

Helen was silent again for a minute, looking at her intently. 

"I don't believe you, " she said; "they are my letters, sure enough, andyou have read them. What woman would not do so in your place? and youknow that they will ruin me with my husband. "

"It is you yourself that tell me so!" cried Vera, impatiently, beginningto lose her temper. "I do not even know what you are talking about!"

"Miss Nevill!" cried Helen, suddenly changing her tone; "give that parcelto me, I entreat you. "

"I am very sorry, Mrs. Kynaston; I cannot possibly do so. "

"Oh yes, you can--you will, " said Helen, imploringly. "What can it matterto you now? It is I who am his wife; you cannot get any good out of amere empty revenge. Why should you spoil my chance of winning his heart?I know well enough that he loves you, but----"

"Mrs. Kynaston, pray, pray recollect yourself; do not say such words tome!" cried Vera, deeply distressed. 

"Why should I not say them! You and I know well enough that it is true. I hate you, I am jealous of you, for I know that my husband loves you;and yet, if you will only give me that parcel, I will forgive you--Iwill try to live at peace with you--I will even pray and strive for yourhappiness! Let me have a chance of making him love me!"

"For God's sake, Mrs. Kynaston, do not say these things to me!" criedVera. She was crimson with pain and shame, and shocked beyond measurethat his wife should be so lost to all decency and self-respect as tospeak so openly of her husband's love for herself. 

"I will not and cannot listen to you!"

"But you will not be so cruel as to ruin me?" pleaded Helen; "only giveme that parcel, and I shall be safe! You say you have not opened it;well, I can hardly believe it, because in your place I should have readevery word; yet, if you will give them to me, I will forgive you. "

"You do not understand what you are saying!" cried Vera, impatiently. "How can I give you what is not mine to give? I have no right to disposeof this parcel"--she held it in her hand--"and I have given my word thatI will give it to your husband alone. How could I be so false as to doanything else with it? You are asking impossibilities, Mrs. Kynaston. "

"You will not give it to me?" There was a sudden change in Helen'svoice--she pleaded no longer. 

"No, certainly not. "

"And that is your last word?"

"Yes. "

There was a silence. Helen looked away over the water towards thefir-trees. She was pale, but very quiet; all her angry agitation seemedto have died away. Vera stood a little beneath her on the lowest step, close down to the water; she held the little parcel that was the objectof the dispute in her hands, and was looking at it with an expression ofdeep annoyance; she was wishing heartily that she had never seen eitherit or the wretched little Frenchman who had insisted upon confiding it toher care. 

Neither of them spoke; for an instant neither of them even moved. Therewas a striking contrast between them: Helen, slight and fragile in herbird-of-paradise garments, with jewels about her neck, and golden chainsat her wrist; her pretty piquant face, almost childish in the contour ofthe small, delicate features. Vera, in her plain, tight-fitting dress, whose only beauty lay in the perfect simplicity with which it followedthe lines of her glorious figure; her pure, lovely face, laden with itsburden of deep sadness, a little turned away from the other woman who hadtaken everything from her, and left her life so desolate. And there wasthe silent pool at their feet, and the darkening belt of fir-treesbeyond, and the pale moon ever brightening in the shadowy heavens. It wasa picture such as a painter might have dreamt of. 

Not a sound--only once the faint cry of some wild animal in the far-offwoods, and the flutter of a night-moth on the wing. Helen's face wasturned eastwards towards the fast-fading evening glow. 

What is it that sends the curse of Cain into the human heart?

Did some foul and evil thing, wandering homeless around that fatal spot, enter then and there, unbidden, into her sin-stained soul? Or had thehellish spirit been always there within her, only biding its time toburst forth in all its naked and hideous horror?

God only knows. 

"Vera, gather me a water-lily! See how lovely they are. I am going backto dance; I want a water-lily. "

Vera looked up startled. The sudden change of manner and the familiarmention of her name struck her as strange. Helen was leaning towards her, all flushed and eager, pointing with her glistening, jewelled fingersover the water. 

"Don't you see how white they are, and how they gleam in the moonlightlike silver? Would not one of them look lovely in my hair?"

"I do not think I can reach them, " said Vera, slowly. She was puzzled andhalf-frightened by the quick, feverish words and manner. 

"Yes, yes, your arms are long--much longer than mine; you can reach themvery well. See, I will hold the sleeve of your dress like this; it isvery strong. I can hold you quite safely. Kneel down and reach out forit, Vera. Do, please, I want it so much. There is one so close there, just beyond your hand. Stoop over a little further; don't be afraid;I have got you tightly. "

And Vera knelt and stretched out over the dark face of the waters. 

Then, all at once, there was a cry--a wild struggle--a splash of thedark, seething waves--and Helen stood up again in her bright raimentalone on the margin of the pool; whilst ever-widening circles stretchedhurriedly away and away, as though terror-stricken, from the balefulspot where Vera Nevill had sunk below the ill-fated waters. 

 * * * * *

Someone came madly rushing out of the bushes behind her. Helen screamedaloud. 

"It was an accident! She slipped forward--her footing gave way!" gaspedthe unhappy woman in her terror. "Oh, Maurice, for pity's sake, believeme; it was an accident!" She sunk upon her knees, with wildlyoutstretched arms, and trembling, and uplifted hands. 

"Stand aside, " he said, hoarsely, pushing her roughly from him, so thatshe almost fell to the earth, and he plunged deep into the stillquivering waters. 

It was the water-lilies that brought her to her death. The long clingingstems amongst which she sank held her fair body in their cold, clammyembraces, so that she never rose again. It was long before they foundher. 

And, oh! who shall ever describe that dreadful scene by the margin ofShadonake Bath, whilst the terrified crowd that had gathered therequickly waited for her whom all knew to be hopelessly gone from them forever!

The sobbing, frightened women; the white, stricken faces of the men; theagony of those who had loved her; the distress and dismay of those whohad only admired her; and there was one trembling, shuddering wretch, inher satin and her jewels, standing white and haggard apart, with kneesthat shook together, and teeth that clattered, and tearless sobs thatshook her from head to foot, staring with a half-maddened stare upon thefatal waters. 

Then, when all was at an end and the worst was known, when the poordripping body had been reverently covered over and borne away by lovingarms amid a torrent of sobs and wailing tears towards the house, thensome one came near her and spoke to her--some one off whom the water camepouring in streams, and whose face was white and wild as her own. 

"Get you away out of my sight, " said the man whom she had loved sofruitlessly to her. 

"Have pity! have pity!" was the cry of despair that burst from herquivering lips. "Was it not all an accident?"

"Yes, let it be so to the world, because you bear my name, and I will nothave it dragged through the mire--to all others it is an accident--butnever to me, for _I saw you let her go_! There is the stain of murderupon your hands. I will never call you wife, nor look upon your faceagain; get yourself away out of my sight!"

With a low sobbing cry she turned and fled away from him, and away fromthe place, out among the shadows of the fir-trees. Once again some onestopped her in her terror-stricken flight. 

It was Denis Wilde, who came striding towards her under the trees, andcaught her roughly by the wrist. 

"It is _you_ who have killed her!" he said, savagely. 

"What do you mean?" she murmured, faintly. 

"I saw it in your face last night when you were wandering about the houseduring the thunderstorm; you meant her death then. I saw it in your eyes. My God! why did I not watch over her better, and save her from such adevil as you?"

"No, no, it is not true; it was an accident. Oh, spare me, spare me!"with a piteousness of terror, was all she could say. 

"Yes; I will spare you, poor wretch, for your husband's sake--because sheloved him--and his burden, God help him! is heavy enough as it is. Go!"flinging her arm rudely from him. "Go, whilst you have got time, lest thethirst for your blood be too strong for me. "

And this time no one saw her go. Like a hunted animal, she fled awayamong the trees, her gleaming many-hued dress trailing all wet anddrabbled on the sodden earth behind her, and the darkness of thegathering night closed in around her, and covered her in mercy withits pitiful mantle. 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

AT PEACE. 

 Open, dark grave, and take her: Though we have loved her so, Yet we must now forsake her: Love will no more awake her: Oh bitter woe! Open thine arms and take her To rest below!

 A. Procter. 

So Vera was at peace at last. The troubled life was over; the vexedquestion of her fate was settled for her. There was to be no morestruggling of right against wrong, of expediency against truth, for herfor evermore. She had all--nay, more than all she wanted now. 

"It was what she desired herself, " said the vicar, brokenly, as he kneltby the side of her who had been so dear and precious to him. "Only aSunday or two ago she said to me 'If I could die, I should be at peace. '"

And Maurice, with hidden face at the foot of the bed, could not answerhim for tears. 

It was there, by that white still presence, that lay so calm and solovely amongst the showers of heavy-scented waxen flowers, wherewithloving hands had decked her for her last long sleep; it was there thatEustace learnt at last the secret of her life, and the fatal love thathad so wrecked her happiness. It was all clear to him now. Her struggles, her temptations, her pitiful moments of weakness and misery, hercourageous strife against the hopelessness of her fate--all was madeplain now: he understood her at last. 

In Maurice Kynaston's passion of despairing grief he read the story ofher sad life's trouble. 

Truly, Maurice had enough to bear; for he alone, and one other, who spokeno word of it to him, knew the terrible secret of her death; to all elseit was "an accident;" to him and to Denis Wilde alone it was "murder. " Tohim, too, the motive of the foul, cowardly deed had been revealed; for, tightly clasped in that poor dead hand, true to the last to the trustthat had been given her, was the fatal packet of letters that had beenthe cause of her death. They were all blotted and blurred, and soddenwith the water, but there were whole sentences in the inner folds thatwere sufficient for him to recognize his wife's handwriting, and to seewhat was the drift and the meaning of them. 

Whom they were written to, when they had been penned, he neither knew norcared to discover; it was enough for him that they had been written byher, and that they were altogether shameful and sinful. With a deep andsickened disgust, he set fire to the whole packet, and scattered theblackened and smouldering ashes into the empty grate. They had cost ahuman life, those reckless, sinful letters; but for them, Vera would nothave died. 

The terrible tragedy came to an end at last. They buried her beneath thecoloured mosaic floor of the new chancel, which Sir John had built at herdesire; and Marion smothered herself and her children in crape, andpeople shook their heads and sighed when they spoke of her; and Shadonakewas shut up, and the Millers all went to London; and then the world wentits way, and after a time it forgot her; and Vera Nevill's place knew herno more. 

 * * * * *

After Christmas there was a wedding in Eaton Square; a wedding small andnot at all gay. Indeed, Geraldine Miller considered her sister next doorto a lunatic, and she told herself it would be hardly worth while to bemarried at all if there was to be no more fuss made over her marriagethan over Beatrice's. For there were no bridesmaids and no weddingguests, only all the Millers, from the eldest down to the youngest, uncleTom, and an ancient Miss Esterworth, unearthed from the other end ofEngland for the occasion; and there were also a Mr. And Mrs. Pryme, a grave and aged couple--uncle and aunt to the bridegroom. 

There was, however, one remarkable feature at this particular wedding:when the family party came down into the dining-room to take their placesfor the conventional breakfast upon the plate of the bride's father wereto be seen some very curious things. 

These were a faded white lace parasol with pink bows; a pair of soiledgrey _peau de suède_ gloves, and a little black wisp of a spotted netveil. 

"Bless my soul!" said the member for Meadowshire, putting up hiseye-glasses; "what on earth is all this?"

"I think you have seen them before, papa, " says the bride, demurely, whilst uncle Tom bursts into a loud and hearty guffaw of laughter. 

"Good gracious me!" says Mr. Miller, turning rather red, and lookingbewilderedly from his daughter to his wife: "I don't really understand. Caroline, my dear, do you know the meaning of these--these--mostextraordinary objects?"

Mrs. Miller draws near and examines the little heap of faded finerycritically. "Why, Beatrice!" she exclaims, in astonishment, "it is yourlast summer's sunshade, and a pair of your old gloves: how on earth didthey come here on your papa's plate?"

"I put them there; I thought papa would like to see them again, " criesBeatrice, laughing; "he met them in Herbert's rooms in the Temple one daylast summer. "

"_Beatrice!_" falters her father, staring in amazement at her. 

"Yes, papa, dear, don't be too dreadfully shocked at me; it was I, yourvery naughty daughter, who had gone on the sly to see Herbert in theTemple, and I ran into the next room to hide myself when I heard you comein, and left those stupid tell-tale things on the table! I don't think, now I am Herbert's wife, that it matters very much how much I confess ofmy improprieties, does it?"

"Good gracious me!" says Mr. Miller, solemnly, and then turns round andshakes hands with his son-in-law. "And I might have retained you for thatlibel case after all, instead of getting in a young fool who lost it forme!" was all he said. And then the sunshade and the gloves were sweptaway, and they all sat down and ate a very good breakfast, and drank tothe bride and bridegroom's health none the less heartily for that curiouslittle explanatory scene at the beginning of the feast. 

 * * * * *

Maurice Kynaston has joined his brother in Australia, where, report says, they are doing very well, and rapidly making a large fortune; although noone thinks that either brother will ever leave the country of hisadoption and return to England. 

Old Lady Kynaston lives on alone at Walpole Lodge; she is getting veryaged, and is a dull, solitary old woman now, with an ever-present sadnessat her heart. 

Before he left England Maurice told her the story of his love for Vera, and the whole truth about her death. The old lady knows that Vera and herfatal beauty has wrecked the lives of both her sons. There will be notender filial hands to close her dying eyes, no troops of merrygrandchildren to cheer and brighten her closing years. They will liveaway from her, and she will die alone. She knows it--and she is very, very sad. 

In South Kensington there lives a gay, world-loving woman who keeps openhouse, and entertains perpetually. She has horses and carriages, and abox at the opera, and is always to be seen faultlessly dressed and thegayest of the gay at every race meeting, and at every scene of pleasure. 

People admire her and flatter her, and speak lightly of her too, sometimes, for it is generally known that Mrs. Kynaston is "separated"from her husband; and though a separation is a perfectly respectablething, and has no possible connection with a divorce, yet there are uglywhispers in this case as to what is the cause of the dissension betweenthe husband in Australia and the wife in London; whispers that oftendo not fall very far short of the truth. And, gay as she is, andlight-hearted as she seems to be, there are times when pretty Mrs. Kynaston is more to be pitied than any wretched beggar who toils alongthe streets, for always there is the terror of detection at her heart, and the fear that her dreadful secret, known as it is to at least twopersons on earth, may ooze out--be guessed by others. 

There are things Mrs. Kynaston can never do: to read of some dreadfulmurder such as occasionally fills all the papers for days with itssickening details makes her shut herself in her own room till thehorrible tragedy is over and forgotten; to hear of such things spokenof in society causes her to faint away with terror. To walk by a pond, or even to speak of being rowed upon a lake or river, fills her withsuch horror of soul that none of her friends ever care to suggest awater-party of any kind to her. 

"She saw that poor Miss Nevill drowned, " say her compassionateacquaintances; "it has upset her nerves, poor dear; she cannot bear thesight of water. " And there are a few who think, and who are not ashamedto whisper their thoughts with bated breath, that she saw Miss Nevill'ssad death too near and too well to be utterly spotless in the matter. 

That she allowed her to perish without attempting to save her, becauseshe was jealous of her, is the generally received impression; but thereis no one who has quite realized that she was actually guilty of herdeath. 

Did they think so, they could not eat her dinners with decency. And theydo eat her dinners, which are uncommonly good ones; and they flock to herhouse, and they sit in her carriage and her opera-box, and they take allthey can get from her, although at their hearts they do not care to beintimate with her. But then money covers a multitude of sins. And a greatmany crimes may be glossed over if we are only rich enough and popularenough, and sufficiently the fashion. 

As to Denis Wilde, he was young, and in time he got over it and marriedan amiable young lady who bore him three children and loved himdevotedly, so that after a while he forgot his first love. 

Shadonake Bath has been drained. Mr. Miller has at last been allowed tohave his own way about it. It is an ill wind that blows nobody any good, and there could be found no voice to plead for its preservation afterthat terrible tragedy of which it was the scene. 

So the old steps have all been cleared away, and brick walls line thestraight deep sides, whereon grow the finest peaches and nectarines inthe county, whilst a parterre of British Queens and Hautboys cover thespot where Vera died with their rich red fruit and their luxuriantfoliage. 

And at Sutton things go on much the same as of old. Old Mrs. Daintree isdead, and no one sorrowed much for her loss, whilst the domestic harmonyis decidedly enhanced by her absence. Tommy and Minnie are growing bigand lanky, and the subject of schools and education is beginning tooccupy the minds of Marion and her husband. 

But the vicar has grown grey and old; his back is more bent and his facemore careworn than it used to be. He has never been quite the same sinceVera's death. 

There is a white marble monument in the middle of the chancel, raised bythe loving hands of two brothers far away in Australia. It is by the bestsculptor of the day, and on it lies a pale white figure, with a puredelicate profile, and hands always meekly crossed upon the bosom. 

Every Sunday, as Eustace Daintree passes from his place at thereading-desk up to the altar to read the Communion Service, there fallsupon it a streak of sunshine from the painted window above, which hehimself and his wife had put up to her memory, lighting up the palemarble image with a chequered glory of gold and crimson. And the vicar'seye as he passes alights for a moment with a never-dying sadness upon thesimple words carved at the foot of her tomb--

 Vera Nevill, aged 23. 

 AT PEACE. 

 * * * * *

MRS. CAMERON'S NOVELS. 

Jack's Secret. 

A Sister's Sin. 

A Lost Wife. 

The Cost of a Lie. 

This Wicked World. 

A Devout Lover. 

A Life's Mistake. 

Worth Winning. 

Vera Neville. 

Pure Gold. 

In a Grass Country. 

 "Mrs. Cameron's numerous efforts in the line of fiction have won for her a wide circle of admirers. Her experience in novel writing, as well as her skill in inventing and delineating characters, enables her to put before the reading public stories that are full of interest and pure in tone. "--_Harrisburg Telegraph_.