A woman's patience

The dull twilight of a late October afternoon. Overhead, great clouds sailing majestically across a darkening sky; down in the valley a murmuring of tidal waters mingled with the low wailing of a weary southern wind; all about a pale chill mist rising from the winding river; on the summit of the lonely downs a lingering streak of amber; and on the far horizon an ever-deepening shadow, that would become luminous ere long, showing to the belated traveller where a great city of the West sent up the glow of its myriad lights to heaven.

About half-way between the salt and muddy waves of the sea-bound river and the dark fir-crest that crowned the nearest hill, was a broad and level coach-road, cutting into almost equal portions, on the right side and on the left, the populous village of Westerleigh, the favourite residence of the wealthy magnates of Redminster--the distant city that was even now casting its lurid reflection on the nightfall sky. Along this road, on that October afternoon, came a tall and finely-built young man, who carried his head proudly, and advanced with a firm, quick step, and a well-assured manner, as one bent upon a settled purpose, and doubting not the swift accomplishment of his own good will and pleasure. On he sped, right through the village street; past the shops that were already beginning to light up; past many houses where blinds were being lowered, and shutters closed; past the Post Office, and the National School, and the Church, and the Rectory, and the new Convalescent Home, lately founded by a rich citizen of Redminster, till he found himself once more in the open country, where the gas-lamps ceased, and the trees rustled, and the monotone of the restless river sounded ever louder and louder as the twilight deepened, and the bustle and hum of village life were left behind. And as the schoolmistress stood at her own door--one of the very last in Westerleigh proper--she nodded her head significantly, and observed to her friend and landlady, Mrs. Gill: "There he goes!--off to Roselle, of course! A fine thing for Miss Emmeline to be courted by Mr. Percy Lauriston;--only, they do say his pa and ma will not hear a word about its being a real engagement."

"I should think not," said Mrs. Gill, very gravely. "Miss Emmeline Vernon is not for Mr. Percival Lauriston. Take my word for it, Mary Ann Page, that will never be a match!"

"And why not? Everybody knows he doats upon her, and I am sure she is desperately fond of him. And no wonder!--a handsomer couple was never seen. And she is well-born, too--no puddle of common blood in her veins; her father a General who has served his country, and her mother a lady of quality! I shouldn't be surprised if an Earl, or a Duke even, should come courting Miss Emmeline!"

"Nor should I be a bit surprised, for a fairer face than hers I've never seen; no, not in a picture! I've been in the 'Beauty Room' at Hampton Court, as I've often told you, Mary Ann; but not one of those much-be-praised ladies--if they were like their portraits--was fit to hold a candle to General Vernon's daughter. As far as beauty goes, she is one in a thousand. But for all that, I don't think she will marry our Mr. Percy."

"Well!" replied Mary Ann; "we all know that the course of true love never did run smooth, and never will, I suppose; but it's a downright pity. However, we shall see. Mr. Percy won't take 'nay' from any of them, if he is what I count him to be. Sooner or later, he'll have his way; and if it isn't sooner, he'll just wait patiently till later. Some men change as easily as the wind; they are on with the new love before they are off with the old; but he is of a different sort. If he means to marry Miss Emmeline Vernon, he'll marry her--some day."

"Maybe, but I think not; and I've my reasons, Mary Ann. It's well known in these parts that Mr. Percival Lauriston must marry money, and there's right little of that at Roselle."

"But the Lauristons are rich enough, surely! Why should money mate with money? I can understand good blood, as it's called, not caring to match itself with puddle--such as mine and yours, Mrs. Gill; but rich folks marrying rich folks seems to me both covetous and foolish. And Miss Vernon has everything but money. When the Bishop was here the other day for the confirmation, I know for certain that he said she had beauty enough for ten women--and so she has!"

"Well, Mary Ann, it's nothing to us what our betters say or what they do among themselves. Come into the house, for I want my tea, and the kettle was almost on the boil when I came out to look for you. I've got a potato-cake, too; it's just ready for toasting."

And while the women chattered about him and his beautiful Emmeline, Percival Lauriston had reached Roselle, and found, as he fully expected, that General Vernon, for whom he craftily inquired, had not yet returned from Redminster.

"But Miss Vernon's just taking a cup of tea, sir, if you would like to walk in," said the spruce parlour-maid--there were no men-servants at Roselle--"she'll be glad to see some one, I know; she's been lonesome enough all day; for the General went by an early train to Redminster."

Percival intimated that he would pay his respects to Miss Vernon, and in another minute he was in the cosy little drawing-room, and, almost before the door was shut, Emmeline was in his arms; the two were evidently acknowledged and devoted lovers. The room in which they met was small and low, but charmingly arranged; the furniture was not costly, but in perfect taste; the draperies were of simple, pretty chintz; the ornaments were chiefly Indian curiosities; there were several watercolour drawings on the walls; a few chrysanthemums were carelessly disposed in cheap but graceful vases; a Persian cat slept on the hearthrug; and the glow of a splendid coal-fire pervaded the whole apartment. Emmeline Vernon was sipping her tea by firelight.

Mrs. Gill was quite right when she preferred her to the Hampton Court beauties of renown, for Emmeline was the perfection of feminine loveliness, and her wit was as sparkling as her face was fair. She was just nineteen, of fairy-like proportions, graceful in all her movements, with a thousand pretty little ways of her own, and a smile that might have witched the heart out of the gravest and austerest of philosophers. No wonder that Percival Lauriston, with his four-and-twenty years, his passionate admiration of beauty, and his ardent, impulsive nature, should be utterly taken captive by this fair daughter of the West. And he accounted himself the most fortunate of men in that so exquisite a creature, so perfect a "phantom of delight," and yet

"Not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food,"

had fallen in his way, when he might have searched the whole world over and failed to find one so pure and true and altogether lovely. And, what was still more felicitous, he had won this "perfect woman, nobly planned," and she was all his own. Her sweetest smiles were for him, her rosy lips were his, her fondest words were for him alone, and she had promised only a few weeks before to become his wife.

Only--only! there was a lion in the way. Mr. Lauriston, of Castledine, had "other views" for his eldest son, and though, so far, those views had not been communicated, Percy was pretty certain that they were in no way connected with Emmeline Vernon. Still, he was, in point of law, his own master; and he thought, and rightly too, that a man, fully arrived at man's estate, should choose for himself the future companion of his life. He had passed through a well-known public school and through the University with success, almost amounting to éclat; he was fond of literature; he had refined and luxurious tastes; and, these considered, he was not very much in debt. But, as the eldest son, he had no profession:--his brother Hugh was studying for the law. He was, therefore, altogether dependent on his father; the small fortune which his mother--an Earl's daughter--had brought into the family being settled on the younger children. And as Emmeline was portionless, and Percival's allowance had never yet entirely sufficed for his own personal needs, the question of ways and means was certainly a formidable one, since the young couple, notwithstanding their sublime disregard of "worldly pelf" and "vulgar dross," as they styled that useful commodity which is represented by £ s. d., would require the wherewithal to secure for themselves, and possibly for others in course of time, food and raiment, also shelter for their heads. Of course, in the first flush of their mutual happiness, lovers can scarcely be expected to concern themselves with such purely prosaic facts as house-rent, Queen's taxes, butchers and bakers bills, servants' wages, and the like; but still, they must be considered, if the courtship is supposed to end in marriage, as all honourable courtships should. And General Vernon, on receiving his daughter's confidence, had impressed upon her the absolute necessity of seeing her way clear before her.

"Love and romance are very pretty things, I acknowledge," he said, with much emphasis; "but love--married love, at least--needs something more substantial than roses and kisses and honeyed nonsense for its daily fare. If things are all on the square, you could not do better than marry Percy Lauriston. He must be one day master of Castledine; but I warn you that I shall not consent to anything clandestine, for it won't answer. In this case I know it won't."

The lovers had subsided a little, and were quietly drinking their tea in the pleasant glow of the fire, when Emmeline asked if all was well at Castledine. She and the General were received by the elder Lauristons, but they were not favourites. Mr. Lauriston had taken curious prejudice against General Vernon; and Lady Maria, though struck with Emmeline's lovely face, and attracted by her graceful manners, had never cordially liked her, and she had never liked her so little as now, after two years' acquaintance--for so long and no longer time had elapsed since the Vernons first came to reside at Roselle. It had lately dawned upon her ladyship's mind that her eldest son was far more intimate with both father and daughter than was at all desirable.

"Yes," said Percy, balancing his spoon as he spoke; "they are all tolerably salubrious, thank you. My mother and Adela are going to a ball to-night, and they wanted me to accompany them. I was invited, of course; but I preferred remaining at home. There is an article in Blackwood that I want to read; and I find very little pleasure in spinning about like a teetotum with girls for whom I care nothing at all."

"Would you like it better if you danced with some girl for whom you did care?"

"No need to ask that question. And, by the way, Emmeline, I wonder you were not included in the invitation. You know the Rudells?"

"Yes--a little, that is. But the Rudells would never think of asking me to one of their select entertainments. I am not nearly grand enough."

"Nonsense! I don't know what you mean by not being grand enough. The Rudells are old county people--no parvenus, nor rich, upstart citizens, and they choose their friends for what they are, and not for what they have. And you met them at Castledine, too."

"At a garden-party. Did it ever strike you, Percy, that I have not yet been asked to dine at your father's table?"

"It never did; but, now you mention it, I do not recollect your having dined with us. That, however, is an omission that can soon be rectified; as my future wife, you will naturally, and at once, take your proper position at Castledine."

"As your future wife? Oh, Percy, shall I ever be regarded in that light at Castledine? Will Mr. Lauriston and Lady Maria ever receive me as their daughter?"

"Why should they not? Where will they find one lovelier, purer, sweeter, than my own Emmeline? A titled girl, do you say? Oh, no, they are not so foolish: it is not necessary that sons, in such cases--in any case, indeed, should follow in their father's steps. And my grandfather's coronet was rather a modern gimcrack, I am afraid; my lady-mother is not a 'Vere de Vere'; she is not by any means the 'daughter of a hundred earls.' And, really, you know, the bluest blood in the country is seldom to be found in the ranks of the Peerage; nearly all, though not quite all, the oldest and best British families are untitled. You are much better than many a mushroom 'my lady'--you, a Vernon, and the daughter of a man who has nobly served his country! You have beauty, and birth, and goodness, my sweet one, and you have confessed that you love me dearly,--what more could reasonable parents ask?"

"Percy, I am dowerless. Papa's income, to a large extent, dies with him. He has been most unfortunate in all his investments; for the last three years--ever since that young curate at Exbridge was silly enough to propose for me--I have known that I must go empty-handed to any man who takes me for his wife. I am like the heroine of the old ballad, 'My face is my fortune, sir, she said.'"

"'Then I will marry you, my pretty maid!'" was Percy's reply, "and a very handsome fortune it is, in my estimation. What do I care about the dirty yellow stuff; I would not, for all the world could offer, marry an heiress."

"But if you loved an heiress?"

"If! Ah! ifs and buts are the most tyrannical words in the English language. I shall never love an heiress, unless you become one, my Emmeline; and, on the whole I had far rather wed a penniless lass than an improved edition of Miss Kilmansegg! You are quite rich enough for me, darling, and I am vain enough to believe that you would prefer a modest competency with me to a hundred thousand a year with any other man."

"Ah! would I not! It is the truth, Percy; the richest and most nobly-born suitor would never, never win me for his bride, now that I have gained the treasure of your love."

"My sweetest! my best! my priceless pearl!" And then followed an interlude of those delightful exchanges which have been the happy portion of young lovers ever since Adam wooed his Eve in Eden's bridal bowers. It is the old, old story, ever blissful, ever new, to be repeated again and again while earth remains; the ancient drama that will yet be played out by divers actors, and on various stages, till marrying and giving in marriage shall cease to be.

"But, Percy," resumed Emmeline, presently, "I hope you will not think me unmaidenly if I urge you to settle matters as quickly as possible with Mr. Lauriston. I do not mind in the least on my own account; to be sure of your love is all in all to me, and I should be quite satisfied to go on as we are for years to come. But papa--I suppose fathers are all alike--will not countenance our engagement till it is properly acknowledged at Castledine. He spoke of it only this morning, before he left for Redminster; and he said that it must be one of two things--either you must cease to visit here, or he must go himself to Mr. Lauriston. Now, the first alternative is not to be thought of; and the second, I am afraid, might have unhappy issues, for somehow I fancy that your father is not very fond of mine. Mr. Lauriston is proud, and when he is not pleased he takes an imperious tone; the General also is proud, and has a fiery temper, as you know, and so the two might disagree; in which case the interview would probably terminate in deadly feud--a modern rendering of the Montagues and Capulets."

How true this was, Percival could not help admitting to himself. He knew that his father cherished a positive and most unaccountable aversion towards General Vernon that the prospect of an alliance between the two families would be infinitely displeasing to both his parents; and, what was worse, he had lately imagined that either his mother or his father, or both, were taking certain steps to procure for him a wealthy bride of illustrious descent. That there was "something in the wind," he felt persuaded, though he had not the remotest idea as to the individuality of the lady; and all this, with the rapidity of lightning, passed through his brain, as Emmeline stated her own convictions. He knew, as well as she did, that the General and Mr. Lauriston must not meet till all was fairly arranged; nor could he blame the General that he refused to countenance a clandestine engagement, such as theirs would be if not very speedily announced; for already several weeks had elapsed since the young couple had come to an understanding and comported themselves in the face of all Westerleigh as affianced lovers. Only Emmeline wore no ring; her father had forbidden her to display the beautiful circlet which Percy brought her, till such time as she should be openly received by Lady Maria Lauriston. The half-hoop of diamonds and sapphires was at that moment safely reposing under lock and key in Miss Vernon's dressing-case.

"Dearest," said Percival, quickly, "it shall not be so; we will run no risk of family quarrels. Your father is quite right, but he is not the person to carry to my father the news of what has taken place between us. I will speak myself, and to-night; it will be an excellent opportunity--we shall be alone."

"Mr. Lauriston does not go to the ball, then?"

"He does not--he hates balls; nor does my mother care about them; she would far rather stay quietly at home, but she is conscientious, and sacrifices inclination to duty for Adela's sake."

"But is not Adela to come out in London? Will she not be presented next season?"

"She ought to be, of course. The ladies of our family always have kissed the Queen's hand when first introduced, and upon their marriage; but there seemed to be some difficulty about it when the proposition was made. At any rate, she comes out first in the country--no very unusual circumstance, I fancy. And now, my darling, I must go; we dine earlier to-night, on the ladies' account; and, to tell truth, I do not care to encounter the General till my father and I have made our little arrangements. - There! I hear the train in the valley. Good-night, my own dearest! When next I come I shall put the engagement-ring on your finger. How proud I shall be of my beautiful fiance!"

Castledine was a fine old place; but as the Yankee said of Pompeii, it was "sadly out of repair." It was kept up to a certain extent, but everywhere there were symptoms of neglect--some people said of parsimony, for the Lauristons were not reputed for their generosity, and were consequently less popular in their neighbourhood than the old resident county families generally are on their own estates. Castledine certainly was not noted for its hospitality. At rare intervals Mr. Lauriston gave a heavy, formal dinner-party--the only species of entertainment to which he was at all partial; and twice, or sometimes thrice, during the summer, Lady Maria issued invitations for a garden-party. There was also occasionally what servants call "staying company" in the house; and now and then Percival and his brother Hugh had their friends down in the shooting season.

As I said, the Lauristons were not so popular as some others of their order; but the good people of Westerleigh were still sufficiently conservative, in spite of their new line of rail, and their still newer "Institute," to hold in reverence those who had been lords of the soil from generation to generation, as the old monuments in the church and the parish records clearly proved; and small chance of social success had the aspiring "plutocracy" of Redminster, who, tired of Downham and St. Vincent's Hill, their own immediate suburbs, took up their residence in handsome modern villas on the banks and cliffs of the muddy River Dine, hoping to be numbered henceforth with the veritable "Upper Ten."

Some of these city magnates were extremely wealthy, and, on the whole, they spent their money freely, and enjoyed a certain position of their own; but it was never supposed by any of the older inhabitants of Westerleigh that they could possibly put themselves on an equality with the Lauristons of Castledine. The rising generation, however, might think differently, and refuse their loyalty to the mere shadows of vanished grandeur as represented by the present family.

The old Squire, Percival's grandfather, had been somewhat of a favourite, but he had been dead more than twenty years, having "departed this life," as the marble inscription phrased it., shortly after the birth of his second grandson, Hugh. He had highly approved of his son's marriage with Lady Maria Bannatyne, fourth daughter of the Earl of Brooklees, and there had been high festival at Castledine and over all the countryside when William Lauriston, the present Squire, brought home his beautiful and high-born bride, and for the first few years of the union there was a great deal of gaiety at Castledine; and lords and ladies, and statesmen, and great littérateurs came and went--an unbroken succession of visitors--who were always entertained in the most liberal style imaginable. In those days, people said, it was open-house at Castledine, and Mr. Lauriston must have had a fine fortune with his lady wife to enable him to keep up the ball so splendidly, the old Squire having lived at a generous rate in the home of his ancestors, but without any remarkable display or lavish expenditure.

All this went on till Percival, the heir, was about ten years old, and then misfortune visited the House of Lauriston. The children--there were five of them--were attacked by fever of a severe type, and, ere actual danger was apprehended, the two youngest died. Both Mr. Lauriston and Lady Maria were overwhelmed with grief. Castledine was hastily emptied of all its guests; festivities ceased, as was only natural; but, strange to say, they were never more resumed. The bereaved pair lived for a long period in the strictest seclusion, entertaining only nearest relatives, and those but rarely; never going up to town for the season, as had been their invariable custom, and seldom appearing, except at church, beyond the boundaries of the park.

As time passed on, however, and the surviving children, Percival, Hugh, and Adela, began to grow up, there was a change, but nothing like a return to former gaieties. On the contrary, thrift and frugality seemed to be the order of the day. Some acres of pleasure-ground were turned into grazing-land; the army of gardeners was gradually disbanded, till only one head-man and a couple of under-workers remained. The conservatories and forcing houses--the pride and glory of Castledine--were nearly all dismantled, and one day it was discovered, and very soon reported all over Westerleigh, that the Squire sent his choicest grapes and his best wall-fruit to market! It was even whispered that he cultivated pines and early peaches with the express view of turning them into merchandise! He no longer gave liberally to the county subscriptions, and he set himself dead against the proposed restoration of Westerleigh Church, in the chancel and vaults of which had reposed the ashes of his forefathers from the days of the Tudors downwards.

Of course there were not wanting sharp comments on all this apparent parsimony, and there went abroad two distinct theories respecting the policy of the Lauristons. One was that they had, in some mysterious way, become alarmingly poor, and were really compelled to retrench, in order to stave off impending ruin; the other, that the Squire had turned into a veritable miser, and was only happy when he could be adding to the secret hoards already accumulated. "Either a devil of a screw or a landed pauper!" was the judgment of some of his disdainful neighbours, who would have given half their substance in exchange for his ancestral name and lengthy pedigree.

As I told you before, the Lauristons now "received" occasionally. Their grander entertainments were few and far between, and not at all remarkable for their splendour; they were quite contented to be outshone in that particular by the nouveaux riches in their vicinity. The villa folk did not invite the Lauristons, nor were they invited to Castledine; only when garden-parties came into fashion Lady Maria availed herself of them to pay off certain civilities, and to keep up an appearance of social recognisances, it being understood on all hands that an invitation to a garden-party does not accord that general intimacy which naturally proceeds from more ceremonial entertainments. To be duly invited to dinner is one thing; to be casually asked to a garden-party is another and very different affair. And for certain reasons of her own Lady Maria Lauriston patronised garden-parties, and never failed to give two or three during the summer season. And at one of these social gatherings--"croquet and claret-cup"--Emmeline Vernon and her father had first made their appearance at Castledine. The General was a stiff and not particularly agreeable personage, with what is commonly termed "a sinister expression of countenance." He was said to be one of the Dampshire Vernons, though it was not averred that he had ever, by word of mouth, laid claim to that distinction. That he had really obtained the military rank he professed was past a doubt, for there was his name in the Army List, and he had served his country bravely. Two years before this story commenced he had purchased the lease of Roselle, a small but pretty cottage ornée, a mile or so outside the village of Westerleigh, and on the opposite side from Castledine, which was little more than six miles from Downham, the fashionable Redminster suburb. The General called once or twice at Castledine on business, and Emmeline was supposed to be one of Miss Lauriston's young lady friends, though there had never been anything like real intimacy between them, partly because Lady Maria took care to prevent their too frequent intercourse, and partly because Adela was only just emancipated from the schoolroom, and had till now enjoyed very little personal freedom, and very little leisure wherein to prosecute her girlish friendships.

Now the aspect of things was slightly altered. Adela was supposed to be "out," in the country at least; her French governess had finally left Castledine; she wore a bonnet on Sundays and on all state occasions; and it was expedient that she should associate with girls of her own age and standing. Emmeline Vernon was little more than a year older than Adela and she was, or claimed to be, of the same order as the Lauristons; and Adela, who entertained for Emmeline that passionate affection and admiration which one young girl not unfrequently bestows upon another, asked nothing better than to be allowed to take the General's daughter for her bosom-friend.

Lady Maria was wise enough not to interdict the acquaintance; but it was soon apparent that it did not meet with her ladyship's approval, and somehow Adela found that there were always obstacles to her visits to Roselle, and stringent yet plausible reasons why Emmeline should not be made free of Castledine. That very morning Adela had observed, "Mamma, I think you said yesterday you were driving to the Rectory to-day?"

"I did, my dear; I must see Mrs. Mabyn at once about that girl from the Redminster School. Our present under-housemaid is leaving us next week, and Harris thinks it might answer very well to train a young person for the situation. Would you like to accompany me? You can chat with Gwendoline while we two matrons talk business."

"I should like to drive with you, mamma; but I do not care about seeing Gwendoline. She was here last week, you know. I want to go on to Roselle--I have something to say to Lina."

"Who is Lina?"

"Oh, mamma, have you forgotten? We both agreed that we had rather unwieldy and awkward names--that is, for common use--and we decided to shorten them between ourselves. She calls me Ada, and I call her Lina; it is much pleasanter, and, I think, prettier."

"Possibly. But, my dear girl, now that you are taking your place in society, you will have to be a little more careful as regards such familiarities. You must remember that you are Miss Lauriston, of Castledine."

"But one may be familiar with one's own intimate friends, surely! And now that I have done with my lessons, and Mademoiselle has fairly gone, I mean to have Lina Vernon for my very dearest friend. I may, may I not, mamma?"

"I should have thought your very dearest friend would be your mother, Adela," said Lady Maria coldly, as she calmly signed to her daughter to hold the skein of filoselle she was about to wind. The girl complied, of course, but she did not quite like the situation, for there was no evading her mother's piercing eyes, and she wanted to say several things which had been postponed to a convenient opportunity. Adela loved her mother, as she well might, for Lady Maria, though somewhat stricter than our nineteenth-century mothers are wont to be, was an affectionate, self-sacrificing parent; but her daughter was a little afraid of her; and where fear is, confidence is always at its lowest ebb, or altogether wanting.

"Of course, mamma," replied Adela, as she took the skein upon her pretty hands, "you must be first always. I meant my dearest girl friend! I want somebody of my own age, and no wiser than myself--somebody to whom I can chatter nonsense, as girls do, you know. All girls have a girl companion, I suppose--that is, if they have not a sister. Ah, mamma, if little Mary had lived, I should have wanted no one else."

The tone in which this was said softened Lady Maria, and brought tears to her eyes; the names of her lost darlings even yet thrilled her to the heart. "Little Mary," who would have been nearly seventeen now, always seemed to her mother the merry, flaxen-ringleted baby-girl of just two summers, whom the angel Death, with scarcely a note of warning, had borne away to the mysterious shadow-land. She spoke more gently: "Well, my dear, I dare say you are right; even sisters, when there are many of them, go in pairs. There were six of us, and I remember your Aunt Clara and myself were more to each other than the rest. We were fond and sisterly all of us, but Clara and I always had our little secrets and our own plans and particular notions, that we kept to ourselves. Clara and I were, as you know, next in age; Theresa and Augusta, our eldest, were another pair; and Charlotte and Caroline, the younger girls, were like twins. Yes! I suppose a young lady does want a special friend, as long, at least, as she is disengaged."

"Then I may have Emmeline Vernon for mine?"

"My dear, it seems to me that you are infatuated with Miss Vernon. She is very pretty, and I never heard anything against her--"

"Oh, mamma! Pretty? Why, she is the very loveliest creature in the world. And so dear and sweet and good! When you come to know her better, you will say as I do. And she is very well educated; my mind seems to get improved, whether I will or no, when I have been talking with her."

"Quite a rara avis! Still, I do not think that an intimacy with her would be expedient. If you and she were on the terms you propose, she would necessarily be often here, and you at Roselle, and the General could scarcely be excluded from your compact of friendship. Now, your father would not like that; he does not, and never could, take to General Vernon."

"What a pity! for General Vernon is a very clever man. I heard Mr. Mabyn say he calculated on him for the very life and spirit of the new Institute. But, mamma, two girls may be intimate without their fathers clashing, surely? If Lina had a mother, now, it might be different. I wonder how long her mother has been dead; she never talks about her, and I have never liked to ask any questions. But I fancy she died when Lina was quite a baby."

There was a short silence, and Adela arranged her mother's silks; she was waiting somewhat anxiously for the next sentence. It came: "Adela, my dear child, you are very young, and, I am thankful to add, very innocent; but you are a woman in years, and you are my daughter. I am going to speak confidentially to you; you ought to be interested in family matters."

"Yes, mamma dear," said Adela, assentingly, scarcely knowing whether to be flattered or frightened.

Lady Maria went on: "You have brothers, my dear, and I think you love them."

"That I do; and Percy quite approves of my regard for Lina. He likes us to be together; he told me so last week."

"That is the very point. Adela, it would break my heart and your father's too if there were anything between Percy and Emmeline Vernon. And cannot you see how much would be risked by having her often here? Suppose Percy fell in love with her!"

"Mamma," replied Adela, much troubled, "I am not at all sure that he is not in love with her at this moment! Of course, he said nothing--nothing of any account, that is; but a little word now and then sometimes makes one think; and oh, mamma, would anything of that sort vex you so very much?"

Lady Maria was very pale; she folded up her work as solemnly as if it were a shroud she had been making. "Adela!" she said, with a slight tremor in her voice, "you frighten me more than I can express. What do you know about this affair? Tell me everything--hide nothing from me."

"There is nothing to tell and nothing to hide, indeed, mamma," was Adela's answer. "Percy has not said one syllable about marriage, only--only--I dare say it was my own silly fancy--I thought there was a strong liking, and he has her photograph--such a beauty! and that sort of thing does mean something sometimes, does it not?"

"Indeed it does. You have made me very uneasy. No, my dear, you are not to blame; it was quite your duty to speak openly on this subject; but once for all understand Adela, that there must be no thought of marriage between your brother Percival and your friend Emmeline; therefore the less you see of her and she of you the better."

"I am so sorry, mamma! I had so counted upon Lina for my own friend; but of course I shall obey you--only, can it never be? When both Percy and Hugh are married, might we not be intimate--she and I?"

"By that time I hope you will be happily married yourself, my dear; and it is not at all likely that Miss Vernon, with her great beauty, which I fully admit, will elect to remain a spinster. You will meet, perhaps, as matrons some day, and wonder that you were ever so much wrapt up in each other. And now, if I am to drive into Westerleigh before luncheon, I must go and dress. I think you had better remain at home to-day, that you may be quite fresh for the ball to-night."

The dinner was already served when Percival Lauriston reached home, and he at once hastened to his room in order to make himself presentable. It was impossible to sit down as he was, for he still wore his morning-coat, his hair was blown about his face, which was heated with the exertion he had made in walking, for he had remained at Roselle a full half-hour beyond the time fixed in his own mind for his departure; and, worst of all, he was splashed with mud almost as badly as if he had been running a race across country. And Mr. Lauriston was after the pattern of the father of "Charles," in the old comic song of "Fanny Grey"--

"My father's so particular,
He never likes to wait."

Nor had he waited; the roast was taken from the table when Percy entered the dining-room, and his portion was brought in, under cover and on a hot-water plate. His father made a grave, formal apology, which was more than half a rebuke: "I am sorry that we had to sit down without you, Percy; but the soup was getting cold, and I thought you understood that we dined an hour earlier this evening for the convenience of your mother and sister."

"And so I did, sir. It is I who ought to ask pardon. The fact is, I was engaged, and the time slipped away. I had no idea how late it was till I heard the church clock strike."

"Ah! you have been to the Rectory again?" said Mr Lauriston, petulantly. "Now, you will annoy me very much, Percival, if you persist in mixing yourself up with that ridiculous 'Institute.' The place is democratic enough without means being used to make it so. I am surprised at Mr. Mabyn, when he knows my sentiments. I told him when the project was first named that I would have nothing whatever to do with it. It is monstrous, this educating of labourers and shopkeepers! Times were far better, and the country more prosperous, when the lower orders were kept to their proper station--when servants could only just spell out a chapter in the Bible, and not a working man could write a letter. And now! I am told, there are to be science classes, and French and Latin classes for 'the people!' I am told it, though I cannot believe it! But, mind, Percival, I set my face dead against it. Not a penny of my money goes to these levelling, revolutionary schemes. I hope you have not made any promises to Mr. Mabyn?"

"No, indeed, sir. And I have not seen Mr. Mabyn today, nor heard anything about the Institute."

"I am glad of it. I like Mr. Mabyn well enough, though I don't like his politics. A Liberal rector seems to me an anomaly. Where have you been roaming, then, may I ask? It's such an evening that I regret having to send the horses out."

"I was at Roselle, sir. I had a word for the General, but he was not at home."

Mr. Lauriston looked sharply at his son, who coloured like a girl; but nothing more was said, and very soon the dinner, which was a frugal one, came to an end. The ladies rose to dress for the ball, and Percival hurried away, for he did not care to be left alone just then with his father, who did not seem to be in the best of tempers. Nor did he wish to broach the subject of his intended marriage till they were secure from interruption.

Another hour, and the old family carriage, with its staid and elderly horses, and its staid and elderly coachman, had rolled from the portico, and now was Percival's opportunity, if he only had the courage to avail himself of it. He lingered awhile beside the dying embers of the drawing-room fire; he ran his fingers over the grand pianoforte that Lady Maria had brought with her to Castledine, thinking as he did so that it was high time Adela, who played really well, should have a one with all the latest improvements. And then he bethought himself how many new articles of furniture were really required--yes, and other things outside the house as well as in! The carriage was getting to look extremely antiquated, and it often wanted tinkering. The horses would soon be past work; they did very little now, Lady Maria's stout and not very handsome pony being the only useful quadruped in the Castledine stables. The gardens, once so famous in the county, were fast losing their beauty; the house itself needed all sorts of renovations, not only paint and paper and gilding, but other and more substantial repair. It was only the other day that somebody had said there must be a new roof! And that meant laying out a large sum of money! Percy quite believed that his father had grown miserly, and he was almost afraid that his confidences would be unwelcome, inasmuch as marriage meant housekeeping, and housekeeping implied an income, and an income must be furnished by no other than Mr. Lauriston himself.

"What a coward I am!" said the young man at last, rousing himself from his uncomfortable meditations. "The evening is wearing on--yes, it is on the stroke of ten. Now then, Percy Lauriston, be brave; there is nothing to be ashamed of. Hard words break no bones, and the ice once broken I shall know how to proceed."

In another minute he had knocked at the library door and entered, to find Mr. Lauriston deeply engaged with something that looked very much like lists of accounts. He raised his head questioningly as his son came towards him.

"I want a little private talk with you, father," said the young man.

"With all my heart," answered the elder Lauriston. "I have something of importance to say to you myself. Which of us shall take the initiative?"

"Perhaps you will, father. It is certainly my duty to accord to you the priority."

Mr. Lauriston smiled a queer smile, which was peculiarly his own, and replied, "I am glad to find you in so dutiful a frame of mind, my son. Filial duty in these degenerate days is rare, and it deserves its reward. I wish to speak of your marriage. It is time, Percival, that you settled down with a wife of your own!"

"That is just what I have been thinking, sir; in fact, I came here to-night to speak to you about it."

"Oh, indeed! May I ask what put marriage in your head?"

"What does put marriage into a young man's head, sir? What put it into your own head, and into your heart as well, but falling in love with my mother?"

"At that time of day I could afford to fall in love, which--mark me!--you cannot. Besides, I married rank, and some little fortune into the bargain, to say nothing of expectations, which turned out to be a mere fiasco. Well! who is the incomparable she?"

"Can you ask, sir?"

"I assure you I have not the least idea, unless it be your cousin Clara, and I do not think you would meet with the least encouragement in that quarter. There is no one in this neighbourhood fit for you to look at; for I take it you would not care to marry any of the Westerleigh misses, unless there be some very recent importation of which I am unaware."

"I should not think of marrying a woman whose birth was inferior to my own; nevertheless, it is to a young lady of our own neighbourhood that I am engaged."

"Engaged! Nonsense! You must go and get disengaged, then, as fast as possible. You don't mean that you have been going to Roselle to see Miss Emmeline Vernon?"

"I do mean it, father. I have asked her to be my wife, and she has consented. And I may as well say at once that, sooner or later, we shall marry, however strong the opposition we may encounter."

"A pleasant assurance, truly, from my dutiful son; but, Percival, whatever may be your feelings at this moment, I think you will not marry Miss Vernon--ever! She is a very beautiful and attractive young woman--so much I grant; I can admire a lovely face and a graceful form for all my fifty years--but she is not for you."

"For whom, then?"

"Ah! that is more than I can tell you, my fiery young man--for anybody who is sufficiently wealthy and can afford to pass over doubtful antecedents. Have you ever thought how little we really know of these Vernons?"

"He has served his country, sir; he is General Vernon, and he is extremely well connected."

"We never saw any of his 'connections;' we have to take them entirely on trust. As for his rank, he is only an Indian General; and I don't like him. In fact, I dislike him excessively."

"I am sorry for that, as he is my wife's father."

"Your what? You don't mean to say you have been mad enough to marry this girl?"

"No, no! I should have said my future wife."

"She is not that. Percy, my boy, I think I should have blown my brains out, this very night, if you had told me that you really were Miss Vernon's husband; that you had given your word, past recall; that there was no escape."

"The word of an honourable man, sir, is always past recall. And, escape? What should I escape from but my own heart's happiness? You very much misunderstand Emmeline Vernon if you imagine she would consent to anything clandestine; and as for the General, I am not particularly fond of him myself, but I can tell you that he refused to ratify our engagement, that he forbade his daughter to wear any ring of mine, until you had fully declared your approbation. And now, sir, will you not grant your consent? Think what you would have suffered had my grandfather forbidden your marriage with my mother!"

"Percy, I am very sorry--I am more grieved than I can say. I would give worlds, if I had them, not to be forced into playing the part of a cruel, tyrannical parent; but I cannot help myself, and there is only one way in which I can help you. Indeed, unless we mutually help each other, we are lost--both of us, all of us! If I said, 'Go, wed your Emmeline, and bring your wife home to Castledine,' it would be all in vain. She would never come! Her father might as well bestow her on any likely young fellow earning his bread in the sweat of his brow--ay, and far better, for such a man would be inured to daily labour, which you are not. Such an one would know how to work, which you do not. I wish to Heaven I had brought you up to a profession! though I don't know how much good that would have done. Hugh hasn't earned a penny for himself, nor is he likely to do anything of the kind. The only way to get rich in these days before your hair turns grey is to go into business."

"Father, what does all this mean? I think I have a right to know."

"Of course you have. But God knows I would have withheld the revelation had it been possible. I have kept my own counsel hitherto; it is only very lately that your mother has shared it--partially! You must know all--all! If I don't tell you, events will."

"Are we ruined?"

"Yes; we have been practically ruined for years, and as much by ill-luck as by any fault of mine. I have made every effort to retrieve our position, and have failed. Some men seem born to success--everything they touch turns to gold; others can only transmute gold to dust and ashes. You have in your heart accused me of parsimony, doubtless; even your mother, till the other day, taunted me with being miserly; and I bore it, that I might keep my secret. But she knows now, as you must know, that I did not hoard, simply because I had nothing to hoard. One can't save even pence when the cash-box is empty, the banking account overdrawn, the land mortgaged, and everything available turned into securities for money that has long ago melted into nothingness. Have you guessed naught of this, Percival?"

"No! You have kept your secret well; but why did you not tell me before? At least you should have told me when I came of age! I would not then have remained a burden upon you; I would have worked my way somehow. And, together, we might have devised something. This crisis--if, indeed, it be all you say it is, might have been avoided."

"It is all, and more than I have told you."

"What have we left?"

"Nothing worth speaking of! I don't mean to say we shall want bread--not yet, at least; but we must leave Castledine. We must give up all we have to hungry creditors."

"Let us leave the country and begin afresh. Let us go to Australia; we shall not be the first who have done so. There, and unfettered by considerations of rank, by false pride, relieved from the temptation of struggling to keep up appearances, we may live happily and honestly, and finally retrieve our position."

"You may do this--I cannot. Your mother and I are too old to turn colonists. And do you think General Vernon would give his beautiful daughter to a ruined, penniless emigrant?"

"I fear not. I see now that I must put aside for the present--perhaps for years--all thoughts of marriage. If I had known this a month ago, I should never have asked Emmeline to engage herself to me. And yet you spoke as if there were no obstacles save such as you might yourself interpose! Surely my ears did not deceive me! Surely you did tell me, not half-an-hour ago, that it was time I was settled, with a wife of my own?"

"I did tell you, and I tell you again--it is quite time you married. Now we come to the point from which Miss Vernon has so far diverted us. A rich wife awaits you!"

"Father!" And Percy began to consider whether Mr. Lauriston had not suddenly become insane. And then he added--"What girl of fortune would give herself to me, knowing my position at this moment? And if she did not know; if she were trapped into marrying the ruined heir of Castledine, what should I be? Besides, there are such things as settlements. An heiress cannot marry as a poor governess might; certain business must be satisfactorily transacted before the wedding-ring is fitted on. No, sir. I won't be a party to treachery so base. I will give up Emmeline Vernon, because I must! and I'll go and work my way somehow and somewhere. I think I am not a coward, nor a sluggard. If I can't maintain myself by head-work I will by hand-work. See! that hand is white and smooth as a lady's now; this day twelvemonths it may be brown and horny as a ploughman's. I don't care! But I will not--so help me, God!--cheat a woman into marrying me, as Percival Lauriston, of Castledine!"

"You are not asked to cheat a woman or a man either. You might give your father credit for some remains of the honour of an ancient, decayed family. Sir, I am a Lauriston as well as yourself. And yet--God forgive me!--I have done what no Lauriston ever did before me. But as to this marriage which I mention, it is not I, but the young lady's father, who proposes it. She has wealth; you have an ancient name. There is very little doubt but that the earldom, which lapsed two centuries ago for want of male issue, may be restored to the family. You and Constance Walker may be the progenitors of a long line of noble, illustrious, and prosperous Lauristons. Castledine may remain as it is, or, rather, it may be what it has never been in your day; your mother and I may be happy; Hugh may stay quietly in his chambers, and Adela may marry in her own sphere of life. As for yourself, you may be the richest Lauriston that ever lived, the benefactor of your whole family, a man of mark in the world, and, to crown all, the beloved husband of a beautiful and virtuous young woman."

"Sir, I cannot believe that you are in earnest. Am I dreaming? Who is this virtuous and beautiful young woman who is so anxious to bestow herself and her fortune upon your humble servant? You must forgive me if I am incredulous; but this is not the age of romance? I am tolerably good-looking, I believe; but no girl in her senses could ever worship me as an Adonis or an Apollo. I am no hero; I have written no soul-thrilling poem, no wonderful three-volume novel! I have not, in any sort, taken the world by storm. And, saving that I have been well-educated, I have no prospects superior to those of a day-labourer's son. You mentioned some name, I think."

"The name of Constance Walker."

"I do not think I know any Walker, rich or poor--no Miss Walker, certainly."

"But I know a certain Constantine Walker. I have known him for some years in the way of private business. He has a daughter, Constance; an only child, who will inherit his vast wealth. This girl is the very apple of his eye. I have seen her, and she is a sweet, good girl--well-educated, and as refined as any lady born. It is his dream--a foolish one, perhaps, but that is no concern of ours--to marry her, as he phrases it, 'into the aristocracy.' He and I have had dealings for the last seven years, and I know him to be a straightforward, upright man, whose word is his bond. He knows my embarrassments; he could tell you to a shilling my liabilities. With a stroke of his pen he can free me from them all, and assure prosperity to us both. But he can hardly be expected to do this for a stranger and an alien. He has got a craze about being the grandfather of future patricians, but he is not Quixotic enough to give away a million of money, or thereabouts, out of pure benevolence. And the conditions are not hard, I think; the girl looks well-born, and I am sure she is gentle, loving, and sweet-tempered."

"For all that, I cannot--I will not--have a wife thrust upon me. If I married this young lady for her money, I should despise myself for evermore; and I feel in my heart that I should not make her a good husband. I ask you, sir, Can a man transfer his affections as he can his banking account or a lot of railway-shares? Ask yourself--you were young once!"

"I don't forget that, Percival; but before you finally decide to reject Mr. Walker's proposals, just consider that Emmeline Vernon is as much lost to you as if there was no such person as Constance Walker in the world. I cannot help you to a farthing; from me you will inherit nothing but--dishonour! You have no profession, and you are in your twenty-fifth year; it would be long before you could realise even a moderate income, and I have excellent reasons for saying that Miss Vernon has absolutely nothing."

"The General told me that I was wooing a nearly penniless bride; she would have actually nothing, he said, during his lifetime, and a very insignificant amount afterwards."

"He was honest, at any rate. But since you cannot have Emmeline Vernon--?"

"I will remain single; for I shall never love any other woman."

"Very well! Then, for a mere sentiment, you will consign every Lauriston of us all--yourself included--to utter ruin--to disgrace!"

"Surely not to disgrace? Poverty and loss are not in themselves dishonourable. Surely, this Walker holds no shameful family secret?"

"He must know what I would give the world that he should not know. In a moment of desperation--of madness almost--and for your sake and your mother's (not for my own, God knows!)--I did what I ought never to have done. I--" And Mr. Lauriston approached his lips to his son's ear, and whispered a few words that seemed to turn the young man to stone. There was dead silence for several minutes, only the fire crackled, and the wind moaned among the leafless branches outside.

Percy was the first to speak. "Father, this is terrible! Had not your own lips spoken it, nothing would have induced me to believe it. If another man had said it of you, I would have struck him to the ground. But Mr. Walker does not know yet?"

"Not yet; he never need know, if you become his son-in-law. This wretched secret may die with you and me. I need not say, your mother does not guess it--never must! It would kill her. And I only ask you to do what is best for yourself, as well as for us all."

"But what must a girl be who consents to such a bargain--to be sold, in short?"

"She does not consent; she is innocent of any bargain. Of course, you must do your part. You may easily win her affections."

"I had rather not win them, for I have none to give her in return; my heart will always be cold as marble towards her. Father, if I consent to marry this girl, I cannot promise--come what may--to play the lover."

"Consent to marry her, and all the rest may be arranged. She may be made to understand that suitors of our rank reserve their blandishments and caresses till after marriage."

"I can give you no answer now, sir. I will leave you. Does my mother know what is proposed?"

"Of course she does. At first she, too, spurned the notion; but very soon she began to perceive that only Constance Walker could stand between us and irremediable ruin."

A great many years ago there came--no one knew from whence--a poor, desolate, orphan boy to the ancient city of Redminster. He was ragged, he was hungry, and he was footsore; he had never learned his letters; he did not know the name of the king who then reigned over England; he was very slightly acquainted with the uses of clean water and common soap, and he had a not unjustifiable dread of the powers that be, as represented by constables and magistrates, who were, as he supposed, his natural and invincible enemies. Nevertheless, the boy was honest, and he spoke the truth.

He limped into Redminster one fine summer evening, shoeless, hatless, and half-starved; and, without exactly knowing why, made his way directly to the docks, where only there was a likelihood of such a ragamuffin as he obtaining a chance job. He found what he sought. He made his appearance on a certain quay, just as somebody was shouting for "a lad," and immediately ran forward and proffered his services. "No, no! you won't do!" said a vulgar-looking, flashily-dressed individual, who first perceived him; "we want a decent fellow, not a gipsy-tramp!"

"Please, sir, I'm not a gipsy, and please, sir, I'll do it, whatever it is," was the eager answer. I do want to earn a copper."

A gentleman standing by scanned the earnest countenance of the tired and famished boy, and saw something in the intelligent brown eyes that prompted him to say, "Nay, give the laddie his chance! He can't very well run away with the property he has to handle, and as he wants to work he shall. Look here, boy! I want all those black bundles put upon these trucks; they are heavy, but not too much for a fellow of your size to lift. Heave away! Finish your task before the clock over there strikes seven, and I'll pay you for your time."

The boy worked so well that at five minutes to the hour the job was finished, and he received from his employer a small handful of copper coins, taken hastily from his pocket. He took them thankfully, and at once ran off in quest of something to eat, and to look for some place where he might pass the night. He speedily bought some supper--a lump of bread, a piece of cheese, and a small bunch of green onions; and he sat down at last on some timbers near at hand, and without much ceremony devoured the food he so greatly needed. Having satisfied his hunger, he proceeded to count the halfpence which remained, and as he did so the last red sunset gleam flashed on something that lay in the hollow of his dirty, horny palm--something the like of which he had never seen before, but which, nevertheless, he straightway divined to be a piece of money, and of more value than the largest handful of heavy copper coin.

It was small and yellow and hard, and he liked the look of it. He wondered whether it was a curious sort of six-pence; and finally, he began to consider what he should do with it. Suddenly it occurred to him that the gentleman had given it by mistake, and that he ought to have it back again. He went to the spot where he had been at work, but no one was there, except some rough-visaged men, who with angry oaths bid him be gone. He retired to a sheltered corner among heaps of planks, and the débris of old boats, and there he determined to sleep, if unmolested. But before he lay down he contemplated carefully the bright little piece of money which had so unexpectedly come into his possession.

"I wunder now what they calls 'ee," he said, in a low voice, as he turned the coin from one side to another. "He be a pratty little bit now, and I'd bet my bellyful o' wittles he be vorth summat 'andsome! But he ain't none o' mine, I guess! I do'ant b'lieve as the gintleman cove meant to gie him to I--no I do'ant! So, Peter! thee mun tak thick 'un back agen. Never hold what ain't thee own; noa good ever come o' priggen. Ould granny allus taught 'ee, Peter, niver to prig noways, 'cos the Bible, and the parson, and the beaks ses:--

'Him wot prigs wot isn't his'n,
When 'ee's cotched mun go to pris'n.'

And if I went to pris'n, I'm sure I'd hang myself when I come out. I couldn't go on livin', if I knowed I'd bin a gaol-bird; and it must be dredful onpleasant in the stone-jug. Noa, noa! I wo'ant risk it; I'll gie him back--this pratty lookin', thin sort o' bright farden--though I'd like to keep him, he do look so pratty; and I've a kind o' notion he'd buy a wull pound o' sassingers, and a heavy lump o' figged pudden; and preps more--preps more!--who knaws? But, a--h! wud it would be priggen, now? He did gie it I; he put it in thick 'ere 'and, along with iver so many browns; and I do'ant see as it ain't mine, arter all. I do'ant see as the beaks could put their paws upon I, if I did keep it! Steedy lad!--steedy now! There's summat inside I a-sayin': 'Do'ant keep it, Peter; it's none o' thine own; and if thou keeps it, thou'st one o' them wicked coves as prigs!' And I swore to grannie as I'd niver prig, not even if I clemmed; nor I wo'ant nayther, for--

'Him wot prigs wot isn't his'n,
When 'ee's cotched mun go to pris'n.'

And if I wasn't niver cotched, I'd niver feel like the same Peter as I be now; so bide 'ee there, my beauty, and tomorrer we'll gie 'ee back to the cove as owns 'ee."

And then, Peter--that was his name, you observe, and he had no other--carefully placed the glittering coin in a curious little secret pocket of his own construction, shifted his wooden pillow into position, loosened the belt which kept his rags together, put away the remnants of his supper for early breakfast and finally, folded his dirty hands, and looking up to the azure dome above, where, by this time, the first pale stars were peeping faintly forth repeated solemnly--

"The sky is blue, the grass is green,
The day is past, as I ha' seen;
Matthew! Mark! Luke! and John!
Bless the bed as I sleeps on."

After which, Peter slept the sleep of the just, till wakened, long after sunrise, by the noise and stir of life about the remote little wharf which had sheltered him so opportunely. Then he rose, shook himself all over like a newly wakened dog, ate the residue of his bread and cheese and onions, put his head for several minutes under a pump which he saw at no little distance, and drank as he best could from the pump's trough about a quart of water. Peter's morning toilet was complete when he had tightened the greasy old belt that kept him and his nondescript garments in companionship. As he had duly observed vespers, so he now celebrated matins in these few words:--

"God 'elp the foremost;
Divil tak the 'indmost!"

About three o'clock that afternoon, the gentleman who had employed Peter the evening before noticed the lad hanging shyly about the dock, as if he wanted courage to address some one in authority. "What's that boy doing here?" he asked of one of the subordinates.

"Don't know, sir," was the answer; "I'll just give him a taste of rope's-end; he'll soon be off."

"Stop, stop!" interposed the other; "don't be so ready to play the executioner, Bangs. The boy has done no harm, so far as I've seen; he only wants to speak to somebody, and is afraid. And, unless I am much mistaken, it's the same boy that loaded the tracks so cleverly last night."

"Very likely," replied Bangs, sulkily; "give such as him a quarter of a hinch, and he'll take 'arf a mile, or more! Bless you, he's only a-hanging about, just to see what he can pick up and make away with. The likes of him is always pretty quick-fingered, let 'em get a chance."

But the gentleman, taking little heed of Mr. Bang's objurgations, walked up to Peter, and at once asked him what he was waiting for.

"Oh, for you, sir; please sir, for you," was the reply. "I ain't sure as you knew you give me--this!" And he held up the half-sovereign as he spoke.

Mr. Sanders paused for an instant, and seemed to be reflecting; then he said, kindly, "No, I did not know that I gave you that piece of money. If I really gave it you--and I suppose I did--it was in mistake. Was it among the half-pence?"

"Yes, sir, that's it; and I didn't find he at first, not till I turned out my pocket to see how much money I had got. Then I finded him--this yallur 'un; and, somehow, I thowt it wur a mistake; so I made oop my mind to bring him back, and here he be, and I do'ant think, he's none the worser for being among the browns."

"I dare say not. But, my lad, do you know what this piece of gold is worth?"

"Noa! I do'ant know, I never seed his like afore; and I didn't know as he wor gold, ayther. But I thowt as he'd buy a sight o' grub."

"Why didn't you keep him, then, and buy a sight of grub? You often want grub, don't you?"

"Oh! do'ant I just! And its main bad to lie down a-nights with your belly that empty, as meks you seem to feel as if you was all head and toes, and nothin' else. Yes! I often wants grub, and do'ant know whar to get it. That's why I coomed here last night; I wanted a few coppers to buy grub, for I'd hed none to speak of for two days, and I wor nearly clemmed, I wor."

"And when you saw this piece of money among the coppers, why did you not keep it?"

"Cos it weren't none o' mine! I knowed, as sure as if you'd telled me, that the little yaller 'un had slipt in unknownst, so I bringed him back agen; I do'ant prig, I do'ant. Here he be!"

Mr. Sanders, the managing-man for some shippers of note in Redminster, was at once a prudent and a benevolent person. He did not, as some might have done, restore the piece of gold straightway to the honest lad as an encouragement to future uprightness; nor did he dismiss him with thanks and one or two more coppers. He gave him a silver shilling, a coin which Peter had seen and knew the worth of, but which he had never before possessed; and told him that if he would be a good boy, and keep honest and truthful, and use no bad language, he would find him work among the dockmen, and pay him wages, and get some respectable woman to board him and find him lodging.

What could Peter do but thankfully acquiesce? He was heartily tired of tramping up and down the country, now his granny, as he called her, was dead. He knew that if he did not get into the "stone-jug" on his own account, he was almost certain to pay the penalty for some of his companions, many of whom had been "lagged" already, and rather liked it in the winter-time. He was tired, too, of being continually "clemmed," and knocked about, and sworn at, and of being made the drudge of all the big hulking fellows in the tribe; and so he had made a sudden move, and started on his own account one fine morning while all the gang were wrapt in stupid, heavy slumbers after a night's debauch, followed by a good deal of quarrelling and some blows.

"And so I walked, and walked, and walked, night and day, and night and day, for hundreds of miles!" he used to say afterwards when narrating his adventures; "and I walked till I come to Redminster, and here I've bided over since."

And there he abode for many years, working hard, and preserving his boyish reputation for scrupulous honesty and truthfulness. Mr. Sanders helped him up the first few rungs of the ladder, and then he died, and Peter was left alone to climb unaided, or tumble back to his original position if he were so minded. But going back in any way was by no means an article of Peter's creed, and he persevered in his laudable endeavours to be respectable. He grew up to be a fine, hearty young fellow, famed for his industry and integrity, and well known as being far too ready with his fist. Perhaps he learned instinctively the "noble art of self-defence" from having been kicked about till he grew big enough to repay kicks and blows with interest, when he found that he could hold his own and be all the more respected. He went to Sunday school to please Mr. Sanders, but he gained from his teachers very little actual knowledge, and to his dying day he never learned to read or write, though he had a natural aptitude for mental arithmetic, and made chalked signs on the backs and posts of doors, which served for him the purpose of numerals.

As he grew older he called himself Peter Walker, because, as he duly explained to his friends, he wanted two names like other folks; and when somebody once spoke of him as "Peter the Walker," referring to the long journey of his childhood, when he fled from the tramps, and in order to distinguish him from another Peter, who had the advantage of knowing his real patronymic, he caught at it, and dubbed himself "Peter Walker" there and then, and answered to the double name ever after.

It is not this Walker's story that I have to tell, for Peter was always a poor man, though even in the worst of times he contrived to pay his way, and gloried in "owing nobody nothink." He married a poor but honest girl, and they had several children, of whom the eldest boy alone survived to lay his parents in the grave. So little is known of the later career of Peter Walker that I had been unable to discover, or even to guess, why this son received at the baptismal font so lengthy and fine-sounding a name as Constantine. But the young man in after years was wont to aver that his mother, who liked reading, and had no end of book-learning, fancied the name, and caused him to be so christened.

However that may be, Constantine Walker grew up proud of his baptismal appellative; and, unlike his father, he learned to read and write quite tolerably in his boyhood. He was both clever and ambitious, and he used to tell his playmates that when he grew up he meant to be a gentleman! "Yes, I means to be a gentleman, and no mistake!" he said on one of these occasions. "I means to ride in my carriage, and keep lots of servants, and have a big house on St. Vincent's Hill; and my wife shall wear satins, and velvets, and diamonds, and--" But here he was interrupted by loud bursts of laughter, for at that time Constantine was just twelve years old, and the wife seemed rather premature, to say nothing of the jewels and rich raiment, and prancing horses, and liveried menials that played their part in the lad's resplendent day-dream. "Ah, you may laugh," quoth the boy, not at all put out by their noisy ridicule; "let them laugh as wins; I mean what I ses, and what I ses I means; and more nor that, what I means I'll do, or my name ain't Constantine Walker."

His earnestness only made them laugh the more; but one youth seemed impressed, and he gravely inquired of Constantine, "How will you do it?"

"I'll learn a trade," he replied. "There's nothing like a good honest trade for getting on in the world, and I've got an uncle at Bradfield as have got a big factory, where they make all sorts o' things, and he's been and promised mother to make me his apprentice. Ah, you'll see! Let them laugh as wins, I ses! You'll be grinning on the wrong side of your mouths when I'm a laughing becos I'm rich and looked-up to, and as merry-hearted as a lark in June!" With which assurance Constantine bade his companions adieu, and from that day forth he was always jeered at as the future "my lord," who would splash them as humble pedestrians, while he rolled by in a splendid chariot, sitting side by side with "my lady," dressed in a velvet gown, with plumes in her bonnet and diamonds sparkling all over her! He paid small heed to what he called idle talk, and when he was little more than thirteen he and his mother--poor Peter being comfortably deposited in the churchyard with a stone at his head--sold all they had, and set off for Bradfield, to lay the foundations of the youngster's fortunes.

Now Bradfield, as everybody knows, is first and foremost in the land as a manufacturing town--that is, in all kinds of hardware. It is, moreover, the metropolis of the Midland Counties, and the men of Bradfield are proud of their birthplace, and hold their own among the magnates of cities still prouder than their own. Bradfield is not historical I have heard people say; but they are wrong. It was not historical, I grant, a hundred years ago, though it seems to have been always noted for its spirit of enterprise and of manly independence; and it bred men of fame and good repute, even when it was not a tithe of its present size, and when it was taunted by the slow-going Tories, who had the upper hand in those disastrous days, with being democratic and revolutionary, and stigmatised as "Radical Bradfield." And now Bradfield is proud of being Radical. The "Rads," as they were insolently called by those who were themselves radically ignorant and stupid in days gone by, lift up their heads, knowing that their aim is pure, their course ever onward und upward; their success, their ultimate triumph, growing surer and nearer as they toil and suffer reproach; but never look back, never flag in their unceasing efforts for the good and true, day after day, year after year! Those who say that Bradfield has no history, save its records of iron pots and tin pans, and brass and steel toys, light and heavy, and breech-loaders and paper trays, have certainly never studied the annals of the last half-century, and know nothing of the grand Victorian era in which they live--the grandest, the noblest, the very best era that the world has ever seen--which yet is only preparing the way for one still grander, still nobler, and infinitely better in the far-off years, in the golden age which our children's children, by God's blessing, shall inherit.

So, into busy, noisy, smoky, go-ahead Bradfield came young Constantine Walker and his widowed mother. The uncle who befriended them both was a free-handed, rough-spoken artisan, in a small way of business on his own account. He was a japanner, and his wife was in the split-ring and German silver-spoon trade; for it is no uncommon thing in Bradfield--on rather, it was not in those days--for a man and his wife each to pursue their separate calling, girls as well as boys being brought up to business, chiefly to handicraft trades; and Michael Day had married a girl who had worked at "the stump" ever since she was fourteen years of age. A factory on a very small scale, consisting of a single room, or, at the farthest, of two or three, is, or was, generally called "a shop;" and up a long dark entry, in a grimy back yard, in one of the most dismal quarters of the town--to wit, St. Oswald's--Michael Day, and Dinah, his wife, had their respective shops; their dwelling-house adjoining--an ugly, uncomfortable tenement, with its frontage to the street. There they all lived in tolerable harmony for some years--Mr. and Mrs. Day, who were childless, because all their babies had died "at nurse," young Constantine, and his mother, Mary Walker.

Constantine learned his uncle's trade, and his aunt's likewise, and he made himself pretty well acquainted with several branches of both in which they took little interest, but which he, with the quick perception of native faculty, perceived might be greatly improved and extended, and turned to most profitable account. He could not, however, convince his uncle, who was a steady-going workman and clever enough in his own particular province, of the desirability of making a few diversions from the beaten track, and trying just one or two experiments. Old Day, though he believed in reform politically, had strong objection to anything of the kind in his own private business. Progress was all very well in the government of the country, but he stuck to japanning after his own fashion, which he had learnt from his master when a boy, and which he had taught in his turn to other boys, who had mostly turned out respectable, well-to-do mechanics. He grew violently angry when his nephew persisted in urging him to try what he "had the impudence to call improvements." He wondered what would happen next! He was convinced that the age was a bad one, for it encouraged young people--which was the same thing as saying, "young fools"--to set up their raw and crude opinions as both law and gospel, and to oppose themselves to their elders, who, in virtue of seniority, were, of course, their "betters." In fact, Michael Day, though he gloried in calling himself a "Rad," and shrieked loudly for Parliamentary reform, was, all unconsciously, at his heart's core intensely Conservative, he might be a "Rad" at a torchlight meeting; he was an out-and-out spoken "Liberal" at the hustings; but in his own workshop, and in his own trade, he out-Heroded Herod in stupid, dense, vulgar Toryism.

Now Constantine was born a Reformer, and he must have sucked in the very spirit of Liberalism with his mother's milk; therefore, it was only natural that he and his uncle should be antagonistic; only within the commonest probabilities that they should diverge day by day, and year by year, as the one grew into sober manhood and the other fell into premature senility. There came a time when the young man and the old man were so entirely opposed to each other that separation of interests began to be inevitable; and just then gentle Mary Walker died, and Constantine was free to pursue his chosen path, wherever it might lead. His mother had not been buried three months, when he resolved to quit his uncle's service, and sink or swim on his own responsibility. He had no one now but himself to consider; if his hopes were realised, all the better for himself; if the lights which he had followed turned out, as his uncle had prognosticated, to be mere delusive wills-o'-the-wisp, only himself would be the loser.

"You're a fool, and an ungrateful fool!" shouted the old man, when Constantine had explained himself. "You've learned an honest trade and a profitable one, and you go and fling it off, for the sake of all sorts of silly, unproven may-be's that will as surely land you in a quagmire as we're both living men! I've taught you all I know, just as if you'd been my son; I've shown you all the secrets of the craft, and you betray me."

"No, I don't," replied Constantine, sturdily; "and I won't never betray you, uncle; not I! I wasn't born a Judas, and I couldn't be one, at any price. But I've found out other secrets for myself, and you refuse to profit by them. I want you to join your capital to my adventure, and--you won't!"

"No, lad, I won't," said the old man, emphatically--"for why? A fool and his money is soon parted; and I ain't a fool."

"Nor I either," retorted the young one. "Keep to your own ways; I'll go mine."

"With all my heart! But when you've come to beggary, don't expect me to take you in again. If you go now, I wash my hands of you, for ever and for ever! You understand?"

"Yes, I understand. I am sorry to anger you, but I can't help it; I'll run all risks, and I think I may promise that I'll never trouble you, come what may! If I find myself a-sinking in the quicksands, I won't shout to you to throw me out a rope; though if you should come to grief, you've only to call to me, and I'll hasten to your help."

"Thank you. When I need help I'll be sure to let you know, Constantine."

After that, little more was said on either side, and very shortly the uncle and nephew had parted company, the elder man going on still in the well-worn ruts made by his predecessors, the younger bent on finding new paths for himself. Constantine was well known as a steady and clever workman, therefore he had no difficulty in providing himself with a good situation. He was engaged, as first hand, by a first-class, enterprising firm, and was very quickly in the confidence of his employers, who were glad to pay him liberally, and for a little while he was content. But only for a little while! His discoveries, though made profitable to himself, really enriched his masters, and he began to reflect seriously: on the inexpediency of selling his brains any longer. "I'm four-and-twenty," said he, one day, to a girl who worked at one of the branches of the business to which he chiefly devoted his attention; "and it's time I planted myself, and looked after myself, and left off making fortunes for other folks, I'm thinking, Lucy! It's time I set about making my own fortune."

"You mean you're a thinking of setting up for yourself, I suppose?" said Lucy.

"That's about it,' replied he. "I've saved a bit of money--not much, but enough to start with in a quiet way--and I know where to borrow a little more, if it's really wanted. And there's more than one or two that's promised me their custom, if I'll start for myself. And I'll tell 'ee what, Lucy, you and me have, always been good friends; you know I'm sober and not a bad fellow in the main, and I know as you're a respectable, sensible, modest girl, and pretty into the bargain. I like you, and I hope you like me, so I don't see why we shouldn't begin Life together as man and wife! What's a woman without a husband to protect her? And what's a man without a wife, to be his best friend and to look after his little comforts? Man and woman was made for each other--that is my opinion! And if I say 'snip,' won't you say 'snap,' Lucy dear?"

"SNAP!" replied Lucy, blushing, and looking bashful, but decidedly pretty, as she almost roguishly raised her eyes to Constantine's. And thus it was settled; the two young people were engaged, and after a few weeks' courtship married, going into lodgings at first, that Lucy might be free to help her husband in that department of his trade which she understood almost as well as himself. She was just twenty-two, he not twenty-five, when they were married one bright Sunday morning at Ashford Church.

For a few months Constantine and his wife, and one sharp, sturdy lad, carried on the business, in a very little "shop," in the Ashford Road. Very soon these three had more to do than they could possibly manage, and orders began to pour in as the superior quality of "Walker's goods" were tested. More and more hands were needed, and in less than two years Constantine had a really excellent connection and a rapidly-increasing trade, and found himself compelled to move to much larger and more convenient premises. Five or six years more, and "Mr. Walker," as he began to be called, was at the head of a large and flourishing establishment, paying away every month larger and yet larger sums in weekly wages to his employés, embarking continually in fresh business speculations and extending his connections on every side. Foreign trade already occupied much of his attention; his remarkable discoveries began to be talked about at home and abroad, and he was known everywhere as the principal man in that and other lines of business.

Mrs. Walker had long ceased to work with her hands in the manufactory. She had her handsome house at Arleston to look after, her servants to superintend, and her children to bring up. Yet still she helped her husband with the books, and knew pretty accurately what was going on from day to day at "The Western Works," which were no longer in the outlying Ashford Road, but in the centre of the town. People began to whisper that Constantine Walker must be a very wealthy man! It was well known that the house at Arleston was his own; while the "Works," rebuilt by himself on the site of a meaner factory, were the handsomest and the most complete in Bradfield. He owned, too, the land on which the works stood, and other pieces of freehold besides, which were sure to become valuable property in course of time. Certain canal shares and railway shares stood in his name; he invested cautiously, but always with consummate judgment, and always with success! And every year the business mightily increased. New branches of trade were continually springing up, new profits arose, and new sources of income were discovered and appropriated. And yet the Walkers made no great show. They lived well, "they wanted for nothing," as old Michael Day assured everybody. He was a very old man now, and he both reverenced and admired the nephew whom he had once despised; and I am glad to say that Constantine was generous, and, remembering only early kindnesses, behaved to him, as he himself frequently averred, "most handsomely!" But, as these busybodies said, "the Walkers never could live up to their means, or anything like it!" And they were quite right for once; though what those "means" were nobody at that time even guessed.

One trouble, and that a sore one, shadowed the prosperous lives of Constantine and Lucy. Their two eldest children died in infancy, and the others--five in all--were extremely delicate, except the youngest, who seemed to have been born with something of a constitution. The rich and fortunate manufacturer began to be afraid that he would never have a son to be his partner, and to succeed him when declining years should justify him in retiring from the business. His father had been a mere waif and stray, nameless, and without kith or kin. He himself had made that father's adopted name respected and powerful, and he had hoped that another generation would see the Walkers in so proud a position that their humble origin would be forgotten. Two boys yet survived, and they were to be highly educated and brought up as gentlemen in every sense of the word, and yet trained to business habits. The three girls, of course, would marry well--that is, "into good families;" for they would all be accomplished, and tolerably pretty, and, more than this, would receive each one a handsome marriage portion, over and above what would come to them when in course of nature their father and mother should depart this mortal life.

Constantine Walker had but this one weakness--he longed, with a passionate and persistent longing, to be the founder of a family! He could not, in his own person, attain to rank--he did not even wish it for himself; but his dream of dreams was the ennoblement of his immediate descendants. "A handle" to his own name would be superfluous, ridiculous! for with all his riches he was not a gentleman, and no one was more fully aware of that fact than himself. He had learned a great deal, and he had to a great extent educated himself; but still the want of early advantages were abundantly manifested. In vain he studied Lindley Murray, and formed his sentences, as he imagined, on the finest models; his h's were never in the right place, his verbs instinctively disagreed with their nominative cases, and his partiality for the present tense could never be overcome. Strange to say, Lucy, who had taken less pains, acquitted herself far more successfully; she had a quick ear, which stood her in good stead, and to a large extent atoned for the want of early culture. She had seriously looked into Lindley Murray, but his "grammar" remained as much a mystery as before; so she wisely closed the book and listened to people who had never been accustomed to maltreat the Queen's English, and almost without knowing it corrected a hundred faulty or inelegant forms of speech. Her h's rarely misplaced themselves; she paid as much respect to her past as to her present tenses; and her verbs generally were on the best terms with their nominatives!

No! Constantine Walker did not care to be Sir Constantine; but that his children, or, at farthest, his grandchildren, should be ennobled, was his darling aspiration; and he determined that his boys and girls should be fitted to adorn the highest rank, and trained to the exercise of all those gifts and graces which are supposed to be the characteristics of the favoured "upper ten thousand."

But alas! death is no respecter of persons, and he invades alike the mansion of the millionaire and the workhouse wards. Again and again he came to the pleasant home at Arleston, and bore away to his own shadowy realms the surviving boys, upon whom so many hopes were centred. Then it occurred to Mr. Walker that Bradfield did not suit the family constitution; in fact, he began to dislike the town, and especially the locality which had been fatal to the children of his love, and he determined to try some more salubrious climate. Why not return to his place of birth? he often asked himself. He had always nourished an affectionate remembrance of Redminster; no one now would recognise in him the son of the poor waif, Peter Walker. In many ways Bradfield did not offer him scope enough; no better place from John o'Groat's to Land's End for business, for amassing money, for making a fortune; but none worse, according to his own ideas, for spending it! He had now only daughters left, and in order to marry them into "the aristocracy"--a favourite phrase of his--it was essential that there should be some association with the class towards which he inclined. Lords and ladies, baronets and gentlemen of that ilk, were by no means plentiful in Bradfield or in its vicinity; and the few that, in virtue of their adjacent possessions were at all familiar with the town, would never countenance the marriage, even of a younger son, to "a daughter of the people." Everything seemed to say to Constantine Walker, "Leave the place where you made your money; go back to your native city, or rather to the suburbs thereof, and plant yourself and your family on a different footing from that which here you are likely to enjoy!"

There was only one person in the world to whom he confided his ambitious aims in all their breadth and fulness, and that one was his old uncle, Michael Day. The veteran artisan, strange to say, entirely approved of his nephew's policy; and even encouraged him in his scheme of migration. "But why not go to Lunnon at on'st, lad?" he urged. "Lunnon's the place for your bloated haristocrats; the grandees of Redminster are only 'alf-and-'alf, arter all! If you split with old Bradfield, as 'ave done you many a good turn, and bin the making on you, go the whole hog, I say! Go and live somewhere near the Queen, where the true quality are sure to be found; don't put up with any sort of electro or British-plate neither--go in for the sterling metal, that's what I say."

"Yes, but I should be nobody in London, among the real quality. I'm more nor half afraid as nothing will make a gentleman of me, and there's some things as money won't buy. My plan is this: I settles, not in Redminster itself, but at Downham, where I'm told there's lots of real good, well-descended families residing. My gals will go to the best of schools, and there they'll make friends with other gals, as will ask them to their 'ouses, and in course be asked back again to ours. And I means my Lucy to be at the 'ead of as 'andsome a hestablishment as money can pay for. I'm going in future to be at the top of the tree, and no mistake, for I can afford it. Betwixt you and me and a post, I've more money out of the business than I know what to do with at present, and as for the business!--laws! I hardly knows what it do turn in, unless I tot it up continually. But I'm getting tired of it. I've worked 'ead and 'ands hever since I was that high, and now I've a good mind to turn the whole concern into a 'Limited Liability Company,' keeping the first hold on it myself, of course! I'll keep the lion's share of the profits, but I won't no longer be troubled with matters of mere trade--you understand?"

"Quite; and I think as how it's no bad plan, nephew Constantine:--go in and win!"

Several years had passed, and the Walkers were only a name and a memory in the busy town of Bradfield. Uncle Michael was dead, and the Limited Liability Company flourished more and more. Constantine had purchased a fine estate at Downham--or, to speak more correctly, a little beyond the boundaries of that wealthy and eminently-fashionable neighbourhood. Cleveland House stood in "its own park-like grounds." It was large and commodious, and precisely the sort of mansion that Mr. Walker was looking for. It was substantial and handsome, and in itself a good investment, and it would, moreover, well repay him for the expensive alterations and additions he intended to make. Best of all, it was the late residence of a ruined Baronet, who had been compelled to leave all that remained to him to the mercy of justly-incensed creditors, and fly the country.

So the Walkers succeeded no common Smiths or Joneses or Jenkinses; and Cleveland House, when at length it was ready for its new occupants, was voted on all hands to be as fine a place as any in the county, "bar none," as its proud owner emphatically declared to the wife of his bosom. But the shadow that had haunted the villa at Arleston followed him to his princely mansion of Cleveland House. Before he had well settled his family at Downham End he lost his eldest daughter, Lucilla, and some months afterwards her young sister, Angelina.

Constance, the youngest child, was now the sole survivor, and she really seemed, as the doctors said, to have more constitution than all the others put together. As time passed on, there was every reason to believe that she would live, and inherit the vast property which was still accumulating in her favour. She had gone through the ordinary diseases of childhood without much trouble, and at the age which had been fatal to her brothers and sisters she grew stronger and heartier than ever, and once more inspired her deeply-anxious parents with the hope that they would not go down to the grave childless. That Constance Walker was the delight of her mother and the apple of her father's eye needs scarcely to be told. She was a gentle, rather shy girl, with a tinge of sadness in her tone, resulting from the loss of her sisters, to whom she had been passionately attached. They, the loved ones, had been fine-looking girls, giving promise of great personal attractions; very clever, or so it was believed; not a little ambitious, as their fond father delightedly perceived, as they grew from childhood into blooming youth; brilliant in conversation, graceful in manners--as fair a pair of daughters as any man could wish to have! And they were gone! The place that knew them would know them no more for ever.

Constance had a sweet fair face of her own, and that was the most that could be said about it. Whatever she might be in after years, she was not a beauty in her teens, nor did any of her governesses speak much of her abilities. For one thing, she was not allowed to study very closely. Deep down in the heart of both Constantine and his wife was a secret, though unexpressed, conviction that the boys and girls who were taken from them so prematurely had been to some extent forced in the educational hot-bed, to which they had more or less been accustomed; and both silently resolved that this, their last and only living child, should never be placed under any kind of pressure, even if she grew up in comparative ignorance.

She was never sent to school--her parents dreaded to part with her, even for a day; her governesses were, one and all, cautioned not to overwork their pupil, and were specially charged "never to excite her brain," never to allow her to fatigue herself, and always to close her books at the first symptoms of lassitude or headache; in short, her talents were to be repressed rather than encouraged, and both father and mother would be more than satisfied for her to pass muster in a crowd, provided her health were firmly established when the time came to introduce her into Society.

It was before the last year of Constance's schoolroom seclusion that Mr. Walker became acquainted with Mr. Lauriston of Castledine. It was an affair of mortgage which first brought them together; and as Mr. Walker had plenty of money, which he was ready to lend on good security, and Mr. Lauriston was at his wits' end for a few hundreds, it came to pass that these two, dissimilar as they were, formed a kind of friendship, strictly based, however, as the latter firmly believed, upon purely business interests and motives. That Mr. Walker, the rich banker--for Constantine had now a share in one of the leading private banks of Redminster--presumed to put himself upon an equality with the impecunious, well-born master of Castledine, was an idea that never entered into Mr. Lauriston's haughty mind. Mr. Walker might be able to buy up twenty Castledines!--what of that? Like the Galileans of old, his speech betrayed him; and no one could converse with him for a quarter of an hour without forming something more than a conjecture as to the circles in which the millionaire had been born and bred!

How it all came about Mr. Lauriston could never tell; a day arrived when ruin stared him in the face, and the banker, as Mr. Walker chose to style himself in all these business transactions, was the last and only resource that remained to the unhappy Master of Castledine. That he should avail himself of the alternative was not surprising!

The drowning wretch cares little whether the rope which drags him to the shore be silk or of roughest hemp. The shipwrecked mariner hails with delight the barque that approaches his rocky prison, nor asks whether it be a coal-barge or a Cleopatra's galley! And Mr. Lauriston was as near sinking in the troublous sea of debts and liabilities as ever was any gentleman of his degree. Castledine was his nominally; that was all. Year after year, the evil day had been put off, the final reckoning deferred in the vain hope that something unforeseen might yet transpire; but now the bitter end was close at hand. Speculations had failed one after another; even those which had been most confidently relied on, and which by good rights ought to have succeeded; old investments ceased to pay; opportunities that might have been golden--who knows?--were lost for want of a little ready-money; for the same cause the home-department fell into miserable decay; and, as the climax, came a sudden foreclosure of heavy mortgages, which had long been an intolerable burden upon the impoverished estate.

Mr. Lauriston, in his dire extremity, betook himself to the rich banker, who had been so friendly, and whose coffers seemed to be as inexhaustible as the purse of Fortunatus. The two met, as they always did on these occasions, in a certain room at the bank, called "Mr. Walker's private parlour." Some days previous to this there had been certain confidential communications, and Mr. Lauriston had placed several important documents in the hands of this shrewd and far-seeing man of business, whom he trusted implicitly. To-day Mr. Lauriston walked into the banker's parlour with all the tremor of a man who shivers on the brink of fate. Sentence of death was hanging over his head; but still, there might be a reprieve! and the banker, the ex-manufacturer, was the only person who could grant it. Ah! if he only would! But the Master of Castledine, looking his dragons in the face, despaired; for why should any sensible man hazard his money upon such a rash adventure? The chances were a thousand to one; he saw it clearly himself that he who jeopardised his wealth in a wild attempt to save from utter ruin the Castledine estates must be the loser; there was no reasonable hope to the contrary.

Mr. Walker looked grave to solemnity, when, closeted with his client, as he may be called, he laid down on the table the papers committed to his charge. Without a word he placed them before his unhappy visitor. Mr. Lauriston contemplated them gloomily, and was also silent for several minutes, pretending to read certain clauses of the parchment immediately under his eye. At length he spoke: "Well, sir, can anything be done?"

"Nothing! as far as I can see," was the decisive answer; "I have been through all those documents most carefully; I have made calculations, I have tried to see the subject in as favourable a light as possible, and I am compelled to reply to you that--that--"

"That it is impossible to raise another five pounds on such security--perhaps I should say such utter insecurity--as I have to offer?"

"I am afraid, Mr. Lauriston, that is pretty much what I had to say. Nor do I see that you would really be better off if you could raise a few more thousands to stop up one or two of those gaps which just at this moment are most conspicuous and, of course, most inconvenient. It appears to me that your wisest course is at once to succumb, to resign yourself to the inevitable, unless, indeed, you have expectations--that is to say, well-founded expectations--of some considerable addition to your present resources. You gentlemen of ancient family are always turning up heirs to some far-away cousin or other, who dies childless, and leaves the rich hoards of a lifetime to his 'next of kin!' Is there no prospect of any lucky windfall of this sort?"

"Not the remotest! My own relatives in every degree might be counted on the fingers of this hand, and not one of them but what is more or less impecunious, and well supplied with immediate heirs. My wife's family are not in a position to help me, nor would they if they could--my brother-in-law, one of the poorest of British peers, and I, have not been on terms for years. No! I cannot hope for the smallest favour from either Lauriston or Bannatyne. I should as soon ask a loan from the first man I met in yonder street as from one of my own kith or kin. Once more, I have no expectations, real or imaginary. Let that go--let us come to business."

"Yes, certainly. What do you propose?"

"Nay, I know of no remedy whatever. I have nothing--can have nothing--to propose. I have trusted you most fully, Mr. Walker. I have made no reservations. You know the unfortunate circumstances in which I am placed. I am deeply in debt--more deeply than I thought even. If all I have in the world were realised it would scarcely suffice to render me a free man once more."

"It would not suffice--it would not suffice by a long chalk! Look at that paper. It is an exact statement of your liabilities, as far as I know them, and of all possible assets, in case of full surrender."

"I expected as much," said the unfortunate gentleman, turning very pale. "All is lost, then; there is no hope--no alternative!"

There was a dead silence; but something--an undefinable expression on Mr. Walker's face--startled Mr. Lauriston from the lethargy which was fast stealing over him. Could it be that the banker had still some plan in reserve? Was it possible that this astute man of business was able to devise some remedy which should at least delay the inevitable day of doom? He watched him breathlessly, as a convicted criminal might watch a judge whose lips must pronounce sentence of life and death, and again, but this time in an accent which made them almost interrogatory--he repeated the words, "There is no hope! no alternative!"

"Pardon me," commenced Mr. Walker, slowly, "I am not so sure of that. Of course you know your own affairs best, but it seems to me--no, it is more than seems, I am sure--that there exists still one solution of your difficulties. There is one way--one only--out of all this labyrinth of debt and entanglement."

"And that one way--?"

"Must commend itself to your own judgment. Look you here, Mr. Lauriston! You are a ruined man, and your family, as a matter of course, is ruined along with you. Your son, Mr. Percival, can never be master of Castledine. In three weeks from this time it will be known all over the country that you have come to utter smash. That bill of Masters' will be again dishonoured, and they will at once proceed to extremities. Had you been a mere tradesman you would never have been let alone so long: you would have been stranded years ago. Well, as soon as ever it is noised abroad that--that you are in 'Queer Street,' in short!--all your creditors, big and little, old and new, will be down upon you like birds of prey. Wheresoever the carcass is, there will the eagles be gathered together! Every man-jack of them will clamour for his own, and some of them for a good deal more than their own, I'll answer for it. Now, I needn't remind you where you'll be when the Philistines lay hands upon you. You'll be turned out of house and home, and you'll have to determine how you and your good lady are to get a bit of bread and cheese and a decent bed to lie on. The young 'uns, of course, must go to work. It will be hard upon Mr. Percival, brought up as he has been, heir to Castledine, and future head of the family; and Mr. Hugh, the barrister, will have to tackle to, and make some use of all his learning. Pretty Miss Adela must be governess or companion, or something of that sort, I suppose."

"You seem to find a strange pleasure in putting before me the extent of my misfortunes, Mr. Walker," said Mr. Lauriston, sadly, and yet haughtily. "Is it generous to torture me thus, unfolding, as it were, a catalogue raisonée of my impending wretchedness?"

"I should not have shown you your position, sir, had I not felt assured that I was speaking of what can be positively, and for ever--for ever! mark me--averted. All that I have described, and much more, must befall you and yours, unless speedy measures are taken to turn aside the overwhelming flood that threatens to engulf the House of Castledine. Let another month pass over your head, and it will be too late."

"Too late for what? For God's sake, Mr. Walker, don't trifle with me. Is there any way out of this accursed quagmire? If it be so, tell it to me, and there is nothing I will not do which an honourable man may!"

"An honourable man may do all I ask, sir. I am not going to make a boast of my own position, but I tell you here, and now, that I am one of the richest men in the United Kingdom, and I could buy your Castledine and every inch of land you call, or ever did call, your own, and pay down ready money for it, and not find myself so very much the poorer! Nay! I could buy up a dozen Castledines if I chose, and not feel the bottom of my money-box! But I don't want to buy Castledine, and it would do you no good if I did. I want you and my lady to live there till it shall please God to call you--in ripe age, I trust--to Himself. And I want that fine young man, your eldest son, to succeed to a free, unencumbered vastly-improved, widely-extended estate--an estate without the shadow of a mortgage upon it--an estate such as no Lauriston before him has ever succeeded to!--an estate in splendid condition, and plenty of ready-money in store to keep up the honour of a noble family."

"You cannot be so mad as to undertake my affairs with your own money? In fact, I won't have it--to go on borrowing is to plunge myself deeper and deeper into the mire, only to sink and be swallowed up at last. Nor will I permit you to advance funds which can never be repaid--which I know can never be repaid. No! I will not increase the responsibilities that are already dragging me down to earth--to death."

"I said nothing of borrowing, or of advancing funds, Mr. Lauriston. It would be simply a mockery if, with these papers before me, I offered to advance a few more thousands. It would be also an impertinence on my part were I to offer you, not as a loan, what would relieve you from more immediate difficulties. I have no right to press favours upon you--no right, as things are now. But we might stand in different, far different, relations towards each other. Do you not catch my meaning?"

"I must confess I do not."

"Mr. Lauriston! you have a son--I have a daughter--an only child, I grieve to say--the sole heiress of my wealth. Why should not the young people marry, and unite our interests for ever. I cannot say to you, 'Here are £50,000; take them and be happy!' but I can give my daughter any number of thousands I feel disposed to, and at my death she comes in for every sixpence I possess. Of course, her mother has an ample dower; but that, too, devolves naturally on Connie afterwards. Look you here, Mr. Lauriston! there are not three such heiresses in all England as my girl, I'll go bail; and there's nothing I would refuse her, bless her dear heart! and she's a good girl, too, and been brought up quite the lady. She's fit to be a princess, though I say so as shouldn't say it; and no young man need never be ashamed to come courting my Connie! And now, what do you say, sir?"

"I don't know what to say, Mr. Walker. I can scarcely hope to make you understand the gulf that separates certain classes and--"

"Never mind no gulfs! Fill 'em up, or bridge 'em over. Whatever's the good of marrying money to money, rank to rank? Here's my girl, with too much money--that is, for a girl! Here's your son with literally no money, and it's hard lines for a young gentleman, bred as such, to wander about the world with empty pockets! My daughter is simply my daughter, and I never had a grandfather that I know of. Your son is the--the descendant of one of the oldest families in the Western Counties. He wants money, she wants position; let each give the other what he and she requires, and it will be, to my mind, at least--an equal marriage."

Mr. Lauriston was dumb. He had not expected this, and he longed to be able to return the "presumptuous fool such an answer as he deserved." His son!--the heir of his name, at least--the next representative of a family that could prove no end of quarterings, and boast of alliances with some of the best blood in the kingdom! His son! the descendant of feudal chiefs and renowned crusaders and haughty barons, to mate with the half-educated, semi-genteel, purse-proud daughter of a man who boasted to his face of his lack of pedigree, and of the wealth which he had accumulated by dirty trade!--for all trade was dirty in the eyes of Mr. Lauriston. No! never--never! Rather let the rising deluge overwhelm them all!

But, then, would his family thank him for his stern determination to uphold the ancestral glory of their name? Would they care to become extinct, or to sink down into sordid poverty, and find a refuge in obscurity, which comes pretty nearly to the same thing? Might they not reproach him when they found out that they were landed on a barren shore in a desert country--the dreadful wilderness of extreme penury--and that all their ships were burned behind them by the hand of an inexorable father? And there he sat in dead, almost stupid, silence, his head leaning on his right hand, his heart beating so loudly that he caught himself listening with wonder to its heavy thuds, and all his senses in confusion.

"Well, sir! well, Mr. Lauriston!" resumed the banker, who naturally was the first to speak, "shall we not combine to arrange an alliance between the families, as the newspapers would put it?"

"It cannot be," sighed the unhappy man. "I don't want to vex you, but indeed it would not do."

"And why not, sir?"

"If you cannot see why, I can scarcely expect to enlighten you."

"I suppose I can see why if I take the trouble to look; but I never give my attention to mere folly and nonsense. You think my daughter beneath your son. Of course I don't. As I tell you, she's fit for any society, and she's very pretty, and as sweet and good a little lass as ever wore shoe-leather. As for your lad, I've seen him, and I've heard him well spoken of. I like him; and if I can read countenances he'll make my Connie a good, steady husband. Each has got what the other wants--it would be a heaven-made marriage, I say! Only mark you, Mr. Percy Lauriston wants money a deal more badly than Miss Walker wants an aristocratic name! She'll never have to be an old maid for want of a gentleman-husband! Why, there are lots of titled fellows as would only be too thankful to put a wedding-ring on her finger! But he needn't expect to find another heiress offered him hand and heart if he quarrels this time with his luck."

"He would lose caste--he would--"

"Forgive my interrupting; I know what caste is. It's rubbish; but I grant you, there it is. Well now, won't Mr. Percival lose caste--as you call it--when the world finds out that Castledine and he are eternally divorced? that he is nothing and nobody, a young man of unblemished pedigree, but as poor as a church mouse? Won't you all lose caste when you don't know where to put your hand on the price of a wholesome dinner? Come, now! I speak harshly, but it's the truth, and it's for your good."

"You forget that I cannot dictate terms to my son, who is in his twenty-fifth year. Do you expect that he will tamely take the wife provided for him? Even if I agreed to this most remarkable proposition of yours the battle would not be half won. I can't force my boy into an alliance with Miss Walker."

"Your boy, sir, I take it, has common sense. At any rate, it is due to him that these proposals should be duly laid before him. He may see differently from yourself, Mr. Lauriston. Young men don't always view things in the same light as their fathers. Perhaps he mayn't be quite as adverse as you imagine to wooing and wedding a pretty girl with the price of his lost inheritance in her pockets. Any way, give him his chance!"

"And your daughter?"

"She knows nothing, and is to know nothing. She must never so much as guess that this conversation has taken place between you and me. The young people shall be properly introduced to each other; and then Mr. Percival will fall in love like any young man, and there will be the ordinary courtship--consent asked and given, settlements, the trousseau--which is French for lots of new clothes, my wife says--the cake, the ring, the bridesmaids, and, last of all, the marriage service! Bless you, it will come quite natural; leave the young fellow to me, that's all! Don't be putting a spoke in the wheel! That's all I ask."

"But I have never seen your daughter. To speak plainly, I did not know that you had any family."

"I've had seven of 'em, boys and girls, and all are gone to heaven but this one, and she is a treasure, and I would not give her to any one as slighted her, that I wouldn't. Come and see her, Mr. Lauriston. Come home with me to dinner; come and see her by her own fireside--at her father's own table! Take her unprepared, and form your judgment impartially. Don't say a word till you have seen her. Well, sir?"

After a few minutes' hesitation, Mr. Lauriston acquiesced, with no small inward protest, and in less than half an hour Mr. Walker and he were driving in a handsome, well-appointed brougham to Cleveland House, where sat Constance Walker, all unconscious of the coming crisis of her life.

Yes! all unconscious of the ordeal which awaited her, sat the girl of nineteen in the morning room, calmly occupied in making up the accounts of the "Downham Ladies' Association for the Hullabaloo Islands Mission," of which she was both treasurer and secretary. Constance seemed to inherit certain practical business habits from her father, and no small amount of method, precision, and order from her mother. Carefully and skilfully she made her calculations. She formed her figures with peculiar neatness; no one would ever mistake her fives for threes, or wonder whether a particular seven might not be intended for a nine. Her handwriting was formal, but singularly clear, and, in spite of a decided stiffness, not without a certain fluent grace. The accounts of the Ladies' Association were in the most unsatisfactory state when she consented to undertake them. No one cared to audit them; no one, indeed, could make anything of them; they were generally unpresentable in a public point of view! Now--they balanced to a halfpenny; there were no "printer's errors," and the books themselves were free from blots, smears, erasures, and omissions. "How you do it, dear, I cannot imagine!" said the fashionable Miss Lascelles one day to the young treasurer, as she looked through the pretty little Russia-leather-bound volumes which had once been under her own care. "I used to work and work at the wretched rows of figures, and they never added up twice alike; and as for coming right--balancing, do you call it?-- it wasn't to be expected that they should; so I just lumped things together anyhow, and paid the deficiency out of own purse. One year I put down Miss Sohns' subscription as ten pounds instead of ten shillings, and I could not, of course, make out what had been done with the money, and I puzzled and vexed myself till I had 'charitable accounts' on the brain, and papa insisted on my resigning office--for, of course, I had to go to him to help me out of my difficulties; and, after all, I omitted somebody's name altogether, and there was ever such a fuss!"

And Constance could only reply that nothing was easier than to keep such simple accounts; that a little regularity and method were all that was required, and that anybody knowing the pence and shilling tables and the first four rules of arithmetic need find no difficulty.

"Oh, that's just it, my dear!" said Miss Lascelles, complacently. "I never could learn my tables; The other day I got into such a fog over my milliner's bill, because I was quite sure that eight times eight were forty-eight. I could have vowed that I had said it all my life, and with every one of my governesses. But some people are born arithmeticians, as you were, doubtless; and then your father is a business man, and that makes all the difference, no doubt! You see, my people don't know, and never did know, anything whatever about trade. Papa and grandpapa were both politicians and literary men."

Which was true to a certain extent, as both the gentlemen referred to had been in Parliament, where they voted lazily with their party, as a matter of course, and both had written books which no one ever read, though they cumbered the publishers' shelves for many a year.

Constance finished her task, put away her account books in her own private davenport, wiped her pen, and was pondering the question of going out to gather some autumn-roses, when her mother entered the room. "Oh, mother, darling!" she cried, "where have you been ever since luncheon? I wanted you so much an hour ago. No one could tell me where you were, and I went all over the house, and the gardens, and called you till I was tired. Where did you hide yourself?"

"I was no farther than the Green Lane, my dear. There is a poor woman there with twins. Mantle told me about her this morning, so I went to see what she and the babies wanted most."

"Twins! how I should like to see them! But papa will not hear of my going into the cottages--not even into our own gardener's house. He says children contract infectious maladies so quickly, and of course he is right; but I am not a child now, and I have had measles, and scarlet-fever, and chicken-pox--most things, indeed, that juvenile flesh is heir to. I really must begin to persuade papa that I am grown up. Why, Alice Frampton is only two months older than I am, and she is to be married next month."

"I am very glad you are not to be married next month, my darling. Mrs. Frampton has three younger daughters, so she may reconcile herself to parting with this one."

"But, mamma, I suppose I shall be married some day?"

"Well, yes, my dear; I suppose so. I think I may say I hope so. Married life has its trials; but, on the whole, it is the happiest life for a woman."

"I don't see why a woman should not live her own life without troubling herself--I was going to say hampering herself--with a husband? I cannot say I like the idea of being married. I have everything I want in my own home, and I am quite satisfied with being loved by you and papa. I could not be happier, mother dear; I am sure I could not."

"My child, you do not know. A girl may love her parents very tenderly--very deeply; but the love she bears her husband is all that and something more. For this cause, you know, both man and woman leave father and mother, and cleave to one another. It is God's ordinance: it must always be so."

"Yes, no doubt; but it must be very strange."

"It seems quite natural when it comes; but till it does come, Connie, it is better not to concern oneself about it. I suppose Alice Frampton asking you to be her bridesmaid has put these thoughts of marriage into your head?"

"Partly, but not altogether. Papa was talking to me quite seriously, the other day, about settling, as he termed it. Rather funny, wasn't it, when he will persist in calling me a child? which I am not, you know; though still I think I am quite too young to be married."

"What did papa say?"

"Oh, nothing of any consequence. Just that he supposed I should be setting up a sweetheart of my own soon, and getting married, like other young ladies. And he said I was to be sure and not fall in love with anybody who was not a real gentleman, and he hoped to see me 'my Lady' before he died. Only that papa never does that sort of thing, I should have imagined he had taken a glass too many of that wonderful old port he was praising so much. Fancy little silly me, 'Lady Constance Gordon Howard Villiers Percy Vere de Vere!' Of course it was all fun; but yet he seemed as if he meant something--as if, indeed, he had something in view. You have not heard anything, mamma?"

"Not a word; my love. No, no; trust me, papa will leave his little girl to choose her own husband; and he thinks, I know, that nobody can be too good or too grand for her. Fathers and mothers are very silly, sometimes, Connie; but I don't know that the world would be any the better if they were more rational."

"I am sure I do not want them to be any wiser, mammie dear; and as for marrying, I shall not think of it for years to come. Oh, mamma! I could not bear to go away from my own home, and to leave you and papa! One must adore a man, and nothing less, to give up all for him, to leave the love that is sure and tried for that which is uncertain and untried. And, mamma, I should die if I were not truly loved--if I were disappointed in my husband."

"My dear, people don't die so easily. When the malady is in the mind, and not in the constitution, one takes a great deal of killing. And women, I have often thought, are like cats--they live through so much."

"I can think of nothing more horrible than falling in love with an ideal, and finding out afterwards that it was all a delusion. It would be worse than death, far worse, for there would never be any sweet, sacred memories to cherish. In fact, it would be no better than a dream, and--such an awakening! Don't laugh, I am sure it would kill me."

"God keep you from it, my child. I think it might kill you. I do not believe I could have borne it myself."

"Ah! you were a lucky girl, mamma, to marry papa."

"I was a lucky girl. But for the one great sorrow--the loss of our darlings--no married people were ever happier than papa and I. He always said there was no other woman alive who would have suited him half as well; and I know I think no man his equal, taking him all in all. And to be able to say that, and to mean it, too, after being married more than thirty years, is something to be very thankful for."

"How old were you when you married papa?"

"Just twenty-two."

"Three years older than I am. Tell me something about your courtship, mamma!"

"There is nothing to tell, dear; at least, it seems so now. We were very much thrown together, and we liked each other from the first. I don't think we 'fell in love,' as people say; we walked into it very quietly. I saw that he was a very nice, good young man, hard-working, conscientious, and kind, and as steady as old Time. He saw that I was industrious, and thrifty, and good-tempered, and likely to prove a good wife, so he asked me, and I never so much as thought of refusing him; for all at once it flashed upon me that I should never like anybody else half so much. And so we 'kept company,' as sweethearting was called in those days among the humble folk to whom we belonged, for a few weeks only, and then we were married at old Ashford Church one beautiful, bright Sunday morning."

"How odd to be married on a Sunday!"

"It was the only day we could spare. We were poor, hard-working lad and lass, as I have often told you, and we had neither time nor money to spend on holiday making; though now I come to think of it, we did strike work next day at four o'clock, and go to some tea-gardens, where there were fireworks after dark. I remember that."

"And you worked too--with your hands?"

"With these hands!" And Mrs. Walker held out two soft, white members, with plump fingers, sparkling with diamonds. "Ah! they were not so delicate in those days, though they were nimbler and stronger. My mother always told me I had a lady's hand, and that I was pretty enough to marry to my carriage! She was like the rest of us--absolutely silly over her own brood; her grey goslings were all snow-white swans, and let her tell the tale! Mothers are mothers all the world over, whether they're in palaces or hovels, rich or poor, somebodies or nobodies! God help the motherless, I always say."

"Grandmamma did not live to see you married, did she?"

"No; she never even saw your father. She died before he and I met. In fact, we knew each other only a few months before we were married." And Lucy blushed a little, thinking of her most unromantic wooing--of "snip" and "snap," which auspicious words were uttered one evening when she and young Constantine were left alone to finish some "wrappering" in their employer's packing-room. She had never related to any of her daughters the undignified process of her courtship, and she never would.

"To think of your messing about, and working with these small paws!" said Connie, kissing her mother's fair, fat fingers, that, but for a certain flat squareness at the ends, an elderly duchess might have envied. "To think of your earning your livelihood from week to week! What a useless thing I am! Why, I should have to starve, and go in rags--well! no, not rags, for I can sew! but in humblest attire, if I had to provide board and wardrobe for myself! And I am your daughter."

"God has placed you in another position, my Connie. It has pleased Him to bless your father, and with him myself, with great increase of wealth. Unless earthquakes and revolutions undreamt of occur, you will never need to toil, either with hand or brain, for any of this world's luxuries. It is meet that the fathers lay up for the children. It is the Lord's will that you should be a rich woman, a very rich woman, Connie. I sometimes wish it had been otherwise; for riches are too often a snare, and always a responsibility--especially to a woman. And though I have spoken lightly of your marriage, and shrunk from the thought of losing you, I shall be most thankful when I see you the happy wife of a good man, worthy of you in every respect, and worthy of the fortune which you will bring him. Ah! my dear child! there is the brougham almost at the lodge, and neither of us dressed!"

Both ladies rushed away, intent upon a rapid toilette, for Mr. Walker was extremely particular as regarded the outward appearance of his womenkind, even when no visitors were present. They had carte-blanche everywhere--that is to say, where the best costumes were to be obtained, from Worth's own emporium to the leading modiste's of St. Vincent's. They had, therefore, no excuse to offer for any sort of careless or imperfect attire, and they knew quite well what was expected of them.

Meanwhile, Mr. Walker and his guest were arriving. Cleveland House stood high; so the drive from the lodge to the portico occupied some time, the ascent being circuitous, and not a little steep. It needed but a glance to perceive that the grounds were as beautifully kept as they were extensive. Mr. Lauriston saw at once that his host must needs employ a little army of gardeners to keep everything, particularly at that late season, in such exquisite order.

There were a few dead leaves, of course; nothing short of a miracle can ensure their absence in an English autumn where trees abound. But the lawns and slopes and grassy banks were like emerald velvet, the evergreens were splendid, the flower-beds were still rich in all sorts of gorgeous and fragrant blossoms; the broad path by which the carriage slowly ascended was smooth as level turf, and bordered on either hand by large bushes of china-roses in full bearing and perfect bloom, and behind them were rare shrubs, and flourishing, valuable trees of medium growth. The view from the top of the drive, where the garden really commenced, was glorious, showing the fine old woods of Langley, the rocks and ancient forest-land of Shireover, the winding river, broadening into the estuary of the Channel, the shining waters of which were bright in the radiance of an unusually fine sunset. The prospect from Castledine, though much bepraised in county guide-books, was not to be compared with this!

Everywhere the lavish hand of wealth, and no less of taste, could be detected; and, passing into the house itself, it was on the same grand, yet perfectly proportioned scale. As Mr. Lauriston passed through the hall, wide and marble-paved, he calculated that the flowers and plants assembled there would cost more than a whole year's gardening at Castledine, as at present carried on, and, catching a glimpse of a brilliant conservatory, the bankrupt gentleman thought ruefully of the one poor greenhouse kept up economically enough for the delectation of Lady Maria and her daughter. As for the forcing-houses and the pinery, those had become essential in the way of business; and, like a flash of light, unwelcome as unexpected, it came suddenly upon Mr. Lauriston, that, after all, he was a tradesman--a fruiterer, a market gardener! for did he not dispose of his grapes, his peaches, and his pines for filthy lucre? He hated to think of it; but there was the fact, and he had been glad enough often to handle the money that came to him from Covent Garden. Where, then, except in point of birth, was the great difference between himself and the wealthy Bradfield manufacturer? And, if Castledine must sink, inevitably, and forever, so far as he and his were concerned, why not restore it to its pristine glories with the fortune of this young lady, "old Walker's" heiress! Oh, to be free from this ceaseless strain, this continual stopping of a leak that grew only the worse for every sacrifice! this filling up of a gulf which seemed veritably bottomless! Oh the misery, the pressure, the sickness, the despair of incurable impecuniosity.

"Where is your mistress?" asked Mr. Walker, of one of the tall footmen who were in attendance.

"I think she is still dressing, sir. Mrs. Mantle is with her."

"And Miss Walker?"

"She is dressing also, I believe, sir."

"Oh, very well. I expected to find my ladies in the drawing-room, Mr. Lauriston; they are all a little late this evening, or rather, I suppose, I am earlier than usual, Perhaps you would like to go upstairs and wash your hands.?"

Mr. Lauriston intimated that he would like, and he hoped Mrs. Walker would excuse his appearance in morning-dress. His host replied, "Of course she will! There isn't a kinder-natured, more unceremonious woman in all the country than my Lucy! It's my fault, too, bringing you off, all on the spur of the moment, as one may say. Mind! not a word of our little arrangements before her! Never was a better wife than mine, Mr. Lauriston. She's a sweet little woman, though I say it as shouldn't say it; but she has her peculiarities. I needn't tell you, an old married man, that ladies can be on occasion extremely contrary, and that when they take a notion in their heads there's no getting it out again. They won't be persuaded; they're constitutionally obstinate. And that's how it is with my good lady; I know as well as if we had discussed it over and over again, that she wouldn't take kindly to this scheme of ours. She don't approve of meddling in holy matrimony; and she wouldn't do nothing to forward it. Besides, I want it to come quite natural! Your son must know what he is about;--it can't be helped, you know; but my Connie must be kept as innocent as a baby. Mr. Percy must come here on a visit, or you must ask us to Castledine, and he must fall in love, as I hope he will, over head and ears, just like a chapter in a novel."

"But it is quite possible that Miss Walker may not respond? She may have formed some prior attachment?"

"Not she! She's as fresh as an unopened rosebud! Doesn't know what 'love' means, except as it relates to her mother and myself--bless her heart! Mr. Percy will teach her. He'll have first chance, and she can't fail to be taken with his handsome person and his graceful style. My Connie knows what's what. She wouldn't look twice at a snob, or any fellow that wasn't out and out a swell. But, come along! here we are gabbling like two women, and the dinner-bell will be ringing before we can say 'Jack Robinson!'"

Mr. Lauriston might have replied that the gabbling was all on one side; but he maintained a discreet silence, and followed Mr. Walker upstairs into a magnificent chamber, fit to receive a royal guest--a room that was only one of a. suite, bath-room and dressing-rooms adjoining. Here he was left, his attention being directed to a grand display of ivory-backed brushes upon the dressing-table, and to the bell, which he had only to touch to summon immediate attendance; and Mr. Walker proceeded to his wife's room. He went up to her and kissed her affectionately, as he had done evening by evening, without fail, all the years of their married life. Prosperity had not rendered Constantine Walker altogether worldly. He was still as he ever had been, a most affectionate husband, a true friend, and a devoted father. He was tall, a man of fine presence; she was a dumpy little woman, having developed considerably since that occasion in the packing room, when she said "snap" to her young sweetheart's "snip!" But she was just as he had described her to Mr. Lauriston--a sweet little woman! And she was still rather pretty, for her features were regular, and she had gained in expression what she had lost in youthful tints. At all events,, her husband fully believed in her charms, and declared that she was prettier and nicer, and a thousand times dearer, than when he first fell in love with her. Constance Walker had seen only the fairest side of matrimony, as exemplified in her own parents.

"Well, dear!" was Lucy's salutation, when she had returned that hearty, regulation kiss; "and what have you been doing all day?" And this might be said to be her regulation response, to which she scarcely expected a rejoinder.

But on this particular evening Mr. Walker replied, "Not very much of any sort, my dear. It's been rather an idle day with me; but I've been attending to Mr. Lauriston's business at the Bank, and I've brought him home to eat a bit of dinner with us."

"I thought he was a cut above us, 'Stine, my dear?" You must understand that Mrs. Lucy called her husband by the last syllable of his name, to avoid complications with her daughter, who was generally Connie or Con, though very seldom Constance. "And," she continued, I've always understood that the Master of Castledine was a very proud man. Is he really here? now, do you say?"

"Yes; he is washing his hands in the Rose-room, and begs me to make his apologies for not appearing in proper dinner dress. I took him by surprise, you know, and insisted on his coming to pick a bit of our mutton, and there was no time to send to Castledine. I assured him that you would not mind, and that we were quite alone, and here we are."

"I shall be very happy to see Mr. Lauriston, of course; though I am very much surprised at his condescension in dining at our table."

"Condescension! Fiddlesticks! He wouldn't get half such a dinner at Castledine, I'll go bail. Condescension! What nonsense! Why! I could buy him up, stick and stone, and every acre of his ground, and not miss the money! I hope you have a real good dinner, though, today? I didn't telegraph to you because our rule is never to have nothink but a good dinner. Company or no company makes no difference to me. And, thank heaven! we've got a cook as is a cook, and no mistake!"

For answer Mrs. Walker handed her husband the menu, which, according to custom, lay on her toilet-table; remarking, as she did so, "You'll find one on your own dressing-table, as usual."

Mr. Walker inspected the bill of fare--which he always called the maynew--through his gold-rimmed spectacles, reading aloud--I do not attempt to give his pronunciation:--"Potage à la Reine, Potage Bisque--very good! very good! Halibut Cotelettes, eels à la Boulette--like them best en matelote; they're simply detestable, to my mind, à la Tartare--fillet of veal, au béchamel; venison cutlets, sirloin of beef--that's the pièce de résistance, of course. What else? Oh! I've missed the game, I see--roast pheasants, stewed larks, and salmi of partridges. Very well! very well? Pastry and sweets as usual--all right, I dare say. Is there an ice-pudding?"

"Not to-day, I think; but there is your favourite Vanilla cream, and a Charlotte Russe."

"Ah, yes! I like Charlotte Russe, but I wish there had been an ice-pudding! It would have been a treat for Lauriston, I fancy!"

Oh, if that gentleman had but heard his honourable name thus lightly mentioned! If he had but seen his host poring over that elaborate menu, entirely on his account!

"It will do very well," resumed Mr. Walker; "now I'll go and dress like a house a-fire. My valley will be a-waiting for me, and thinking I ain't coming to dress at all. And--Lucy, my love, put on those last new diamond earrings--the ones I gave you on your birthday."

"Are they not rather too grand for a simple family dinner?"

"No, no! oh, no! I want Lauriston to admire you, and these emeralds are so old fashioned; they're some of the very first jewellery I ever bought when first I felt we were getting up in the world, and no mistake. What is Connie wearing to night?"

"Really, dear, I don't know. I never interfere with Connie, for her taste is better than mine; and it seems to me that whatever she puts on exactly suits her."

"She wears such simple-looking dresses. She might be a girl with an allowance of thirty pounds a-year, instead of having carte-blanche both in London and in Paris, and, of course, at St. Vincent's. I wish she would prank herself out a little more; she wears no ornaments."

"Connie will look charming. She knows how to dress, and simplicity becomes her. If you don't go and dress, 'Stine, we shall have to wait for you."

"I'm going--I'm going, my dear! You're ready, I see, all but the earrings. Just see Fidkin, will you, before you enter the drawing-room? and tell him to get up a couple of bottles of the '48 Lafitte, and some choice Pommery. Of course, he'll just air the claret. I want it to be very velvety; the other wines will be all right. Fidkin knows his duties."

And then Mrs. Walker absolutely drove her husband into his own room, put on her magnificent earrings, and,wondering why "'Stine" was so anxious to make an impression on Mr. Lauriston, went down to speak her butler about the Pommery and the Chateau Lafitte.

Her diamonds! her butler! her own maid! her chef! her everything! And only thirty years ago she was polishing papier-mâché tea-trays!

Mr. Lauriston, having no actual toilet to make, was soon ready, long before the master and mistress of the house had concluded their private conversation. Feeling tired of gazing at the rosy splendours of the room into which he had been shown, he went out into the gallery, and looked about him for a guide. All the passages and landings were brilliantly lighted, but he could not remember which way he had turned; and as he paused, and was on the point of going back to the Rose-room to touch the bell, he saw a young lady in evening-dress coming towards him. She was a slender girl, rather above the middle height, very fair, with delicate features, ruby lips, sweet, shy eyes, and smooth, brown hair, parted back from a white, low brow, and wound, in glossy braids and coils, round a shapely head, well-set on a rather long neck, and on very drooping shoulders. Quite a girl evidently, and just the figure to develop into graceful comeliness a few years hence.

She was very plainly dressed in dark blue silk, trimmed with fine Chantilly lace; a single rose--an exquisite specimen of the Maréchal Niel--was in her shining hair, and round her ivory neck was a string of costly pearls, from which depended a locket, also set with pearls and small brilliants. A vivid carmine flushed for an instant her generally colourless cheeks, as she came unexpectedly on the stranger, of whose presence in the house she was unaware. Mr. Lauriston instantly decided that the fair girl before him was no other than his intended daughter-in-law--the future Mrs. Lauriston, of Castledine.

Ah! how lightly we touch the crises of our lives! and how ignorantly we approach the human rulers of our destinies! What was this fine-looking, elderly, dignified gentleman to Constance Walker? What to her was the name of Lauriston? How could she guess that the stately, grey-haired stranger in her father's house was come to decide her fate, to order all her path; to change her from a simple, careless-hearted girl into a thoughtful woman; still farther--to raise her from her present estate to the rank of a county lady?

"Miss Walker, I presume?" said Mr. Lauriston, catching all at once a transient expression of countenance which proclaimed her unmistakably the banker's daughter. "Perhaps you will be so kind as to show me the way to the drawing-room?"

She bowed and smiled; and her smile, like her mother's, was at once sweet and bright, and while it lasted made her almost beautiful. She wondered who the visitor might be; her father had not spoken of any guest, and he seldom brought home a gentleman "promiscuously," as he sometimes remarked himself. When he did so, at rare intervals, the visitor was generally a clerk or subordinate of some kind whom he wished to encourage, or else some person whom, in the way of business, he chose to patronise. But this grand man, who looked like a Percy or a Howard at the least, could not have been asked to Downham End either to be patronised or to be encouraged! Knowing her father as she did, the informal manner of the guest's arrival greatly puzzled her.

Nothing of this, however, was to be read in her gentle face. She bowed as gracefully as if she had been Miss Lauriston herself, and led the way down the wide, velvet-pile-carpeted stairs across an inner hall hung with well-chosen pictures, and fair with some of Joseph Durham's loveliest creations--along a broad corridor, full of exotics and blazing with light--to the "little drawing-room," where she expected to find her mother. No one was there, Mrs. Walker being, as we know, delayed by her husband and the butler; but Constance was no bashful miss to be frightened at the idea of talking for a few minutes to a man, indubitably a gentleman, and old enough to be her father. Indeed, she would have conversed quite as easily with Mr. Lauriston's son, had he chanced to be in his father's place that evening; for she was not only well-bred, but altogether free from that self-consciousness which will make even a practised belle for the moment awkward and embarrassed. There was not a spark of vanity in the girl's composition; she never thought of herself, or what impression she might be making;--truth to tell, she cared very little about the passing opinions of strangers so long as her father and mother were pleased; and so she was delivered from that miserable mauvaise honte which spoils so many otherwise charming young people of both sexes.

"I ought to introduce myself," said Mr. Lauriston, presently, finding himself still tête-à-tête with the daughter of the house, and wondering, too, if this had been a little scheme of Mr. Walker's, to take his heart by storm--"since we are left so entirely to our own devices. I am Mr. Lauriston, of Castledine. I dare say you have heard my name before?"

Most certainly she had. The Lauristons of Castledine were as well known in that neighbourhood as the Cathedral at Redminster; but, of course, the Walkers were not in the same set with the Lauristons, so that the two gentlemen alone had met. Lady Maria would as soon have thought of leaving her card on the baker's wife as of calling on the mistress of Cleveland House; and though some of the "upper ten" at St. Vincent's and at Downham had, for reasons of their own, deigned to cultivate the wealthy plebeian Walkers, it so chanced that the families never in any way encountered each other in society.

Mr. Lauriston resumed: "I was at the Bank to-day, on a little business, and your good father insisted on bringing me home with him. He has a Velasquez he wants to show me. He is not quite sure that it is genuine, and I am supposed to be a judge--almost an expert--in pictures, though, really, I am no artist."

"There is a Velasquez in the library--a very fine one," said Constance; "but I did not know that papa suspected its authenticity. He had it from trustworthy hands, and it has been greatly admired. I wonder where mamma is!"

Two or three minutes more and Mrs. Walker entered. Mr. Lauriston took stock of her pretty quickly: "A nice little woman; homely, but unpretentious, and therefore not vulgar--though risen from the ranks like her husband. Has a tolerable amount of savoir-faire--a woman of tact, I should say; an invaluable wife to a man like Walker, who will never leave his antecedents behind him. Pleasant face, sweet smile; carries herself well for such a regular little Dame Dumpling. Must have been rather pretty in her youth. A soft, low voice, too; and does not mouth her words." -

A few minutes' more talk in the conventional ante-dinner twilight, and then Mr. Walker bustled down, and the solemn butler appeared, announcing that the repast was served. "You take in Miss Walker," cried the host to his visitor. "I take in my own wife always! It's not etiquetty, I know; but we're old-fashioned people, and we have our own notions, and we've been married more than thirty years, and we don't mean to be separated at bed or board, or anywhere else, 'till death us do part,' as the Bible says."

"It's Prayer-book, papa, not Bible!" laughed Constance, as she took Mr. Laurelton's proffered arm.

"Ah, missy!" laughed back her father, "you're letting the cat out of the bag! You've been reading the Marriage Service lately! Ah, well! I suppose all the girls--and all the boys, too, for the matter of that--study it betimes. Eh, Mr. Lauriston?"

Mr. Lauriston vouchsafed no reply; he was rather aghast at the sudden familiarity of his host, who had been up till to-day nothing more to him than his business man. Though he had expected something of the kind, he could not help being taken a little aback when treated entirely en famille. He was stiff and haughty in spite of himself, for he knew that he could not afford to demonstrate his displeasure, however remotely; it was his policy to conciliate the man who held in his hands the fortunes of the Lauristons.

Nothing except conscious guilt so completely cows a man, and at the same time places him at such disadvantage, as Impecuniosity.

The sumptuous "little dinner" struck the Master or Castledine as the Master of Cleveland House had intended it should; and he said angrily to himself as he drank that aired claret "with the velvet on," and glanced at the exquisitely-arranged table and nobly-laden sideboard, "Why, the fellow must dine in this style every night! I am sure he did not wire to his wife, for he was not out of my sight after I agreed to accompany him. His Grace of Beaufort need not wish a better cook! That Bisque was perfection; so was the game Salmi! And, good heavens! what wine!"

Of course he observed Constance closely. She said little, but when she spoke, it was always sensibly, modestly, and in the gentlest tones. Mr. Walker, as usual, was rather loud. Mrs. Walker talked quietly and pleasantly, and seemed interested in county news. A magnificent pine appeared at dessert, causing the pensive guest to think tenderly and mournfully of his own pines, which he never now tasted. He could not but contrast the stately splendour of Cleveland House with the timeworn, decaying glories of Castledine. True, Mr. Walker had no family portraits, and he was far too proud and too honest a man to purchase ancestors on canvas; nor had he any ancient tapestry nor antique plate, nor heir-loom jewels, nor Venetian coffers, nor venerable cabinets, still redolent with the priceless perfumes of dead and gone centuries! But then everything in the house was costly, and not only so, but in excellent taste and keeping. There was plenty of richness, but no oppressive grandeur; things of art and beauty were evidently the delight of the Walkers, but there was no mere gaudiness, no apparent effort at display. A general toning-down, a soft, harmonious blending of colours and of lights and shadows, proved the refinement of a connoisseur. In short, Cleveland House was a mansion of which a peer of the realm might have been justly proud; and Mr. Lauriston found himself wondering how much it must all have cost, and how many thousands a-year must be the expenditure of such a household.

The ladies did not sit long after the servants had withdrawn, and then the gentlemen naturally drew together over the decanters. Mr. Lauriston guessed what was coming, though not entirely so. Mr. Walker was wiser than his visitor imagined. It was never his way to hurry events. Not for worlds--not to put a coronet on his darling's head--would he have urged Mr Lauriston to a decision. "Well!" he said quietly, as he filled his glass, "now you've seen my girl, how do you like her?"

"Miss Walker is a very charming young lady--a daughter to be proud of, certainly," replied Mr. Lauriston, gravely. In saying so much, he was simply polite, and not insincerely so, for he really did admire Constance; at the same time he in no way compromised himself.

"She is a good girl, and I think as pretty as good; but, then, I'm her father. Now, let's say no more to-night; go home, sir, and consult my lady, and talk it over with her. Put advantage on the one side and disadvantage on the other, and calmly decide which of the two gets the actual turn of the scale. Make up your mind at your leisure--that is, at such leisure as you can secure! I need not tell you that for your own sake, and for your son's, the sooner negotiations commence, apropos of matrimony, the better! When the wolves once scent their prey, it's a hard task to baulk 'em; and if speedy measures ain't taken, I, nor nobody, can't answer for the consequences. As soon as ever it is known for a surety that Lauristons and Walkers are to be as one, there won't be a bark, nor a growl, to be heard; there will be an end of all botherations for ever and ever, as far as this generation and the next is concerned, at least. No! don't say nothink now! You've got to put it to your son, though I can't think he will be such an uncommon fool as to quarrel with his bread-and-butter--and such bread-and-butter! A sweet, pretty, loving young wife! heaps of money down! estates redeemed, restored, re-established! and when it pleases God Almighty to call we old folks to Himself, a million o' money, and perhaps--only perhaps, I say--a little more! There, now! I'm Constantine Walker, and my word's my bond; everybody knows that! And if that ain't bread-and-batter o' the very best, and spread with strawberry jam a good inch thick, I don't know what is!"

Then they went into the drawing-room and drank their coffee, and Constance gave them a little music. Her playing was good of its kind; it was ladylike, but nothing more. She was evidently no great performer; even her father admitted that she was not "much of an executioner!" She sang better than she played, for her voice, though of no great compass, was very full and sweet, and she had been well taught. Moreover, she sang with great feeling, with an unconscious pathos, which more than compensated for absent brilliance; and she had the good sense to avoid bravuras and high-pitched operatic airs, in which she never could excel.

Lastly, Mr. Lauriston was driven home by Mr. Walker's coachman, and greatly astonished Lady Maria by accounting for his unexpected absence on the score of having dined at Cleveland House. Her ladyship would not have been very much more surprised if he had told her that he had been hob-nobbing with his tailor!

That night Mr. Lauriston held no private conversation with his lady-wife. He was tired--he said "sleepy;" but slumber was very, far from his eyelids. The truth was, he felt to some degree confused and dazed, and unable either to think or to speak at all to the point. Lady Maria, too, was cross, and grumbled because dinner had been kept waiting till it was spoiled, and she was also aggrieved at being treated with so little ceremony; and her last words before she buried her head in her pillow were--"You might have had the civility to wire half-a-dozen words; then that mutton would not have been done to death, nor the jam-pudding to mash! A telegram only costs one shilling."

And how much longer my lady would have expounded herself à la Mrs. Caudle it is impossible to say; but Mr. Lauriston, basely imitating the renowned Mr. Caudle's example, deceitfully appeared to snore, and so put a stop to the conjugal exordium.

Lady Maria woke in the morning refreshed and in a cheerful frame of mind. She was by no means a bad-tempered woman; but she was just a little soured by incessant retrenchments and ever-recurring economies, and she was getting tired of making every sovereign do duty for two, and of pinching, and scraping, and paring down every possible item of expenditure. It was all very well for Mr. Lauriston to say "never mind the mutton!" when he had dined at the overloaded table of a vulgar parvenu! but the meat was wasted, and the pudding likewise; and meat and pudding cost money, as the poor lady had learnt for herself during the few last years of her married life.

She had forgotten her displeasure, however, at breakfast-time, and, as Adela poured out the tea always, she had leisure to observe her husband. His pale, grave face startled her; he looked ill and harassed, and he had evidently no appetite. Her heart smote her for her unkindness of the previous night, and she resolved to pet him a little as soon as they should be alone together, and to make amends generally for her little fit of naughtiness. She had thought him looking very poorly lately; his hair was greyer, and his brow more wrinkled than became a man who had not yet celebrated his jubilee, and she knew that he slept badly and complained of want of appetite. She had known, to some extent, of his pecuniary embarrassments, and she had not murmured, save to herself, at having to practise severe economy, which in former days would have been simply inconceivable; but she did not know, she did not even dimly guess at, their real position. She had no idea that the wolf that had howled so long, and clamoured so loudly of late, was standing now on the very threshold of their home, sharpening tooth and claw, and on the point of devouring the last remnants of a once noble fortune! Still less could she divine that there was one man in the world--and one only--who could slam the door in the face of the ferocious beast; or, better still, transform him into a peaceful, harmless lamb, who would never seek to trouble nor to harm the long-tried Lauristons of Castledine! Above all, she could not for a moment suppose that her champion and deliverer--should such a one appear--would turn out to be the wealthy parvenu, Constantine Walker!

That day she was to know all!

She saw her housekeeper, as usual, and gave the necessary orders for luncheon and dinner. She took counsel with her daughter on various little matters pertaining to the toilet. It was no easy matter now to dress herself and Adela becomingly. She arranged a few flowers, and wrote a letter, and then she resolved to seek her husband and do her best to cheer and comfort him, as a good wife should; and while she was still wondering whether he were in the house or in the grounds, he appeared before her, paler, sadder, and more distrait than ever.

"Maria, I want to have some conversation with you. Come to my room; we shall be undisturbed there."

"Is anything the matter, William?"

He made no reply, and she rose and followed him, trembling in every limb, to his own sitting-room or cabinet, where he kept all his private papers, and where it was understood by every member of the household that he was never to be intruded on. He locked the door, and pointed her to an easy-chair before the fire. She was sinking into the first seat at hand, but he interposed, "No, take the easy-chair. You may as well make yourself quite comfortable, for we shall not have finished our conversation in an hour, possibly not in two." Then suddenly his whole manner softened, as he thought of all she had had to bear, and, still further, of all the grief that the words he was now about to speak must needs occasion her. So, for a moment, he stood by her, after he had stirred the fire into a cheerful glow, and looked tenderly--even pitifully--into the still handsome face of the wife whom he had brought so triumphantly to Castledine full five-and-twenty years ago. There were hot tears in his eyes as they met hers. He would have given his life, almost, not to be compelled to place before her the cruel, naked truth; but there was no alternative.

And she, too, was greatly moved, seeing the strong man so deeply stirred; and she fondled his hands, while she said, in a broken voice--"Husband, what is it? Whatever it is, let us bear it together. Thank God! The children are safe and happy!" Then, with sudden terror--"It is not Hugh, is it? Oh, no! Adela heard from him this morning."

"Hugh is all right, I believe; and you know that Adela and Percy are, as far, at least, as their health is concerned. See, there they go together across the lower lawn. But I have much to say to you, nevertheless, that concerns our eldest son."

"I cannot believe that Percy has said or done anything that he ought not."

"No, he has never given me any trouble in the way you mean; but my trouble now is for him, for you, for his sister and brother; lastly, for myself. Maria, I told you seven years ago that we must retrench."

"I know you did, and we have retrenched to the utmost limit, I should say, short of leaving Castledine and renouncing our position."

"And it is come to that, now! Castledine is ours no longer--has not been ours, indeed, since that day when I told you first of my perplexities. You wanted a large sum of money, for something, I remember, and I, for the first time, was constrained to deny you."

"I remember! Go on. I think I understand. I have guessed as much. Things have gone from bad to worse."

"Ay, and from worse to worst! My dear, I wish earnestly that I had never had any concealments from you. You deserved better treatment, for you are not a woman to weakly lament, or drive a man wild with wailing and reproach for any decline of fortunes. I ought to have told you from time to time, how one venture, and then another, had failed; how everything has collapsed, as if it were under a wicked spell; how I have been obliged to borrow at ruinous interest; how debts have begotten debts, till at last all is lost, and, alas! far more than all! There is but one resource--a resource which I, unsupported by others of my family, cannot grasp; failing which, we are in a few weeks--how few I don't know, but certainly they will end before Christmas--homeless, penniless, and at the mercy of justly-incensed creditors, who can be kept at bay no longer."

"Oh, William, what will become of us? What will become of Adela? But you said there was still one resource. Ah! is it not a delusion, like those which have gone before--full of hope for a season, then a bitter mockery?"

"No! it need not be a mockery; it will not be a mockery. It is either full salvation--or--nothing at all. It rests entirely with ourselves."

"With ourselves! There is nothing I would not submit to, short of dishonour, to save Castledine for Percy--for yourself."

" This to which I allude will save Castledine for you and for me, and for our lawful heir--for Percy's children, and for his children's children. It will not only save, but it will free it from every encumbrance, and it will render it once more worthy of the Lauristons."

"William, are you mad? Or are you dreaming? We don't live in the days of Aladdin. Dearest, don't try any wild speculation; don't think of the gaming-table."

"Not I, Maria. And I am neither delirious nor dreaming. The remedy is simply Percy's marriage with one of the richest heiresses in England."

And then Mr. Lauriston repeated to his wife the proposals made to him on the previous day in the bank parlour at Redminster; and fully explained why he had gone to dine--or, as Mr. Walker had put it, to take "potluck" with him--at Downham End. And Lady Maria was shocked and startled, as her husband had been, and emphatically declared that she would sooner see her beautiful boy in his coffin than the prey of a purse-proud, ignorant, ill-bred woman, such as Mr. Walker's daughter must be. But, after a little while, she, too, began to consider whether there was not some sense in the arguments of the millionaire, who so strangely proposed coming to their rescue. She tried to realise what it would be to be poorer than some of their own cottagers; and what would become of Adela and of Percival himself if things were simply left to take their course? There was no alternative but this one, and poor Lady Maria wept aloud in sheer misery and bitterness of spirit.

Her tears probably relieved her, for she presently became calmer, and began to question Mr. Lauriston further. He had already described the splendours of Cleveland House, and the self-evident wealth of its owners.

"But are they not dreadful people?" she asked, pathetically.

"Not nearly so dreadful as I expected to find them. Walker himself is certainly rough and ready, and somewhat vainglorious, as all these nouveaux-riches are, I imagine; yet even he has his good qualities. He is a man of his word; he is inflexibly honest; and he has his own conceptions of honour and gentlemanly conduct. His wife I liked very much. She is pleasant and unaffected; she possesses a certain degree of refinement, and she is quite free from vulgar pretentious. She is a woman, I should say, whom one must perforce esteem under any circumstances; and she has more easily accommodated herself to her present position than has her husband."

"But the daughter--the girl who may be our daughter?"

"There was not a trace of vulgarity in any of her words or actions. She seemed a simple, natural, well-bred girl, scarcely yet out of the school-room. A season in town would make her all that we could wish, I am convinced. There is nothing to object to in Miss Walker herself. It is her want of family, her plebeian connections, her inevitable associations with that which must needs be low and vulgar, that render her an unmeet wife for a Lauriston. Were her birth equal to her fortune, she would be well worthy of a ducal coronet."

"Is she, then, beautiful?"

"By no means! She is a fair, graceful, sweet-looking girl--nothing more. Though, when she smiled, I thought she looked lovely! Her eyes sparkled, and the prettiest little dimples rippled round her rosy lips. She was very well dressed, too. I was agreeably surprised at the appearance she presented, and still more at the simplicity and refinement of her manner."

"But will Percy marry her?"

"He must!"

"My poor boy! And I am afraid he is too fond of Emmeline Vernon."

"That is my fear: he has been very much at Roselle lately. Miss Walker is not to compare with Miss Vernon in point of beauty; in fact, I scarcely ever saw the young woman who was her equal in downright loveliness of face and form; but--leaving the question of money--Constance is infinitely to be preferred to Emmeline. Constance will never make her husband ashamed of her. I am not so sure of Emmeline! And--I dare say I am uncharitable and censorious--she is General Vernon's daughter."

"I confess I do not like her myself, and I have never allowed any intimacy between her and Adela. As to her father, one would be quite civil to him, of course; but I should not care, were he ever so wealthy, to include him among my close acquaintances."

"And that is, and has been from the first, my own feeling. It is also, I believe I am justified in asserting, the feeling of the county. In spite of much plausibility, he is regarded in many quarters with a sort of unexpressed suspicion. One asks another who is General Vernon? And no one knows anything beyond the bare fact that he is General Vernon, and that he gained promotion in India."

"Yes, Emmeline was born in India. Who was her mother?"

"I might ask you that question."

"And I could not answer it, even by a guess. She had a mother, of course; but no one knows anything about her. Mrs. Vernon is never mentioned either by husband or daughter."

"She is dead, I suppose?"

"It is generally understood that she died in Emmeline's infancy, and that she was many years younger than the General. However, we need not talk about the people at Roselle. They came, no one knows whence. They brought no introductions. Perhaps they will depart as suddenly and as mysteriously as they appeared."

"I think it is very likely. But, at all events, Emmeline cannot be the wife of our son, Percival Lauriston. I sincerely trust there have been no entanglements--nothing like an engagement."

"I hope not. It would seriously complicate matters if--IF--this scheme of the Lauriston-Walker alliance be carried out."

"Our strongest security is in our poverty. Mark my words! General Vernon will refuse his daughter to any man who cannot comply with his own terms; and those will include a great deal--the handsomest settlements to begin with. The heir of Castledine may be cordially welcomed at Roselle. Let him put in an appearance as poor, plain, ruined Percival Lauriston, who must marry money, or remain celibate, and he will not have to wait long for his congé, or I most grievously misconstrue both father and daughter. No, my dear! the Vernons will not be an obstacle to our schemes."

"You say our schemes, as if I had fully consented."

"And you have at heart; I know you will help on the match as only a woman can. Dearest, you must perceive that it is the best, the only course that remains to us!"

"I fear, indeed, that it is so. And no false pride of mine shall be a barrier, seeing what issues are concerned. But my poor, poor Percy! I hope he is not really very much in love with Emmeline! She is so marvellously beautiful! How I wish the General had never taken Roselle!"

"I shall tell everything to Percy. I shall make no reserves. He may revolt upon the instant; he may vow constancy to Miss Vernon; he may repudiate the Walkers; but when he knows all, when he comprehends the terrible state of affairs, when he sees that he alone can save his parents, his whole family, from direst ignominy and distress, he will listen to reason, and after a struggle he will yield, and in proper form woo Constance Walker to be his wife."

"There may be objections on her side?"

"Possibly, of course; but not probably. She has never had a lover, nor the merest shadow of an attachment. Her father assures me that she is of a most affectionate disposition; and now I have seen her I can believe it. It will be Percy's own fault, I am convinced, if she is not deeply in love with him before Christmas."

"But before Christmas we may be--God knows where!"

"Not so. Mr. Walker will take measures to keep off a crisis the moment I tell him that Percy acquiesces. And once betrothed to Constance, we shall hear no more of bills and creditors, nor interest overdue; nor shall we any longer graze our lawns, or send our hot-house fruit to Covent Garden."

"The first thing to be done is to come to an understanding with poor Percy."

"Undoubtedly. And the next?"

"Is to call in all possible state on Mrs. Walker. She, of course, will return the call."

"Her husband will arrange for the return call to be made immediately. And then--?"

"Mr. and Mrs. Walker and their daughter must be formally invited to dinner here, to a simple dinner en famille; we cannot attempt the lavish state of Cleveland House; we should only make ourselves ridiculous. After that the ball will be at their feet, and if Percy consents to play his part his course is clear before him."

And this programme was carried out within the week, up to the call at Cleveland House, and the return call at Castledine.

Percy was fully enlightened, as already narrated, and he was made to understand how much--more even than his mother suspected--depended upon his becoming, without delay, the affianced husband of Miss Walker. To sacrifice himself for his parents' sake seemed easy; but to resign his beautiful and passionately-loved Emmeline Vernon--that was impossible! He would rather die--die in penury and obscurity than be false to her.

And then the Walkers dined at Castledine, and Percy almost hated the pale, quiet girl, whom he, as a matter of course, took in to dinner. Mrs. Mabyn and the curate made a fourth couple; and the Rector and Adela a fifth. That night Percival Lauriston nearly drove his unhappy father to desperation by declaring that he would at once enlist as a common soldier!

For several days the deepest shadows of gloom hung over Castledine. Mr. Lauriston shut himself up in the library, and gave notice that he was not, under any pretence, to be disturbed; Lady Maria reported herself invalided, and kept her own room; Adela, wondering at the strange aspect which affairs had suddenly assumed, was restless and ill at ease, feeling instinctively that things were somehow going curiously wrong; longing to know the worst that might be, and at the same time resenting the fact that she had not been admitted to anybody's confidence.

On the fourth afternoon, Hugh unexpectedly arrived. He found Adela alone in the drawing-room, pretending to practise one of Beethoven's Sonatas. She flew into his arms, for Hugh was always her darling, and in some respects her favourite, though she always declared she loved her brothers, as her parents, equally. He looked anxiously at her, seeing how pale she was, and that the ready tears were starting in her eyes. "My pet, what is it? Who has been vexing you, little sister?"

"Nobody! Everybody! All the world--that is, all my world--has suddenly turned topsy-turvy. Papa won't come out of the library. Mamma keeps her bed, and yet she is not ill. Percy stalks about like an offended ghost, and doesn't even seem to see me when we meet. Even the servants go up and down as if there was a corpse in every chamber. Hugh! I could scream for joy that you are come. I was just beginning to feel that I could bear it no longer."

"My poor Ada! But I don't exactly understand. What is the matter with our elder brother, and with our respected parents? They are none of them people to make a fuss about trifles."

"That's what it is that frightens me. Did you ever watch the slow gathering of an awful thunder-storm, knowing that it might, and almost certainly would, burst over your head erelong? I feel now that the atmosphere is thunderous. The darkness grows deeper and deeper, the stillness is weird and dreadful; very soon the tempest will come, and sweep us all away. That is how I feel."

"Yes; but why do you feel it? You are not given to idle fancies."

"I can hardly tell you why, dear; but this I do know--there are money troubles! I have heard something--just a word or two--that I am afraid was not meant for my ears. But I can put two and two together, always, you know, Hughy."

"Addie, can you not tell me what you heard? I think I ought to know all that you know."

"It comes to very little. Papa and mamma had a long conference the other day, with closed doors--that is, they locked themselves in; and, when mamma came out her eyes were all red and swollen with crying, and when I asked her if there were any bad news, she said, breaking out again into tears, 'Don't question me, my dear; I have nothing to say to you, just yet!'"

"Implying, of course, that she would have something to say to you presently. Well! what else?"

"Both papa and mamma began to look like conspirators, as if they had some terrible secret between them. The other evening I came in here, and found them talking very earnestly in the firelight, and I heard papa say, 'My dear Maria, it must be that or ruin--total, irretrievable ruin! We have no other choice!' I knew I was not intended to hear, so I knocked down a music-book. They were both silent, and seemed vexed and uneasy. I was left to wonder what 'that' was; it was spoken with such remarkable emphasis."

"I have not been quite comfortable myself, Ada; there is a screw loose somewhere, I am afraid. I know this, I have been kept very short of the needful; and I am here now to try and get a few pounds out of the governor, for I really can't make both ends meet. I do not think I have been a very extravagant fellow, but a man cannot live and pay his way in London on such an allowance as mine. And all the world knows me for a Lauriston."

"There is another very curious thing. The Walkers of Cleveland House dined here last week."

"Who are the Walkers? I don't remember them at all! Oh, yes! yes! He is the new banker at Redminster, and monstrously rich. He has risen from the ranks, and he murders the Queen's English. What brought him here? Do you mean that Walker was here with his family? Was it a dinner party?"

"Not exactly. The Mabyns were asked, and came, and little Mr. Embleton, the curate, who runs after Mrs. Mabyn like a tame spaniel, was of the party. 'The Walkers' were Mr. and Mrs. Walker, and their daughter, Constance."

"I'll tell you what it is, Addie! the Pater has been borrowing of Mr. Walker, and wants a further advance, so he invites him and his womenkind to dinner, as a sort of bribe. It must be worth anything to such parvenus to be able to say that they dined by special invitation at Castledine. But I don't like it. It's a kind of thing that never answers in the long run. What sort of creature is the Walker girl? She must be a tremendous heiress, if only half that is said about her father be true."

"She seemed to me a very nice girl; I should have taken her for a real lady if I had not known who she was. She is not exactly pretty; she is too pale, and her features are not particularly good; but she has a clear, fair skin, and a nice expression, and her eyes, somehow, made me think of Camoens' 'Sweetest eyes were ever seen!' I could not make out whether she was shy or only reserved and quiet, as becomes--so I am told--a girl just out of the schoolroom. We had a little private talk upstairs, and I found out that all her brothers and sisters were dead, that she was nearly a year older than myself, and that she had been educated entirely at home."

"I suppose Mrs. and Miss Walker were splendidly attired?"

"They were handsomely but quite suitably dressed. They wore just what the occasion demanded. I heard mamma say so to Percy. They made no ostentatious display, but they paid us the compliment of a distinguished toilette."

"What is Madame like?"

"Like herself. Such a dear, kind, simple-hearted, unaffected, stout little woman! One would never take her for a lady, but there is a certain refinement in her tone that redeems her from anything approaching to vulgarity. No! vulgar she is not, for she makes no pretence to be other than she is; and she seems to have risen to her position more naturally than her husband, at whose pomposity one can scarcely help laughing. Both Mrs. Mabyn and the Rector got liberal subscriptions from him. It evidently delighted him to be asked for money; and he talks about cheques as if they were mere waste paper."

"I wish I had some of his waste paper, then. How very unequally Fortune distributes her favours! Here are we, Lauristons of Castledine, at our wits' end for an extra hundred; and there are these Walkers, literally rolling in riches, which they cannot possibly know how to expend to their own satisfaction. I suppose Percy took the young lady in to dinner?"

"He did; and he was scrupulously polite, and talked all dinner-time, in a curious, forced sort of way, as if he did it in spite of himself. He looked wretchedly ill, by the way, and he has looked ill ever since. I am afraid papa and he have had some kind of quarrel. As I said, Hugh, there are storms brooding; there is something more than ordinary about to happen--I feel it in the air."

"'Coming events cast their shadows before.' That is often the case. Though, is it not Rochefoucauld who says, 'Nothing happens but the unforeseen'?"

"I don't know; but something is casting its shadow on us now, I am very sure; and I would give the world to know what the 'coming events' are likely to be."

"Suppose the event should be Percy's marriage with this well-endowed and interesting Miss Walker?"

"Oh! no, no--never! Percy has not made me his confidante in so many words, but he has said things that can only be construed in one way. There is an understanding between him and Emmeline Vernon, if they are not actually engaged. Not for all the heiresses in the universe would he be false to Emmeline. I think I know my brother Percy."

"You are very fond of Miss Vernon. Well! I am not. She is 'beautiful exceedingly,' I grant you; she is loveliness itself; but I would not marry her if she were Helen of Troy, and Mary Stuart, and fair Rosamond combined. Take my word for it, Ada dear, there is something uncommonly shady about those people at Roselle. That General has learned and practised something more than military finesse."

"I am not fond of General Vernon myself; but Emmeline is certainly not to be credited with her father's faults, real or assumed. She is my friend. I like her; I wanted to have her here a great deal, but mamma at once put her veto upon the proposal. Please do not say anything against Emmeline."

"I will not, my dear little sister, and I love you all the better for your staunch fidelity. Only I must say I am sorry to think that matters have gone so far between the lovers--if lovers they really be!

"There is no doubt whatever that they are lovers; and I should say--betrothed."

"Nay, nay! Percy would never act clandestinely. But perhaps the difference between my father and him is caused by something of the kind. My father refuses his sanction; he declines to receive the charming Emmeline as Mrs. Lauriston; and, further still, objects to supplying the few extra hundreds per annum to which, as heir of Castledine, Percy most naturally lays claim. Percy is, of course, disappointed, disgusted--angry with his father--et voilà!"

"What you say may be true, or nearly so. But there is something else which troubles our domestic atmosphere just now; and it is a question of money."

By this time they were walking along the grand corridor, on their way to Adela's own room, where she proposed to give her brother a cup of tea, and a slice of bread-and-butter. All on a sudden he stopped short, and looked up and down the gallery. It was not a cheerful scene, for the dull November day was fast fading into early twilight; a heavy mist, melting every now and then into fine rain, shrouded the landscape outside, and a low sad wind wailed continually round the corners of the house. It was very cold, and Adela shivered, and exclaimed, "What are you stopping for, Hugh? I am nearly frozen, and there is a good fire, I dare say, in my room. We will draw the screen round the hearth, and make ourselves ever so comfortable. Percy likes private tea with me. I always coax some little dainty out of Gardner when I have company. I'll give you some raspberry jam!"

But at that moment Hugh Lauriston was evidently not to be propitiated, even by the prospect of unlimited raspberry jam, for which, it must be confessed, he retained a very boyish partiality. He still gazed on the dim pictures, and the dingy panels where pictures were not, and on the threadbare carpet, that had been a costly Axminster in its day, which meant five or six and twenty years ago. It struck him more forcibly than ever before how legibly ruin and decay were written on all the surroundings of his home. And with a sigh he turned at length, and accompanied his sister to her room.

Here, at least, was cheerfulness, and a good deal of comfort. Adela's boudoir was the old schoolroom; and she, being gifted with that Divine sense of perception and ready resource which the Americans call faculty, had, by dint of many ingenious contrivances, given it a very pleasant appearance. Drawings of her own hung upon the wall; curtains, redeemed from the lumber-room, were before the windows; cheap but effective brackets displayed cheap but pretty statuettes; the table-cloth had a deep rich border, the work of her own clever hands; the chimney-piece was covered, French fashion, with crimson cloth, and all Adela's special properties were here carefully and tastefully disposed.

"How nice you have made the old room look!" said Hugh, as he seated himself in a capacious chair. "Why, it's the prettiest, snuggest little hole possible. It used to be bare enough in the governess's time."

"Yes, and I always hated it. So when mamma said I might make it my own sitting-room, I set to work to see what I could do with it. I am fond of contrivances, you know. First of all, I routed with Gardner in the lumber-room, and found those curtains that could be furbished up to look respectable. I sent them to Redminster to be dyed, and then Gardner and I made them up afresh, and put new binding on them. As for the old grey drugget, I bound it with crimson stuff; and I begged this nice soft rug from one of the rooms which now are never used. Then a few shillings judiciously spent in chintz, and a little ingenuity exercised in every direction, did wonders. Mademoiselle gave me that little work-table as a parting present; it is the only handsome piece of furniture I possess. I arranged my books; I improvised two useful and inexpensive ottomans out of old boxes; and I did try to tune the old piano, but failed in my attempt, so I covered it with baize, and made a sort of sideboard of it. I have to practise in the drawing-room; not that that matters much, for, generally speaking, no one sits there, and we have so few visitors now. And here is your tea ready, with the raspberry jam I promised you, and, what I am sure must be a luxury to a Londoner, plenty of good, fresh cream."

"But, Adela, the only daughter of this house ought not to be obliged to contrive and rummage in musty lumber-rooms, in order to furnish her own boudoir! I wonder sometimes whether all the deficiencies that meet the eye at every turn are really the result of an empty purse, or caused by an unreasonable thrift, an almost insane economy."

"And I also used to wonder; for, Miss Lauriston as I am, certain whispers have reached my ear. I know there has been rebellion among the servants, who talk loudly in their own quarters of 'stingy ways' and 'meanness,' and all that kind of thing; and I do not wonder. Our faithful Harris and dear old Gardner are as good and attentive as ever; the under-servants are often careless and even disrespectful. And I--naughty girl that I am--felt vexed and angry that papa held the purse-strings with such jealous tightness, and I thought myself hardly done by; even mamma, to some degree, shared the sentiment. But a little while ago she changed her tone, and said that papa had lost a great deal of money, and that it was as much as he could do to keep up an establishment at all! She talked to me till we both cried, and since then I have been very sorry for poor papa. I believe he would be delighted to give his children every advantage, to be open-handed and generous, as mamma says he was when we were little ones, if only he were not so continually distressed for means."

"If this sort of thing does not mend, Ada, it must necessarily come to an unpleasant termination. Unless a fresh importation of wealth comes into the family--and nothing short of a miracle, or a marriage as auriferous as Miss Kilmansegg's can work so great a wonder--there must be what the lawyers call a winding-up of the estate! Gentlemen can be bankrupts as well as tradesmen, you know!"

"Yes, I know. And, Hughy, I am not sure but that it might be best to come to it at once. Nothing can be more miserable, more humiliating, than our present position. I cannot bear to think that we owe money--not here, in Westerleigh, mamma says, but in Redminster, and in London. How we come to have bills--heavy bills--in London, I cannot make out, for we are so little there, and the town-house is let every season. If we are poor people, would it not be wiser, more honourable, more honest, to seem to be what we really are before the world?"

"Could you bear to leave Castledine?"

"I could bear it, for I am young and strong. But it would be dreadful--dreadful! And it would kill poor papa, and then mamma would die. They don't make much fuss with each other, and they get at cross-purposes sometimes; yet, for all that, they are true husband and wife: the one would never live without the other."

"What are you talking about?" said a voice close at hand; and the tall figure of the melancholy Percy emerged from behind the screen. "What have you two heard about leaving Castledine? And where have you sprung from, Hugh?"

"Which question shall I answer first?" replied Hugh.

"Shall I take them in turn? Well! Addie and I have been talking about what seems to us to be an impending family crisis. We have heard nothing about leaving Castledine, but our common-sense tells as that such a change may be expedient, if not imperative. As to where I came from--I left London this morning--I am cleaned out; had to come down second-class! I want the father to draw a little cheque on my account."

"Did you ever hear an old saying, which recommends you not to try to draw blood from a stone?"

"I know what you mean. Is it as hopeless as all that?""

"As hopeless as can be. It is quite time you knew all about it. It is as foolish as it is unkind to keep secrets from one another, and I shall hold my tongue no longer. Money has been scarce for many a day; we have all felt that. Latterly it has been a sort of famine in our midst; but my father, hoping against hope, and trusting to retrieve affairs, thought good not to confide in his sons, or even till lately in his wife. All such hope, such trust, is gone! How the money has melted away I cannot tell; no one, it seems to me, can tell. Nor does it greatly matter; spilt milk is spilt for ever. This much is certain: Many years ago, not long after our grandfather's death, I imagine, a false friend, visiting in this house, induced my father to enter into certain speculations which were to make him a millionaire! They did nothing of the kind; the whole affair was a delusive bubble--a fraudulent scheme devised by half-a-dozen plausible rogues, who wanted to feather their own nests at the expense of other people. My father had acted most rashly, inasmuch as he invested a very large sum with what afterwards appeared to him but insufficient guarantee; all that he risked was lost, and a good deal more besides. After that it seems to have been one long, vain struggle to recoup those losses, and another and another speculation was entered into, that something might be recovered. It was hoped--how many have hoped the same thing?--that every fresh scheme would pay for past misadventure that if riches were not actually secured, there would be obtained, at least, something like immunity from the dreadful pressure of existing liabilities. I need not multiply words. Not one of the plans succeeded, only so far as to enable the victims (our father is one of several) to tide over their difficulties for a little while, and just keep themselves from drowning. Mr. Walker has now taken the Castledine affairs into his hands, and he has satisfied himself, and proved both to my father and to me, that no further effort can be made--that no longer struggle is possible; that--in short, that the day of doom has arrived, and the hour is almost striking."

Hugh turned very pale. Adela could scarcely be more colourless than she had been all that week. Said Hugh, "Why did I not know this before? Why was I not told my true position? Why did my father approve my choice of a profession which means starvation to a penniless second son?"

"Stay! you are not quite penniless. There is the mother's marriage settlement, which comes ultimately to you and Adela."

"I have always heard that my mother's fortune was a small one."

"A very small one, unfortunately, as things have turned out. So small that it was not thought of any importance, when she married the wealthy Lauriston of Castledine. Nevertheless--somewhat ridiculously, people then said--her father, the Earl, insisted on its being legally settled on her, and on her younger children. Of course, the heir would have Castledine and the lion's portion in every respect. It really would appear that there was a fate upon all property belonging to the Lauristons, for even this poor pittance, which is all we have actually to depend upon for bread and cheese and shelter, has been, through strictly unavoidable causes, sadly diminished. Of course, you and I cannot and will not touch a penny of it; it will keep our father and mother and Adela from starving. I am not exaggerating when I say that it will not do much more than secure them from actual want. It will give them--all three--humble bed and board, barest necessaries, few comforts, and certainly no luxuries."

And then the conclave was broken up. Lady Maria wanted to see her daughter, and Mr. Lauriston, having heard of Hugh's arrival, requested his presence in the library. Percy retired to his own room a little relieved by having spoken out to his brother and sister.

There had been private conversations in several rooms, and when at length parents and children assembled at the sound of the punctual dinner-bell, an air of sadness and depression had gathered on every countenance. It was not surprising that no one had much appetite; that most of the dishes went away untouched; and that the apology for a dessert was generally regarded as a useless, uncalled-for formality.

"I think we may dispense with this," said Mr. Lauriston, the moment the servants had left the room. "I want some talk with my sons, and with you, Adela, and mamma has something to say to us on her own account. Shall we stay here, or adjourn to the library?"

"To the library, by all means," replied Percival; "the servants will come here presently, expecting to clear the table; in the library we shall not be disturbed, if we talk till midnight."

To the library, then, they all went, Mr. Lauriston leading the way, with his wife upon his arm, Hugh escorting his sister, and Percival lingering, but following slowly behind. Adela and Hugh both felt as if they were taking part in a funeral procession.

"Children," began Mr. Lauriston, but especially addressing himself to Hugh and Adela, "I believe you know something of the overwhelming misfortune which has overtaken our ill-fated house? You know that your father is a ruined man?"

Hugh gravely bowed assent; Adela quietly stole her hand into her mother's, and was silent. Mr. Lauriston continued, after clearing his voice, which, though hard, was both tremulous and husky: "I have done my best; I have striven, if ever man strove, to avert the evil. In many things I have, doubtless, been unwise, imprudent! but at the time I acted, as I believed, on a sound judgment. I need not now go into particulars; Percival knows all. Mamma has heard all she wants to hear. Hugh and Adela may learn more, if they care to listen--at another opportunity. I have only to repeat that I am a ruined man."

"Let's all set to work, father! " cried Hugh, irrepressibly. "You are by no means old; men, if they are worth anything at all, are in their prime at fifty. I'll put my shoulder to the wheel, and I can answer, I'm sure, for Percival. Even Addie must take a situation. All but my mother must do something."

"That is just what I say," interposed Percy, eagerly. "Let our creditors take Castledine! let us emigrate to Australia, to California, to any place where we may work hard, and amass, if it be possible, such a fortune as will enable us, some day, to retrieve our position, and regain our lost estates in England!"

"I have told you before," said Mr. Lauriston, sternly, "that emigration is out of the question for your mother and myself. Middle-aged or not, we are both too old to bear transplanting. You boys may emigrate if you see fit, and you may make a home for Adela; but your mother and I stay here--that is, in our country. Though driven out of Castledine, we will lay our bones in the family vault in the old church yonder. Do not broach that scheme again, I entreat you, Percy. And you, Hugh, what sort of work would you propose to do?"

"Any honest work that would pay, sir."

"That would pay! Ah! there's the rub! People muse be trained to profitable labour. You have studied the law, certainly--a most gentlemanly profession; but I am afraid it will be a long while before you earn your daily bread by that. You hoped to become a distinguished barrister, and I doubt not that you would have risen in a few years to eminence and wealth, had you been able to wait and bide your time, and obtain a sure footing from which to make your ascent."

"I might combine something else with my profession, sir. Literature, for instance. I'll write for the magazines, for the Times, for the leading Reviews. I have a first-rate idea, too, for a three-volume novel. I just sketched out my plot to a publisher with whom I am rather intimate, and he urged me to set to work without loss of time. He promised that his house would undertake it, and my fortune would be made. I have often wished to become a thorough-going littérateur. I could be an author and a barrister at the same time. Most of the successful authors of our day are engaged in some unliterary pursuit. Look at Trollope!"

"Dreams, dreams! Hugh, my boy. While you were writing your novels and your reviews you would be starving. Authorship has two sides to it--one side is pleasant enough, I grant; the reverse is terrible. Hugh, you cannot afford to graduate in literature. Whatever you do must be speedily remunerative. You will never receive any more money from me; all I can save from the wreck must be shared with your mother and Adela."

"Is there no alternative? Is no compromise possible? Can't a sop be given to Cerberus?"

"Compromise is out of the question. Cerberus disdains a sop. But there is an alternative! Percy can save us all; he might have saved us already, in which case you and Adela need never have known the full extent of my misery."

"I am glad I do know it, though! There should be no concealments, no reserves, in families. It is both best and wisest always to know the worst. There is nothing so dispiriting, so bewildering, as having to grope one's way in life; nothing so fatal as delusion. But how is Percy to save us?"

"You heard that the Walkers dined here last week?"

"Yes! And they have an only daughter--a great heiress, of course. And she is neither ugly nor vulgar, Addie tells me. Is Percy to marry her?"

"I would give my life. I think, to be able to answer in the affirmative. Alas! Percy refuses to wed the heiress--a sweet girl, too; and a good girl, I've no doubt. With one word of his, Castledine is no longer the prey of infuriated creditors, Jew and Gentile. It is ours for ever; for several generations, certainly. I can't promise that my great-grandsons may not make ducks and drakes of the family estates. But this word of Percy's secures Castledine to myself and to himself, frees it from every encumbrance, gives it once more a clear and handsome rent-roll, possibly restores the lapsed title, transforms us from a set of miserable paupers into a wealthy, prosperous county-family."

"And the price of this word, sir?"

"Simply a concession of Percy's own will. He is asked to take to himself a fair young wife, with an immense dowry. He calmly refuses. He says he will not sell himself to any heiress, so he relentlessly consigns us to our fate. Perhaps, some day, in that distant Eldorado to which he means to wend his way, when Hope's flattering tale has ended in blank disappointment, he may deeply regret his cruelty to his hapless parents. He may wish in vain for the golden opportunity he so foolishly let slip--let slip, did I say?--that he spurned and scornfully rejected."

"Father!"--and Percy's voice sounded hollow and broken--"you torture me past endurance. You do not know all, Hugh. I am asked to forswear myself, to be a traitor, to consummate my everlasting dishonour with this golden marriage of mine. Had I been free, I would have accepted Mr. Walker's proposals, I would have resigned myself to a loveless union; but I am not my own man; I am Emmeline Vernon's declared lover, her accepted suitor. She loves me, as only one woman in a thousand knows how to love. And she is the one woman in all the world for me. God has given her to me; I will not let her go."

"Infatuated boy!" groaned Mr. Lauriston. Lady Maria wept silently, but Adela, through her tears, smiled approval on her true-hearted, faithful brother. She felt at that moment that she would sooner turn kitchen-maid than do aught by word or deed to hinder her brother's marriage with the girl he so deeply loved. Hugh was the first to speak. "Do I understand, then, Percy, that you are openly, positively engaged to Miss Vernon?"

"Positively? Yes! Openly? I hardly know! We agreed not to publish our betrothal till the General gave consent; he on his part hesitated--honourably, I say, only you are all so prejudiced against the brave old man--till my father and mother gave their sanction. I sought my father to ask his--my mother would go with him, I know; and before I could introduce Emmeline's name, I was told that I was the son of a ruined man, and a ruined man myself, and that I must forthwith espouse Miss Constance Walker, and her gold! Of course, the affair, as regards the world outside, has been in abeyance ever since. For a moment, I own, I vacillated: I thought it just possible to sacrifice myself--for my family's sake. I was introduced to Miss Walker, and expected to inaugurate my courtship forthwith. Then!--though I have nothing to say against the girl; she may be purity and sweetness and goodness itself, for aught I know, as I dare say she is--but then I felt how useless it was to try to dissever my fortunes from Emmeline's. I would die for my father, but I cannot make my life one lie! I cannot pretend to make love to Constance Walker! and I have no right to sacrifice the woman who has given all her heart to me, who has pledged herself to be my wife. I will marry her if she will have me."

"She will not have you," said Mr. Lauriston, decisively.

"Emmeline Vernon is a woman of the world," observed Lady Maria. "She pledged herself to the heir of Castledine; she will weep and bewail herself, and look most pathetically lovely; but she will not marry poor, landless, obscure Percival Lauriston."

"I should not wish her to marry as things are now. No man is justified in dragging down a girl gently bred and softly nurtured into that most miserable estate, commonly railed 'genteel poverty.' I mean to work for her--I have brains and I have hands, and either in this country or in another, where fortune may be more easily propitiated, I will make a happy home for her. She will wait for me! She will come to me across the sea, whenever I am ready for her. She will say, like Ruth of old, 'Whither thou goest, I will go; thy people shall be my people; where thou diest will I die, and there will I be buried!'"

Adele gazed at her brother with glowing face and earnest sympathy; but Mr. Lauriston smiled cynically, and Hugh looked as if he could be amused were the matter of less import. Lady Maria looked fondly and pitifully at her son, and ejaculated, "My poor boy! oh, my poor boy!"

"I think you are all in compact to drive me mad," cried Percy, irritably; "all but Adela! She is the only one who appreciates my Emmeline," which little outburst drew down stern glances on Addie's hot, excited countenance. Then said Hugh, "Let me comprehend the case entirely. I want to know how it comes to pass that Miss Walker, with all her wealth, should be at Percy's disposal?"

"You are easily informed," replied his brother. "Mr. Walker is one of those men who, having amassed riches to their heart's content, wants, as it is phrased, to--found a family! He has lost all his sons and all his daughters, except this one, who remains 'sole hope and heiress of his house!' He will give her, as richly dowered as you please, to any man of good old family and decent character who will take her. I must do him the justice to say that I think he would not favour the suit of a libertine, though he came to woo with a coronet on his head and a pedigree a thousand years old in his hand. Constantine Walker is a good man of his own class, and according to his own lights; but, though created a peer of the realm to-morrow, he would be a snob to his dying day. As a poor man, he would have been eminently respectable--what we should call a most worthy fellow; riches have made him a thorough-paced vulgarian, vain and pompous, and, on occasion, repulsively ostentatious."

"I see! He bolsters up the House of Lauriston with his trade-begotten wealth. We are expected to build up the House of Walker with our good blood and ancient name. Not so unequal a bargain as at first sight appeal's, Percival. And if the girl be a good girl, and ladylike--and of nice, loving, yielding disposition--"

"Which she probably is," interrupted Percy. "Why not court her yourself, Hugh? I hereby cede all rights of primogeniture in your favour. Marry Constance Walker and her money-bags, and reign at Castledine as heir and future lord. I will carry out my scheme of emigration--I, too, will found a family--the Lauristons of another hemisphere!"

"That would not do, I guess," replied Hugh, shaking his head. "I am not sure that you could legally concede to me your rights as eldest-born; indeed, I know you could not, though, of course, we might make certain agreements among ourselves. The entail remains in its integrity. We must not forget that Castledine itself, though it may be sequestrated for a century, can never pass from the Lauristons while heirs-male are in existence."

"It remains to the Lauristons, truly, but only as an empty name. Castledine will be no more to us than the estates of any other family--except that we may, in another generation, if not in this, redeem it, and occupy it as lords of the soil. My children or yours, Hugh--if we ever have any--may perchance do this; but more probably it will be our grandchildren. Neither you nor I can hope to reign here any more than our father. Unless fortune marvellously favours us, we shall be needy people till we die."

"Percival," said Mr. Lauriston, mournfully, "you can say all this, and know that you have the power--the privilege--I may say the honour--to be the saviour of your family? You can without compunction doom your nobly-born mother and your only sister to a life of indigence and sordid misery? Are you aware of the sort of life they--I speak not of myself--must live, when all is unavoidably surrendered? Think of your mother, think of Adela, poorly-fed and shabbily attired, in wretched London lodgings!"

"Do not care for me," put in Adela, breathlessly, "I have made up my mind. I will be a daily governess. Mrs. Mabyn will give me a reference."

Percy groaned. He was quite willing to become backwoodsman and tiller of the soil; he was ready to earn his daily bread in the sweat of his brow; he cared little what became of himself, so far as regarded his outer man; but it went to his heart to think of his sweet sister, hitherto so tenderly nurtured and carefully shielded from the world's rude breath, thrown upon her own resources, and compelled to walk the London streets unattended--a slighted, drudging, weary governess! He had a vivid imagination, and he could already see Adele in her shabby gown, old bonnet, and mended gloves, going forth through summer's sun and winter's cold, morning after morning--a poor, despised, daily governess, to her monotonous and thankless toil! He shuddered at the picture.

"Ah! what it must be to live in London lodgings!" sighed Lady Maria. "I know a little of the wretchedness of such a life. Don't you remember, Percy, that dreadful place in South Lambeth, where we found poor Miss Fortescue, after that wicked lawyer had cheated her out of all her property? Shall I ever forget that dismal old house! It had not been painted for half a century, I am sure; it was all panelled and wainscoted, and the woodwork was decayed; and oh, so dirty! I spoilt a pair of gloves going upstairs. The carpets were not only threadbare, but dingy; the furniture was dingy; the ceilings were smoky; the marble mantel-piece was all chipped and cracked; the badly-glazed windows wanted cleaning; the bed-hangings--oh, such a. dreadful common wooden bedstead, with all the paint worn off, washed to death! Everything of the meanest and cheapest, and nearly everything in some way marred and defaced. Shall I ever forget that looking-glass over the fireplace in the drawing-room!--the woman, the landlady, had the impudence to call it a drawing-room, and to charge for it as such! The frame was black with age, and tumbling to pieces; and everywhere there was dust, dirt, and desolation. It will break my heart to live in such a place."

"Oh, but mamma," interrupted Adela, "we may get clean lodgings, surely? Miss Fortescue should not have gone into such a vile house; she should have chosen a nicer place. One may be clean if one is poor, I suppose; soap and water cost so very little."

"Beggars cannot be choosers, Adela," replied Lady Maria; "and some of those lodging-house keepers seem to have an insuperable objection to soap and water, and to despise dusters. However, if it must be, it must be; I shall not need any lodgings in this world long. You will soon have to bring me back to Westerleigh, and lay me in the old chancel yonder!" And again the poor lady relapsed into bitter weeping.

"If only my life would save you such sorrow, mother, God knows I would yield it willingly!" said Percy, passionately. "But you ask far more than my life: you demand my honour. And you bid me immolate another on the altar of filial sacrifice. It is too much."

"Very well," said Mr. Lauriston, sternly; "be it so. We will urge it no more, Percival. We bow to our fate, your mother and I; we will try to bear with resignation the miseries of our existence. I will do my best for my wife and my daughter; I only ask that you will look after Adela when we are gone. As your mother observes--it will not be long. Go, then, Percival; renew your troth-plight with Miss Vernon, and leave us to die or to struggle on as Providence decrees. Only--only--that is not all! Percy! Percy! my firstborn, of whom I have been so proud, in whom so many fond hopes have centred, how can you be so cruel, so pitiless, so blind to your own interest also! But I say no more! Let us go, Maria, and weep our tears together. We had better been childless than deserted as we are."

Come, come, father! that's going it a little too strongly," broke in Hugh. "We'll stick to you, never fear. Depend upon it, there are better days in store."

"No, no!" sobbed Lady Maria; "like the hapless Mary Stuart, we may each one--except, perhaps, Percy--say 'Adieu, mes beaux jours!' Yes, that is what I shall say when I leave Castledine--what I may say to-day, indeed, 'Adieu, mes beaux jours!'

And she repeated the melancholy words again and again, as though fascinated with the mournful sound, and with so much pathos that every eye overflowed with tears. Hugh was the first to recover. "I won't have it," he said, stifling something very much like a sob; "my motto is, 'Le bon jour viendra.' But I say, Percy, would you mind leaving the whole affair to Miss Vernon? Tell her the entire truth, and then, if she is willing to renew the engagement which was entered into with the heir of Castledine, so be it. If not--if Emmeline discards you, will you not then think of Miss Walker?"

"If Emmeline is not as willing--ay, and more willing--to keep faith with ruined Percival Lauriston than with the heir of Castledine, I will ask Constance Walker forthwith to be my wife. But I do not fear."

A sudden light broke over the features of both parents, and Mr. Lauriston responded: "I ask nothing better. Go to Miss Vernon, but tell her the truth--the full truth--in all its nakedness and ugliness."

"I shall tell her the truth, sir, you may be certain. Nothing would be gained by deceiving her. I shall suppress no facts--save one." The last words were whispered to his father, over whom he bent.

"It is too late to-night," he continued; "I will know my fate to-morrow morning. I will send a note to Emmeline, telling her that I shall be at Roselle by noon."

"And now you know all!" And Percival Lauriston sat, almost holding his breath, in the pretty little drawing-room at Roselle, while the morning sun shone brightly on the rosebud, pink-lined chintz, and sent dazzling prismatic colours from the lustres on the mantel-piece, dancing over all the white moulded ceiling. The fire crackled cheerily, the canary-bird in his gilded cage warbled low, sweet snatches of song; the Persian cat stretched herself in perfect contentment on the fleecy, snowy rug; and Emmeline, with her face buried in her hands, kept silence as she nestled among the cushions of her favourite lounge.

When five minutes had elapsed, the suspense became unendurable, and Percy felt that he must go frantic on the spot, or break the awful pause. "Speak to me, Emmeline," he said; "speak, and tell me that I have not broken your heart."

Then the perfect little hands were parted, and the beautiful face showed itself, all pale and wet with tears.

"Oh, Percy, dear Percy!" she moaned. "What shall I do? What can I say to you? How can I comfort you, my poor, injured Percy?"

"There is only one comfort left for me now," he whispered, drawing up to the lounge; "the assurance of your precious love."

"And that you have, you know. I shall love you while life lasts."

"Oh, my darling, I was sure of it! They would have persuaded me at Castledine that you would reject me now that I had no longer wealth nor position--not even a decent home to offer you. They might as well have told me that the sun would never shine again upon the flowers because November mists are here."

"But what will you do, Percy?"

"I will go abroad, dearest; I have youth and health and manly vigour. I will work with hands or with brain, or with both, at any honest labour that will bring you nearer to me, and hasten on the blessed day when I may claim you as my bride. You are content to wait, Emmeline?"

"Wait for what, dear Percy?"

"For our marriage, which cannot take place yet awhile. Unless--unless, indeed!--but no!--I would not allow you to do it--I was going to say--unless, in your angelic sweetness and true woman's love, you should elect to go with me and help me, as only a dear wife could, upon my rugged way!"

Something like a faint smile glimmered through Emmeline's tears. She was one of those most exceptional women who look distractingly lovely while they weep.

"Ah! if I only could go with you into exile!" she sighed; "but it may not be. I could not leave my father so."

"Dearest, I love you far too well to nourish the least idea of such a scheme. Not for worlds would I be so selfish as to expose you to the toils and privations, the thousand little miseries that would kill you, while they will scarcely touch me who am strong and full of hope for the future. No, my love! I will not take you with me. I will come back for you as soon as ever our little nest across the sea is ready for us. Or, perhaps, if my return seemed inexpedient, you would do me the great honour of coming out to me; under proper escort, of course. Will you wait for me, dear--say, five years? But I trust I shall have conquered my fate in three years, or even less."

Again there was silence, but this time Emmeline wiped away her tears, and resumed her composure. At last she said--"Percy, I would wait for you till my life's end. I would wait for you as Evangeline did for Basil; but--but--"

"But what, my sweet one?"

"My father would never consent. He has not taken your absence from Roselle at all in good part, and this morning he spoke very plainly. He said it would never do, and that I must consider myself entirely disengaged. He insists, in fact, that it has not been an engagement, and he bade me give you back your ring, which, of course, I have never worn, and which no one but my maid has seen."

"Emmeline! Emmeline! you cannot mean that I am to go away without any sort of pledge? I will leave you unfettered, of course, if you wish it; but I shall hold myself as bound irrevocably. In the simple article of fidelity and sole devotion, the marriage ceremony will be of little consequence to me. My heart never could be yours more than it is at this moment. Your father may not allow a definite engagement, and I can scarcely blame him; but if you and I understand each other, that will be more than enough."

"Oh, Percy! you would not surely tempt me to disobedience?"

"No, dear, no. But your father loves you so well that I am sure he will ultimately yield, when he sees that your love for me is no girlish fancy, but the steadfast, life-long love, which neither time nor circumstances may change. I ask you only to assure me that you will wait. It shall be with us as it was with 'Margret' --you shall say when we are parted--

'We brake no gold, a sign
Of stronger faith to be,
But I wear his last look in my soul,
Which said, I love but thee!'

I ask only your promise, dear; or shall I put it in this way--your leave to go and make a home for you in the Western world? Just one little word to send me on my weary, lonely way hopeful and rejoicing, and one solemn kiss to seal the compact."

"Percy, dear--dear friend. Believe me that word is better unspoken. There must be no such compact. We must part. Ours has been a sweet love-dream, and we shall always remember it most tenderly. As long as I live I shall think of you, and I shall ever love you. But--but--all that was between us when we last met and parted is at an end. I cannot marry a poor man; you cannot wed a penniless bride, and, to speak truth, I shall be almost dowerless. My father's income, for the most part, dies with him, and he has saved absolutely nothing."

"Though I am a poor man to-day, Emmeline, I will not so remain. I will win wealth--or die. Ah! my sweet one, you are only thus coy out of pretty maiden shame--or, perhaps, you want to try me!"

"No, no, indeed; I mean all that I say. The tie that was between us is broken--and for evermore."

Percy stood aghast. He saw now that she was in downright earnest. Every feature of that beautiful face was hardened into a mask that breathed the very spirit of firm, unassailable resolve. He looked at her in amaze; he was struck with a sudden despair, that for the moment seemed to obscure his senses. And while he stood before her, unable to frame the simplest sentence, the door opened, and General Vernon appeared. At one glance, he took in the situation of his daughter and her lover.

"What is the matter, Emmeline?" he asked in those dulcet tones which meant treachery--or so said his oldest friends. "What is amiss, Mr. Percival?"

"Papa," replied Emmeline, "will you tell Percy that you forbid any engagement between us? He does not believe me when I assure him that I cannot be his wife."

"It is quite true, Mr. Percy," gently spoke the father. "It has been rumoured that the Castledine estates are terribly encumbered; that Mr. Lauriston himself is deeply involved. I ask you, as a man of honour, have these reports any real foundation?"

"They are inaccurate, simply because they do not by any means represent the true state of the case. Report cannot say anything worse than the truth--for we are--utterly ruined! Castledine itself will be let; it will fall into the hands of our creditors; everything that can be sold will be sold; and I fear--nay, I am sure--that when every item of Lauriston property is fully realised, an immense amount of debt will still remain. I am going to America--or New Zealand--or Australia, with a few pounds in my pocket; and, God helping me, I will win an honest livelihood, and secure, if not affluence, a competency. No!--I should say, I was going, and I would have won my ends, if I might have toiled with the one hope of making Emmeline my wife--at some happy, though far distant day."

A light laugh, with just a tinge of scorn in it, broke from the General's thin lips. "My dear boy," he said, quite paternally, "I had no idea you were so romantic! I quite approve of your scheme of emigrating; but it amuses me to hear you coupling Emmeline's name with your wild adventures. Never was a young woman less fitted than my Lina for a backwoodsman's wife. Why! if you married, you would hate each other in less than a twelvemonth! Young people believe in that fool's paradise of 'love in a cottage,' which, by the way, generally means a hovel. I tell you that when poverty comes in at the door, love flies out at the window! All the poetry of life is gone, and prosaic realities of sordid needs and wretched drudgery alone remain; and the wedded pair, that erewhile cooed like doves, wrangle and squabble and reproach each other from day to day. No, no, Mr. Percival; I love my daughter too well to permit her to run the risk of such a fate, and I have too much regard for you and for your ancient family to assist you to shackle yourself with matrimonial fetters, either present or to come. You will both thank me for my decision in two or three years' time. And now you understand?"

"I understand that you refuse to give me your daughter, and that there is no appeal from this refusal. But I can only take my dismissal from Emmeline's own lips. Give me your hand, darling, and vow that you will ever love me."

"I shall always love you, Percy," she said, gently giving her hand as she spoke. "I shall never care for another as I have cared for you; but--it is kindest to speak plainly--I shall never marry you. I am free; you are free to form other and more eligible ties."

He dropped her hand, as if it had stung him, and replied, sternly, "Such love is worth nothing! What can your love be to me, when you are another man's wife? It is true, then, what they told me! It was the heir of Castledine with whom you were willing to plight troth, not Percival Lauriston."

"Ah! but that is cruel!" cried she, melting again into tears.

"Your reproaches prove that I was right in rejecting you as my daughter's suitor," interposed the General. "This interview had better come to a conclusion; it is too much for my poor Emmeline. I wish you to retire, my love. Say farewell to Mr. Percival, at once; I will join you in a few minutes, in your own sitting-room."

"One moment," pleaded Percy. "Tell me again that you absolutely and finally reject me; tell me once more that all is over--for ever--between us two; for my senses fail me. I cannot realise the fact that here and now we part, with no hope of reunion."

"Nay!" returned Emmeline, gently, "I would not say that. We may meet again, and we may be friends--dear friends. Why not?"

"Your question shows me that you never really loved me," he returned, bitterly. "If so, we part now; I pray my God we may never meet again. You and I can never be friends only. Good-bye, Emmeline; I shall marry another woman, but I fear it is out of my power to love her. You have made a ruin of my heart; you have blighted my life. I cannot forgive you."

"Oh, Percy!" she cried, clinging to her father, "it is not my fault. Go! go! I cannot bear it any longer. You will kill me, looking at me as if I were a fallen angel, and saying such ungenerous and cruel things! Go, and marry that other woman, and be happy."

"Happy! no; never more!" he replied, solemnly. "Kiss me once more, Emmeline! Even now I would die for you, could my death profit you at all. Another woman will have my hand and my name--but that will be all." And then he held her for a moment in his arms, and pressed her lips in a long and sorrowful kiss, that felt to her like the salute of Death. Such a kiss might have been given and taken by two who parted on the grave's chill brink. Another minute, and Percy Lauriston had left Roselle, never again to set foot within its precincts.

"Don't cry, my pet," said the General, as the discarded lover passed out of sight, and Emmeline threw herself on the sofa in convulsions of weeping. "It could not be otherwise, and I always had my doubts, you know. I am so glad it went no further. People will talk a little; but they can say nothing of consequence, and we can positively declare that it never was an engagement! I rejoice that you did not wear his ring."

"You must send it back, papa, and all his letters--there are only five of them."

"Of course, my dear; give me the ring and the letters, and I will forward them by a safe messenger to Castledine." And Emmeline gave them to her father the same evening; but Percy Lauriston never received them. The letters went into the fire, and the ring into the General's private treasury.

"I shall never, never love any man as I have loved him!" was still Emmeline's protest, when her tears were dried and she and her father had shared a pint bottle of Moët and Chandon. "But, of course, any thought of such a marriage was out of the question. I wonder who the woman is he speaks of--I hate her!"

"I am thankful you are a girl of sense," replied the General. "And I trust, my love, you will profit by this little experience, which, of course, has been most painful to us both, and look well before you commit yourself to any other affair of the sort. With your beauty, my child, you may command wealth and the highest rank, if only you are prudent. I shall not be content till you wear upon that queenly brow the coronet which will so well befit you! We will make no more mistakes, my Emmeline.''

And Percy went home a sadder and a wiser man than he had left it. His father and mother wore in the library when he came in. "Your wishes are granted," he said hoarsely. "Ask me no questions. I shall propose to Constance Walker. Castledine is saved. Tell Hugh and Adela."

Then he retreated to his own room, and was seen no more that day, except by Adela, who late in the evening obtained admittance, and carried him some food. But that night Mr. Lauriston wrote to Mr. Walker, and the next morning brought a private letter from the banker, and a cordial invitation to all the Lauristons to dine en famille at Cleveland House on the following Tuesday. And this was Saturday.

So Percival began to prepare himself for his loveless wooing.

There was great rejoicing at Castledine. Even the servants wondered what had happened to change the master's settled gloom and my lady's hopeless dejection into gladness and cheerful content. Only Mr. Percival and Miss Lauriston seemed not to share the elate feeling of the other members of the family, and the brother and sister spent a good deal of their time together in the latter's boudoir. Hugh, left very much to himself, walked about the village, gossiping with humble friends, and discussing politics with the Rector. He took care, however, not to stroll in the direction of Roselle, and he kept a pretty sharp look-out lest he should perchance stumble upon the General or his daughter; "for," as he had said that morning to his mother, "though we don't quite know what happened yesterday at the cottage, it certainly behoves us, on every account, to give the Vernons a wide berth; the less we see of them the better."

Sunday came--as it always does after Saturday, whatever may have been the complications of the week gone by--and the good people of Westerleigh--all such, at least, as worshipped God by Act of Parliament--met under the roof of their fine old parish church. The Lauristons, of course, in the great square Castledine pew, with its moth-eaten, faded cushions and draperies, its disused fireplace, under the shadow of a famous Roubilliac, and its baize-covered table in the centre. The Vernons, in their accustomed place--that is to say, in the comfortable, middle-aisle pew, that was supposed always to belong to the tenants in possession of Roselle. Of the Lauristons, Percival only was absent. He had professed himself quite too unwell to take part in the public devotions of the day. As to the Vernons, both father and daughter were to be seen decorously standing up with their Prayer-books when Mr. Mabyn commenced, as usual, with the stereotyped "wicked man." Adela, who knew more than any one else of what had transpired on Friday, was astonished beyond measure. Emmeline was indeed pale, and she kept her veil down, and never once looked toward the Castledine pew, but she seemed tranquil and content, and Miss Lauriston could hear her clear, bird-like notes in the hymns and chants all through the service. "Sitting and standing there, singing and listening to the sermon, just as if nothing had happened!" was Adela's slightly indignant comment, as she thought of her brother at home, and forgot herself so far as to keep her eyes fixed devoutly on that clause of the Litany which prays for "all prisoners and captives," while the Rector was reading aloud the general thanksgiving! Lady Maria and Mr. Lauriston were privately congratulating themselves on the young woman's serenity and evident whole-heartedness; she, least, was not likely to pine away and die for true love's sake! And Percy--"poor Percy"--would soon get over his little disappointment, and find himself quite happy as the husband of the amiable, well-dowered Constance Walker!

In the evening Adela and Percy sat together over a comfortable fire in the old schoolroom, far away from the library, where the rest of the family were assembled. There had been the customary early Sunday dinner, at which Percy had made his appearance; but he had excused himself at tea-time, and found his way about seven o'clock to his sister's room, requesting a cup of tea from her. Nothing pleased Adela better than playing the hostess in her own domains, especially to her brothers; and now she was delighted to welcome Percy, and proud to receive confidences which were shared by no other person. Only to her had Percy spoken of his last interview with Emmeline; the name of Vernon had not been otherwise mentioned by him or to him since his announcement on Friday afternoon. Now he said abruptly, "Was she at church this morning, Adela?"

No need to ask to whom he referred. Adela replied, "Yes, dear; she and the General were both there. I wish he would not repeat the responses so loudly. He evidently relishes calling himself 'a miserable sinner' over and over again. I wonder how he would take it if some one should say gravely to him, 'Well! yes, sir, you are a miserable sinner; there is no question about it!'"

"I am glad to know the excitement has not made her really ill," said Percy, not caring whether people called General Vernon a sinner or a saint, or nothing at all; at the same time feeling conscious of insincerity in so speaking, because in his heart he knew that he would have preferred to hear that Emmeline was too unwell, too heart-broken, to appear as yet in public. Not all at once could he resign his property in her affections.

"Adela," he said, presently, as he presented his cup for refilling, "you, who knew Emmeline so well--you, who cared for her sincerely--did you at all anticipate the result of the appeal which I was to make? Had you any idea that she would--act as she did?"

"Not the least. I was fully confident of her fidelity. Of course, I was sorry to think papa and mamma would be disappointed, but I was so glad when it was agreed on all hands that the question should practically be left to her to decide. When you declared that you would keep your faith if she would keep hers, I had no doubt whatever that, for good or for evil, we should hear no more of the Lauriston-Walker alliance. When you came back, and said that all was over at Roselle, that you intended to propose to Constance, I was simply stunned. I could scarcely believe my own ears. But, Percy, is she not acting under coercion?"

"Not a bit of it! Of course, she fell back upon her father's commands, and talked prettily about the obedience due to him, and all that sort of thing; but I could not fail to see that of her own free-will--though she liked me, mind!--she gave me up. That it cost her something to do, I feel assured; that she herself suffered in dismissing me, I have no doubt; but she had not the courage to link herself with my fallen fortunes--nay! she had not the remotest wish to join her fate to mine, when once she had ascertained, beyond all possibility of mistake, that I was no longer the heir of Castledine; that she would have to wait--perhaps, for years--before I could offer her even a humble home. Adela--she said it all very prettily--so prettily, that I have wondered since whether the scene was not previously rehearsed; but she was as steadfast as a rock. When it came to the point, she did not yield an inch. The tie between us was broken for evermore, she said; she bade me go; she was not unwilling that I should marry another woman. Addie! when I think of it, I feel as if I must be dreaming, struggling with a wretched nightmare, from which I shall presently awake, and thank God that it was but a dream! I cannot realise my darling's want of faith--her cruel perfidy! Yet it is most true; it is hard, bitter, wide-awake reality! and I must bear it. Oh! Addie, never profess to love a man unless you feel in your inmost heart that you could give up the world for him; never treat a lover as I am treated now! Women little know how they harm a man when they fall from the pure, high standard of their sex!"

"I never will, Percy. I think I may answer for myself; if I loved--really loved--once, it would be for ever. I should cling all the closer to my friend if he were unfortunate. I could fancy, too, that in such a case a maiden might dare to say, 'Share all I have!' and if she had nothing of her own, to tell him that she would work with him, and share all his toils and trials, and do her part to make their mutual home a happy and a prosperous one. One might be so bold, if one's own true love were suddenly brought into poverty, and that through no fault of his, I do believe. One can afford to be coy and proud while the sun shines, and all is well, but in the cloudy day it is quite another thing. A girl, under certain circumstances, may be very frank and outspoken, and yet not unmaidenly--at least, it seems so to me."

"It is so, Addie. A true woman will only love the more deeply, the more faithfully, in the time of trouble. But we will not talk any more of Emmeline."

"There is no such person as the Emmeline I believed in, Percy. My friend was fearless and pure-minded, true-hearted and faithful unto death. But she was the creature of my own imagination--she never existed. The real Emmeline dreads poverty, shrinks from adversity, and dismisses the lover to whom she has solemnly plighted troth the moment he ceases to be rich and powerful. Yes! I, too, am bitterly disappointed in this girl. I am vexed with myself, too. No one likes to be disi1lusioned."

"Ah! that is the sting of it!--to see our idols dashed from their pedestals--our ideals melting into thin air! Now, as to Miss Walker--"

"Will you really marry her, Percy? She is a mere nobody, of course; but she seems good and nice of her sort. It cannot be fair and right to marry her without loving her--just a little!"

"I have pledged myself to marry her, if she will have me! As to loving her--ever so little--I cannot do it. My heart is dead to all women--in that way, I mean. Mother-love and sister-love are all I need, and all I ask of the sex. If I had my choice--if I could help myself--I would as soon plot to become Khan of Tartary as elect to be the husband of any woman."

"I understand--at least, I think I do; I suppose, though, only to a certain extent, because, I know nothing whatever of that sort of love that turns men and women into husbands and wives. How should I? Sometimes, when I hear of and read of the terrible trouble this love so often brings, I hope--almost hope--that I may never know it! An old maid who respects herself and tries to lead a useful life may be very happy, I think."

"No doubt she may. But, nevertheless, I trust you, dear, in all good time, will become a happy wife."

"I was going to say, though, that if you feel so--and I don't wonder--do you think you ought to marry Miss Walker? What have you to give her except a good old name and a position in society? This is very little in return for herself and her great fortune. Why should you dislike her?"

"I do not dislike her! I am simply indifferent to her, that is all. If I married her to-morrow morning, and she died at sunset, I should feel no more regret than for any other young bride whom I had never seen, dying on her wedding-day! Constance Walker, except by law, cannot be to me--anything."

"Oh, but, Percy, that cannot be right. Ought you to take all and give nothing--nothing?"

"I shall give my name. The parvenu's daughter will become Mrs. Lauriston, of Castledine. Should the lapsed title be restored in my time, she will become 'my lady'! She will fulfil her destiny, as carved out for her by her own father. Au reste, she will be rich; she will be courted by a certain set; she will be able to gratify every whim. I shall never be unkind to her; on the contrary, I will treat her with all consideration. I will never interfere with her; as mistress of my establishment, I will never seek to control her. She will go her way--I, mine--like thousands of other couples in this great, troublesome, weary world of ours."

"A fine prospect for Constance Walker! I am glad it is not mine. Such a marriage must be worse than any solitude."

"I don't deny it; but I cannot help myself. One cannot force one's affection, though one may compel one's will. Adela, I shall be quite kind and courteous to her. I shall treat her with all respect, and I dare say she will be quite happy in her own way. She is apparently one of those quiet, placid, passive souls that are generally contented with their lot, provided they are tolerably free from outward ills. She will miss nothing, and she will gain the honours of matronhood. Mrs. Lauriston will certainly be a much more important person than Miss Walker."

"Of course she will. But, still, I think she is to be pitied. And, Percy, will she be satisfied with so cold a wooing as must fall to her share? for that you can pretend to be desperately in love with her is out of the question."

"If she refuse me--and she may--I can do no more. I have only to retire, and resume my scheme of emigration. I cannot force Miss Walker into marriage, even if I would. But something seems to tell me that there will be no hindrance--the girl will be my wife. Our elders have the arrangement too much at heart to suffer it to fall through!"

"It might have been worse--far worse. For the daughter of such an utter vulgarian, she is wonderful. I dare say I shall like her."

"I hope you will; and yet you and she can have very little in common."

"I suppose I am not expected to marry the old Walkers, père et mère, as well as their daughter!"

"Of course not. A girl when she marries belongs to her husband's family. But, dear me, it must be very unpleasant to know that your own relations are looked down upon by those with whom you are so intimately associated. I think unequal marriages are a grand mistake."

"Undoubtedly. But in this case, you perceive, the money on one side is supposed to balance the rank on the other. I sorely need money, Miss Walker has more than enough. Miss Walker, as the representative of her family, needs position, and that is at my disposal. Our union, therefore, will not be classed with those that are really 'unequal.' Poverty will marry wealth, don't you see! but then wealth, at the same time, allies itself to rank."

"Don't speak in that tone, Percy; I never like you with that sneer on your face. And I don't know where is the good of talking over the matter. I cannot, however, yet believe that that quiet girl who dined here the other day is to be my sister-in-law. You are sure you have quite made up your mind?"

"I have made up my mind to propose--whether I am accepted remains to be seen."

"Do you not think it would be right, not to say honourable, if you told Miss Walker something of the truth! I do not mean with reference to Emmeline; but should you allow her to assume that you seek her as your own free choice?"

"My dear Adela! Would you have me go to her and say, 'I wish to marry you, Miss Walker, because our parents have planned it! I want your money, but I have really no affection for your person; therefore do not expect from me that profound attachment which belongs inseparably to what is called a love-match'? Would she not consider herself insulted? Would she not refuse on any terms to link her fortunes with mine? No! one cannot well go courting with such a preliminary: 'I have no love to give you; you shall have respect--esteem, if you desire it; but love I have none to offer! I want your money, and as I cannot have that without yourself, I want you.' No woman in her senses would give herself, or her money, on such terms; and, unless I am greatly mistaken, Mr. Walker would at once send me to the right-about, justly indignant at my impertinence."

"Ah! that would never do: we are frightfully in Mr Walker's power. Mamma says papa told her so. If he took offence, it would be dreadful; there is no knowing what might be the consequence of his resentment. Only I cannot bear the idea of your stooping to any sort of falsehood."

"I will utter no untruth, if I can help it. I shall not even attempt to act the ardent lover. There is one advantage in the inferior position of the Walkers--they will not know but that a certain coolness and formality is en règle with the upper classes during courtship."

"And when is the 'courtship' actually to begin?"

"On Tuesday, I suppose, and the sooner it is over the better. If not a fervent suitor, I shall certainly be an impatient one; for I shall press for an early wedding day, as soon as ever the engagement is ratified by Mr. Walker."

"It is ratified beforehand, is it not? I think I understood from Hugh that the first word came from him."

"It was so; but that is a profound secret, on no account to be revealed. Mr. Walker is jealous of his daughter's honour and dignity, and I like him all the better for that; and it is expressly laid down, as a part of the necessary programme, that she is never to know that her father had a leading hand in her marriage. I am to come in like any other young man, see her--as I once saw another!--desire to make her my wife, and so lay my proposals before the banker himself. Oh! it is all very straight sailing! She, poor girl, will not know, and must not guess, that she is, so to speak, sold, together with her immense fortune, the price being her legal adoption into an ancient county family."

"Poor girl--indeed! You must be very kind to her, Percy."

"I could not be unkind to a woman, I hope, even if I hated her."

"I am sure you could not, dear; and, perhaps, after awhile you may grow to love her."

"Never, never! I only hope she may not take it into her head to love me with any sort of excess. It will be the worse for her, and for me also."

"If she be of a loving nature--and I fancy she is--she may probably become very fond of you. A woman, you know, is justified in loving her husband with her whole heart. She may win you, after all, Percy!"

"She may win my esteem, my friendship, perhaps--in time--my affectionate regard; but the passionate, intense devotion which most women covet she must not hope to gain, for all such sentiment is dead within me. There are natures--not many, I grant, but still some few--which are as incapable of a second love as the flowers of one season are of a second spring."

"Then some natures must lose a great deal, because, I do believe--it is heresy, I know, to say it--but I do think that what is called 'first love ' very often turns out to be no love at all, but mere transient fancy! There is one love, I have heard, that is the love of a person's life--the 'supreme love,' as I read the other day! but it is very seldom the first, or even the second--what shall I call it?--entanglement, illusion, impression! And this applies far more to men than to women, for woman's love grows from mere habitude of association, the book goes on to observe; but man's love needs continual feeding, and his mature love is a far grander and stronger and finer thing than the love of his first youth. There is reason in it, I think."

"There may be; there are some natures which never fully develop till youth has passed away. Mine, however, is not one of them. Besides, I am no boy; I had my calf-loves, like other lads, I suppose. I remember when I was about fifteen writing poetry to a pretty little milliner girl, years older than myself, because she had golden hair and turquoise-coloured eyes; and for a whole term I was crazy about my tutor's youngest daughter, and I celebrated her charms in verse; she had raven locks and eyes like night, and was only five years my senior! These were not loves, I grant you, for I don't care if I never see either of them again. These were bright clouds before the sun; but when the sun has once arisen, one can no more be mistaken!"

"And yet, in this very room, I learnt that there were such things as Parhelia--mock suns!"

"Ah, yes--in nature--in mere physical nature. It is otherwise in love's world. Let us say no more, Addie; may your experience be happier far than mine! My sun of love has set--gone to shine in other lands, where I may never enter. Its warmth and light are for others; the cold, grey day of duty is all that remains for me."

"And duty, steadily and patiently followed, becomes, at last, its own rich reward, unless some of the best people in the world are utterly mistaken. Cheer up, Percy; I cannot think all life's happiness has passed away from you, before you are quite twenty-five. Don't you remember old Miss Sims' favourite lines?--"

'I slept, and dreamed that life was beauty;
I woke, and found that life was duty.
Was thy dream, then, a shadowy lie?
Toil on, sad heart, courageously,
And thou shalt find thy dream to be
A noonday light and truth to thee!

There were great preparations at Cleveland House for the entertainment of the Lauristons, and though it was to be strictly a family party, Mr. Walker as early as Monday morning was in a state of eager excitement about what he was pleased to call the maynew! "Really," said Constance to her mother, "I cannot think what has come to papa; I never knew him make such a fuss before!"

"He has Lauriston on the brain, my dear," replied Mrs. Walker, smiling. "Why they come here at all is more than I can fathom; for, of course, they move in a sphere far removed from ours, and people of their class are, as a rule, painfully and absurdly exclusive. It is such a sudden intimacy--friendship, I cannot term it--springing up like Jonah's gourd in a few hours; for it all dates from that day pa brought Mr. Lauriston home to dinner, to take 'pot-luck' with us, as he said. I wonder what Mr. Lauriston thought of our 'pot luck,' for, strictly speaking, it was that; not the smallest addition or alteration being made on his account. The dinner to which we were so solemnly invited the other day was not to be compared with our most ordinary 'pot-luck.'"

"It was good, mamma--very good; and I am not sure but that it is rather vulgar to make such an immense fuss over eating and drinking, except upon very state occasions. In spite of all our spick and spanness, our fresh paint and polish and gilding, and expensive artistic arrangements, I thought how much grander Castledine looked than Cleveland House! It's a beautiful old place, isn't it, mamma?"

"Well, yes, my dear; it is quite a castle, but I thought it rather comfortless, and it wants whitewash and paint, and generally restoring in every way. There was a dreadful draught, too, in that large drawing-room: both your father and I took cold, and I could see that Mrs. Mabyn was shivering when the coffee was handed round. But you saw more of the house than I did."

"Yes; Miss Lauriston took me to her own rooms. Ah! such a contrast to mine! and yet they were very snug and pretty. The furnishing of mine must have cost ten, perhaps twenty, times what hers cost, and yet I am not sure but that I prefer hers. There was such an air and feeling of home about them. I saw the picture-gallery, too, and. some dismal-looking apartments that chilled one's blood even to glance at. There were the Red-room and the Green-room, of course; but there were also a Cedar-room, and a Tapestry-room, and, most awful of all, a ghost-room!"

"Oh, dear! I wouldn't have a ghost-room in my house for all the world contains! Not that I believe in any such rubbish; but the mere association would make me nervous and foolish, and when one gets into a certain state of mind, one is apt to let fancy get the upper hand. What was the ghost-room like?"

"Like any other disused room in a great house. Nobody ever sleeps in it, Miss Lauriston says, and I should think nobody in his senses ever would. If one saw no ghosts, one would be sure to dream of them. The walls are covered with old, faded tapestry, and there are secret doors behind it; there is a huge, wide chimney, with no chimney-piece, but a piece of wonderful oak-carving, flat to the wall, instead. The furniture seems to be centuries old; there are funny old spindle-leg tables, funny old. cabinets, crammed full of family secrets, I should say; funny old ornaments, and the most awful tall mirrors, covered with mist and dust! Indeed, everything was so covered with dust that I could scarcely see which were awmries and which were cabinets."

"I am very glad we have no such dismal place in our house! There is not a dusty corner in it, I hope; and, as to tapestry, we are to have some, pa says, because it is quite the thing just now--'comyfo,' as your last governess used to be for ever saying; but we are to choose our own patterns, and see it made. As to secret-doors, I couldn't sleep if I thought there was any such thing from garret to cellar, and I'm sure papa could not."

"There we differ a little, mamma. I should like to have a ghost-room of our own."

"Dear me, child, don't say so, I beg! Your father would certainly turn one of our nice, handsome chambers into a grim, unwholesome ghost-room, if he found out your fancy, for, as you know, he can deny you nothing."

"Nor yourself, either, mamma. If you wanted a live megatherium, he would send all over the world to see if the last of the race could not be found in some unexplored corner of the earth. Dear papa! he is very good to us. But, you see, he could no more give me a proper ghost-chamber than he could give you a megatherium. He could make an imitation-room, and that would be all. Ghosts and haunted rooms must be inherited; money cannot purchase them. To have ghosts of your own, you must have had ancestors."

"I would rather do without the ancestors, my dear. Pray let us speak of something else; you have made me feel quite creepy-crawly, talking of ghosts and mouldy tapestry and secret passages, as another girl would talk about her newest dresses. How do you like Mr. Lauriston?"

"I liked him very much, only I felt afraid of him--I don't know why, for he was extremely kind to me--quite fatherly, indeed. He said he hoped Adela and I were going to be great friends, and that we should see very much of each other this winter."

"And Lady Maria?"

"She, too, was kind as she could be, but there was just a little touch of condescension in her manner. She was gracious and cordial; but all the while I felt a long way off her; she was, both in speech and bearing, unfamiliar! It was natural, I suppose, being an earl's daughter. I wonder how it feels to be called 'my lady'! Lady Constance would sound very nicely, I think. That I can never be, unless papa should be raised to the peerage."

"You might marry a lord, Connie; though, God forbid, you should do anything of the sort. If any lord came after you, my heart would misgive me lest it was your money rather than yourself he wanted. Your papa has always wanted you to marry 'into the peerage,' I know; but I have never encouraged the idea, because I feel sure it would not be for your happiness. I shall thank God when I see you married or engaged to a good, true Christian gentleman, who will love the Lord first and you next, and make you as blessed a wife as your mother has been for the last thirty years. You must have a gentleman, my dear, because you've been trained to be a lady; and there are many gentlemen whom you might wed without making what is called an unequal match; but I should be sorry to have you marry a nobleman, who would, perhaps, look down upon you for your want of birth, and certainly despise your poor old father and mother, who lack some other things beside a pedigree."

"Oh, mamma, trust me, I would never marry any one who despised you and papa. But I must correct your little mistake; no lofty marriage could make me Lady Constance! If I married Lord Bareacres I should be Lady Bareacres; if I married Prince Lackland I should be Princess Lackland; but nothing could ever make me a lady in my own right. Lady Constance, or Lady Lucy, or Lady Anything must be born the daughter of a duke, or a marquis, or an earl. The daughters of viscounts and barons are simply Miss, with the prefix of Honourable. But a lady in her own right always retains her title even when married to a commoner; to wit, our new friend, Lady Maria Lauriston."

"To be sure! What heaps of things you do know, child! Well, if any one had told me years ago when I helped your father in our business at Bradfield that I should ever sit at the head of my own table, with my own footman behind me, and entertain a lady 'in her own right,' how I should have laughed! And yet, to-morrow her ladyship will be here, and I must play the hostess properly. Dear me, I hope I shall make no blunders, Connie! Must I go first or last into the dining-room?"

"Last, mamma, of course; last of everybody!--in your own house, though, you may leave the dining-room first. Papa takes Lady Maria in first of all--the master of the house always takes in the lady of most importance; then Miss Lauriston and Mr. Graham; then myself and my escort; and, last of all, you and your own cavalier; you and I must draw lots for Mr. Percival and Mr. Hugh, I suppose, as it is to be so very strictly a family party, Mr. Graham being only invited to make up the double quartette. And, mamma, be sure you don't forget to give the ladies' signal as soon as Lady Maria has taken her second glass of wine, and refuses any more dessert!"

Mrs. Walker began to laugh. "Really, it is very amusing, Connie! To think of me, poor Lucy Lee that was, giving the 'ladies' signal' to an earl's daughter at my own table! Me, that used to think nothing of cooking the dinner before I ate it, and that dined in the parlour on Sundays only, and not seldom washed up the dishes after. There was my great friend, Mary Emmett; she preferred service to the polishing room, and she got into very respectable places, and was respected, and received high wages, and at last, not very early in life, married the greengrocer that supplied the family. They did well as greengrocers; but there they are to this day, in one of the most bustling streets in Bradfield; and soon they'll retire and take a little place out in the country perhaps, and Mary may be able to keep one general servant. While I!--that was not one whit better or cleverer than Mary, nor better placed than she--for many people think respectable service is to be preferred to working in shops and warehouses--I am here, dressed like a duchess, the mistress of a mansion, with my own maid and my own carriages, receiving first-rate county people like the Lauristons! I can't make it out! and yet all we have has come to us honestly and honourably. But, Connie dear, don't tell your father I mentioned Mary Emmett that was she's Mrs. Wiggins now. He doesn't care about going back to old times, when we were at the bottom of the ladder; and I like it--I really do. I suppose it is very low-bred of me, your father often scolds me for having no proper ambition, but I really should like to go to Bradfield some day in my plainest dress, and drink tea with Mary Emmett, and talk over old times and all the people we used to know when we were girls together."

"And if you like it, mammie dear, I don't see why you should not indulge yourself with a quiet visit to Bradfield. There was no more harm in your being poor long ago than there is in your being rich to-day. I should never be ashamed of what I was, provided I had always behaved myself respectably, and tried to do my duty. People who have got up in the world, and try to ignore their antecedents, are snobs, and nothing better; and, after all, there is something in being the founder of your own fortune."

"That is what papa says; he is proud of having 'sprung from nothing,' as people put it; and yet he does not like certain memories of Bradfield--dear old smoky Bradfield, with its noble works and beautiful tall chimneys! But here I am, running away again from the Lauristons. I wish I knew why they make a fuss of us! The more I think of it, Connie, the more certain I am that they are not cultivating our acquaintance for anything they see in us. It doesn't stand to sense that they can really care for us."

"Mamma, I have heard that the Lauristons are poor--that is, poor for their rank and place in life. May not papa have lent them some money?"

"He may! I almost think he must have done something of the sort. But, then, anybody will lend money upon proper securities, and the gentry, as a rule, do not care to associate with the people from whom the accommodation comes. However, it does not matter. It pleases papa immensely that we should be on visiting terms with the Lauristons, and of course it is very good for you to be in the best society. We must try to make it go off nicely, my dear."

"Yes, mamma! And I think it would be nicer if we made a little less display than usual. I should not like Lady Maria and Miss Lauriston to think we were trying to outshine them. We need not have quite so much plate on the sideboard, I am sure; and four servants to wait on eight people would be sufficient. We had but two maids and one man at Castledine, and we were very comfortably served."

"I like maids waiting myself, but papa objects to them. There is something in what you say, my love; it does seem like flourishing our grandeur in the face of our betters, who are less wealthy than ourselves. But I doubt whether pa will allow even the slightest omission."

Mrs. Walker was right. Her husband would bate not one dish of the extravagant menu submitted to his approval; not one inch of the grandeur to which he delighted to treat his friends. "No, no," he said, when his wife urged a simpler style of entertainment; "I always like to give the best I have! I always did, when it was only a bit of beef baked over 'taters; and it's the same now when it's all sorts of kickshaws, and courses without end. The same, too, with drinks. Once it was a pot of ale, but never no small beer; now its Lafitte, and Mouton, and St. Peray, and Pommery, and goodness knows what all! Besides, I want the Lauristons to see what I can do; I've my reasons, missis--business reasons, I call 'em; so do you leave the matter to me, and I'll undertake that it shall be A1, and no mistake. And, mind--you and Connie put on your very best bibs and tuckers, and don't spare your diamonds, Mrs. Walker."

"But I'm told," faltered Lucy, "that it is not good taste to dress splendidly when you receive company. I should not like to be grander than 'my lady,' and I am sure it would vex Connie if she thought she was putting Miss Lauriston into the shade. And really, 'Stine, I must say she was meanly dressed the other night; nor was Lady Maria one bit too fine. That velvet dress has seen its best days, and done good service, too, though it looks well enough by lamplight, set off by that splendid old point and the diamond pendant. If she'd worn an old stuff gown and crocheted lace, though, she would have looked what she is--every inch a gentlewoman. I dare say she'll wear the same velvet and the same lace to-morrow night, 'Stine."

"Most likely! Look here, little woman, I've lent, or am going to lend, old Lauriston a power of money; he's all but in Queer Street--only that's between ourselves. And he has been struggling with poverty and ill-luck for years; I haven't gone up in the world faster than he has gone down, poor wretch. I think I see a way to help him out of the mud and the quicksands, and land him high and dry, and no one be a bit the worser, but very much the better. And I've my own way of going to work; so let me alone, Lucy, my love, and do as I tells 'ee, and let our Connie do the same."

And being a dutiful wife, and believing most implicitly in her husband's policy, whether she comprehended it or not, Lucy at once yielded, and promised that everything should be exactly as 'Stine wished; she would wear as many diamonds as he chose, and Constance should put on a new dress, just arrived from Worth's--a dress which had been pronounced fit for a Royal Princess.

Tuesday evening came. Dinner was ordered for seven, "sharp," and about a quarter before the hour the Lauristons arrived. Lady Maria did not wear the black velvet which had seen better days, but a dark-green velvet, which had once figured at St. James's, and some lovely filmy old lace, that might have been made--Mrs. Walker thought--out of spiders' webs. The diamond cross did duty as before, and Mr. Walker argued, and not incorrectly, that it was the last ornament of value remaining in her ladyship's jewel-box. "And I shouldn't wonder if that's a sham!" he soliloquised, as he placed her at his right hand, at his sumptuously-appointed table. "Likely as not the stones have been picked out, and turned into hard cash, and replaced by imitations. They do that sort of thing very cleverly nowadays, I'm told. Lauriston, so hard pushed as he has been, would scarcely be fool enough to keep such a sum as that pendant represents locked up in useless diamonds. A duchess may wear paste, and no one suspects her; a tradesman's wife must be above suspicion as regards her jewellery."

Of course, Percival sat beside Constance, Hugh led in the lady of the house, and Adela fell to the share of the Mr. Graham before mentioned--an elderly Scotch gentleman, with a gruff voice, a genius for making money, and well-known on the Stock Exchange. Poor Adela did not find him very entertaining, although she did her best to be interested in the state of the money market, and tried to understand his explanation of the extraordinary statement that money was just then ruinously cheap! Adela naturally wondered why a commodity that seemed by all accounts to be a drug in the markets should be so very hard to come by. She did not remember any time in all her young life when sovereigns were plentiful--at Castledine!

The dinner proceeded steadily on its way; course succeeded to course, wine to wine, till the menu was exhausted. It was a very wearisome affair to the Lauristons, and poor Lady Maria, with a pang for which she scorned herself, sighed as she saw dish after dish removed untouched, thinking how much she could save if the reversion of the dinner might have gone into the Castledine larders, instead of becoming the prey of Mr. Walker's pampered menials. "To him that hath shall be given, and from him that hath not shall be taken away, even that he hath," seemed to be written on all the lavish surroundings of Cleveland House, as well as on the penury and hard thrift of Castledine. The proud Earl's daughter despised herself for the thought, but she could not help reflecting--just a little--on what Castledine might be, if it should really come to pass that the Lauriston and Walker fortunes were combined. What if Percy's son were also heir of Cleveland House! Ah! but it was a bitter pill to swallow, for never, never had a Lauriston committed a mésalliance; and in this Lauriston's veins ran the noble blood of the Bannatynes.

Lady Maria, however, did her best to make herself agreeable to her host, who overwhelmed her with attentions, and "my lady'd" her as if she were the wife of a newly- knighted citizen of "London town," to whose ear the sound of her title was as sweetest music. However, she listened affably to a long account of a remarkable lawsuit, in which Mr. Walker had just won the day, and to a history of some splendid pines, then before her; and to his hopes of securing a certain shooting-box, game preserves, &c., the property of a certain impecunious marquis; and she tried to seem interested in the issue of the lawsuit, and in the total expense of the new pinery, and in the description of the northern moor, and in the calculation as to head of game, and the barbarism of battues. But it was hard work; and but for the tremendous issues depending on this solemn feast, she would thankfully have found herself at home, drinking her modest cup of cocoa, and playing with her strips of dry toast, as was her nightly custom before retiring to repose.

The dessert was magnificent beyond belief. Not only had Mr. Walker's own pineries and vineries and orchard houses been put under full contribution, but Covent Garden had evidently been ransacked of its choicest and most costly fruits. There was dessert enough and to spare for fifty people, and there were but eight persons at table, all of them utterly weary of dining.

But the longest dinner, like the longest sermon--it is difficult to determine which is the more trying to flesh and blood!--must come, at length, to a conclusion. As the self-satisfied divine utters his last "last words," and rounds the final period of his seemingly endless peroration, so are the last choice liqueurs, and the last luscious pines and melting peaches, offered in vain, and the lady at the head of the table smiles graciously at the lady seated nearest to the foot thereof, and there is a general uprising and rustle of drapery, and sweeping of trains, and the captives escape to the comparative freedom of the drawing-room. Mrs. Walker, talking rather volubly to Mr. Lauriston, had quite forgotten her duty, and Constance, lost in admiration of Percy's powers of conversation, did not, as usual, appeal to "mamma," in a tone and with a look that had their hidden meaning, as agreed upon between them. She bethought herself at last, and gave the secret sign, which her mother at once interpreting, repeated in the proper mode, and Lady Maria, fagged to the last degree, and Adela almost yawning under Mr. Graham's "pars," and "premiums," and "discounts," gladly followed their hostess into a purer, fresher atmosphere.

The gentlemen closed round the decanters, of course, but it was only a form, for all were strikingly abstemious men, and the hour was growing late.

"It's quite a mild night; let you and me smoke a cigar on the terrace, Lauriston," said Mr. Walker, after a few minutes had been spent in contemplation of the débrís of fruits and wines. "You young fellows are wild to join the ladies, of course. I'm sorry there's nobody for you, Mr. Hugh. You ought to have had a pretty girl all to yourself; as it is, you must be content with my old woman. Flirt with her as much as ever you please, and I'll give you leave, sir. I promise you I won't call you out, not even if I catch you kissing her hand in the orangery. I can trust my good lady, and you, too. There! be off with you, and tell the young ladies they'll be called upon for some music by-and-by. Be off!"

And off they were, thankful for release, pausing for a minute to gain breath before they joined the ladies. "I say, Percy," whispered Hugh, as they crossed an inner hall, "I'd have it put down in the marriage settlements, if I were you, how many visits shall annually be paid between Mrs. Lauriston and her dear papa. The man is a perfect horror. Why! he thumped my back, and winked his eye, when he was telling me to go and flirt with his 'good lady'!"

"You may be sure I shall not countenance too much intimacy between the families," replied his brother. "The girl is quiet and well-bred enough, though altogether wanting in style--that will come, perhaps. I don't think I shall ever be ashamed of her; things might be worse."

"I am glad to find you taking so kindly to your doom. You mean to marry her, then?"

"What else can I do? I have promised my father, and my coming here to-night is a sort of pledge that I mean to keep my word."

"I am so pleased that you are in this mind, old fellow; and, really, she is a nice little girl; and, being young and gentle, and all that, you may make what you please of her. And I am sure she likes you! It will be a love match on her side, I fancy."

"God forbid!" said Percival, so solemnly that Hugh started.

"Why, I thought men wished their wives to be in love with them."

"When they have love to give in return, no doubt. But, Hugh, if you please, we won't discuss this subject. If Miss Walker will consent to become Mrs. Lauriston, I am at her service; but I will not talk over the coming event, nor will I be tormented with settlements and business arrangements. The elders have made the match, so far; they must complete it. Let me enjoy my freedom while I may; and in our mutual intercourse let there be no unnecessary allusions to the inevitable. Now let us join the ladies--I, at least, must be on duty."

"And I will talk to the mamma; I like her, Percy. She is a nice, motherly little woman--unrefined, I grant, but in no wise vulgar. And she has plenty of common-sense, a pleasant, ready wit, and a good deal of information into the bargain. If her daughter take after her, so much the better for you; but here we are on the forbidden theme again!"

"And there we shall be perpetually, I suspect, till the irrevocable deed is done. Only, for the sake of all the brotherly love and friendship that has been between us two from our babyhood, spare me all you can!"

"I will, old fellow, I will, trust me! I'll do your courting for you, as far as ever I can. And now I've seen the girl, I'd marry her myself, and save you the trouble if that would answer. But it won't. It would not do at all, it seems; it is always the first-born that must be offered up in sacrifice, if the Fates are to be satisfactorily propitiated. Still, I think I see how to help you--that is, how to spare you for the present. I'll do all I can for you, Percy; but if I were you I'd just make up my mind to take it pleasantly. It's not such very hard lines to marry a sweet-looking, well-educated girl with something less or more than million of money at her disposal."

"She lifted up her eyes
And loved him, with that love which was her doom."

But for awhile she knew it not--Constance Walker, I mean, not the lily-maid of Astolat. From the first hour of their meeting at Castledine she had been deeply impressed by Percy Lauriston; though what it was in him that took her fancy she never asked herself, nor do I think she could have replied to the question had it been put to her. He was a fine young man, certainly, but not so divinely handsome as some others of his compeers. He was neither an Apollo nor an Adonis; he was simply a tall, well-made, well-featured young patrician, with a noble expression, that might be sweet or stern, according to the sentiment of the hour, with a fine development of brain, and a peculiar, thoughtful, far-seeing look in eyes that were of that peculiar, soft, dark, slaty grey, so seldom met with, so often talked about. There was a depth of passion in them that sometimes startled those who took him only for a quiet, well-behaved, easy-going youth, who was content for the most part to float calmly with the tide, and take things by the smooth handle; and to those who studied countenances, and read them like a book, it was apparent that Percival Lauriston was endowed with remarkable persistency of will and steadfastness of purpose, bordering upon obstinacy. There was truth in every glance of those grey, far-seeing eyes, and determination of no ordinary character, in the nearly straight, and sometimes closely-knitted eyebrows; there was rare firmness in the chin, also in the mouth, which might, perhaps, have been the better for a trifle more of sweetness in its curves.

All this Constance saw without absolutely perceiving it. She admired the courteous, but rather grave, heir of Castledine, as she sat by his side during that first dinner given by the Lauristons, and she thought how charmingly he talked, and how much pleasanter it was to converse with a man who really had something to say, than to listen to a flow of pretty compliments and mere idle words. True it was, he made frequent pauses in the conversation, and sometimes seemed almost to forget that he had a lady companion; but, on the whole, there was something in his manner as well as in his discourse which pleased her greatly, and made her privately happy when she discovered that the visit was to be returned--that the Lauristons were to dine at Cleveland House at an early period.

Constance Walker was by no means a common-place young lady, thinking sentimentally of every gentleman who, in the ordinary course of society, paid her those attentions which her sex is privileged to receive. She had thought somewhat about marriage as an event which, sooner or later, would probably befall her; but she had thought little about love--partly because she had not many girl-companions, her closest and dearest friend being her mother; and partly because she had not read many novels! The tender affection that was between herself and her parents fully satisfied her. She was quietly, but intensely happy in her splendid home, though on it rested the shadow of those who were taken from the evil to come. She desired no change; life was before her, and she waited calmly for its unfoldings.

After that stupendous dinner party, the intimacy between the two families progressed speedily. Percy, as in duty bound, called upon Mrs. Walker the day afterwards, inquiring for the ladies, and at once consented to remain to luncheon. It was in all innocence that Mrs. Walker pressed him to stay; the idea of the Lauriston-Walker alliance had never entered her mind, and her husband was particularly anxious that, at this early stage of the proceedings, it should not. He was quite certain that Lucy would not approve nor consent to lend a helping hand in the matter; and thus it came to pass that Constance and her mother were the only people in the two families who were entirely ignorant of the scheme on hand. But when Mr. Walker came home that evening, and heard that young Mr. Lauriston had lunched with the ladies, he was highly delighted, and chuckled inwardly at the favourable course events were taking. He nodded significantly when his wife, after dinner, referred to the fact, and he could scarcely forbear rallying Connie on the conquest she had evidently made! He had the prudence, however, to restrain himself, reflecting that one injudicious remark might startle the girl, and make her at once conscious and reserved.

He could not help saying, "Ah, ah! Miss Connie! entertaining young gentlemen to luncheon! You are becoming quite ladies of fashion, you and your mamma."

Then Adela was very poorly, and, without any definite ailment, looked thin and pale, and was reported to have lost her appetite. And one day Mr. Walker took courage to say, "Send missie to Cleveland House for a week; it will do both the girls good to have a bit of palaver. It will be a change anyhow, and our air is said to be as bracing as a tonic. Mrs. Walker will be delighted, and I'll go bail for her she'll take all possible care of your young lady. Of course, we are always happy to see Mr. Percival."

And Mr. Lauriston thanked Mr. Walker, and said he would ask Lady Maria. "He really thought Adela did need a change, and at this time of the year it was difficult to contrive one. If he was quite sure Mrs. Walker would not be inconvenienced," &c., to which Mr. Walker replied that his old woman never was inconvenienced. There were rooms enough always ready for guests at Cleveland House, and servants enough to wait upon armies of unexpected visitors. Half-a-dozen chance inmates or so made no difference to them!

Lady Maria at first was not propitious. If poor Percy must be sacrificed, she did not see the use of making a victim of Adela, who had nearly died of ennui on the evening of the dinner-party. But Mr. Lauriston overruled all her objections, and, when it came to the point, it was ascertained that Adela herself was quite willing to accept the invitation, so that when Connie, in her mother's name, wrote to ask Adela to spend a few quiet days with them, an answer in the affirmative was speedily returned.

Adela came back at the end of a fortnight, much improved in looks and spirits, and full of praises of Constance. Yes! Mr. Walker was stupidly pompous, and sometimes ridiculously jocose; his jests, too, were broad, and often painfully personal. It was "Addie" from the very day of her arrival, and she was continually being promised a sweetheart if she were a good girl, and picked up her crumbs a little better, and fattened on the good fare heaped around her! But Constance was a dear girl--so single-hearted and loving, so modest and unassuming, so happy in making the happiness of others.

"And she is so good, mamma!" pursued Adela; "not goody-goody, you know, but really good, and actually religious. She is so kind to the servants, and there are ever so many children she sends to school and works for, and she is so very truthful, that I blush when I think of all the little white fibs I have told from time to time, not meaning any harm. Now, I understand what the Bible means when it says, 'truth in the inward parts.' But the strangest thing of all is that she is not a Churchwoman. All the Walkers are--Dissenters!"

"So I have heard! Of course that must be altered so far as Constance is concerned; a schismatic Lauriston would be a strange anomaly. People who have sprung from nothing frequently are Dissenters, I believe. But they did not take you to their meeting-house, I hope?"

"No, indeed, though I wanted very much to go. Constance and I went to Downham Church in the morning, and in the evening, as I was tired and it was cold, I stayed at home with Mrs. Walker, who seldom attends more than one service on the Sunday. It was Mrs. Walker who said I must not go to their church without permission from papa and you."

"She was quite right; I am glad she has so much principle. What church, or chapel, rather, do the Walkers attend?"

"They call it the 'Park Church,' because it is in that new part of Upper Downham christened of late 'Downham Park'--you must have seen it driving to Redminster, or even to Shireover; it has such a beautiful spire."

"A spire! Nonsense! The church in the park, with that fine spire, is St. Edmund's, the building of which Mr. Mabyn opposed."

"Oh, no, mamma, begging your pardon. St. Edmund's is an ugly, poverty-stricken little place, with no kind of steeple, except a bit of a penthouse, which shelters a wretched bell that might be an iron spoon striking a frying-pan for all the music that it makes. The 'Park Church' is like a small cathedral, with buttresses and pinnacles, and a sort of lych-gate, and that lovely slender spire! It has some beautiful painted windows, too. One of them has been put up recently by Mr. Walker, to the memory of his two daughters--Constance's sisters, you know--Lucilla and Angelina."

"How extremely presumptuous of Dissenters! They ought not to be allowed to have spires or pinnacles or organs; and as for stained windows, it is positively absurd. I am sure it must be contrary to Act of Parliament. I wonder what sort of creature their clergyman is."

"A very, very nice man, mamma. He called twice while I was at Cleveland House. Quite as much a gentleman as our own Rector; but not quite so old, I should imagine, and certainly a man of far higher attainments."

"My dear, do not talk such nonsense. None of these Dissenters are educated. It is part of their creed that their ministers shall know no other language than their own."

And Lady Maria made this assertion in all good faith. She really knew no more of Dissenters than of Choctaw Indians; only from the sublime altitudes of her life-long high and dry Episcopalianism she had somehow imbibed certain notions which she never questioned, and which she always asserted as facts incontrovertible, whenever occasion needed. But this schism of the wealthy Walkers added one more pang to the cruel sacrifice which must be made; and Percy's mother shuddered as she contemplated the possible consequences of his most expedient but ill-assorted marriage. "Poor Percy!" she murmured again and again, after Adela had left her. It never occurred to her to pity poor Constance, whose money was to be the salvation of the House of Lauriston, and who was about to unite herself to a family who, in their heart of hearts, received her under protest, notwithstanding her countless golden charms.

And all this while nothing was seen of the Vernons. Roselle was shut up, the General and his daughter being at Brighton, so rumour said. Their absence was some relief to the unhappy Percy, who was now morbidly anxious that his affairs should be absolutely settled and concluded. He wanted to propose at once, but Mr. Walker held him in check. "No, no," he said, "you must be discreet. A young girl's heart is not to be won at a canter. She must have time to become acquainted with you; she must learn by slow degrees to look upon you as her probable lover."

Percy would have much liked to tell the banker that he did not want to win her heart; that he would never be her lover, but only her suitor, and her husband--that he wanted only herself, as the representative of so many hundreds of thousands! But he dared not indulge in the luxury of plain-speaking; he could only politely assent, and beg that his time of probation might not be prolonged any longer than was absolutely necessary. And Constantine Walker, who really could, as some of his old companions were wont to say, "see further through a milestone than most men," was pleased to lay the flattering unction to his soul that the young man was wildly in love with Constance, and madly impatient for the day which should make her all his own.

It was in the Christmas week, when festivities were rife, even at Castledine, that permission was graciously afforded to Percy to pay his addresses to Miss Walker, in due form, and the young man lost no time in availing himself of the privilege.

It is said that a proposal of marriage is always a mystery, which each man must encounter, like death, for himself, and there is a good deal of truth in the assertion. In after years, neither Percy nor Constance could quite understand how their engagement came about. It began by Mr. Walker taking his daughter aside, and telling her that Mr. Percival Lauriston, of Castledine, had done her the honour of asking her hand in marriage; that he gave his cordial and unqualified consent; and that Mr. Percival was very deeply in love with herself, and most impatient to claim her as his bride. Last of all, he--Percy--would be in the library that evening to receive his answer from her own lips; "for, of course, my dear," he added, patting the little white hand he held, "I could not speak for you! I hope you like this young man sufficiently to become his wife, but understand that you are in no way to be coerced or even persuaded into accepting his proposals. Please yourself, Connie; you are rich enough to marry the man of your heart."

And then he lifted up her blushing face between his hands and kissed her, and as he did so he read Percy's answer in her sweet, shy eyes. She loved the man to whom she was going to be given--she and all her gold! This conviction filled her father's heart with joy, and he said to himself, with something like a sob in his throat, "Thank God! It is all right; she loves him. It is sure to be a happy marriage. She would pine away and die, my darling, if she were bound to a cold and loveless home. And he loves her, too, I'm sure of it; though he has never said in so many words, 'Mr. Walker, I love your daughter.' But these aristocrats have ways of their own. It's bad taste to display their feelings, I suppose. There is a certain formality which pervades even their most cherished schemes and actions. He must love her, or why should he be so eager to commence preparations for the marriage?"

And then he kissed his daughter again, and blessed her, with tears in his eyes, thinking all the while of that long. passed evening in his old employer's packing-room, and of the magic words "snip" and "snap," that had given him the best wife in the world. Very, very different would be the wooing of Lucy's daughter; but then aristocrats were aristocrats, and it was not to be expected that a Lauriston of Castledine, the grandson of a living earl, should comport himself like a humble mechanic! Mr. Walker privately wondered whether "gentlemen of family" presumed to kiss their brides-elect, as he had kissed his Lucy over those labelled grosses of Bradfield papier mâché door-plates, long--long ago!

Early in the new year the engagement was solemnly and formally announced, and for the most part people were taken by surprise. The little schoolmistress could not believe her own ears.

"I can't think it's true!" she said to Mrs. Gill, to whom she repeated the grand news, already being discussed over the whole length and breadth of Westerleigh; "have you heard it, Mrs. Gill?"

"Heard what, Mary Ann?"

"That Mr. Percival Lauriston is going to be married, and not to Miss Vernon, of Roselle!"

"I never did suppose that would be a match, Mary Ann; and, if you remember, I said as much three months ago. I always affirmed that Mr. Percival was not for Miss Vernon, nor he for her. It's well known that she has no fortune, and that he's as poor as poor, and heir to nothing but embarrassments and an empty name; so of course it's their duty--both the one and the other--to marry money."

"Maybe; but I'm sure he was that sweet upon her he worshipped the very ground she trod upon. And no wonder, for she's beautiful enough for a prince to marry--more like a picture or a waxwork than a living mortal woman. And he is a very grand-looking gentleman to my notion. A finer couple could never go to church together. 'Tis a thousand pities, I say; they seemed made for one another; but there, Mrs. Gill, the course of true love never do run smooth, as some book says; and it's the same all the world over, and will be, I suppose, till the end of time. You don't say, though, whether you've heard the story, or if you know who the young lady is."

"I have heard the story, Mary Ann Page, and there's no mistake about it, for I had it from Mrs. White, the baker's wife, who is own sister, you know, to Mrs. Harris, the housekeeper at Castledine. And Mrs. White was drinking tea there only last night, and heard all about it, and there's fine rejoicings, she says; and Mr. Lauriston is in such good spirits, that he has a pleasant word for everybody. And Mrs. Harris is ever so proud because my lady sent for her and told her the news before anybody out of the family had heard a word, and bade her 'announce' it in the servants' hall, and to her friends in the village, if she happened to be going into Westerleigh. And the bride is the great heiress, Miss Walker, of Downham End; and she's worth at least a million of money!"

"And old, and ugly, and cross, I'm be bound, like the heiresses in novels!"

"Nothing of the sort. She is a very sweet and gracious young lady. Not a beauty, like Miss Vernon, but pretty enough, and as good as gold. And they do say it's a real love match."

"I'll never believe that. If ever a young man was overhead and ears in love with a young lady, Mr. Percival was with Miss Emmeline--no farther back than the beginning of the winter, and we are only just in January, as one may say. But there, men are inconstant. It's quite true--as true as Bible, what the old ballad that my grandmother taught me says--

'Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more;
Men were deceivers ever;
One foot in sea, and one on shore;
To one thing constant never.'

I only hope Mr. Percival Lauriston was really and properly off with the old love before he was on with the new. I'm very sorry for that lovely Miss Emmeline."

"Well, I'm told--only it's a sort of secret--that Miss Vernon sent Mr. Percival to the right-about before he ever saw Miss Walker. And they do say it was only an understood sort of thing, never an out-and-out engagement. It's well known she never wore any betrothal ring. It was just between themselves, I fancy. They were thrown together, and--young people will be young people. But of course it never could be, neither of them having any money to speak of."

"Money, indeed! what's that to do with it?" exclaimed the romantic schoolmistress, indignantly. "What is money--base, vulgar money, compared with true affection?"

"Ah! it's all very fine, at your age, to despise money; but I tell you, Mary Ann, there's nothing in life more unpleasant than being short of it. It means, to such as you and me, hard times and short commons; and to those lower in life, the workhouse or starvation. And it means, to gentlefolks, debts and duns, and cold mutton, and a saving of candle-ends, and half-a-dozen children at the lowest computation, and all sorts of worries and shabbinesses. Love's all very well, Mary Ann Page, but it don't bring you bread and cheese, and shoes and stockings, and all the rest of it, that respectable married people want. It's fine when love and a competency go together, but that don't often happen; life is so contrary. Take my word, you had better not marry for love and nothing else. For why? When the cupboard is bare and the bed hard to lie upon, and decent clothing not to be had, love almost always spreads his wings and flies away, leaving his unhappy dupes to struggle on without him. And, I tell you, Miss Emmeline is not to blame if she has declined a hand-to-hand fight with poverty. She'll be a duchess, I dare say; and Mr. Percival will be as rich as a duke, which wouldn't have been the case if they had become man and wife. For my part, I congratulate them both."

But the sentimental Mary Ann shook her head. Had she not just finished "The Children of the Abbey"? and was she not intent on borrowing "The Sorrows of Werther" from Mrs. Frills, the dressmaker? And had she not learned "Edwin and Emma" by heart? And to crown all, was she not herself secretly and hopelessly in love with Mr. Charles Smith, the churchwarden's eldest son, who would as soon have thought of courting one of his mother's maid-servants as of condescending to Miss Page? So she shook her head, replying, "Ah! don't tell me! I don't hold with mercenary matches, that very seldom turn out well. And if Miss Vernon did throw Mr. Percival over because he was not rich, I've no patience with her, and I don't care who she marries!"

But the verdict of public opinion was decidedly in favour of the match, and the Lauriston creditors warmly congratulated themselves, as well as the young people, upon the auspicious event. Suddenly, as if by magic, all processes of law, either actual or threatened, ceased. Mr. Walker had given positive instructions here, and offered suggestions there, and talked on 'Change, in the marketplace, and wheresoever he went, of the impending alliance, and his abounding content therewith. Men who had begun to be cruelly impatient were now quite ready to wait a little longer; to consult Mr. Lauriston's own convenience, indeed; angry tradesmen became once more obsequious, and prayed for a continuance of favours; exasperated creditors of all classes, who had seemed about to turn into ravening beasts of prey, grew mild as lambs; even the gentlemen of the Hebrew persuasion ceased to persecute their unfortunate victim, and were ready to do another, and yet another "little bill," if it would be any accommodation to Mishter Laurishton!

"I'll see to the mortgages," said Mr. Walker, rubbing his hands with delight; "of course, you let me know everything, Lauriston, you and your son? We'll go into it together, and before the wedding-day we'll have the Castledine estates freed from every burden; and, let me see, I'd better pay in something to your account at the bank at once--that is, to Mr. Percival. He won't mind fingering a few hundreds of his wife's fortune beforehand, I dare say, and money will be wanted for no end of things."

Money had been wanted for no end of things so long that Mr. Lauriston had to a certain degree grown accustomed to his chronic malady of impecuniosity, and could scarcely comprehend his novel position when he found his debts, both new and old, in actual process of liquidation; when once more he could look upon his broad ancestral acres as his very own; when he had only to give orders without stint, knowing that he had but to draw cheques when the time of payment came, and discharge, without care or thought, every obligation. But, with all this, he groaned in spirit, and would have liked nothing better than to kick Constantine Walker out of doors, daring him ever to cross the threshold of Castledine again. He winced under his benefactor's plain thrusts and broad interrogations; and when one day, after some hours' hard, unpleasant work in the library, the rich man said, in his customary loud tones, "It passes me, Mr. Lauriston, how you ever got into such a stupid quagmire! Such horrible mismanagement I never heard of. But, there! you aristocrats are little better than idiots when you're obliged to act as men of business!" the master of Castledine stiffly answered, "I do not think it possible, Mr. Walker, that a man in your position can at all understand the circumstances of a man in mine. We Lauristons were not born money-mongers. Aristocracy and plutocracy are seldom combined."

"And what's plutocracy, I should like to know? I never heard the word before, to the best of my recollection."

But Mr. Lauriston did not condescend to an explanation, and Mr. Walker grew a little angry, feeling almost sure that he--he--Percy's rich and generous father-in-law elect--was being snubbed and sneered at! But he said nothing, only gathered up certain documents of importance, which would have to be filed according to legal form, and curtly said "Good morning."

The settlements were in course of preparation, and Lady Maria, when they were explained to her, drew her breath with mingled relief and annoyance. So much a year, not a magnificent sum, all things considered--was settled on Constance absolutely, and free from any control of her husband. Should estrangement, and consequent separation, unhappily ensue, the said sum of money was to be almost quadrupled. Mr. Lauriston held sway during his life, but all would be Percival's afterwards, and it was expressly provided that the young man should not be able to make ducks and drakes of his money, after the fashion of his forefathers. He would have ample means during his father's lifetime; but every shilling that was not invested in the redemption of the entailed property was tied upon Constance and her children. That heirs to the base of Lauriston could possibly be wanting never once crossed Mr. Walker's imagination; and when his lawyer, Mr. Deeds, deferentially inquired, "And how if there should be no issue of the marriage?" his client answered, "It's not worth while to consider that point. There are sure to be children, bless their hearts; a dozen of them, I hope. The more the merrier, where there's a plenty for them."

"Nevertheless," urged the lawyer, "there are childless marriages, and not a few. Supposing Mrs. Percival Lauriston's decease prior to that of her husband, without issue, what becomes of the vast fortune she inherits? What is swallowed up already by the redemption of the Castledine estates remains, of course, inalienably with the Lauristons; but should not the residue--the very large residue--return, either in part or altogether, to the Walker family?"

"Bless your heart! there is no Walker family! Constance is my only surviving child. I haven't a relation in the world that I know of. I'm a self-made, grandfatherless Bradfield manufacturer; and as I can't boast of ancestors, I'll e'en turn ancestor myself. I had hoped, as long as my dear lads lived, to found a family of Walkers. That can't be now; it has pleased Providence to bereave me of my sons, and of two of my little girls. Connie is the last; so I must be content with a family of Walker-Lauristons. I have expressly stipulated that every child born to the young couple shall receive the name of Walker in addition to any other name or names that the parents may prefer."

"Has Mrs. Walker no near relatives?"

"She has a cousin or two, I fancy; but we don't know nothing about them, and do not want to. Never mind that last clause; we'll trust to there being children, or at least one child, to carry on the line of Walker-Lauristons, and to inherit their joint possessions. Only tie all that isn't already sunk in the estates as tight as ever you can on Constance and her children, so that she nor they may never be at the mercy of any Lauriston, and my last will and testament will take good care of the rest."

And so the business arrangements were duly made, and the courtship--after a fashion--progressed. Constance wore Percy's ring, and all the world knew that they were going to be married as soon as the settlements were completed; and early in February both families went up to town, the Lauristons taking a furnished house in Mount Street, as the family residence was in other occupation. Mr. Walker installed his wife and daughter in a splendid Belgravian mansion, which he was lucky enough to secure, as it were, by accident. But then, as he modestly explained, he always did have good luck; luck came to him invariably, and followed him whithersoever he went. He was one of fortune's favourites, he supposed. It was no more than natural that the lease of this most eligible and desirable tenement should tumble into his hands the moment he required a town establishment.

And now, at last, Adela was able to "come out" with some portion of the éclat which was supposed to be the due of a daughter of the Lauristons, and a granddaughter of the late, and niece of the present, Earl of Brooklees. This nobleman, finding that the affairs of the impecunious Lauristons were decidedly looking up, and feeling sure that he would not be importuned for any kind of loan or accommodation, condescended once more to interest himself in his sister's family affairs. He and Mr. Lauriston had quarrelled over money matters, and they were now reconciled pretty much on the same grounds. The Lauristons had not been a week in town before they were visited, and made much of, by every one of the Bannatynes, and the Earl himself was frequently to be found in Mount Street, by no means to the content of the bridegroom elect, to whom his uncle's inquiries and congratulations were but an additional penance, an infliction for which he had not bargained. He kept away from Mount Street as much as he decently could, and Belgrave Square consequently saw more of him than it would otherwise have done. Mr. Walker was extremely anxious to be introduced to the Earl, and his contentation reached its climax when the Ladies Clara and Agneta Bannatyne intimated their wish to officiate as bridesmaids.

What a splendid paragraph would the account of the wedding furnish forth to the daily papers, especially the journals of Redminster and Bradfield! What would certain old Midlandshire chums say when they read all about the bride's dress and. jewels and her priceless veil, which he desired might be chosen regardless of expense, especially stipulating that it should be such a veil as Her Majesty would probably require for the adornment of one of her own daughters on her bridal day What would some of the old friends at Carvary Chapel--very worthy, Christian people, but not at all likely to be connected with the peerage!--what would they think, when they were informed, through their own newspaper, that Percival Lauriston, Esq., son of William Lauriston, of Castledine, and of Lady Maria Lauriston, fourth daughter of the late Earl of Brooklees, had led to the hymeneal altar of St. George's, Hanover Square, Constance Margaret, youngest daughter and only surviving child and sole heiress of Constantine Walker, Esq., of Cleveland House, Downham End, Redminster, and of Belgrave Square, London, and that she was attended by a bevy of noble and beautiful damsels, among them the only sister of the happy bridegroom, and his high-born cousins, the Ladies Clara and Agneta Bannatyne, daughters of the Right Hon. the Earl of Brooklees, uncle of the bridegroom!

And Constance herself? Well, she was, in her own c1uiet way, extremely happy. If she had loved Percy at first sight, she loved him ten times more now that he was her affianced husband. She told herself, and sometimes her parents, that she was the happiest girl alive. And one bright April morning, when the sun was shining on the tulips and hyacinths in the balcony, she said as much, for the twentieth time, to her mother, who had just been assisting her in the selection of some valuable ornaments. Her father had vowed that she should have jewels worthy of a princess of the blood Royal!

"I am getting so dreadfully tired of it, mammie dear," she said, as she thrust aside a little heap of suggestive-looking morocco cases, and indulged in a most unceremonious yawn. "I shall be so glad when it is all over. I tell papa, one would think that no father ever married an only daughter before! And I am sure I shall never wear--much less wear out--nearly all the clothes I am having made. Married women are allowed to employ dressmakers and milliners, and to go shopping at the draper's and the jeweller's, I know. I might otherwise imagine that my trousseau was intended as a final provision, and that I might never, though I lived to be ninety, buy another yard of silk or velvet, or have another costume from Worth's! Isn't it rather foolish, dear?"

"Your father likes it, my love, so we will not say it is foolish. It is only right that he should dispose of his own money as he pleases; your marriage is a source of intense happiness to him, Connie."

"I know. And to you, mamma?"

"I would rather have kept you with me a few years longer; but since it is ordered otherwise I strive not to repine. And the wrench must have come sooner or later; you must have been married some day."

"The time is drawing very near." And Constance sighed. Though she was going to be Percy's wife she would have to leave her girlhood's home, and she quite comprehended that Mrs. Lauriston could never be quite the same as Constance Walker! And oh! how happy--save for the loss of those dear departed ones--had that young person been! Connie loved her father dearly; but it is not too much to say that her affection for her mother bordered on idolatry; and yet she was willing to leave these tender parents for one of whom she knew so little, for one who awed her even when he charmed her most; yet for one who she felt must henceforth be more than father and mother--more than all the world to her.

"What a sigh, darling!" said Mrs. Walker. "You are quite--quite satisfied, are you not?"

"Oh, yes: I love him; but--"

"But what, my child?"

"Mother, I say to you what I would not breathe to any one else. I sometimes wonder whether he really and truly loves me."

"Your father says he is devoted to you; he never even met with a more impatient lover, he says; and I could see how mortified he was when the day had to be postponed, because the lawyers had not yet finished. If he did not love you, the delay would have been a relief."

"Yes. He is very anxious to be married, I know. He is very kind and attentive, and in every little matter he wishes that my tastes should be consulted and deferred to. But he is kind, rather than tender; he is polite, rather than ardent; in short, he is not like what I thought lovers were! Now, I fancy you and father were as fond as doves."

"That we were! But, my dear, we belonged in those days to the lower class, who are not accustomed to disguise their feelings. It is quite different in high life; I mentioned it to your father only the other day. I said to him, 'I do hope, 'Stine, that Percy loves our girl from the very bottom of his heart; but he is very cool compared with what you were in our courting days.' And he said I need not trouble myself; Percy was all that a lover should be, and I must remember that persons of rank were not accustomed to demonstrations of affection, and that it was accounted bad taste in the higher circles to evince strong feeling before marriage. The love-making will come presently, my dear, when you are Mrs. Lauriston."

"'Mrs. Lauriston!' I can't think of myself as that. And yet, it soon will be. I sometimes think, mother, that it might have been better if I had been engaged to some one more in my own rank of life. I could not have been happy with any uneducated, unrefined man, but if I had kept to my own class--Oh, dear! how foolishly I am talking! There is nobody like Percy; and from the very first I knew that I could never--never care for any one else. What beautiful deep eyes he has!"

"Connie, tell me, would it be a very bitter trouble to you if anything came between you and him?--if, after all, the match were broken off?"

"I think it would be a very, very bitter trouble; I should wish to die, I think. Oh, mamma, you don't mean that there is any chance of it?"

"Not the least ! I could almost wish it were so, Connie. Nay, don't think me cruel, my child; I do not think you would die even if you did not become Percy Lauriston's wife; but I would rather see you laid with your sisters than know you to be a neglected and unloved wife. I am so afraid lest the greater love should be on your side."

"Oh, mamma, I am not afraid. And--and--pray don't think me too silly, but I would rather have a little love from Percy than a great deal from any one else. I would rather be neglected by him than worshipped by another. I would, indeed! Don't look like that, mammie darling! Is it that I have said too much? Am I unmaidenly? You know it is only to you that I show all my heart; I can hide nothing from my own mother."

"No, dearest, you have not said a word too much; for the man of whom you speak is on the eve of becoming your husband, and you must love him next to God. There can scarcely be too much love between husband and wife. Is it not written that they shall be united, even like Christ and His Church? But, my child, I tremble for you! You are giving your all, you are pouring out your whole treasure on him. I wish you to love dear Percy, but I cannot help wishing you loved him--not quite so well. You see, dear, a woman's love, if she is a true-hearted woman, grows after marriage; a man's seldom does. And it is always safer that the greater love should be on the husband's side--before marriage, at least. And I wonder--"

"What, mamma?"

"Nothing, my dear; I was going to say something foolish, and foolish words are best left unspoken;" the truth being that it was on Mrs. Walker's lips to ask her daughter one or two leading questions as to Percy's loverly behaviour when they were left alone together, but she reflected that not even a mother had any right to make such inquiries of her daughter. It seemed to her that the love-making of betrothed lovers should be sacred as the endearments of married people. A very delicate, fine mind had Lucy Walker, though she was sprung from "the people;" though she did say "snap" to her sweetheart's "snip," over the labelled parcels in the dusty, dingy packing-room!

So she refrained her tongue, though she longed to asks, "Has Percy ever said, ever vowed, after the fashion of lovers, that you are all the world to him? Has he made you feel that he intensely, passionately loves you, and none else? that his happiness is in your hands? that he takes you as the one woman whom God has given him to be his darling, cherished wife--his own and only one on earth--and, as he trusts, beyond the grave!" Something seemed to tell her that she had better not ask such questions, even if she dared. Something, she knew not what, whispered:

"It is not with your child as it was, and as it is, with yourself."

For Constantine and Lucy, though but common folk, born far, far away from the purple, knowing what toil and humble living meant--Lucy, at least, had never forgotten the lowly days of yore!--uneducated and homely in their manners, were lovers still, and would be while life continued. Far dearer were both husband and wife to each other than when they stood together, before the shattered chancel rails of old Ashford Church, having just heard the thrice-solemn words, "Whom God has joined together, let no man put asunder."

Alas! God does not join all whom the law couples, nor all upon whom the Church bestows its benediction.

They were young folks then, and now they were growing old, but neither of them had ever known any other affection, any other preference, than that so simply revealed in the dingy Bradfield packing-room; they had been true to each other--"true as steel," as Constantine was wont to phrase it; they had laboured and striven together, they had prospered together, they had sorrowed together; they had been faithful husband and wife in the very highest sense of that grand adjective faithful! And now, after more than thirty years' union, the man in his heart thanked God for the woman whom He had given him; and the woman felt herself blessed above all other women in having won and kept the strong, unwavering, tender affection of the man. God had joined these two together, and no mortal could put them asunder--only death, and as they both fully believed, but for a little while, could part them.

Constantine Walker really thought that he had done the very best for his darling child; he did not doubt that Percy loved her well and truly. He had never heard of Emmeline Vernon; he could not see why a young man should not love a rich wife as well as a poor one, and it seemed to him only a natural sequence that the lad should love his lass--the sweetest, purest-minded girl in Christendom--above all others; and, seeing her in all her maiden loveliness in her own home, desire to win her for himself! For, was she not a lady who would grace any position? Was she not a flower that the grandest man alive might be proud to transplant into his own parterre? But, if ambition and foolish pride blinded his eyes concerning his daughter, he was faultless as regarded Lucy. If thus he failed as a father, he was blameless as a husband; he was still--as he ever had been--all that a man can be to the woman whom, in God's sight, he has taken to his bosom. And Lucy? Ah! there never was Lucy's equal on earth--at least, to Constantine!

But how would it be, in the years to come, with this sole surviving child of their true wedded love? How would she and Percy meet the storms of life together? Would they be holily, as well as lawfully, joined in holy matrimony? The mother dared not look into the future; she could only pray, "Oh, my God, make my darling happy, if it be Thy will; but, if not, make her good and true and worthy to be blessed!"

It had been arranged that the wedding should take place towards the end of April; but when the fateful day approached, it was discovered that those very troublesome yet indispensable functionaries, the lawyers, were ready to put in an injunction on the ground of uncompleted settlements. They had done their very best, hurrying on the inevitable red-tapism of their profession with almost unprofessional alacrity; but, in spite of all possible zeal and despatch, it was found that certain documents, in a legal form, could not be produced on the twenty-second instant, and, therefore, the august ceremony must be postponed.

All the Lauristons chafed at the delay. The Walkers were not at all displeased; and the dressmakers drew breath, and thanked the Providence that had granted them a few more days for the exercise of their tastes and abilities. Mr. Lauriston was vexed--he scarcely knew why. Perhaps he remembered the old school-copy of his boyhood--"Delays are dangerous;" and he had not lived fifty years in the world without finding out the truth of another pithy saying, which tells us how "there's many a slip between the cup and lip." And a slip now, when the cup was filled to the brim with the most potent and delicious cordial, albeit there was infused into the sparkling draught a few drops of inexpressible bitterness, would be cruel and agonising indeed!

Lady Maria was vexed that "these Walker people" should be able to control the marriage of her son--the grandson of the late Earl of Brooklees! And she, too, had a kind of undefined objection to anybody's wedding-day being put off. Gardner, who had been at the head of the Lauriston nursery as long as that institution existed, and was now Adela's personal attendant, solemnly protested against any kind of adjournment; "for," as she urged, "there is no knowing when a thing is to be if once it's put off. And it's dreadful unlucky to put off one's wedding-day; besides, if it can't be in April, it mustn't be till Jane, and that will put everything out of place!"

"Can't be till June, Gardner!" exclaimed Lady Clara Bannatyne, who was present, together with her sister and her aunt, in full conclave, on Alicia's behalf, discussing the subject of her presentation, and the important question of her dress. They were all in Alicia's room, and Gardner was busy folding away her young lady's dresses. As an old and privileged servant, she generally joined in the feminine parliament of the family on such occasions.

"Why are we to skip over the whole month of May--'charming May'--the queen month of the year?" persisted Lady Clara.

"Why, don't you know, my lady, that it's the worst month in all the year for marriages?" replied Gardner.

"No, indeed! What's the matter with the month?"

"Don't jest, my lady. It's the month that kills off the delicate and consumptive people. I've known many a one that has stood the winter frosts and fogs go off while the May sun was shining and the May winds blowing from the east."

"Very likely. May is a trying month, no doubt, to invalids, and productive of funerals. But we are talking of being married, not of being buried."

"Yes, I know, my lady; but May is the most unlucky month in all the year for weddings. 'No good ever came of May nuptials,' I've heard many a wise person say."

"Noce de Mai, noce fatale!" laughed Lady Agneta. "But, Gardner, it's all nonsense! One month is as good as another. When were you married, auntie?"

"In June, my dear," replied Lady Maria, "on a splendid summer's day, without a cloud; and everybody said it was most auspicious. It was not, though; I've gone through seas of trouble."

"Oh, my lady!" interrupted Gardner, "you have had trouble, God knows! but your marriage itself has been happy. Whatever has been amiss, all has been right between you, my lady, and your husband, my honoured master. It's the married life, as such, that goes wrong when the knot is tied in May."

"Gardner, I am quite surprised at you, talking such nonsense before these young people!" said Lady Maria, kindly. "Whatever you do, never teach a superstition."

"Oh, but, aunt, I like to know about superstitions!" cried the lively Lady Clara; "and now I come to think of it, I too have heard 'Noce de Mai, noce fatale!' Are there any more unlucky months, Gardner?"

"May is not unlucky, except for weddings, Lady Clara. It's good to be born in May--'May's child and June's child are sure to prosper;' but June's child will prosper most. April's child is always clever and sweet-tempered, though passionate, and very loving, though not always happy. April children have hearts that are all the easier broken because they are so feeling and loving and true and full of trust. And it's good--very good--to be born about Christmas-time."

"Well, we can't help being born at any time," replied Lady Clara; "that's a point on which we are never consulted. But we can choose our own wedding-days. Which is the best month of all the year for marriages, Gardner?"

"My dear Clara!" put in Lady Maria, reprovingly.

But Clara persisted, and Gardner spoke "like an oracle," as her young auditors declared. "The best months in all the year for marriages, ladies, are February, June, and September; but for luck--real luck--June comes first. July is not to be preferred--I don't know why. March and April are good, but not excellent. January and November are bad, but nothing near so bad as May."

"What a pity!" said Lady Agneta; "for May is a delightful month, especially in London, only that marrying then would interfere with the season."

"Girls!" interrupted Lady Marie, gravely, "I will not have such nonsense talked. Don't you know, Gardner, that all these silly notions about lucky days and months are derived from Pagan superstitions? They are utterly unworthy of Christian people."

"I beg your pardon, my lady! I only say what I've often heard from those that came before me, and I've known it come true many a time."

And then Gardner, who, like her betters, did not relish being criticised, took her departure, and the conversation went on in another direction. But Adela also slipped away, and in the little drawing-room she found Percival. He was looking more gloomy and miserable than ever.

"Oh! Percy," she began, "is it true that the wedding must be put off?"

"True enough!" replied he, almost savagely. "Lawyers are the very curse of civilisation, I think."

"Do you mind it so much?"

"Mind it! It exasperates me to be told that all this must go on for several weeks longer. I hoped my penance was nearly over. Do you suppose I like playing the lover to that girl?"

"She is a very nice girl, Percy; and she loves you."

"So much the worse for her! And as for her 'niceness,' as you call it, I fully admit it; only I wish her pale prettiness, and her affections--as you young ladies would say--and her fortune, and, of course, herself, were all bestowed upon some other fellow. Bless me! if her vulgar father wanted to marry her 'into the aristocracy,' why was I selected to be the victim? There are a thousand more eligible men than I whom he might have presented to his daughter!"

"You know how it all came about, Percy; and it's of no use to be so cross. But I do think, if you feel so--so unkindly towards poor Constance, you ought not to marry her. It comforts me, to be sure, to know that I shall never be married for my money. It reconciles me to poverty and to the lack of downright beauty, to know that I shall only be married--if married at all--for my own sake. Percy, I am afraid you are doing very wrong!"

"I am doing very wrong, but it can't be helped now; so it's of no use preaching. I must go on to the bitter end."

Oh, if Constantine Walker had only heard him!--a marriage with his darling girl described as "the bitter end."

"Percy," persisted Adela, "I wouldn't marry the richest man in the world if I shrank away from him, as you do from poor Connie. And--mark my words--no good will come of it. Wrong can never be turned into right!"

"Addie, this is ungenerous, when you know that I am sacrificing myself for the sake of my family. I, alone, pay the price; you--all of you--reap the rich reward. Say no more; it is useless. We have gone too far to recede. We could not now, if we would, draw back. I have--or, rather, my father has--already handled some thousands of Constance's fortune. Castledine is our own again, bought back with Walker money. No! we cannot--I may not falter now; the marriage must go on."

"God help you, Percy!" said Adela, sorrowfully: "it is terrible to think you are going to do something which you dare not ask Him to bless. I wish I were brave enough to go and tell Constance the truth. If she is wretched, I shall always feel that I have helped to make her so."

"Why should she be wretched! She shall do exactly as she likes, so long as she does not interfere with me. I shall never seek to control her. The household shall be hers, as entirely as if she were its spinster mistress. Every pleasure the world can give, and those which religion is said to yield, will be at her disposal. She will have everything she possibly can wish for--except a loving husband."

"And I should say that with such an exception, all the rest would be of very little value. But, Percy, for how long must the marriage be deferred?"

"Till the second week in May; there is no alternative, it seems. Another fortnight added to my term of penance! I feel so much like Judas Iscariot, that I hope I may not follow his example, and hang myself! Now, Addie, my dear, once for all let this be ended. You are a good little girl, but you don't know what you are talking about. Nothing that you can urge will alter circumstances; nothing can give me back the freedom I lost exactly six months ago. Constance Walker must be my wife. So say no more about it, neither to myself nor to any other person. You think you have the secret of this alliance--I won't call it anything else--but you have it only in part; our mother has it only in part. Never speak of it any more, Addie. The burden I bear is heavier than you can guess. The wedding is fixed for the twelfth of May."

"Oh, Percy, have you never heard, 'Noce do Mai, noce fatale'?"

"Of course I have heard it, but who heeds rubbish? Yet, if there be one month more unfortunate than the others--which, of course, is utter nonsense--that is the one to select for nuptials so ill-starred as mine."

"If you would only make the best of it! If you would--asking God to help you--put the past away, as if it had never been, and try to love Constance--if it were only a little at first--"

But Percy was gone, and the girl's wise, gentle words fell only on vacant air. From that day she said no more, but she longed for the wedding to be over, and, in spite of the clouds that encompassed it, she hoped still for the best. Surely Constance's sweetness and pure goodness must win him when once she was his wife! She was worth a dozen faithless, though brilliantly beautiful, Emmelines! "Ah!" mused Adela, "if I were a man, I know which of the two I should choose. I was very fond of Emmeline. But when I ceased to respect her, I also ceased to love her. I cared nothing for Constance at first. I disliked the thought of her; but the more I know of her, the better I like her. I dare not love her! If I loved her, I should feel that I must--come what would--warn her of the deceit that is practised against her. Oh, why does she not guess it? Surely, so unloverlike a lover as my brother Percy was never seen."

And so the preparations went on, and the lawyers bestirred themselves to such good purpose that the final settlements were ready for signing three days before the twelfth. Mr. Lauriston breathed more freely as the time drew nearer and nearer, and he made much of Constance, though more and more he detested her open-handed father. Lady Maria was courteous to the Walkers, nothing more. The Bannatyne girls were puzzled; they could not understand how people so exclusive as the Lauristons could ally themselves with people so plebeian as the Walkers. Lady Agneta., who was not averse to a little slang occasionally, told Lady Clara in confidence that she was positive there was a screw loose somewhere.

The Earl of Brooklees, knowing the world a little better than his unsophisticated daughters, loudly applauded the marriage. "You see," said he to some old friends who were disposed to speak slightingly of the coming union, "the old exclusive conservatism of blue-blood is gone for ever! We of the real 'upper ten' can no longer afford to despise wealthy men of business. Money can purchase almost anything! Money is power! If a parvenu cannot himself altogether doff the tradesman; if his polish be only French polish, mere varnish that is sure to crack, and, sooner or later, betray itself for what it is!--his children may be all right and perfectly producible in what is called society. As for his grandchildren, their plebeian origin may be forgotten, especially if the intermediate generation has allied itself with nobility. No! I can't blame Lauriston; his coffers were empty, and this girl's fortune will amply replenish them. It was absolutely necessary that my nephew should marry money, and--it's a very curious fact worthy of serious investigation, I think--but well-born heiresses are wonderfully scarce! A girl as rich as this Miss Walker, born in the purple, beautiful and talented, would be a rara avis, indeed! Nothing short of a phoenix--the sole one in the world! And the girl is a very nice girl, not exactly beautiful, perhaps, but very pretty and gentle, and perfectly well-mannered. Two or three years, or even less, in her new position will make her a woman of fashion. I shouldn't be surprised if next season Mrs. Lauriston should be quite the rage! It's wonderful how girls come out of their chrysalis state when once they are married. It's quite an equal match, in my opinion. She wanted rank: he wanted money; both gain what they require. Can anything be fairer? I should not mind if a well-conducted, liberally-educated millionaire would fancy one of my daughters, whose rank is undeniable, though their fortunes are--infinitesimal! Perhaps Walker might introduce me to some of his wealthiest confréres--that's a happy thought, I declare! I shouldn't quite like a Bradfield man; but a rich Bradfield man's son and heir, trained as a gentleman, graduated at either University, accustomed to good society, and with money enough to buy up half a score of poverty-stricken peers, would suit me exactly. It was my own thought that Clara and Agneta should be Miss Walker's bridesmaids, and I hope they will be the best of friends with Mrs. Lauriston."

Lord Brooklees talked pretty much in the same key to his sister, Lady Maria; and his words had so much effect, that she felt all but reconciled to the marriage as the important day drew nigh.

Mrs. Walker's uneasiness did not diminish; on the contrary, her misgivings strengthened as the weeks all too swiftly passed away. If only Constance had given any sign, if she had but uttered one word implying doubt or dread of her fast-approaching union with Percival Lauriston, the mother would have been strong enough to fight, even against her beloved husband, for her child's deliverance. But that one word was never spoken. Constance went on calmly and trustingly to her fate, every day increasing her devotion to the gallant, yet moody, lover who had asked her, through her father, to be his wife. For very little had passed between the affianced pair. Percival had only besought her to tell him that she ratified her father's approval, and immediately she found herself "engaged," and all at once preparations were being made for her speedy marriage.

He had told her that he esteemed her greatly, that he trusted he could make her happy, that he was greatly honoured by her preference, &c., &c.; but he had never said absolutely that he loved her; though, perhaps, some of his more unguarded sentences might have been so interpreted. And yet she loved him; though, with maidenly modesty, she veiled her deep affection in his presence; and she was never pressed to those sweet, coy confessions and blushing avowals which are so dear to blissful lovers. She could only conclude that her father, who, of course, knew more of the great world than herself and her mother, had spoken correctly when he explained that gentlemen in Mr. Lauriston's rank of life were not accustomed to the courtship which demonstrates its affection in hand-clasps and fond kisses, and the countless endearments which need not be specified. The love was there, she was assured. Its true expression was all to come, and would date from her bridal-day. Percival brought her a daily bouquet; he even went so far as to request that she would wear no other flowers than his. She always received a chaste salute on the lips whenever he came and whenever he went away. When left alone with her, he generally recited poetry, mentioned the books he wished her to read, or talked about the new opera or the forthcoming Academy. Very often he enticed her to the piano, and listened to her singing; sometimes joining his full deep bass to her flute-like mezzo-soprano; and occasionally he entertained her with an account of the wonderful things she was to see on their wedding journey through France and Switzerland.

And the poor child enjoyed these talks amazingly, and thought how blessed she was in being the choice of such a man! For, in her estimation, Percival represented all the virtues and all the graces in his own person. He was the most scholarly man with whom she had ever conversed, more refined, more polished than any previous acquaintance; and the dignity of his manner rather impressed than chilled her, though sometimes she did wish he would address her--his promised wife--with a little less ceremonial politeness.

The anxious mother made one more effort. Percival had just left, and Constance had retired for the night. Mrs. Walker brewed her husband's regular allowance of grog exactly to his taste, and set it on the little inlaid table at his elbow. Then she said, "'Stine, my dear, I want you to tell me something."

"What is it, old woman?"

"Don't be vexed, for I have asked the question before; but are you satisfied with this young man for our Connie's husband?"

"Now, Lucy love, why will you keep harping on that string? Of course, I am satisfied--more than satisfied; if I wasn't, I'd soon give him a piece of my mind, and tell him to go elsewhere for a bride. If I'd any doubts of him, I'd just make him a present of the money that's sunk in the Lauriston estates, and bid him go about his business. Did you ever know a young fellow more earnest about getting married? If he didn't care a heap for Connie, he wouldn't mind how long the engagement lasted, for things have gone so far in the £ s. d. way, that he won't be so very much the better for the knot being tied. Besides, he's got no debts to speak of, and, certainly, there are none of those entanglements that are so unfortunately common in 'society.' He's as steady as old Time; he wants his wife, and he isn't ashamed to say so. Now, ain't you satisfied?"

"No, 'Stine, I'm not; I'm not, indeed! There's something in him I can't fathom. He's all you say--steady, and anxious to be married, and I'm not afraid of his treating our child unkindly; but he's got a 'Blue Closet' somewhere of his own, and he's got a skeleton in it. Mark my words, Constantine Walker."

"I wish you wouldn't say such things, old woman; you make my blood creep. But, there! it's no use talking; I know he's all right, and I'm not one to be deceived. I have been deep into the Lauriston affairs, and I understand them, first and last, a pretty deal better than does the present master of Castledine. Percy has twice the business talent, twice the practical common-sense of his father. I fancy he inherits them from the Bannatynes; they're remarkably sensible, wide-awake people! If I'd a son--if one of those dear lads had lived, I should have liked him to marry that merry, free-spoken, laughing Lady Clara! Come now, what is it you object to in the young fellow?"

"I object to his coldness. He is going to marry our Connie, and he has never really courted her. I like sweethearts to be sweethearts. I tell you what it is, 'Stine, if you had been one-half as cool in your love-making, I should never have been your wife. Why, even now, you love to do a bit of sweethearting on the sly; I've ten times the devotion from you that Connie has from Mr. Percival. And when I look back to the old times at Bradfield--to the days when we were waiting to be wed--I feel quite taken aback, thinking how different it is with our Connie. Dear me, 'Stine, we were a fond pair of lovers."

"I dare say people put us down for a couple of young fools! But I'm not ashamed to say, I was out-and-out a lover; and, what's more, Lucy, my lass, I've been a lover--your lover, ever since! I never saw the woman that, to my mind, was to be compared with you; and I wouldn't change you for the Queen herself; no! nor for any born lady, that can play the piano, and jabber in a dozen languages, and talk like a book!"

"That's very sweet for me to hear," said the wife, with tears in her eyes, "and the more so, that I believe every word of it. But will Connie's husband say the same this time thirty years? Will he ever love her, as you, from first to last, have loved me, my dear, faithful old 'Stine, whom I would not change for the grandest gentleman in all Christendom?"

"To be sure he will! Lucy, there's different sorts of temperaments, and different sorts of love. Now, I dare say no two married men living ever courted their wives exactly in the same fashion. Some men have a lot to say, and some are as mum as fishes! Some let their love boil over continually, some hardly let it be suspected. What's it matter, so the love is there?"

"Ah! but is it there? When all is square and above board, why shouldn't a sweetheart--a true sweetheart--sail under his own colours, with all flags flying?"

"Because the upper-ten are not given to sweethearting. Their marriages are mostly arranged. It was all very well for you and me to play turtle-dove, for all the world to see; but it would be bad form for them, you know, and I'm sure Connie quite feels it so. She's content; why shouldn't you be, mother? There now, my lass, wipe your eyes, they are the prettiest eyes in Belgravia, yet! and I shall be proud of you on the wedding-day, I'm sure. Won't that lavender-satin and Brussels-lace become you! My lady shan't cut my wife out, I promise her. There! I've finished my glass, and I think we'll go to bed, for I'm so sleepy I can scarcely see, much less talk sense."

And so many yawns followed, and there were such evident symptoms of an impromptu nap to be taken in the luxurious arm-chair, that Mrs. Walker was fain abruptly to drop the subject, leaving half she had determined to say unsaid. In five minutes, Constantine was fast asleep and snoring, as the best and most considerate of husbands sometimes will. His better-half lay by his side, thinking deeply, and praying earnestly for the happiness of her darling child, while the night-watches swiftly passed, till the sweet May dawn stole in through the curtained window, and the birds began piping in the trees of the Square garden. And then at last the anxious, weary mother slept.

The conversation was never resumed. Constantine was so busy all day, and so sleepy at night, that Lucy found it impossible further to discuss the subject of the marriage, except as related to the splendid preparations which were being made for its celebration.

And now the last day came, the last hours of Connie Walker's sweet, peaceful maiden life, and it had been agreed on all hands that Percival Lauriston should not pay any visit to Belgrave Square on the eve of his marriage-day. Constantine, as well as Lucy, wanted the girl all to himself. "She's for me and mother to-morrow," he said to the bridegroom-elect on the night of the 10th, as they stood together in the lobby. "It isn't such very hard lines, because you'll have her all to yourself after Thursday morning, and we shan't catch a sight of her while you are away honeymooning. So you're off duty to-morrow, you understand, my lad, and we shan't see you till we find you in the church at eleven, sharp, on Thursday morning."

Thus dismissed, Percy went away, not at all disconsolate at the idea of being "off duty." And he murmured to himself, as he walked across the Park in the pleasant May moonlight, "In ancient times, some little personal gratification was always permitted to the victim on the eve of sacrifice." Then he went home, and ascended at once to his own room. There he wrote a few lines on a sheet of note-paper, put it into an envelope, which he addressed to "Wistaria Cottage, Fulham," and went out again to put it in the pillar-post before he slept.

The next afternoon he told Adela that he was "off duty," having been peremptorily warned from the premises in Belgrave Square, and that he was going out Chelsea-way, to bid good-bye to an old friend. It might be late before he returned.

"Don't be too late, Percy dear," said his sister, standing on tip-toe to kiss him, "else you'll he fagged for to-morrow, and you do not look quite so brilliant as the bridegroom should, you know."

"I suppose not. Never mind! No one ought to grudge me my liberty on the last evening of my freedom. By this time to-morrow I shall wear my fetters publicly."

And away he went, and dined somewhere "out Chelsea-way;" but he paid for his dinner, for his old friend lived further west, not very far from Fulham Palace. It was seven o'clock when he found himself in the neighbourhood of the Episcopal residence, and a little later, when he came to a rustic gateway, overgrown with Japan honeysuckle, but displaying a square black board, on which was printed in large white letters, "Wistaria Cottage."

I think you will guess who was the "old friend" Percy Lauriston had come to visit on his marriage-eve! He passed down the narrow garden-walk, and there, at the open French window, lovelier than ever, and exquisitely dressed, stood Emmeline Vernon. Another minute and the lovers were in each other's arms.

"And so you are really come to say good-bye, good-bye for ever?" whispered the girl, with downcast glance, and tears beading her long curling lashes. "Oh, Percy, must it be so?"

"It must!" he answered firmly, yet with such a pang at his heart that he could have cried out for very pain. "To-night, I may hold you in my arms without sin or shame; to-morrow, I shall be Constance Walker's--husband."

"I hate Constance Walker."

"You mustn't say so."

"I will--I do--for you love her!" And now the passionate tears rained hot and fast.

"I do not love her. God forgive me for all the lies I shall tell to-morrow morning! I shall never love her; she will never be more to me than she is at this moment but she must be my wife. All is signed and sealed; it needs only to-morrow's ceremony to complete the sacrifice; and it must be completed. There is no alternative, no possible way of escape. As well might the convicted murderer in the condemned cell at Newgate expect release en the eve of his execution, as I from the cruel fate that is forced upon me."

"A cruel fate, indeed, and forced upon you! How I shall detest your wife, Percy!"

"That will be unworthy of you, Emmeline. She has not injured you; she does not know, I believe, that such a person as yourself exists."

"Not injured me? Is she not taking all I care for in the world? Ah, Percy! you little think what my life will be to me now. Oh that, like the heroines in old novels, I could die--even as you pledge your vows to Constance Walker! I feel as if I could rival the 'Blind Girl of Castel-Cuille.' But don't be afraid! I shall not come near Hanover Square to-morrow--I shall not pass that garden gate. And healthy people take a great deal of killing, I fear. If one did die of love in these days, the doctors would be sure to say it was dyspepsia, or suppressed something, with a fine Latin name."

"But, Emmeline, you sent me away! You told me, in your father's presence, that you were free, that I was free to form other and more eligible ties. Those were your very words, burnt in upon my memory. Did you not again and again affirm that you could not be my wife? that there had never been any engagement between us? that we might be friends--and nothing more?"

"And why should we not be friends, since nothing else is left to us?" she interrupted, eagerly. "Oh, Percy darling! I was mad when I sent you away that luckless morning. I did not know that you were my very life--that without you I could only drag on a wretched, weary, joyless existence, longing for the grave's repose! And I could not help myself! You don't know how hard my father can be. He will force me into some splendid, hateful marriage, I know; but no! I will die first! I will be true to the one lost love of my youth. I have serious thoughts of becoming a Roman Catholic, of taking the veil. That would suit exactly--a bridal veil for Constance: a black serge veil and robe for the miserable Emmeline!"

"Do you know that you are breaking my heart? No, my love--my only love; you and I can never be friends--and nothing more. Therefore, I bid you to-night an eternal adieu; never again will I seek you. We may meet in society--for I do not think you will enter the cloister--but willingly I will never more look on your dear, sweet face; nor will I ever speak another word to you, after this evening, to which my wife may not calmly listen. I will be as true as a perjured man can be to the vows I must take upon myself to-morrow. I shall never love Constance--I shall always love you; but I will keep my soul."

"You will always love me?" she said, pleadingly; "you will never let Constance take my place?"

"I do not think you ought to ask such a thing. It is my misery that Constance can be to me--only Constance! Like King Arthur--but that I am not blameless, as he was--I may cry in bitterness of heart, 'My doom is, I love thee still.' And that is all I have to say. I came here at your earnest request; I could not resist the temptation of seeing you once more. It was unwise, I knew; it was unjust to Constance; it was not really kind to you! But here I am; I have had my say. It only remains to take one last kiss and part--for ever!"

"Swear to me that neither Constance, nor any other woman, shall ever take my place in your affection."

"No; I will not swear it. But it will be all the same, I fear. This I promise you, that I shall never forget you--and--and I shall love you always--always--just as I love you now; you, and none other--my Emmeline." And then there was a parting of unspeakable anguish, for Emmeline Vernon really loved this man, whom she had not the courage to marry, to share a life of toil and poverty; that is, she loved him as well as a nature so worldly and selfish as hers could love, and in all probability she would never love any other as she loved him. And with all the ungenerousness of a weak and selfish soul, she hated her unconscious rival, and would fain have ensured for her the wretched lot of an unloved, neglected wife. She had done all the harm she could do; she would have done more had Percy been as pliable in her hands as she had expected. He had promised to love her always, and solely; but he would not see her again, and he would do his duty by his wife; and who could tell how soon duty might wear the aspect of inclination? Do not blame her too much, this poor, misguided Emmeline! She had been as badly brought up as a girl could be. Her mother was lost to her, but not by death; her father had taught her to appreciate to the full her great loveliness of face and form, and he had taught her little else, save the expediency of winning rank and wealth--at any price. She had learned showy accomplishments, and she was naturally witty and brilliant, and she could wear the pure, artless beauty of an angel. And so Percival Lauriston, who deserved a better fate, fell into her toils, and gave all his heart to her. In after years, when he heard her true history, he scarcely knew whether he pitied her or despised her the more. But now, on this night--on his bridal eve--she was his evil genius! Things might not--probably would not--have been so hard for Percy's wife, had he not gone to Wistaria Cottage to take a last farewell of Emmeline Vernon.

He went to the water-side when he left the garden-gate, and took a boat down the moonlit river to Pimlico. It was late when he reached Mount Street, and though the household was still astir, he managed to gain his own chamber without being seen. Utterly exhausted, he threw himself on the bed, and slept heavily till sounds below awoke him to the consciousness of his real position, and of the ordeal that awaited him.

At "eleven, sharp," Percy was in the church, with Hugh, his best man, and the other groomsmen, waiting for the bride and her party. They came, punctually to the moment; and while the bridegroom was struggling for composure, his pale, gentle bride was brought to him by her triumphant father; the fair bevy of bridesmaidens fell into order, the officiating clergyman opened the book, and the ceremony began.

A few minutes more and it was all over. The ring was on, the names were signed in the vestry, the "Wedding March" pealed forth from the organ-gallery, and Mr. and Mrs. Lauriston drove to Belgrave Square, wedded man and woman. The bride wondered whether her husband was going to faint, so white he became when he found himself shut up with her in her father's chariot. She ventured to take his hand; it lay cold and lifeless in her own. In her ears were ringing the lines Lady Agneta had quoted to her an hour before:--

"The rite-book is closed, and the rite being done--
They who knelt down together, arise up as one;
Fair riseth the bride."

It was a splendid wedding, and everybody said so; but no one enjoyed it like the father of the bride. There was, of course, a magnificent banquet served in princely fashion; all that was rare and costly of meats, and fruits, and confections, and wine, groaned upon the board, and the dresses of the ladies were marvels of artistic taste. Constance herself looked very fair and sweet, only "too pale," as was generally observed; but then no one finds fault with a bride for being colourless on her wedding-day. The déjeûner was a dreadful ordeal, not only to Percival, but to all the Lauristons. Percival had, of course, prepared his speech beforehand, and he managed to get through it with tolerable composure, gracefully thanking the assembly for the honour they had done him, and for the kindly compliments paid to himself and--his wife! But Mr. Walker's address was something unprecedented; and even Lucy wished she were sitting by him, instead of the stately Mr. Lauriston, that she might pluck at his coat-tails, and gently remind him that he had been upon his legs quite long enough.

He, too, had prepared his speech, but after the few first formal and hesitating sentences, during which all present expected him to break down, and were preparing to cover his retreat by vehement applause, he suddenly became eloquent, and he spoke--rather after the fashion of a stump orator, it must be confessed--till the wedding guests began to fear he would speak on till the arrival of the carriage that was to convey the newly-married couple to the station. As might be expected, his grammar faded him as soon as he swerved from the laboured composition which he had read anxiously over before leaving his chamber that morning; the fire kindled within him, and he spake with his tongue, without the smallest regard to the ordinary rules of English composition, and with the sublimest disregard of aspirates and recognised modes of pronunciation.

There he stood, the proud and triumphant father who had succeeded in marrying his darling "into the haristocracy!" He boasted of his girl's sweetness and goodness and prettiness, all of which might well be excused in a fond, delighted parent; but when he came to exulting over her immense dowry, the distinguished guests, more especially the Lauristons and the Bannatynes, felt curiously uncomfortable. From the subject of the actual fortune of the bride he entered upon a review of his own career, showing how the said fortune was made, how he had sprung from nothing, and felt "as how he had come to be somethink--and somethink pretty considerable, thank the Lord!" He told those present--"servants, Gunter's men, and all!"--thought poor Lady Maria, with a shudder--how the first seeds were sown and the first harvests reaped and carefully garnered, and how successive sowings and successive reapings were achieved, till came at last the crowning peroration--"and 'ere I ham this day, a proud man, I confess! Yes, ladies and gentlemen, and my lord there, who is some sort of relation to me now, I s'pose, seeing as he's my daughter's uncle by marriage--I ham proud of my career! I'm a self-made man, and there's nothing like a self-made man to my notions; you grand nobs, you boast of your pedigree and your descent, and I don't find no fault, for I dare say as it's a very fine thing to be descended straight down from Dooks and Markises, and Hurls and Prime Ministers, not to speak of Kings and Princes, through left-handed marriages--which I don't think is much to crack about! I must say as I'd rather be the commonest Mr. Muggins, come of honest stock, than I'd flourish a 'Fitz' before my name, for I'm certified as it means something as I wouldn't as much as mention before this august company. Well! you boast of your descent, and I of my ascent, and I should say, though a many mayn't be of my opinion, that it's quite as good to be ascended as descended; and if you haven't no ancestors to speak of--except, of course, Adam and Eve and Mr. and Mrs. Noah--the next best thing surely is to go in for being an ancestor yourself to your own posterity; and, as posterity can do nothink for me, I mean to do all I can for posterity. I needn't say as I hope this'll be an 'appy union, as, hindeed, it did ought to be, seeing as it's a love-match on both sides; and may the bride and bridegroom live long together 'appily and virtuously, and become the parents of a seed to serve the Lord when they are laid in the grave. And may every one of us 'ere assembled--lords and ladies, masters and servants, young and old--live long and prosperously, doing their dooty as in God's sight, and enjoying His favour for evermore, that so we may all meet in heaven where there's neither sect nor rank, nor political parties, nor riches, nor poverty, nor nothink but what's good and glorious. And we ask this for Jesus Christ's sake. Amen."

And then a great awkwardness fell upon the assembly, for no one knew whether it would be proper to applaud. Mr. Walker had evidently forgotten his position, and fancied he was at a prayer-meeting. He had begun in tolerably orthodox fashion, but he had ended in such a way as to embarrass the whole wedding party. It was not the thing to let the host, the father of the bride, sit down in ignominious silence; nor could anybody bring his hands to clap or his lips to cheer, after the solemn words with which the speech or address had ended. The hired toastmaster, however, was equal to the occasion; and he bade the ladies and gentlemen "charge their glasses," and drink to Mr. and Mrs. Walker, the blissful father and mother of the happy bride, with--"Hip! hip hip!--hurrah!"

And immediately the waiters brandished the champagne bottles, and the toast was duly honoured; but a peculiar feeling of uneasiness still clung to the Lauriston side of the house; and something, which afterwards she could never explain, made Lady Agneta send a hastily-scribbled message to her father, imploring him to "say something to the point."

And the Earl of Brooklees at once responded to his daughter's appeal, and made the speech of the occasion, referring so feelingly to the loss which the Walkers that day sustained, and to the noble and pious spirit of their host, that both Lucy and Constance were drowned in tears, and Constantine himself was fain to gulp down more wine than was good for him, in order to conceal his emotion. And the Earl of Brooklees said distinctly that he rejoiced in the alliance of the Walkers and Lauristons, and that he most cordially congratulated his nephew on his wonderful good fortune in securing so fair and amiable and richly endowed a bride. And in the spirit of their excellent and honoured host he wished earnestly that every blessing might be showered on the newly-wedded pair!

The feast was drawing to a conclusion, and the bride and her bridesmaids had already retired, when a tremendous clap of thunder startled all the loiterers at the festive board. "Bless my soul!" cried the Earl, going to the window; "but we are going to have it sharp! I say, Walker, you had better tell your people not to bring the carriage round till all this is over. One train is as good as another, and the horses won't face such a storm as is close upon us, if I am any judge of weather prognostications. I felt it coming all yesterday, and I felt the electricity in the air before I was out of bed this morning; and when a tempest broods for hours it's apt to be something out of the common when it breaks at last."

"I think you had better take a later train, Percy," said Mr. Walker, turning to the pale, absent bridegroom, who looked as calmly at the threatening sky as if it were a vault of undimmed azure.

"No, no!" hurriedly replied the young man; "we cannot do that. All arrangements are made. We are expected at Dryscote Tower at seven o'clock. This is the only train that will at all suit."

"But you cannot go in such rain and thunder," urged the Earl, looking forth again; "and I tell you it's not nearly at the worst yet. It grows darker every minute! It's more like an October afternoon, I declare, than a May morning."

And, indeed, the blackness gathered fearfully. It was so dark in the Belgravian dining-room that one of the waiters proposed lighting the gas, and was well snubbed in consequence. Mr. Walker felt as if he and his daughter were treated unfairly by the elements. Why should it thunder and lighten and rain water-spouts on this day of all the three hundred and sixty-five in the year? He regarded the debris of the feast; how littered the tables looked! The waiters, awe-stricken, had slunk away into the servants' quarters; a pale, lurid light fell on epergnes and candelabras, on mountains of ice and pyramids of costly fruits, on gold and silver, on crystal and damask, and on the drooping flowers, that filled the heavy air with an overpowering fragrance. Constantine Walker was a man who believed in signs and omens, and he took the storm for a herald of approaching misfortunes. He was annoyed, too, at the calm imperturbability of his son-in-law. "I believe the fellow rather likes the storm," he whispered to Lord Brooklees; "and, let him say what he will, he shall not take away my Connie in such a deluge--that he shan't! What's a train lost? Dear me! it isn't a matter of market or Stock Exchange. They're not bound to go away this evening; there's a good house over their heads; and the mother and me can clear out and go to an hotel if it's a question of etiquette."

But Percival listened, and determined to bear away his bride, even if it were after the fashion of the lost Lenore. Nothing should tempt him to end the day that ought to have been, but was not, the happiest of his life, under his father-in-law's roof. At least he would have the comfort of new scenes and comparative solitude. Dryscote Tower was a hunting-box in Norfolk, belonging to the Earl of Brooklees, and seldom visited by any of the family. Indeed, it had been let of late years, and it so happened that Percy had never seen the place. Its late tenant having departed, the house was offered to Percy and his bride as a residence during the first few days of their married life.

They were to spend a week or more at Dryscote, then to go on viâ Paris and Geneva to the Bernese Alps or the Italian lakes, or both, as it should seem good to them at the time. It was understood that Mr. and Mrs. Lauriston were entirely at their own disposal, and that they should disport themselves on the Continent, or elsewhere, exactly as long as it should be their joint will and pleasure. Constance anticipated a host of enjoyment in visiting what her father vaguely specified as "foreign parts," in company with her husband.

At last the thunder-storm rolled away, and only low, muttering peals sounded on the horizon; the rain, too, partially ceased, and Belgrave Square no longer presented the appearance of an aqueous desert; but there seemed very little prospect of the weather clearing up. "It would be a soaking wet evening," the flunkeys grumbled, and the coachman and postillions, one and all, lamented the inevitable spoliation of their finery. At an hour long past the time named for their departure the bride and bridegroom were at the foot of the grand staircase receiving the embraces and farewells of friends and kindred. Mrs. Walker had bidden adieu to her daughter upstairs, but Mr. Walker stood in the hall, now crowded with his guests, and bestowed on Constance a loudly-pronounced paternal benediction, addressing her as "Mrs. Lauriston." Then all the bridesmaids pressed round for a parting kiss. There was a general confusion; the horses outside began to champ and paw, as if scarcely able to restrain their impatience; the rain fell in a steady, hopeless drizzle; the bell of a neighbouring church began to toll for evening service, and it sounded like a passing knell. There was a faint attempt at hilarity as the bridal party drove from the door, and the usual discharge of old slippers and scattering of rice; and then it was all over, and Lady Maria breathed freely, and instantly ordered her own carriage, intending to spend a quiet evening in Mount Street, while Adela and the Ladies Bannatyne assisted Mrs. Walker in entertaining the guests who remained and those who were invited for the wedding-ball. Lady Maria was to have stayed, but she pleaded indisposition, and retired gracefully, scarcely knowing whether she felt more inclined to felicitate or to condole with herself on the auspicious event, at last safely concluded.

There had been one spectator in the church whom, happily for himself, Percy Lauriston had not noticed. This was General Vernon, who, at his daughter's request, was present in the background during the ceremony. When he returned to Wistaria Cottage, he was very closely questioned: "And how did she look, papa?"

"Very nicely, I suppose, for I heard the women praising her and her dress. I never saw a more splendid wedding! As for the veil, it must have cost a fortune. I wish I had the price of Mrs. Lauriston's lace at this moment."

"Don't call her that."

"Don't call her--what?"

"Why--Mrs. Lauriston! I hate that she should have the name."

"Dear me, Emmie; you are very foolish. What else should I call her? You would not have me say 'Miss Walker,' I suppose?"

"She was Miss Walker when first you saw her in her veil. Well! I suppose I must get used to hearing her spoken of as--Mrs. Lauriston! There, I have said it myself! We shall be almost sure to meet in society, either at home or abroad."

"Emmeline, if you are wise you will avoid any such meeting. Or, if it be unavoidable, you will take care not to seek any kind of intimacy. The less you and Percy Lauriston see of each other now the better."

"Nonsense, papa! I can take care of myself, I hope. I am not going to give up Percy as a friend. Dear me, is a married man to repudiate all female society, except that of lawful wife?"

"By no means; but he will certainly, if he have any sense, repudiate that of a former flame, unless even the very ashes of love on both sides are dead, and past revival. However, we need not concern ourselves about the Lauristons at all just now; we shall not see them again before the autumn, if then; and Emmeline, my dear, the best thing you can do is to put Percy entirely out of your head. I hope, still, your bridal veil may be required before the close of the season. When is that water-party coming-off?"

"Not for another fortnight. And, papa, that reminds me--I must have some money. Madame Marie is beginning to look very sour at me; if I can't pay off a portion of last year's account, I'm afraid she will refuse to furnish any more new dresses. And I must have something new and charming for the water-party."

"'Must' is a word for a Queen, my dear girl. It is not for Emmeline Vernon."

"But it is! I say it again; I must have an entirely new toilet for that day. You cannot expect me to make conquests in print and linsey-wolsey; there are no King Cophetuas in this seventh decade of the nineteenth century. And if there were, I should decline to enact the part of the 'Beggar Maid,' although she was 'more beautiful than day!'"

"Again I say, be reasonable, Emmeline; there are plenty of Cophetuas, though not exactly royal in their estate. But it will be your own fault if you are not Lady Battledowns."

Emmeline made a gesture of disgust. "I can't, papa; that ancient horror!--and after Percy, too."

"But Percy is not for you. You might as well have a penchant for the Prince of Wales as for Mr. Lauriston. Both are equally out of your reach; whereas 'that ancient horror' needs only a very little encouragement to propose."

"I should need a great deal of encouragement before I accepted him. It is said that he beat his late Countess."

"Scandal! scandal! Never lend your ears to vulgar gossip. A man may be very unamiable, and yet treat his wife politely; in nine cases out of ten all such esclandres are the fault of the lady. A weak woman, an exacting woman, a jealous woman, can never keep her husband well in hand. He will either openly revolt, or carry on a course of deception. A sensible, prudent woman, who is neither sentimental nor morose, can always manage her affairs satisfactorily. I should like to see you Countess of Battledowns."

The girl pouted as she replied, "If I am as beautiful as people say, and as, I must confess, my glass assures me I am, I think I might do better than marry an elderly despot--a worn-out roué, a widower with grown-up spinster daughters. I never could fancy the rôle of stepmother."

"You might do better, but you have wasted so many opportunities. It is a thousand pities we ever went to Roselle. And, Emmeline, I don't want to vex you, but you must marry somebody, and somebody who is not short of cash; and it must be soon! We cannot keep up appearances much longer."

"I am sick of all this mercenary scheming. I wish in my heart I had not sent Percy Lauriston away. Why did I not accept his manly offer--and, since you said I could not wait for him, marry him out of hand, and go abroad with him, as he wanted? I think I have pluck enough for an emigrant's wife."

"You an emigrant's wife! You in the backwoods! I think I see you, single-handed, in your log hut, cooking your husband's supper, or mending his torn trousers, or doing a week's washing. You, who don't know what it is to soil your pretty little fingers, and who grumble if you have to button your own Balmorals! No, my sweet child, you were made for Belgravian mansions, for Paris salons, for a box at the opera, for a well-cushioned pew in a fashionable church; for all the luxuries and amenities that life can give. Any homely-featured, freckled lass can drudge; you are fit for something better. You are born to reign a princess, among the women of the 'upper ten,' a veritable queen of beauty and of fashion."

"I begin to think beauty is, after all, a very questionable gift," sighed Emmeline. "Beauty without money is like diamonds without setting--of comparative value only. I often wish I had been like so many girls--just passably good-looking, just a little pretty, and nothing more. You would not then have expected me to marry a decrepit duke, or an elderly earl, or a muddle-headed marquis; I might have pleased myself--I might have married Percy Lauriston."

"Once for all, Emmeline, I beg you to cease this absurd nonsense. If you had been plain, Percy Lauriston would never have been your lover. And if you had married him, where would you have been at this moment? You declare that you love him, that you can never love another man. You talk as if you had been brought up in the Lydia-Languish school. Women are selfish creatures, after all. A marriage between you and Percival Lauriston would have been his ruin, putting yourself out of the question. I don't blame him; he has married money--he has done his duty. It is my belief that this wealthy match has been the salvation of the whole family; and I have very good reasons for saying so. Castledine will now become one of the finest places in the western counties. The young man will take his proper position in society. Neither he nor his will be any more hampered with money difficulties, which are the root of every sort of annoyance and humiliation. Percy Lauriston is to be commended; go you and do likewise. Your face is your fortune, and an ample dower it is, if only you have the sense to take it to the best market."

"Very well. You have said the same thing so often, that I am tired of hearing it. I will try and marry the first rich simpleton who will have me, for I am tired to nauseation, almost to death, of the life I lead. As I cannot wed the man of my choice, it does not matter whom I marry, providing only that his wealth and rank are unquestionable."

"I am glad to hear you talking rationally once more. Now I will go and dress for dinner."

"One minute. I meant it, really--I cannot do without some money. I haven't a single dress that I can possibly wear at the water-party. I'll stay at home and have influenza, rather than appear as a Dowsabella!"

"But if I haven't got any money?"

"You must have some. I don't want much; I can get everything I want for twenty pounds--dress, mantle, or fichu, and hat complete. I mean to wear eau-de-Nil; it just suits my complexion. And Tarletan will do as well as silk for the occasion. There is one comfort in being unmarried--a girl can dress in cheap effective materials, which would be quite inadmissible in a matron. If one must be poor, one had better by far be mademoiselle than madame."

"Well, I'll try what I can do; but be as economical as you can; I'm pretty well cleaned out. If you marry this season, I might go to Monaco."

Interlachen, August 12.--I have made up my mind to write a diary, and I begin to-day. I read, not long ago, that no happy woman ever writes books or diaries! I wonder if it's true! I have an idea it is not; for some of the best and noblest women in the world write books--I don't know about diaries--and out of goodness and pure nobility of soul must come happiness, and that of the very highest sort. What does the world mean by "a happy woman"? I think it means one who is simply contented, whose ideal, if she have one at all, is of the most matter-of-fact description, who is well satisfied, if she can boast of a comfortable home; if she have plenty of nice clothes to wear; if there be no fuss about money; and if she has a husband who seldom crosses her, and prefers--as far as she knows--no other woman to herself! I suppose, too, the "happy woman" ought to have several very well-behaved, nice-looking children, and good nurses and competent governesses would add greatly to that element of self-complacency which generally accompanies the level bliss that mortals style content--or happiness!

That is not my idea of happiness. I believe I am, therefore, what the world would call an unhappy woman, and so I may claim my privilege of scribbling in this handsomely-bound book, with clasps and lock and key, the latter of which I mean always to wear on my watch chain. Yes, I am unhappy! I write it here; I confess it to myself, for it is better to face a haunting spectre than to know it dogs one's footsteps, and not dare to look behind. Come forth, then, ghost of dead hopes and fancies, that I may stare you steadily in the face, and grow accustomed--if I can--to your mournful countenance. God knows I am making no weak, sentimental moan; I am not trying to weave my life into a sentimental romance. I don't understand people petting their little miseries, and caressing their grievances, real or imaginary, any more than I comprehend what it is to "enjoy" bad health. I don't think I could, even to myself, far less to others, play la malade imaginaire, either mentally or physically. I have the highest admiration for mens sana, in corpore sano; and the mens sana can hardly be elaborated out of real unhappiness.

Yes, I am very unhappy; and it is because there is not one creature in the world to whom I could confide the wretched fact that I resort to the expedient of writing it down here--a sore of "Confessions of a Disillusioned Bride!" Is there anything in life more disappointing, more sickening to the heart than to find one's idol clay? What can be more tantalising than to behold in the distance fair gleaming waters, that are, after all, a mere mirage--to expect to slake one's thirst and to bathe one's weary limbs, and find only sand--sand--barren, arid sand, with the desert stretching far away on every side?--the desert in which one must henceforth spend one's days!

I will write it all down, that I may the better understand my true position. Will the day ever come when I shall read it calmly through and say, "Thank God, that was in the Past; thank God that the Present is full of joy"? I cannot tell--I dare not think, for if I did, I should lay down my pen and cry myself sick and faint, as I have done too often already, since my marriage.

My marriage. There lies the secret of my great sorrow. I am not married in the highest meaning of the word, for betwixt my soul and Percy's there is a great gulf fixed; he has told me that I am unloved--that he married me for my money. At least, he is no soft flatterer; he hands me the bitter draught openly, nor calls it wine, nor tries to disguise its nauseous flavour by mingling with it sugar and cordial spices. And this is well; when I was a child--before we became homœopathists--I always preferred my medicine undisguised; I never liked powders in jam, nor tonics in cowslip wine. I took the horrible mixtures bravely, though I made a wry face over them, and rushed to the sugar-basin or the jam-pot as fast as possible. Ah me! in those days there were very few bitters, and the sweets soon put them out of remembrance. Now the bitters predominate, and they are so bitter that neither honey nor the honey-comb will take the taste out of my mouth. And yet "people" say I ought to be happy, for I am young, and rich, and fair, and a life of pleasure and gaiety lies before me. And I am Mrs. Lauriston; one day to be Châtelaine of dear, grand old Castledine.

I was married just three months ago. On the 12th of last May I finally left my maiden estate, and became Constance Lauriston. I don't remember much about the wedding. It was very splendid, of course; for my dear father is a very wealthy man, and he loves to spend his money, and I am his only child and darling. It was all like a dream--a medley of faces and voices and flowers and sparkling wines; a hazy vision of white-robed priests, and long-trained ladies, and prancing horses, and dear mother choking down her tears, and father saying I don't exactly know what! And then the tremendous rain--how it hissed and splashed upon the dusty pavement! and how the thunder rolled and shook the solid ground! and how the lightning scorched me !--or I thought so--and how terrible it all was, for I have been, ever since I can recollect, a coward at tempest. And I sat in my own boudoir--that is mine no longer--with my bridesmaids and other ladies; and once, in a pause of the storm, I heard Agneta Bannatyne whisper to Adela, "Your brother is a laggard in love, I am afraid; any other bridegroom would have been at his bride's side to smile away her terrors or soothe her alarms." What Adela answered I don't know; I rather think she said "Hush!" and nothing more, for Adela is very prudent. And I was wondering why Percy did not come to me; I wanted him, as I suppose a girl always does want her lover when she is afraid or troubles--especially her wedded lover, whose tenderness and sympathy are her right. Percy was my wedded lover then--my husband--our vows at the altar not two hours old. He was the one man in all the world--except, perhaps, my dear old dad--whom I could lawfully and righteously summon to my side. Yet he came not, and I did not--could not--call him.

I begin to think it is a good thing for girls to read novels--that is, the best sort of novels; for they learn more of real, genuine life in one downright-true-to-the-life story than they do in a whole year of conventional society. I wish I had read the "Heir of Redclyffe" before I was engaged, I should have learnt so much. Of course, I don't go with Miss Yonge's High Churchism; but this I know, she has taught me, in her charmingest of charming books, things that I knew not before I read her pages; ay, and the best things, too!--the very best, and the very highest! Bless her for it. I am a Dissenter to the core of my heart, though I am married to an Episcopalian. But for that "Heir of Redclyffe" and for "Heartease," I say, solemnly, God bless C. M. Yonge! And I mean it, too. I pray for her, as for an unseen benefactress. I think the love that was between Guy and Amy was something heavenly! so much so, that it was clearly not for time only, but for eternity. If I had read that book in my girlish days, I should have known better the true conditions of a holy, steadfast affection, such as one may devoutly ask God's blessing on.

Well! the time came, when I left my father's house--my husband and I alone--to be, as I supposed, all in all to each other, while life lasted. The solemn words, till death us do part, were still ringing in my ears; and my last prayer, as Constance Walker, had been that I might be a true, loving, helpful wife to the husband whom God had given me. When we got to the station the rain was almost over, but the streets looked dreary, and the air was damp and chill. The coupé had been retained for us, so there we were, shut up together for several hours. My father had assured me that persons of rank never permitted themselves any of those endearments during courtship which are as a matter of course with the less elevated classes; but even he agreed that married life was the same under all social conditions, differing only by reason of individual temperament, or strength of mutual affection. I expected to find Percy fond, ardent, and devoted, now that the probationary period was over, and we two joined together in the holy estate of matrimony, according to the rites of his own Church.

What, then, was my embarrassment when I received cold, polite attentions--when I was treated with courtesy amounting to formality--when the iciest of kisses were imprinted on my cheek! When we were a few miles out London, we got beyond the limits of the storm cloud. There had been no rain in East Anglia; the roads were quite dry, the air soft and balmy, the sky clear and serene, and the hedges, just bursting into full leaf, showed pearl-like clusters of the budding hawthorn. The meadows were all buttercups and daisies, cowslips and primroses; and in the trenches by the rail I saw splendid groups of the wild marsh-marigold; and the sight thereof filled me with a pleasant excitement, and I turned to my husband, and said, "This reminds me of--

"'The honeysuckle round the porch has woven its wavy bowers,
And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo flowers;
And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows grey;--
Shall I be Queen o' the May, Percy? Shall I be Queen o' the May?'"

He seemed to like my quoting Tennyson, and he answered in the same strain--

"'All the valley, Constance, 'ill be fresh and green and still,
And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill;
And the rivulet in the flowery dell 'ill merrily glance and play;
And you shall be Queen o' the May, Constance; you shall be Queen o' the May.'"

After that we talked Tennyson for nearly half-an-hour, and the laureate seemed to put us somewhat at our ease. We discoursed as familiarly as any lady and gentleman on terms of tolerable intimacy; but still, I am quite sure no one would have taken us for a newly-wedded pair, and an ordinary first-class carriage would have served on purpose quite as well as the exclusive coupé. Gradually the evening became fairer and fairer; till, when at last we left the train and entered the barouche which was waiting for us, I thought I had never travelled in lovelier weather or through a prettier country. And Percy waited upon me most assiduously, and I began to feel that I really was a bride.

It was an eight miles' drive to Dryscote Tower, for the most part over wild, ferny, undulating heaths, and through charming woodlands. After the noise and rattle of the rail, this little journey in a luxurious open carriage, over smooth sward, and along well-kept, shady roads, was most delightful. The air was so sweet and pure: the golden sunbeams, glinting through emerald branches, fell athwart our path, and bronzed the ivy-leaves and the mosses that carpeted the spaces between the noble trees. Once we went through quite a little forest of pines, and all the fir-stems or trunks stood up like shafts of ruddy gold, and the fragrance was something delicious! What scent of Rimmel's could equal that subtle, aromatic odour of the woods! The sun had set, when at last we reached the Tower, but it was still quite light, and the skylarks had not finished their ringing evensong. All the servants met us at the entrance to the house, and the housekeeper herself, with every demonstration of respect, escorted me to my rooms, and there my new maid was waiting for me, with several of my trunks unpacked, and my things all ready, if I chose to dress. I did not choose to make a very extensive toilet, for I was tired, and we had agreed not to have a regular dinner, late as it was; so I went down very soon, and sat in the pretty little drawing-room till a servant came to tell me that supper was served in the dining-hall.

The next moment Percy entered, and offered me his arm, and we went together into the old hall, with its lofty, groined roof and high arched windows, and its walls covered with all sorts of weapons and trophies of the chase. The Tower is intended only for the residence of gentlemen, and Percy apologized for the somewhat rude, bare aspect of our dining-room, but I found everything very comfortable, and the arrangement of my rooms was perfect. I heard next day that Clara and Agneta had given their own especial orders, desiring that no trouble should be spared, and that Mrs. Leigh herself should superintend all such details as required either taste or extra care. "Which, of course, madam, I should have done without any reminder," she added, "for it is not often we get a sight of one of the family, and you are the first bride who has honoured these walls by your presence for at least a hundred years."

We only stayed ten days at Dryscote--very quiet, peaceful days they were, too; but just a little dull. Percy spent a good deal of time with me; we took the most delightful drives in a pretty pony carriage, and we read together for several hours daily; then he always asked me to play to him after dinner, but he generally fell asleep. I am afraid I am a most indifferent pianiste, and I know my voice is weak, though tolerably pure and sweet. I wish I sang like Lady Agneta, or played like Adela! I have found out that unless you can play or sing really well--almost professionally, indeed--you had better not perform in company. Percy has a very beautiful voice, rich and deep and mellow; but, somehow, I don't think it goes well with mine.

Our stay at Dryscote came to an end, and we went back to London, and stayed one night at Mount Street, whence all Percy's people fled, as if we had brought infection with us; it seems to be a settled thing that people should see nothing of their own relations during the honeymoon--that they should, in fact, see only each other. I don't think it is a very wise arrangement; in some cases, at least. I can fancy that Guy and Amy in the "Heir of Redclyffe" were perfectly contented with each other's society, and I dare say Violet and Arthur found John Martindale de trop when he turned up so unexpectedly at Winchester! But then they loved each other, really and truly, as we--Oh, what was I going to write? I love Percy better than ever. I admire him, I reverence him. I enjoy his society in some instances far more than before my marriage; but there seems always some strange invisible barrier between us. I wonder what father and mother, who are as fond as doves now, after thirty years of wedded life, would think of me and Percy trying to make believe that we are at our ease!

I did not see the dear old things, for they were away at Staines or Windsor, or somewhere, and we came up to town rather unexpectedly, Percy having decided that we should proceed to Paris several days earlier than had been arranged. I felt sure he was rather relieved when he found there would be no communication with Belgrave Square. He seemed in a hurry to get across the Channel, or else I should have telegraphed to mother, and asked her to meet me, if it were only for an hour, at Charing Cross. But I was not sure as to the exact address, and there had been some mistake about the tidal train, so we had no time to spare, and the next night we rested at Amiens.

I need not put down all the fine things we did in Paris. I am afraid I shall dislike the beautiful, gay city for evermore, for there it was that I first found out the terrible mistake I had made, and I discovered the irreparable wrong that Percy had done me. How hard I tried to convince myself that I was quite happy I cannot here describe; how I told myself over and over again that I was a silly girl, hankering after an ideal something that did not exist. My husband was always kind and attentive--very kind, and extremely attentive. He talked to me about all sorts of things; he laid himself out to please me in a thousand ways; he never showed me the smallest neglect. An onlooker could not have found the smallest fault with his demeanour; and yet--I was discontented! I chid myself repeatedly, and took myself to task, as I should any other unreasonable creature, but all in vain. Day by day the feeling of loneliness grew stronger; the aching sense of void deepened, and I longed for my mother, as I think I should have done had they ever sent me away to school, which, thank God! they never did. I was ashamed to confess how home-sick I felt, for I knew that I had no business to be home-sick with my own husband at my side, and he so perfectly kind, so considerate, so ceaselessly thoughtful for my comfort.

What is it that is wanting? What is the matter with me, with him? I asked myself times without number. How long will it be before we grow pleasantly familiar together, quietly and contentedly happy, as mother and father have always been--as most married people seem to be--as Mr. Lauriston and Lady Maria are, despite a little stiffness of manner, which, I suppose, is their way? We met a couple at Fontainebleau, and they had been married only a day or two before we were. They were very charming people, and the young lady turned out to be a friend of Agneta Bannatyne. But oh! how devoted to each other! How absorbed in each other's society these two were! They were Marian and George, and Marian seemed to live only for George, and George only for Marian. They would not have cared, I do believe, if they had been put upon a desert island, provided they were not actually starved; and I am pretty sure they would have preferred to starve in company rather than feast separated. Marian and I had a little time to ourselves, while the gentlemen went together on some necessary errand; and she seemed so perfectly, blissfully happy, that I could not help regarding her with envy. I cannot say we made any confidences, for the talk was chiefly on her side. In fact, I had nothing at all to say, and I could see that she thought us both very grave and prosaic. We only spent one whole day together and part of another--we two newly-wedded couples; but when we said good-bye, talking of meeting again at Como, I knew that Marian had something which was denied to me, and I began to feel very sad and dispirited.

I dare say I moped--indeed, I am sure that I did; and I began to lose my appetite, and to feel languid, and poorly. At the same time, I noticed that Percy was very far from well. Thinking that he might be secretly dull as well as myself, I proposed that we should go more into society, for there were a good many English in Paris, besides some very charming French people whom I should have liked very well to know. He at once acceded to my request, and we became for a little while quite gay--for such sober people; but I soon grew tired, and the more quickly as I perceived that he was none the brighter or better for our little dissipation. He went through certain social forms gracefully, but mechanically; he was grave and pale always, but gravest and saddest, it seemed to me, when we were quite alone. And every day I found him more listless, more silent, and clearly more ill at ease. I need not say how uncomfortable--to use no stronger word--I began to feel! Was all my life to be like this? Was the rich treasure of my woman's love to meet with no return? Was I to remain Percival Lauriston's wife on sufferance--as it were? I loved him so much, and yet I dared not show it for very shame-facedness; and I his wedded wife! Once or twice I thought to myself--What a silly girl I am! Why should I be afflicted with this queer shyness, which is not even maiden modesty? I will go to him when he comes in and kiss him in proper conjugal style, as I have seen my mother kiss my father--calling him "dear old man" and her "own old 'Stine," a thousand times! Perhaps my coldness, as he interprets my reserve, is making him unhappy! I will--I will break the ice!

And once I did summon up resolution to go to him and kiss him unasked, as he was reading his Galignani; though, by the way, I cannot remember that he ever has actually asked me for a kiss. He has from the first appropriated one from time to time, but more as an act of duty, I am sure, than as an inclination. He was clearly taken by surprise when I touched his lips, and ventured at the same time to take his hand. His lips responded coldly, but his fingers lay listlessly in mine, and he coloured like a bashful girl. I could see that he was both astonished and discomfited at this unusual demonstration of mine. As for me, I felt as much ashamed as I was pained when he said politely, "Well, Constance?" evidently thinking that I came to prefer some request, and prefaced it with a little coaxing, as a cat rubs against the hand she hopes will feed her! I was so vexed to find that he did not in the least respond, nor even understand, that I had to hurry out of the room to hide the tears that I could not repress

It was several days after this that he went to Vincennes to see an old friend there; and as it was a miserably wet day, and I had one of my bad colds, I decided to remain at home. He had not been gone very long, when my maid came to me, and asked where certain turquoise ornaments of mine were. They were to go to the jeweller's for some trifling alteration, and the man from the Rue de la Paix had called for them. She could not find them, or the case in which they were kept. I knew nothing about them, but I went and searched in my wardrobe and in all my drawers, and found everything but the turquoises that were wanted. Then I remembered that I had seen them last in my husband's hands; so I desired Pauline to say that they should be sent later in the day, because Monsieur was out, and he had them in his keeping.

Pauline went with the message, and then I think the very spirit of mischief, taking advantage of my idleness, must have incited me to go and rummage in Percy's own room--where, strange to say, I had never yet been. I wanted to find the ornaments, thinking I would myself drive to the Rue de la Paix, and leave them with M. Chrétien. Also, I must confess, I felt just a little curious to know what was in this Bluebeard's closet of mine which I had never entered, though it adjoined my own dressing-room. I am quite sure, though, that I never dreamed of making any kind of discovery. I had no more idea of prying into Percy's secrets than of forming a conspiracy against the State, for the very excellent reason that I did not suspect him of guarding any secret from me--his wife. There was not a thing of mine that I should keep hidden from him, not a scrap of paper that I would hesitate to leave where his eye might fall upon it. How could I divine that he had a mystery of his own! And, after all, I was not as bad as Mrs. Bluebeard, for she was distinctly told that she must not, on direful penalty, use the key so tantalisingly entrusted to her keeping. I had never been invited into Percy's room, and at the same time I had not been forbidden to enter it, or even to explore it; and surely I had every right to go from end to end of the magnificent suite we rented in the Hotel.

Well! I went! and I deliberately assert that I am glad I did so. I entered the room, which almost exactly corresponded to my own, and I very naturally examined a few things which I had never seen before. There they were--open to my inspection! I looked in the places where the turquoise set was most likely to be, but could not find it; then suddenly I recollected Percy saying something about his ebony cabinet--a little toy affair, which always travels with him--and that, too, in connection with the ornaments. I concluded the cabinet would be locked, but it was not. I found afterwards that Percy thought he had locked it as usual, but somehow slipped the lock. I opened first one drawer and then the other--there were but two--and in the second I found my turquoises. There were several other things in the drawer, which I took up idly, one after another. There were Percy's diamond studs, which were my own gift; there were several antique cameos, which he had spoken of before we were married; there was an exquisite little Church Service, bound in ivory and clasped with gold. This I had never seen. I opened it and found, written upon the first page, one word--"Emmeline." Next I took up a withered spray of something, that must have been, I should say, Wistaria. It was faded and withered, of course, but not quite colourless. It could not have been gathered many weeks; it must have been one of this spring's blossoming. Next and lastly, I came to a clasped velvet case, which looked as if it contained, not jewels--but a photo.

I opened it quite innocently, expecting to behold the proud, handsome face of my mother-in-law, or Adela's pretty, wistful countenance; for I have both mother and father, in similar cases, among my own private treasures. I unfastened the case, and beheld--neither Lady Maria, nor dear little Addie, nor any one I had ever seen before, but the very loveliest face I had ever looked upon! It was a face of resplendent, perfect beauty!--such a face as Greuze might have painted as his most exquisite ideal, and yet such a face as Greuze could not have painted, because it was far too intellectual, infinitely too spirituelle, for his conception. Greuze's pictures are marvellously lovely, but they lack expression. This portrait was full of it, and, being a photo, I could not doubt that it was from the life.

For a minute or two I stood entranced, thinking I had never known what "ravishing beauty" meant before. Surely, this was a creature to drive men mad with her smiles and witcheries. Who could she be? and why did Percy keep her portrait in his private drawer?

Gradually there stole over me a curious feeling, which presently amounted to conviction, that this lovely, radiant creature was--my rival! I felt rather ashamed of myself for thus playing the ugly part of "jealous wife" so soon after marriage, for I have always had the most entire contempt for the miserable, weak-minded passion of jealousy. Yet I was unable to struggle with myself. I knew, I felt instinctively, that here was the key to the mystery which perplexed me--the mystery of my husband's peculiar and most unconjugal behaviour. He loved this woman--and who could wonder at it! I gazed at the delicate features, the rich, soft bloom, the luxuriant curls which photography had so successfully reproduced; and then I looked steadfastly at my own reflection in the glass.

What did I see? A pale, insignificant little personage; gentle enough, perhaps, but to all appearance slightly insipid--certainly uninteresting--a good-enough little creature in the main, but a mere nobody compared with the lovely, archly-smiling princess in the velvet case. I looked at myself, then at the beauty, till her ruby lips almost seemed to speak, and my eyes filled with tears. If this was Percy's ideal, what must I seem to him! Only--if he cared for her and not for me--why--oh, why did he marry me? Why did he ever ask me to be his wife?

With a very heavy heart, and a curious sense of humiliation, I put away the picture, and shut the drawer. I left the turquoise suite on Percy's dressing-table. I had no heart now to drive to Chrétien's. I went to my own room, and there I sat and thought--and thought, till somehow I seemed to understand it all. Percy loved this fair woman--had loved her long, perhaps, and had not been able to marry her, because--because she had no fortune. And I was rich, very rich!--that is, my father had given me a wonderfully-large marriage portion--an immense "dot," as the people here would say. It might have been that--

"'My face is my fortune, sir,' she said,"

and such a fortune would not prop up the fallen fortunes of the Lauristons!

I hated money; for if my suspicions were correct, I had been bought and sold! If I had been a comparatively poor girl, I might have been loved for myself; for though I have no beauty, such as hers, I am sure I could make a husband very happy. I could be a really good wife; I know I could! Oh, dear! I wish we both were poor! I wish we lived, Percy and I, in some neat little cottage, where all day long I had to dust and sweep and cook to make everything pleasant and cosy for him when he came back in the evening from his work in the City. I am worth something apart from my stupid dross of gold. She could not love Percy better than I do; I am pretty sure she would not bear so much, or sacrifice so much, as I willingly would for his sake!

And so the hours wore on--swiftly, but sadly. I had so much to think of that the time passed rapidly, and did not hang upon my hands. Pauline came in. "Will not Madame drive to the Rue de la Paix this afternoon?" No! Madame was indisposed--no fiction at all! Madame would stay at home and nurse her cold. Pauline was afflicted, of course, and proposed a tisane as the only infallible remedy for influenza.

No! Madame abominated tisanes; nothing would do her so much good as to be left quite alone, to sleep if she could. Her head ached excruciatingly.

"Pauvre Madame!" said Pauline, softly and withdrew.

Then, solitary once more, I began to reflect upon what course I should pursue. I had no idea of concealing from my husband the discovery I had made. I left the turquoises on his table, that he might at once see they had been removed from the place where he had deposited them. I made up my mind that I would tell him all about it, that I would tell him all my disappointment, all my sorrowful surprise at his strange behaviour; and I would ask him to deal openly with me, to let me know what really was the barrier between us, and what was my exact position as regarded himself. Were we to be no more to each other than now we were? We were married, and so we must remain; but surely it was best to know the truth, for that was the only way to make the best of the position, whatever the mistake might be.

I meant to speak to Percy very seriously and calmly. I resolved that I would not show temper--a proceeding which always places any one, especially a woman--and more especially a wife--at disadvantage. And I would have the courage to speak out, to say all I felt and all I thought, quietly, dispassionately, reasonably! Surely a married woman had a right to be assured of the ground on which she stood! Then suddenly it flashed upon me--it might be a photo of some celebrated actress! There was just a touch of feigning on the lovely lips, I thought--just a soupçon of the unreal in the sparkling smile, and in the shadow, lash-veiled glances. And if this were so, how Percy would despise me! how justly displeased with me he might be! And half trembling, I asked myself, Shall I keep this thing secret? Shall I watch and say nothing?

I felt I could not do that. I could not act the spy; I could not play the detective, and on my own husband, too. "I think I am not a coward; I think I am brave enough for the occasion," I said to myself; and I asked God to give me strength--ay, and wisdom--for what might be a terrible crisis of my life. After that, I hesitated no longer. My first impulse was the true one, and to it I would yield. I would tell Percy what I had found, and also what I suspected, and entreat him to tell me the very truth.

And the truth I knew I should have from his lips. He would never deceive me. And yet--yet, if I were no more to him than the woman he had married for the sake of her wretched money--if I were not his dearly-loved wife, he had deceived me sorely--sorely! All the words that he had spoken at the marriage-altar were lies! It seemed a harsh thing to say, but no other word would rightly describe the situation, Either those solemn words, spoken in the sight of God and before so many human witnesses, were true--or, they were false! I think at the close of that day I felt ten years older than in the morning. Every trait of my girlhood had passed away--my happy, careless, cherished girlhood; and I was a woman among my peers--matured and full-statured in my soul.

Ah! but it is perilous to overleap the years so suddenly--to find oneself all at once, as it were, a new creature, with new experiences, new forces, new anticipations; and all the lovely dreams of the past gone--melted like last winter's snows--vanished like April's rainbows!

And as the evening wore on and Percy came not, I thought I would read; for as I had decided upon what I would say to him, I did not want to think any more. I took up the first book that came to hand. It was a volume of Mrs. Barrett Browning's, and I opened at "Bertha in the Lane." I had read it before, and liked it. Now, for the first time, I understood it. I knew what Bertha meant when she said--

"And I walked as if apart
Prom myself, when I could stand,
And I pitied my own heart,
As if I held it in my hand,
Somewhat coldly, with a sense
Of fulfilled benevolence,
And a 'Poor thing' negligence."

And then again:

"I am pale as crocus grows
Close beside a rose-tree's root;
Whosoe'er would reach the rose
Treads the crocus underfoot.
I, like May-bloom on thorn-tree,
Thou, like merry-summer bee,
Fit that I be plucked for thee!"

At last I heard Percy's step in the ante-room, and suddenly I felt my courage oozing out, like Bob Acres', at the tips of my fingers. My heart sank within me, my throat became dry, my speech husky, and all the words I had all day been carefully putting together slipped out of my memory. I had said to myself, not an hour before, "I will have it out with him! I will not be cross nor captious, but I will know exactly where I stand and what is my position as his wife. I will not foolishly brood over my wrongs, like the heroine of a three-volume novel, who cannot ask for an explanation when it is patent to the reader that a very few words to the point would at once clear away every misapprehension--simply because the story would come to an end too soon.

I said all this, and a good deal more, and lo! when the moment came, I turned coward, and felt as if I were guilty of I knew not what. I was so foolish that I wished I could rush away to Percy's room, and replace the tell-tale turquoises in the cabinet, and so defer the whole affair to a more convenient season. It is well that certain matters are forced upon us, whether we will or not, for so craven-hearted are too many of us that it is greatly to be feared that, if left to ourselves, the "convenient season" would be postponed from time to time on every kind of pretext, and at last be adjourned sine die, and, in all probability, arrive--never!

My fate was happily not in my own hands. I could not rush upstairs and put away the ornaments, for Percy, with just a few syllables of greeting, and a hurried remark upon his state of mud and drench, unfit for a lady's presence--for the night had turned miserably wet and wild--went to his own room. It was so long before he came down again that I began to think I should see him no more until the morrow. When at last he did appear he looked grave and displeased. I, for my part, had regained some portion of tranquillity, and felt almost equal to the occasion. Of course, I waited for him to speak first, but he seemed in no hurry to commence the conversation; he went to a side-table, helped himself to seltzer and brandy, turned over the evening papers, looked out upon the rainy night, till I thought I should be obliged myself to break the silence, which every moment became, to me, at least, more embarrassing. At length, however, he said, coldly, "How is it that I find your turquoise-set on my dressing-table? I am quite certain that I placed it in my private cabinet."

"You did," I replied, quietly; "but soon after you left me to-day, M. Chrétien sent for it. Neither Pauline nor myself could find it, till suddenly I remembered that you had taken the case. Thinking I would drive to the Rue de la Paix with it, I went to your room to look for it, and failing to find it on the table, or in any unlocked drawer, opened the little cabinet, where, as you know, were the turquoises."

"You found it unlocked?"

"Certainly I did. It was simply fastened by the spring, which is a very ordinary affair."

"I quite thought I locked it. I suppose I failed to turn the key. I should have mentioned to you that the cabinet is my most private receptacle--sacred to myself alone."

"It is a pity you did not. I had no idea of invading your privacy. I thought--if I thought at all--that husband and wife were free of each other's little mysteries, if any such there were. But, Percy, I am glad, on the whole, that I opened at least that lower drawer of the cabinet. I saw that photograph!"

Then he turned upon me angrily. "Since your sense of honour was not fine enough to prevent you from ransacking private repositories, you might at least have had the grace to refrain from the indulgence of a vulgar curiosity."

I felt that I coloured furiously, and was, in my turn, displeased.

"I am sorry to have annoyed you," I replied--I dare say, a little haughtily; "and I can promise you never again to offend in the same way. I judged you by myself. All that I have is open to your inspection. I could not suppose that it was otherwise with you. I have always been taught to imagine that married people had no reserves together."

"A most Utopian notion!" he replied. "It is well that you should be at once disabused of it; for I cannot, and will not, have you, or any one else, prying into my own affairs. You found a photograph, you say? Well, what of that? You may have a hundred, if you choose; I shall not wish to know the originals."

"Then you ought to wish to know!" I answered, with some spirit. "A hundred, however, or even fifty, or twenty portraits, would be less remarkable than one! And if I kept carefully hidden from you the likeness of a handsome young man, I think you would want to know something about it. It would scarcely be incompatible with your duty to question me very closely on the subject."

"I should not disturb myself, I assure you. I should simply suppose that it was the portrait of some former lover. Your personal history, as regards myself, commenced on our marriage-day. I have neither the right, nor the wish, to pry into your private concerns as Miss Walker."

"I have no private concerns," I answered, steadily; "nor have I ever had any lover but yourself. And now that I think of it," I added; "now that I am wiser, and more able to make my own deductions, it strikes me that you were my suitor merely, never my lover."

He was silent, and I pursued. "Was it not so?" Nearly a minute must have elapsed before he answered my question. The flush of displeasure had faded from his face, leaving him very pale. At length he said, "Constance, if I tell you the truth, if I speak unkindly, it is yourself that will have it so. Can you bear the naked truth?"

"I can," I replied, putting on my bravest front, but inwardly quailing, nevertheless. "Falsehoods are falsehoods, though clothed in velvet, and, in the end, inflict more cruel wounds than the roughest truths. Speak out, and let me know my true position."

"You are, of course, my lawful, wedded wife--"

"I know that," I interrupted; "you cannot suppose that I have any doubt on that head. But I am an unloved wife?"

"What makes you think so?"

"Can you ask? Have you testified any love for me, either before marriage or since? You have treated me with all respect; you have paid me such attentions as gentlemen generally consider to be the due of ladies; you have continually studied my wishes; you have appeared at my side in public; and you call me, 'my dear,' or Constance; but never once have you evinced the affection which a woman's heart demands. You have been studiously polite, and, in a sense, kind; but affectionate, husbandly--never! Confess, then, that I am unloved."

"I do confess it, Constance. I confess it to my shame."

"Why did you marry me?"

"I never felt till this moment how unworthily I have behaved. Do not, I beseech you, ask me why I married you."

"I need not," I said, somewhat bitterly. "I know too well why you made me your wife, rather than that radiant creature whose photo I found to-day. I was unfortunate enough to be a great heiress--she, perhaps, was poor. You married my gold and silver. How I hate them! And because my money and I could not be separated, you encumbered yourself with me."

"It is as you say," he answered, sadly. "And I have loathed myself ever since the hour I asked you to be mine. But, Constance, I am not quite so unworthy as you think. I was driven, goaded, to the marriage! Both your father and mine--but especially mine--are blamable. I only wonder you did not suspect the mercenary motives on our side. I wonder greatly that you did not dismiss so cold a suitor!"

"I wonder now, myself, at my own blindness; but I was told that men of your rank did your wooing in a certain formal, stately way; that an aristocratic courtship was something quite different from a common, middle-class love affair--that the affection so little displayed beforehand would be lavished freely after marriage. Then I am to understand that I was a victim to the necessities of your family and to my own father's ambition?"

"I dare not say that it was not so. Constance, you have demanded the truth. Perhaps it is best that we fully understand each other."

"It is best," I answered; "it is all that is left to us. If you cannot treat me as your wife, at least deal with me as your ally. As such I shall be faithful."

"I believe it," he said warmly. "You deserve a far better fate than to belong to a man within whose heart love is dead for ever. Because I so deeply respect you, I do not insult you with hollow demonstrations--with simulated affection. At least, I have not played the hypocrite."

"Nevertheless," I replied, "I was cruelly deceived. With your heart given to another you had no right to ask my hand. Tell me how it was, from first to last."

And then he told me a strange story, which I do not and cannot quite comprehend. He loved this beautiful girl before he was aware of my existence; her father and his, alike, forbade the union. Percy must marry an heiress--Emmeline--for that is the beautiful girl's name--must wed wealth. And there seems to have been a sort of bargain between my father and Percy's. Though I cannot ascertain from which side the first proposals came, I am terribly afraid it was my own father who offered the bait of my rich dower to the impoverished, ruined Lauristons. At any rate, the engagement between Percy and Emmeline was broken off--with her own consent, he says--and her lover was to be mine. Only, as I observed before, lover he never was, only suitor! And I, in my girlish inexperience, allowed myself to be persuaded into an acceptance of the coldest and most heartless proposals that were ever made to woman. I was a little fool, most people, if they knew my history, would say. Well! I am afraid I was most unwise, but then I was beguiled; and--and--I did love Percy, though he never for one instant loved me. And now it is too late to retreat.

At last I said, "I am very sorry for you, Percy; you must have suffered cruelly. I would set you free this hour if I could; but I cannot. You, too, were wronged."

"I also was a victim," he cried; "I cannot tell you all; but I had no choice except to marry money."

"A man--a man who knows the world, who has his eyes open, must have a choice," I retorted. "A girl who has never left her own home, who believes what she is told to believe, and infers what she is desired to infer, is at the mercy of any unprincipled wooer, who wants her not, but her father's hoards. She is easily deceived."

Then he answered, sternly, "I never actually deceived you, Constance. I never spoke one word of love, such as I poured into Emmeline's ears. I paid you compliments; I talked on all sorts of subjects; I spoke of our future, but I never made you one true lover's vow till I stood with you at the marriage altar. And then I felt like a liar and a villain. I dared not join in a single prayer; I shuddered as I heard the blessing, knowing that I was sinning against God, and against my own manhood; knowing that a more unblessed union was never solemnised."

"And now, Percy, what is to be done? My own home is still open to me; I can go back to my mother."

"I know you can; but I hope you will not. Such a proceeding would place us both in a most embarrassing position. What would the world say if we parted company at the close of our supposed honeymoon?"

"Never mind the world. It would not trouble me in the least what people said, only so far as it touched upon the truth. I should live a very retired life; consequently I should hear but little of society's gossip. I am quite willing to bear my share of the burden. You have only to say that 'incompatibility of temper'--the usual excuse, I believe--was the cause of our separation. I shall not contradict it. What matters it if Mrs. Grundy call me a Xantippe!"

"It would matter very much to me to hear you so unjustly charged. Neither would your father take things so easily as you imagine. Unless you dislike me very much--unless you so greatly despise me that you loathe my presence, it would be best for both of us that you retain your place as Mrs. Lauriston. If you hate me, I cannot blame you."

"I do not hate you," I said; "I shall never hate you, but I shall endeavour to regard you with indifference. I will stay if you desire it; I cannot forget that you are my husband, and that I have vowed obedience to you. My leaving you would not break the fetters that bind you to me; you would be no more free to win this beautiful Emmeline than you are now. If you really and truly wish it, I will stay; only do not deceive me again--let me know your heart."

For oh! I felt that it would be worse than death to go away from him, to sever my life from his, to see him by chance, as if he were a stranger; and for all my bold declaration that I cared nothing for the world, I did. I could not bear that people of whom I knew nothing should talk about me, should judge me by their own worldly standards, should, perhaps, guess the truth, and pour shame and scorn on Percy, who, after all, was abominably treated, poor fellow! It would be something to have the position of Mrs. Lauriston, to be mistress of his house, to see him daily, to be responsible for his comforts, to consult him sometimes--perhaps, occasionally, to amuse him--to be, as I had said I would be, his faithful ally! And it would be better--far better--that my father and mother should know nothing of the miserable discovery I had made--that we two unhappy creatures should keep our secret to ourselves, and present, as far as might be, a fair face to the world. We should be, apparently, what I have heard called "a fashionable couple;" it would be generally supposed that ours was a mariage de convenance--as, indeed, it was; but if we did not actually separate, or openly quarrel, we might keep our "blue closet," and its skeleton securely locked from all but our own unlucky selves.

Percy replied, "I deserve that you should doubt my honour, for to a certain extent I did deceive you. If I never said, 'Constance, I love you!' I was equally careful to refrain from 'Constance, I love you not!' But I beg you to believe that I am not of a dishonourable nature. I want to be open as the day. God knows I do! And to prove it I will tell you--you see, I trust you implicitly!--I will tell you--you--you only, the awful secret that pitilessly severed me from Emmeline and bound me to yourself. Constance, to a lesser soul than yourself I should not dare to breathe it."

"You may tell me," I replied; "I am your wedded wife, whether you wish it or no! and as such I will keep your secrets inviolably. Do not be afraid, Percy; your honour is my honour, your shame my shame. I shall be faithful."

"I am sure of it," he answered. "I trust you, Constance, trust you with all I hold most dear, most sacred. I am going to tell you what I have never told to mortal, what I have not dared to tell to Emmeline, because, of course--she owed duty to her father, and General--I will not mention his name--I cannot absolutely trust! My father has committed a crime, of which no one is cognisant but himself and myself. He was driven to it, I am certain. Life has been very cruel to him. Constance, it was a crime that would have hanged him in old times--a crime that even now would entail the bitterest punishment. If it were known, he would suffer horribly; and his name, and my name, and that of our posterity would be blasted for ever. The Lauristons would be, while time lasts--for centuries, at least--criminals! Your father was the wronged person; he must have been the prosecutor. Do you understand, Constance?"

I bent my head, for I did understand; but I could not speak. I began to comprehend that which from the very first had perplexed me--why Percival Lauriston, heir of Castledine, sought me, the unlovely, the humbly-born Constance Walker, to be his wife.

"And you see," he resumed, "only by becoming your husband could I hope to avert certain consequences. The happiness and the honour of the family lay in my hands; I could not sacrifice them, though I sacrificed myself, and you. So the Lauristons were saved, their credit and their good name are still unspotted--you and I are the victims."

"I--a most unconscious one," I said.

"Yes," he returned, "it is true you were not consulted. What I did I did with wide-open eyes, and, as the lawyers say, of malice prepense."

"And," I asked, "it is all over, now? Never, by any chance, can the shameful fact be proclaimed? Never can the crime you speak of come to light?"

"Never!" he answered, "while you and I keep our own counsel. At first it was my poor father's own secret; then, perforce, it was imparted to me. Now, in order, perhaps, to exculpate myself, I have told it to you; and I know the secret is still safe."

"Safe, as if it were buried," I replied. "But can it never come to my father's knowledge?"

"Never now," was the response. "The paper that might have borne witness, that would have borne witness had not measures been taken, has long since been destroyed. I need never have told you; but I wanted you to know the whole truth. I do not love you, Constance--I cannot love you; but I do not care that you should despise me. Now, you see, it was something more than mere money that made me--the wretch that I am."

"One word, Percy--you cannot love me? Do you still love Emmeline?"

"God help me, I do. There is no other woman in the world for me. You said you cared only for the truth!"

"And I say it again. Does she love you?"

Then I saw a contraction of the brow, and a strange quivering of the lips.

"Yes," he said; "she does--she ever will. Nothing on this side the grave can sever our two souls. Now, Constance, will you elect to stay with me, and play your part as Mrs. Lauriston, or will you go home to those whose love has never failed you?"

I was going to answer impulsively; but suddenly it occurred to me that this was one of the greatest crises of my life, and I said, "Give me till to-morrow, I cannot decide without reflection; I am in a strange position--a wife and no wife. I am only a young, inexperienced girl, and I can seek counsel from no human creature. Let me ask God to guide me aright, to show me what I ought to do; for, after all, it is the 'oughts,' not the 'might likes,' that must govern a Christian's life."

I think he was very glad that it should be so, for, tired out with the day's journey, and shaken with all that had passed since his return home, he seemed thoroughly exhausted. We exchanged good-nights, and went to our own apartments. I was so thankful to be alone.

I dismissed Pauline, and mechanically undressed. When I was quite ready for bed, I put on a warm dressing-gown, and sat down to think--to think it all out, if that might be. But the more I thought the more puzzled I became, and the further I felt from making a decision--for such a decision must needs be binding. Either I must remain as Percy's wife, sharing, in outward seeming, his life, with all its cares, and joys, and sorrows; or I must at once tell my parents that my marriage was a mistake, and that my home must henceforth be with them. And there I sat, all through the dreary midnight, pondering the miserable question--oh! what a question for a bride to ponder!--till the dreary dawn stole in, and my wax-tapers paled before the light.

Then I cried to God:--"Lord, help me! Show me the path in which I should walk! For Thy great mercy and Thy loving-kindness's sake, lead me into the land of uprightness. Let me be, till death us do part, my husband's true and faithful wife!" I felt so tired and faint that I could pray no more; so, just as I was, I threw myself on my bed, and slept so soundly that I never heard Pauline knock with my early cup of tea. It was ten o'clock when I awoke, and wondered where I was, and what had happened. And then my mind was made up: I would keep my own place, and do my duty as far as I had the ability. And with the morning sunshine a new hope was born in my poor heart--I would, God helping me, wait patiently and bear my cross. I would--I knew not how--win Percy's love. I had a right to win it, for he was my husband--the only man in the world to whom I owed duty, obedience, and love. I felt that God would be on my side, for I sought only to carry out the contract which, in His Name, I had made. I might be sorely tried; I might have to wait for years; but patience, when it has had its perfect work, must conquer! I was sure of that.

Only I must be patient. One may wait because one cannot help it, and be very impatient all the while. It is only the patient waiting that is sure to be crowned with joy. Yes, Percy--my Percy, for you are that, notwithstanding the gulf that at present is fixed between us!--the day will come when I shall conquer with a true woman's weapons--meekness, patience, and the love that never dies. For the present I will be content to accept the strange role that is assigned me. I will not--if I can help it, that is--resent Percy's coldness; I will not brood over my cruel fate; above all, I will not be jealous of her! She may be very good and sweet, for aught I know; though, somehow, something whispers to me that she is not. But that may be only my own injustice, born of the natural jealousy which is all too ready to spring up, like a rampant, noxious weed, in the enclosure of my heart. I never saw so lovely a face; she is an exquisite creature, I am certain. Could any man, having once loved her, ever forget her? He could not, I am convinced, any more than I could forget the one man I have loved, and do love, and must love for ever. But there was--there certainly was, a certain look of feigning about the mouth; the eyes were innocent enough, they made me think instinctively of "sweetest eyes were ever seen." I don't think people can prevent their mouths from telling the truth when in repose and off guard. Of course, we tell lies with our lips, as well as with our tongues; but it is the mouth itself, with all its curves and lines and mobile changes, that in silence, betrays its owner. The mouth is a tell-tale; it can never be always and altogether masked. And that mouth of Emmeline's--I don't know her other name--does not seem to me quite true and pure and good. There was about it a trace of the heartless woman of the world; or I fancied so. After all, it may be only my own jealous imaginings! It is so impossible for jealousy to be impartial--to be just. Though when I talk of jealousy she has just as much reason to be jealous of me as I of her. I have called her my rival; I am hers. Only circumstances have given me the legal rights which are denied to her. I wonder how they parted, those two who loved one another.

When Pauline came to dress me she said that Monsieur was very anxious to know how I was--why did I not let her attend me when I was so poorly the night before? She had an infallible remedy for the migraine, and an excellent recipe for headache. Ah! my head must have been very, very bad, for I looked sadly pale this morning!

To which I replied that my head was much better, but that I had slept badly; and I sent her away to fetch me a cup of tea, which I really needed, for I felt almost too tired to get up. Monsieur had breakfasted in his own room, she told me.

Again I had that curious sensation that I was some one else for whom I was intensely sorry. I felt as if I were playing at being Mrs. Lauriston, while, at the same time, I could not go back and be Constance Walker again. But my mind was quite made up; I would stay with my husband according to his request. Fervently I hoped I should never see her face to face. If we met in ever such a crowd, I should know her among a thousand!

It was past noon when I went to the drawing-room. Monsieur had gone out, Antoine told me, but he would speedily return. It was a beautiful day--such a day as one seldom sees in England. The air was wonderfully clear, and the sky, infinitely blue, seemed miles and miles away. The sunshine outside was dazzling; but the persiennes were down, and the balconies were full of fresh flowers, lately watered. Close to me was a marble jardinière, filled with water-lilies and moss and Neapolitan violets, in the midst of which played a miniature fountain, that dripped faintly on to a tiny rookery or fernery arranged below. I shall never see lake lilies again, I shall never listen to that dreamy tinkle of water, without recalling that morning and its painful memories.

By-and-by Percy came in, hot and tired, and complaining of the heat. The room looked invitingly cool, he said. He hoped, as I had left my room, that I was better. Pauline had given but a very poor account of me an hour earlier. He looked wretchedly himself, but I did not tell so. Presently he said, "How is it to be, Constance? Have you decided?"

"I have decided," I replied. "I will stay with you, as you wish, and no one need know what has passed between us. Above all, I shall guard the secret from my own parents; I would not for worlds cause my dear mother unhappiness. I shall try to do a wife's duty, but I shall also endeavour to regard you only as a friend. As you have no love to bestow on me, you would find mine an encumbrance."

"You are very generous," he answered; "many women would have bitterly reproached me. Constance, I am not at all sorry you do know the truth, humiliating as it is to me, painful as it must be to yourself; for nothing can be worse, nothing can tend to ultimate misery, more than systematic concealment. We may be always friends, may we not?"

I assented; but I thought in my heart that friendship must ever be unsatisfactory where one has a right to expect love. That is, friendship alone; for I am beginning to see that the married love that is not based on true friendship is good for very little. A woman should be her husband's best and nearest friend--and, of course, a great deal more besides! I remember mother, speaking of the Greenhills--old acquaintances of ours, who were married most unhappily--once said, "The fault is very much her own! She was never his friend: she liked to be petted and caressed, she liked to spend his money, but she was not one with him in all the cares and difficulties of life; there was a great deal that he was compelled to keep shut up within himself; he could not go to her in any and every emergency--it would have been useless. All the misery of later years came from the utter lack of that simple, steadfast friendship, which, unless cultivated early in married life, never takes root afterwards."

I remember, as if it were yesterday, mother saying all this, and much more. I did not take much notice of it at the time, for it was months before I ever saw or heard of Percy; and I then thought it would be years before I married. No girl at home ever thought less about lovers than I; and yet I had my ideal--my beautiful, and, I fear, impossible ideal--of wedded life. It combined all the fondness and faithfulness I saw in my father and mother, with a most perfect sympathy of tastes and sentiments; also the refinement and culture which could not be theirs, for lack of early advantages. Alas! how foolish it is to have and cherish ideals! Alas! our pretty castles in the air, our fairy edifices, that we build up with so much complacency, till down they topple, like a child's toy-house of cards!

I was very happy--quietly, peacefully happy, as a girl at home. Oh, Percy, Percy, why did you not leave me alone?

But one thing comforts me--this friendship, that sounds so cold, may still be ours--mine, at least. I can be, I will be, God helping me, Percy's best and truest friend. It shall not be my fault if he do not come to me in every perplexity, if he do not consult me in every emergency; if he be not secure of finding in me a ready sympathiser, a comforter and helper, always. But it will be no easy task, and I cannot take counsel with any friend, not even with dear mother. By the way, I wonder if she could understand so strange a state of things between married people--friends only! I wonder would she approve of the treaty--I can call it nothing else--concluded between us! I fancy not; I am almost sure she would insist on my coming home again; and she would try, by a thousand tendernesses, such as only a mother would think of, to atone for the disappointment of my brief wedded life. She would do her best to comfort me, and to make me forget Percy, with whom, of course, she would be, and not unreasonably, very angry. She is the most forgiving creature in the world--my little, sweet, loving Dame Dumpling of a mother; but I am sorely afraid she would find it very hard to forgive Percy for marrying me, as he confesses, solely for my money!

Yes; but she must never know, never guess, how it is with us. If I seem content she will not question me, and father will take everything for granted. At the same time, I am afraid it will be best not to be too much with them, and that is hard, for I am all they have, and they are--well, nearly all I have, since Percy cares so little for me. Again I comfort myself with the reflection that I am to be his friend. A great deal may be comprised in that word--and some day, perhaps--perhaps this friendship may develop into something more. Ah, silly child that I am, as soon as ever my card-castle is knocked down, picking up the cards, and building another in the same place, only in a somewhat different style!

I made Percy, however, comprehend that I offered him my friendship, and nothing else. I did not, of course, breathe one syllable of the hope I had in me--that some day, in the long years to come, perhaps I might yet win the love that should be mine, even now. A love built on friendship--such a friendship as I mean mine to be--would be very strong and very sure, I think. It would not be romantic, but that would not matter. I must give up romance; everybody cannot get sugar-plums. Which is better, I wonder, to begin with passionate love and lots of endearments, and end with aversion, or, at best, mere tolerance; or to set out with something like aversion, and grow into a contented, satisfied affection? The latter, of course, my common-sense tells me.

But there are some loves that are from the first warm and deep, tender and true, that only mellow and deepen as the years go on; that never change, that never fail, that consummate in heaven the affection which made a. paradise of earth. Such is the love my own father and mother bear each other; nothing but death could separate them, and that only for a little while. Such God-given, sanctified love as theirs is, I am convinced, immortal.

At the last, Percy said to me--"And, Constance, I will never control you, never interfere with you in any way. As you are good enough to dispense with a husband's affection, you shall not be troubled with a husband's authority. You shall go your own way, exactly as if you were still unmarried; nay, you will have more of your own way, for, with the position of a married woman, you will enjoy the liberty which would be yours if you were a widow. In the home which we must share together, your will shall be law. You quite understand?"

"I quite understand," I said, quietly. "I accept the terms you offer."

He seemed greatly relieved; he even said how glad he was that I knew all about "Emmeline," that we knew exactly our mutual position. I thought in my inmost heart that there ought not to be so late in the day any need of explanations, any defining of relative positions; but I held my peace. I see clearly how a very little impatience on my part may engender bitterness, and spoil this strangely-concluded treaty of friendship. I have no easy task before me; a host of difficulties will assail me; and I can pour my trouble into no earthly ear. Perhaps it is best so, for then I shall go always straight to One who will not only hear and listen, but grant my request, as shall be most expedient for me, and for him.

Very soon after this we left Paris; we neither of us cared to remain longer there. Percy said he was tired of the place--he knew it by heart; and I was glad to get away from scenes that would he always associated with more unhappiness than I can venture to write about, even on this page, which no eye but my own will ever see.

There was something in the brilliance and gaiety of Paris that jarred upon my saddened mood--a morbid sentiment, perhaps, but I could not help it; and when Percy asked me if would object to continue our journey, I gladly acceded. Poor Pauline, however, was disappointed; she thought we were settled in her dear, beautiful Paris for at least some weeks longer. She was desolée when told to pack up, and she wept abundantly while Antoine was helping her with the luggage. Poor Pauline, she is a good creature; but how differently women are constituted!

We stayed next at Geneva, afterwards at Lausanne, Berne, and Lucerne. I did not think there was such beautiful scenery in the world. Now we are at Interlaken, and there is Thun before my eyes, and, by going into the balcony, I can catch a glimpse of Brientz also. And there is the swift, rushing Aar, which seems to unite the lakes; and there is the ancient Kloster, of which Longfellow speaks in his wonderful Hyperion; and there opens the valley of Lauterbrunnen, filled with its soft, blue haze; and there is the Jungfrau, with her silver brow already turning rosy in the lovely sunset. Was it not here that Paul Flemming first met Mary Ashburner? I must study my Hyperion more carefully. But those must be the very walnut-trees of which Longfellow writes, and those the great round towers of the Cloister!

August 20th.--We are going on to-morrow through the Tyrol into Italy. Antoine and Percy have been settling the route between them. Our course is rather an eccentric one, I fancy. We take first one route and then another, or so it seems to me; but then I always was stupid at geography. At any rate, we shall stop at Salzburg, and, probably, at Bad-Gastein, and, somehow, we shall get to Venice, which I have wished so often to see. How long we shall stay in Italy depends on our own sweet wills. Percy consults me in everything. I believe he would escort me to Timbuctoo if I said I wanted to go there! One place I must visit--Como! I must see the lake, and the mountains among which dwelt Renzo anti Lucia, and the saintly Fra Cristoforo, and all those good folks who figure in Manzoni's charming story.

That "ancient horror," the widowed Earl of Battledowns, proposed to Emmeline Vernon in due form before the season fairly came to an end, and the General was nearly beside himself with mingled satisfaction and anxiety--satisfaction that a coronet was really within his beautiful daughter's grasp, and anxiety lest she should be mad enough to dismiss her lordly suitor, who, if he had not been actually a "wife-beater," had proved himself anything but an agreeable husband. His late Countess had been a most unhappy woman, and had suffered many things. It was affirmed by her nearest friends that she had really died of a broken heart. The "spinster-daughters" were both older than Emmeline--plain, freckled young women, but sweet-tempered, and of excellent sense, and devoted to the memory of their beloved mother. They tried to do their duty to their father, and submitted with Christian meekness to his incessant insults and harsh rebukes; but they avoided his society as far as possible.

Lady Fanny, the elder and nicer-looking sister, was in love with a Ritualistic curate of no particular family, and, worse still, of extremely limited income. He had no patronage whatever, and no great talent either; but he had a voice grand at intoning, and swelling proudly forth in processional hymns, and on that voice he built his hopes. For had not Mrs. de Tomkyns told him, in strictest confidence, that Miss Chantrell had told her that the Rector had remarked to her cousin, Ursulina, that a voice like Mr. Mickle's was not to be met with every day; and that he might have rivalled Sims Beeves, if he had but turned his attention to the stage, instead of to the Church! Ursulina did not tell her cousin that the Rector, who was only moderately "High," added, "And, really, he is far fitter for an opera-singer than for a clergyman, for all his brains have gone into his throat, and he could not preach a decent sermon of his own to save his life. He may well be Ritualistic, for if he doesn't intone and wear superb garments he is nobody!"

The Rev. Mr. Mickle was also inordinately vain, as High Church curates generally are, being petted and adored by divers silly girls, and treated as creatures half-divine by weak, foolish women, who, having nothing in the world to do, study theatricals in church, and surrender their souls to the domination of men scarcely wiser than themselves, and too often far less single-minded.

Strangely enough, Lady Fanny Prestbury was not one of the silly ones, and her only folly was her penchant--her passion, rather, I should say--for Mr. Mickle! And she loved the Ritualist far better than she loved the Ritual or Ritualism; only she did not know that! One does not always know one's self, even at the mature age of twenty four; and Fanny, in her long, trailing black garments--she still wore mourning for the deceased Countess--arose betimes, and attended early Service and early "Celebrations," and spent her allowance on costly hot-house flowers for the altar, and her leisure on cunning embroidery for Cyprian Mickle's robes, and in visiting the poor!

Ah! there I have nothing to say. If "Evangelical" ladies sometimes did what "Ritualistic" ladies do, as a matter of course, "Evangelicalism," so-called, would not be--what now it is, spite of the reaction that has lately set in--frowned down, and sneered at, and heartily despised by the men and women whom God most has gifted with intellectuality. Evangelicalism, so-called, may learn a lesson of Ritualism; Episcopalian may teach Nonconformity; the heterodox may have something worth saying to the orthodox; the old may catch an inspiration from the young!

But all this has nothing to do with my story. It was an acknowledged fact; the eldest daughter of the Earl of Battledowns was in love with a Ritualistic curate--one of the curates who ministered at the altars of S. Scholastica. If you wish to be quite Anglo-Catholic and orthodox, never write Saint or St., but simply S.

Lady Susan, two years younger than Lady Fanny, had become a Dissenter! She had never had a lover, and she was twenty-two. But once there had been a student of note, who became a minister, who went out as a missionary, and died! And as his mission was to one of the Caribbee or Fejee Islands, or to some other islands where cannibalism is still supposed to be cherished sub rosâ, it was darkly hinted that he had been made into cutlets, or devoured as missionary-pie! And Lady Susan deeply mourned his loss, and wondered--as youth will wonder--however Christendom would get on without him.

These two girls, both foolish on a certain point, were yet very nice, sincere girls, with plenty of common-sense on common everyday events. They were very fond of each other, although one sat at the feet of Mr. Spurgeon, and the other yearned to canonise Mr. Mackonochie. Susan believed that her dear sister would still be "brought under the sound of the Gospel;" Fanny resolutely sat down when the damnatory clauses of the Athanasian Creed were said or sung. Both at times rose superior to their expressed belief; for both were good, thoroughgoing Christian gentlewomen. And both were menaced with a step-mother, in the shape of the beautiful Miss Vernon.

"Agneta Bannatyne knows something about her," said Susan, one day, to Fanny, when the subject had just then been gloomily discussed. "Let's ask Agneta."

"It will not in the least matter what Agneta thinks, or 'what we think," replied Fanny, dejectedly. "Of course, papa will please himself, and I don't know that we have any right to oppose him. No father asks his daughters' sanction to his second marriage, though his daughters have scarcely a voice in their own disposal. And, honestly speaking, I don't think it will be the worse for us, in any way; we are too old to be shut up in the schoolroom, too strong-minded to be taught that black is white, and too plain to be hawked about in matrimonial markets. We can hold our own, Susie dear."

"But such a worldly, heartless creature as they say she is!"

"Well! an unworldly, deep-feeling creature would never marry the pater. And we shall be ever so free, when there is a Countess to be alternately plagued and petted, and finally persecuted, to within an inch of her life. Papa will be so much absorbed in his new wife that we shall be forgotten; and, as time slips by, on her will fall the weight of all his upbraidings, and his punishments. I wonder if the girl has the least idea what sort of fetters she is binding upon herself!"

"I think I shall speak to Agneta."

"You can, of course; though I do not think you will gain anything by so doing. Agneta only knows her through the Lauristons. I fancy the only person in our set who knows her at all intimately is Addie Lauriston."

"It is said that she--Miss Vernon--jilted Addie's elder brother, Percival."

"There is such a rumour abroad, I know. It is likely enough; for Miss Vernon, though she may amuse herself with a poor man, will take good care not to marry one."

"If it be so, Mr. Percival Lauriston has very speedily consoled himself. He was married in May to a great heiress--a nobody, of course, a girl of the people; but rich enough to buy up the National Debt, or so it is reported."

"Report exaggerates, of course. But if she bring loads of money to the exchequer, the Lauristons will condone her humble birth. One thing is certain; she--I don't know her name--is young Mr. Lauriston's wife, and Emmeline Vernon exhibits our father as her latest conquest!"

"Who is Emmeline Vernon?"

"I know no more than you. She is General Vernon's daughter, I suppose. I doubt if she has what the Scotch 'forbears.'"

"It is possible that Agneta Bannatyne may be able to tell us something. We shall meet her to-morrow at the Cravens'."

Now Emmeline had thought better of her proposed rejection, when the "ancient horror" laid himself, his broad lands, and his coronet at her feet. She still clung to fond memories of Percy, but she began to reflect on how frail a tenure she held her place in the fashionable world! how a few careless words, an unlucky encounter, might change the whole tenor of her way! how empty were her father's pockets, and how manifold his debts! how increasingly worthless his credit! how necessary was an establishment of her own! how pretty the title of Countess! how ancient the peerage of Battledowns! So, after a faint resistance, she succumbed--"for her father's sake,"--and wore the most splendid betrothal ring of the season. At last she had diamonds of her own, and she might cherish the delightful hope of having as many more as she cared to possess in the years to come. The Earl had no son. It was one of the offences of the deceased Countess that she had borne him only daughters.

General Vernon duly informed the Earl of Battledowns that his dear daughter Emmeline would bring him as her only dower "her virtue, her loveliness, and her native worth." He had sustained great losses, but he had been careful, and all he possessed in the world--save a paltry pension--would be Emmeline's at his death. "I don't hold with giving girls large marriage-portions," he observed; "it throws a colour of bargaining over the most sacred of transactions. A young woman should be sought for herself alone; my Emmie will have only her sweetness and innocence and her marvellous beauty while I live; when it pleases God to call me, all I have will be my darling child's." And the General assumed a pious expression, as becoming a gallant officer who had fought life's battles well, and was speaking of his latter end.

The Earl heard him with all outward reverence, but inwardly chuckled at the idea of his bride's reversionary interests. He only hoped the veteran might leave enough behind him to pay all his legal debts, and bury him respectably. "It's all right," he muttered, in a voice very much resembling distant thunder; his friends at the club called it "thorough bass"--"I don't care for money; I have plenty of my own. The girls have their mother's fortune, and I've no son. Thank God, I'm not mercenary."

And General Vernon shook hands with his noble son-in-law, and politely observed that the Earl's sentiments were worthy of his rank, and did honour to his heart. And so the match was concluded, and Emmeline appeared in public as my lord's fiancée.

Agneta Bannatyne had nothing to say on the subject, except that there really had been some sort of an affair between her cousin, Percy Lauriston, and the future Lady Battledowns, and that it was dissolved by mutual consent prior to his engagement to Constance Walker, who, in her (Agneta's) opinion, was worth a dozen Emmeline Vernons, in all but personal charms. Yes; she and Addie had been friends once; but all intimacy had been broken off on Percy's account; besides which, there was a certain shyness regarding the General himself, about whom there were curious whispers.

It was almost August when the match was announced, and it was confidently asserted that the marriage would immediately take place. But, somehow, there was a hitch in the settlements; then Emmeline caught measles, and was really invalided, to her great vexation, though he was truly thankful it was not small-pox. So that it was midwinter when at length she became Countess of Battledowns, and had a paragraph all to herself in the morning papers.

Meanwhile the Lauristons had visited Como, and diligently sought out all the haunts of Lucia and her betrothed, even deciding upon the grim pile of ruins which must once have been the stronghold of the terrible Don Rodrigo. Then they had gone slowly south by way of Milan, seen Genoa, explored the Rivieras, spent some time at Florence, and finally reached Rome a little before Christmas, their intention being to return to England early in the spring, taking Venice on their route.

It so happened that the papers which announced the engagement of the Earl to Miss Vernon never reached Percival Lauriston. Constance, glancing over a six-days old Times, saw the paragraph, and, without exactly knowing why, tore the sheet on the impulse of the moment. She might have spared herself the trouble, for Percy had lately cherished an aversion towards news from his own country. Man-like, he had entreated Emmeline not to write to him, and then resented her silence. Little did he guess that his lovely and too dearly-beloved Emmeline was too much engaged to enter into any kind of useless correspondence, and far too prudent, under present circumstances, to enter into communications with a quondam lover. To use a vulgar but expressive phrase, Miss Vernon "had other fish to fry."

Of course Adela said nothing about Emmeline in her letters, and Lady Agneta, who wrote regularly to her Cousin Constance, was equally discreet, though, so far as she knew, Mrs. Lauriston was quite ignorant of her rival's existence. So it naturally followed that Percy remained entirely uninformed as to the progress of events concerning the General and his daughter.

Christmas had passed, and both husband and wife were resting after their exertions during the sacred season. Even Percy was tired of churches, and Constance was weary of palaces; the truth being, that she had a severe influenza-cold, and missed many of her customary home comforts. One day she left her room very late, for she was nursing her tiresome cold, as best she could, under disadvantages, and found, to her surprise, that Percy had not yet made his appearance. Antoine announced that his master was indisposed.

"Ah! I knew he would suffer from going out of the sunshine yesterday into that vault-like church," thought Constance. "He, too, has a touch of this miserable influenza, no doubt."

Then she settled herself to her desk, and resumed her diary--not the one you have been favoured with, but another, intended chiefly for her parents, and open to general inspection. Busy with her pen, time flew by, and the short afternoon was already sinking into darkness, when she began to feel uneasy about her husband. How strange it was that she dare not visit him! She longed to go to him, and prescribe those simple remedies for heavy cold, with which she was familiar. And, perhaps, there might be a touch of bronchitis? The wind had been very keen the last few days, and she had heard some one say that the Lauristons had not the soundest of lungs! How she yearned to get up there and then, and at once instal herself as nurse at Percy's bedside. He must be very, very unwell, since he remained till evening in his room! He must need some attention, such as it was her duty to bestow. She wiped her pen musingly, in the fast-deepening twilight, and began to question whether, under the circumstances, she might not, ought not, indeed, to visit the invalid! Surely a compact of friendship included kind tendance and 'womanly ministrations in case of illness!

And while she still hesitated, the object of her anxiety appeared, and with languid step took possession of a chair close to the stove. He was looking ghastly pale, and shivered as he sat. So great a change had a few hours wrought that Constance, really alarmed, begged him to let her summon the English physician. But he somewhat curtly desired her to do nothing of the kind; he had a bad cold, he supposed, and, really, the climate in January was ten times worse than that of England! One cou1d not forget one's greatcoat in London; besides, one was never scorched on one side of Regent Street and frozen on the other. Mr. Percival Lauriston was certainly in an unamiable frame of mind, but his good little wife did not resent it; she had been too well brought-up not to know that it is one of the patent privileges of men-creatures to be cross-grained when they are ill--especially as regards their own women-kind.

So she let him fume to his heart's content, and was relieved at not hearing him cough; but she had never seen him so dull and gloomy, never knew him so ill-tempered as to be bearish. She reflected, however, that a wife, loved or unloved, was a sort of safety-valve, by which a fractious and captious husband is supposed to let off a good deal of the steam of his temporary bad manners, and she resolved to do her duty, and let herself be neglected or scolded, as might best serve her lord and master's turn.

He went back to his bedroom early, saying, when she ventured to propose some gruel of her own making, that he would not trouble her; he hated messes, and Antoine would bring him all he wanted. Left alone, she took up the newspapers, which he had brought in with him, and saw there, under the usual heading of "Marriage in High Life," an account of the splendid wedding of Lord Battledowns and Emmeline Vernon. Now she understood that gruel would be quite inefficacious in the case, of her husband's malady.

The Lauristons lingered in Rome till Easter was past, then they went away again to Florence, and finally to Venice--their last temporary abode before they returned to England, from which they had been absent nearly a whole year. Constance was growing day by day more homesick; but for the interest of foreign travel, and the determination she had formed to carry on her education, which, since her marriage, she had felt to be extremely defective would have been dull and dreary indeed. Percy treated her kindly and respectfully--too kindly, too respectfully, for a really affectionate husband; for he behaved to her as if he felt the force of certain obligations which honour and principle alike forbade him to ignore; yet, at the same time, evincing only respect and a certain deference that did duty far from satisfactorily for the deeper demonstrations of conjugal attachment. Constance often envied those wives who were sometimes scolded and sometimes petted, and loved all the while, in spite of many little hasty words and uneven tempers. She could never prove the truth of that old classic and most questionable assertion:

"Amantium iræ amoris integratio est;"

for in her case there was no love to renew; and the chances were that a quarrel would only tend to widen the distance which had been between them from the first. They were a wedded pair; but lovers, such as Terence quoted, they were not, and never had been! Therefore it behoved them not to disagree; not to clash; not to indulge in discord, if harmony were possible. Would they ever be lovers, in the long years to come? Constance asked herself. Would they ever be one in heart and thought, as they were one in name and fortune? Would she ever be Percy's all in all, and best and dearest?--the one woman in all the world for him, and for him alone? She could only say, "Pray God it may be so! God grant me--patience!"

Constance knew now the name of the woman for whose sake she was unloved. Only once since that explanation at Paris had the subject recurred between them. At Como, the conversation--anent the lovely story of Renzo and Lucia--had somehow drifted into reminiscences, and Percy had inadvertently mentioned Emmeline's father--General Vernon. So that Mrs. Lauriston, whose wits had been very much sharpened since her marriage, at once comprehended, from the first newspaper paragraph, who it was that would be in due season led by the Earl of Battledowns to the hymeneal altar!

Next to the hope of one day winning the love of her own husband, was the unexpressed desire, that she might never--never meet the beautiful "Emmeline," who stood between her and her goal of earthly happiness. "For," she wrote in her diary, "I am quite sure that I could make Percy love me. I could turn his indifference into devotion; his aversion into deepest tenderness, if only I had a fair field!--if--only--there were no other image in his heart! But, having once honourably and purely loved this fair, sweet creature, what chance have I! She is lovely, accomplished, well-born--a grace among the graces!--a queen among the Queens of Society! I am only tolerably good-looking, far from highly-cultured, without a pedigree, a daughter of the people! neither a Grace, nor a Muse, nor a fairy princess! But I am Percy's own wife, which she is not; and God knows, when I gave him myself, according to the holy ordinance of matrimony, I gave him--all my heart! I think God will help me--will teach me to be a true, good, loving wife--will grant me the desire of my heart, though it be after long, patient waiting--after many days!"

And so, in the fair spring weather, in all the sweet brightness of an Italian spring, Constance and her husband found themselves safely established in the best suite of rooms, in that best of Venetian hotels--the "Europa." From their windows they could see the domes and campaniles of Santa Maria della Salute, and the broad Lagoon. They could watch the gondolas on the Grand Canal, and hear the gondolier's wild cry, "Ah! Stalì!" They could look all day at spires and towers, and marble palaces, and shining waters, and when daylight declined, catch the glitter of countless twinkling reflections on the rippling wavelets.

The Lauristons had been wise enough to enter Venice by moonlight, when--as we are told by one who knows Venice as well as the Venetians themselves--all the shabby detail, all the ruin and decay, and poor unartistic repairs of the grand old buildings are lost; the first views of the Grand Canal are indeed surpassingly beautiful, and you are carried back to "the golden days of the Queen of the Adriatic," They had come by rail from Padua, crossing that flat plain, all vineyards and orchards, stretching almost to the edge of the Lagoons; they had looked back upon the Euganean Hills, and the many-domed city at their feet, as they swept along the line beside the canal of Battaglia; they had gazed out into the soft opal-grey distance as they approached quiet Mestra, and seen afar off, in the red sunset gleams, the turrets and pinnacles of the city of St. Mark itself. And then, when the moon was high in the purple heavens, they had glided into the railway station, and, descending from the marble portico, had found the salt waves lapping the steps which led to the dark gondolas, floating in the emerald water.

Percy knew Venice of old, but to Constance it was a new wonder, a vivid delight; the fulfilment of many a girlish dream--a pure enjoyment, which, in its first flush of happy surprise, nothing could overshadow. At first, we say advisedly, for Venice was fated to be to Mrs. Lauriston a city of painful memories. But when, on the first afternoon of their sojourn in Venice, she and Percy sat at the open window, tired with their morning's ramble on the Piazza St. Marco, and talking familiarly together about Venetian history and the literature of the past, she felt more buoyant, more serene than since that day--now months ago--when she had been tempted to explore the secrets of the ebony cabinet.

She looked older and graver that when, as a bride, she drove away on the edge of the thunder-storm to Dryscote Tower, but much improved both in manner and in appearance. Of course she had learned to dress, and Pauline happily had artistic tastes, and hated anything bizarre and showy. Her experiences had been on every side enlarged; she had mixed a good deal in society, and constant intercourse with a man cultured as Percy was had naturally done much to form her mind and to expand her intellect. She had lived so secluded a life before her marriage that she really knew very little of the world--almost nothing of the world of fashion in which she was henceforth to move; neither had she any idea of her own mental forces, nor knew herself at all, except as an uninformed, true-hearted girl, anxious to be all she could to those she dearly loved.

"Percy," she said presently, "what is that church standing up behind Santa Maria della Salute? It seems to be keeping guard over that broad Canal della Gindecca."

"That? It is the church of St. George--San Giorgio Maggiore; it is conspicuous in most of the distant views of Venice. It has a little island all to itself at the eastern point of the Gindecca."

"Shall we see it?"

"Certainly, if you like; but there is not much to interest one in it or about it. It is colourless--cold stone and whitewash, with nothing of an interior. The only thing I cared for when I saw it long ago was, as far as I can recollect, the tomb of the Great Doge Domenico Michele, who joined in the crusade of Godfrey de Bouillon, and flourished ever after as conqueror of Jerusalem, Jaffa, Tyre, and Ascalon. Many of these churches are scarcely worth the fatigue of exploration. If you will be guided by me, I will undertake that you shall see all that is really worth the seeing."

"There seem to be a great many churches in Venice?"

"About sixty, I think. A vast number for the size of the place. Venice is an extremely religious city; the clergy pray night and day before the 'Blessed Sacrament,' as the wafer is called by Roman Catholics."

"Percy, do you know mamma was a good deal afraid of my being too greatly impressed by the ceremonial of the Romish religion? She held it to be one of the snares and dangers of Continental travel."

"The pomp of ritual is doubtless dangerous to minds of a certain calibre, and there is certainly a great deal that is extremely impressive in the services of the Church of Rome. But I cannot say I ever felt in the least tempted to make profession of its faith. In fact, familiarity with Rome breeds contempt. The more one sees of it, the more one 'assists' at its grand festivals, the further one feels from regarding it with that solemnity which, of course, is the principal ingredient in real worship. Have you not felt it so yourself?"

"I am afraid--though I don't know why I should say 'afraid'--I believe, from the first, I have felt nothing of that solemnity of which I have heard people speak, almost under the breath. You know I never entered a Roman Catholic church in England; neither my father nor my mother would have permitted me to do so. Thus my first Mass was at the Madeleine, the Sunday morning after our arrival in Paris. I went to church, I may say, with fear and trembling, lest I should be drawn away from the simplicity of my own faith by the gorgeous ceremonial I was going to witness. I was afraid lest I should be persuaded--beguiled rather--against my better judgement."

"And you came away as sound a Protestant as you were before?"

"Sounder, for I had seen both sides of the picture. The music was splendid--like nothing I had ever heard before; but music is not religion."

"Are you sure of that? I think nothing in the world makes one feel so truly religious as the highest kind of sacred music. Remember, Milton, though a Puritan, wrote--

"There let the pealing organ blow,
To the full-voiced quire below,
In service high and anthems clear,
As may with sweetness, through mine ear,
Dissolve me into ecstasies,
And bring all heaven before mine eyes."

"Yes, I know, and music is a great help to devotion, I admit; but for all that, the sort of sentiment that is produced by chants and anthems and glorious hymns is not actually religion. There must be something more than emotion in real piety."

"You surely would not advocate an unemotional religion?"

"Oh, no--no! But, then, I think a person may easily deceive himself by taking reverential and ecstatic feelings for pure devotion itself. I am afraid I cannot quite explain what I mean; but I do think that emotion, however sweet and heavenly, is only a part of religion, and may even exist without much actual piety."

"You are quite a theologian, Constance."

"No, I am not; I know very little of theology, and still less of creeds. Only I have thought a great deal since I left England--since I have seen so much of Romanism as it really is, and not as it is pictured in lives of saints and old romances. And the more I think, the more unsatisfactory, as a whole, it appears to me."

"How unsatisfactory?"

"It is, with all its grandeur, childish in the extreme! Certain prayers seem to be nothing but an Abracadabra, the Mass itself a kind of fetish with which I, personally, have nothing to do. My salvation is to be worked out for me by others, of whom I know nothing; not faith, but credulity is demanded of me as an essential of my piety. And, worst of all, I am commanded to worship and accept as my Lord and Saviour a little bit of bread!"

"Upon my word, Constance, you have thought to some purpose. I did not know that young ladies ever reflected so seriously: I always supposed that women took their ideas--whether religious or political--from the men with whom they were associated. You have a very independent mind of your own."

"Not more independent than is right, I hope. Should not women, as well as men, form their own conclusions on the most important of all subjects? I don't know about politics; I think it is natural to take one's political colouring from one's male friends and relations--to a great extent, at least. But a woman, unless she be a Mahommedan, ought to think for herself individually in matters of faith and religious service."

"Well! I suppose so. Really, I never thought it over. The fact is, I fancied only 'Women's rights' women went in for independent thought, and unbiased convictions, and all that sort of thing. You don't belong to the advanced sisterhood, I hope?"

"I hold that woman's greatest 'Right' is to make her home happy, in the best sense of the word; and obedience to the man she loves is her sweetest privilege."

"Don't let some of your own sex hear you say so, or they will tear you in pieces--metaphorically, of course! But you know, Constance, I do not demand obedience from you. I wish you to please yourself in every way, to fol1ow your own will, to choose for yourself, to study your own wishes, which I shall always respect, I hope. I should be glad if you asserted yourself a little more."

"Self-assertion does not make me happy," she said, rather sadly. "I am not strong-minded, and I would rather be led than go my own way, unfettered and uninfluenced."

"Well! if you choose to be influenced, all the better for me, I suppose. Only, Constance, as we have got upon the subject, and as we shall soon be among our own people again, I want you to understand that I claim from you no wifely submission--that you are free, absolutely free, as if you were still unmarried."

"You have said that before; I thought that was quite understood," she replied, with a little bitterness of tone.

"I only repeat it," he answered, "because I fear that you do not altogether comprehend the terms of freedom on which we have agreed to live together. You so often appeal to me; you have even asked permission, on more than one occasion, to do something, or go somewhere, when I should never have presumed to interfere, even had I disapproved."

She could not answer. He thought he was behaving with wonderful generosity, acting towards his unloved wife with most scrupulous justice by thus yielding his husband's cherished prerogative of control. He did not know that a loving, noble-minded woman is not only content, but anxious, to yield her own will to that of the man to whom she owes obedience. A little, selfish, mean-souled woman naturally strives for the pre-eminence; the grander and nobler a woman in herself is, the fuller and prompter is her obedience, provided always that she can respect and reverence, even as she loves! It must be hard work to obey one's inferior mentally or morally. It must be a dreadful temptation to despise a man, at whose feet one cannot sit, and learn, and reverence. No one is more to be pitied than a truly good woman who is bound to a soul of less stature than her own.

Constance Lauriston was deeply pained. This rejection of a married man's simplest rights seemed to her the strongest expression of his indifference; he would not receive from her even common wifely submission; there was to be no bond between them save that of money, no obligations except those which were necessary in order to keep up respectable appearances! For Percy had all a true Englishman's horror of being talked about; all a proud man's natural aversion to having his own private affairs discussed by friend or foe.

She wanted to change the conversation. All that he and she had been obliged to say to each other had been said long ago; any further reference to their mutual position was unnecessary. She had accepted his terms, and she was trying to patiently carry out the resolves made at Paris. It only hurt her to hear her husband speak of their relations in the cold, matter-of-fact way he did. Was it not adding insult to injury thus to remind her of the unnatural compact into which for his sake she had entered? Even her usually sweet temper was irritated, and she turned gladly to the world without, seeking some immediate inspiration of fresh thought. The Church of San Marco, so close at hand, of course supplied her need.

"Has not some one," she asked, "spoken of St. Mark as 'the most glorious church in the world'?"

"Several writers have so spoken," replied Percy, himself rejoiced to get away into safe regions of discourse. Moreover, it pleased him to act as guide and instructor to his intelligent bourgeoise wife. "But I am not sure," he continued, "that they speak with reason. It may be the most glorious church of the Byzantine; but to my mind the grandest and incomparably most glorious church in Christendom, and, consequently, in the whole world, is St Onen's, in Rouen."

"I have heard so much of that wonderful church. Might we not go home by the Dieppe and Newhaven route?"

"Of course it can be so arranged, if you are not afraid of 'mal-de-mer.' It is by far the longest passage, especially if the weather be rough, and one has to wait rolling and tossing just outside the harbour, because the tide does not serve. But you ought certainly to see St. Ouen's, and all the churches of Rouen."

"St. Ouen and San Marco cannot be compared, I should say?"

"Not in the least. They are as unlike as our own St. Paul's and Westminster Abbey, each one magnificent in its way. For myself, I can never feel the same enthusiasm for a Byzantine as for a Gothic church; there is just the same difference as there is between grey limestone or noble granite, and red sandstone, as we behold the effect either in cliffs or buildings."

"Everything here is marble."

"Except what is red granite. Naturally so, for Italy is the land of marble. We had only a glimpse of San Marco to-day; we will begin to study it regularly to morrow."

"How did St. Mark come to be the patron saint of the Venetians?"

"It is said that the body of the saint was brought to Venice in the ninth century from fear of desecration by a certain king of Alexandria, who plundered churches in order to adorn his own abode. The corpse was secretly conveyed in a large basket covered with herbs and pork--pork, you know, being abhorrent to Mussulmans. So nobody offered to search, and the body was safely carried to the vessel, which at once set sail. But hardly were they out of harbour, when a furious storm arose, at the height of which, as the legend assures us, St. Mark himself appeared to the captain, and warned him to strike all sails immediately, lest the ship, storm-driven, should be wrecked upon certain sunken rocks. The Venetians, acknowledging the miracle, out of gratitude chose the saint for their patron, and built a church to his honour, which, however, was speedily destroyed by fire."

"Then this is not the church of the ninth century? I hoped it was."

"The foundations, I believe, are as old as that; but the existing church was consecrated towards the end of the eleventh century, to which the main body belongs. But it is, in fact, a church of all ages, for Doge after Doge lavished upon it the richest decorations. The Gothic additions of St. Mark's are, I think, of the fourteenth century, the restored mosaics of the seventeenth. There are so many of these--and some of an earlier date--that one wearies of examining them. Shall we go for a row this evening?"

"Ah, yes; it is just what I should like. Can we go to Torcello?"

"Not to-night; it will be too far. We may go that way if you like, but we cannot land; it would not be worth while. We must take a whole day for Torcello, though we might, perhaps, visit Muraso on the way. And, before we make this excursion, I should advise you to study carefully both 'Lindsay's Christian Art,' and 'Jameson's Sacred Art.' I must look through 'Ruskin' again."

This was the kind of conversation which generally passed between the wedded pair when they were alone together; both intuitively took refuge in art and architecture and legendary lore, as subjects which could safely be discussed, and at the same time obviate the embarrassment of protracted silence. A stranger eavesdropping might have imagined that Percival Lauriston had devoted himself to his young wife's education.

But Constance grew very weary of ever-recurring guidebook discourse. And she grew tired, also, of beautiful Venice--tired of the Water-City, with its churches and palaces, its broad lagoons, and monotonous canals, its dark gondolas, and its dreamy-looking gondoliers! It was poetic enough certainly. It was a living actual romance; but no true woman's heart was ever satisfied with poetry and romance unmingled with affection. Every day, and all day long, the two were diligently "doing" Venice with immense painstaking and the greatest gravity. Now it was the Church of the Frari; now the Ducal Palace, with its Giant's Staircase, and its dreadful prisons, the terrible Piombi, and the dreaded Pozzi; now the Rialto--or, as the Venetians themselves call it, the Ponte de Rialto; now studying the famous Bronze Horses which Dandalo brought from Constantinople; now exploring the Gindecca; now taking melancholy walks on the Lido, and anon gliding from canal to canal, or lying, as it were, becalmed on the still Lagoon, in one of the hearse-like gondolas, so celebrated in song and romance, so unromantic in actual appearance.

Much as Constance had longed to come to Venice, she vehemently desired to leave it. She grew tired of the very sight of "Christian Art." She dreaded lest sleep should surprise her when Percy read from Ruskin's "Sea-Stories." She liked best to meditate, while apparently occupied with her book; her husband buried in his own severer studies, and the pale green water lapping with melancholy cadence against the sculptured walls. Sometimes she would be repeating to herself almost unconsciously--

"There is a glorious city in the sea,
The sea is in the broad, the narrow streets,
Ebbing and flowing; and the salt sea-weed
Clings to the marble of her palaces."

Or else the refrain of a weird ballad which had only just fallen into her hands; the story of a wretched priest, once a great and powerful noble, and his fell revenge--a dark, remorseful creature, who sat in his balcony, under the stars, and watched the gondolas gliding, muttering ever to himself--

"I know where that gondola goes, I know what that gondola saith--
Over the fearful water that flows, and flows, and flows,
I watch each gondola glide, I know where each gondola goes."

till she began to be foolish, and fancy that from some overhanging balcony she and Percy were watched, as they passed along into the broad Lagoon, and she had to tell herself again and again that the Council of the Ten no longer sat, that the Bridge of Sighs was no more a passage to the grave, that memories only of the Canal Orfano remained. Certainly Venice is not a healthy place for the unhappy, for those who are inclined to brood morbidly over their secret sorrows. Her longing to get home became intense. With almost childish desire she yearned for her mother. The monotone of the lapping waters depressed her; the melancholy beauty of Torcello fell on her spirit like a shadow. The wild cry of "Stalì" irritated her tremulous nerves, and made her start continually.

Yet Percy never perceived her weariness, never noticed the languor and sadness that stole over her gentle face, as day by day they went forth on their varied expeditions, till one day Pauline informed him that pauvre Madame was very poorly, and could not come down to dinner; and then he remembered that she had looked pale, and complained of the heat for several days. Perhaps Venice did not agree with her--it was not particularly salubrious in warm weather; and he thought he did not feel "quite the thing" himself.

So next morning when she came into the salon, trying to smile cheerfully, and declaring that her headache was better, he asked her, somewhat abruptly, if she would mind curtailing her stay at Venice, and starting at once for England, as he had letters from home which seemed to imply that he was wanted at Castledine on especial business.

Would she mind! It was an answer to her prayer--a promise of freedom; for she felt that she must die if she tarried much longer in melancholy Venice, with none to love her!

"And," continued Percy, with all possible deference, "would it disappoint you too much if we travelled straight to England, stopping just a couple of days or so in Paris to see your dressmaker, if we put off our visit to Rouen for awhile?"

He was astonished at the sudden brightness of her face. Her cheeks glowed, her eyes shone; she looked, for the moment, almost as beautiful as Emmeline. He had no idea that she was pining for home. Why had she not spoken before? Did she not know that her word was law?

She could scarcely answer him, so strong was her emotion; but she controlled the hysterical tears, and calmly listened to his arrangements for immediate departure. And so the last day at Venice came unexpectedly soon. The bills were paid, Antoine and Pauline began to busy themselves with packing, and the Continental Bradshaw was once more in request.

"I never wish to see Venice again!" was Constance's unexpressed thought, as she saw it for the last time from Mestre: "I did not know I could be so unhappy! I felt so lonely, so hopeless!--as if I had no earthly future. Now I can look forward again. Now my hope revives. I can bear any sorrow in my own country, and with my darling mother within reach. I shall always have miserable associations with Venice."

As for Pauline, she said: "Ah, the ugly triste place--far more triste than England! Ah! if we could only live always in beautiful, gay Paris!"

And the pleasure-loving soubrette felt herself extremely ill-used when, on the evening of the third day, she found herself en route for Boulogne. Constance could have cried for joy when she beheld the white cliffs of her own country rising through the blue haze of a beautiful May afternoon. It seemed to her as though years had passed since last she watched them fading from her sight.

It was the height of the season, and London was in all its glory. The trees in the parks and squares and the grass were vividly green; the air was fragrant with flowers, and balmy with soft southern breezes; the Serpentine glittered in the golden sunlight, and the Ladies' Mile was thronged from end to end. Constance and Adela had both been presented, of course, by Lady Maria; and now--it was the day after the Drawing Room--all the ladies of the family were seated in Miss Lauriston's boudoir, gossiping over their five o'clock tea, and discussing the pageant of the previous day.

Lady Maria was agreeably surprised at the figure Constance had made. She was "wonderfully improved," she told her husband--she had quite lost her bourgeoise air; no one could have told that she was not as well born as the high-bred beauties by whom she was surrounded, though, of course, there were people in their own set asking who Mrs. Percival Lauriston really was!

"Constance! I really believe you have grown since your marriage," said Lady Agneta, who had dropped in to hear all about the Drawing Room. The Lauristons were no longer in Mount Street; they had their own town-house again--a stately mansion in Grosvenor Square. And Lady Maria and her daughter were exquisitely dressed, and Addie's boudoir was a beautiful little room, furnished with all taste, and, as it seemed, regardless of expense--quite a contrast to that ill-appointed, though comfortable old schoolroom at Castledine, where Miss Lauriston delighted to entertain her brothers. The Ladies Bannatyne knew well enough that all the pretty new things they saw, and all the grand service of retainers, and all the restoration of more than past splendours, were paid for out of Constance's rich dower--out of the accumulated hoards of the wealthy Bradfield manufacturer. Agneta had taken a great liking to Constance, whom, for several reasons, she sincerely pitied, and she determined to stand her friend whatever might befall. Somehow, she felt very sure that ere long Constance would need a true friend.

Mrs. Lauriston smiled at hearing of her increased stature. "I do not think I am really taller, Agneta," she replied; "but I am thinner, and this style of dress makes one appear slender. I am pretty sure I have not grown at all since I was sixteen."

"And now you are twenty."

"I shall be twenty-one in August! Do you know, a lady whom we met in Florence would not believe that I was under five-and-twenty! I really think she fancied I was telling fibs--as if I would!"

"Of course, no one with a particle of honesty in them would tell such a gratuitous untruth. But there are people actually ashamed of their age. Oh! Aunt Maria, do you remember old Mrs. Agnew, of Merrilees?"

"Quite well, Agneta. She was certainly very absurd, dressing at sixty as might have become her youngest daughter. Remember, my dears, when you have once passed thirty, or thirty-five at furthest, that it is extremely bad taste to make a juvenile toilet, and bad judgment also, for by dressing à la jeune personne, when youth is really fled, you only make yourself look older than you really are!"

"I have heard dear mother say precisely the same thing," remarked Constance, "and father was quite of the same opinion. I recollect hearing him say once that a certain lady of our acquaintance, who affected a very juvenile air, looked like an old ewe dressed lamb-fashion!

Lady Maria shuddered. "My dear," she said, gravely, "I am sure you will excuse me, as we are together en famille, but pray never quote so vulgar a saying again. And if you cannot bring yourself to say papa and mamma, do use the possessive pronoun in speaking of your parents. A. person in any rank may say my mother, my father, but only the bourgeoisie--quite the middle-class, you know--say simply 'father' and 'mother!'

Constance coloured deeply, and was silent. Was not this what people called being "snubbed"? And were not her dear father and mother insulted by that reflection on the bourgeoisie? She had the wisdom, however, to make no reply; but Lady Agneta, who prided herself on her liberal sentiments and outspokenness, said boldly, "As for the bourgeoisie, I often wished I belonged to them! They are the only people who know how to enjoy themselves, and at the same time, possess the wherewithal, without which one's enjoyment is sadly limited. And they are not for ever afraid of transgressing some arbitrary, and, most likely, ridiculous rule of society; they dare to call a spade a spade, and they do not live in perpetual terror of Mrs. Grundy."

"My dear!" interrupted Lady Maria, in a tone at once shocked and remonstrative, "I am extremely grieved to hear you talking so wildly--I may say so unbecomingly! People who call 'a spade a spade' are nearly always indecent and obnoxious. And 'Mrs. Grundy' is, after all, a very useful person in civilised life. One may generally predict something unpleasant of a young woman who sets out by despising Mrs. Grundy!"

"I won't come to grief, auntie, if I can help it. I dare say 'Mrs. Grundy' has her uses, as there are at least two sides to every question, and most things can be turned to some account if one is possessed of an average amount of faculty. But papa and I have both made up our minds that we won't kow-tow to Mrs. Grundy; and if we must have false gods to worship they shall at least be made of solid gold."

"My dear Agneta, I think you scarcely know what you are saying. May I beg you not to talk in this strain before Adela. Constance, of course, must choose for herself; but as her mother-in-law, and a woman of no small experience, I would strongly advise her to eschew, henceforth and for ever, the principles which you appear to advocate, more especially as she has, till very lately, enjoyed no advantages--of association, I mean--such as have been yours from your birth."

Again Constance felt as if she had been slapped in the face; while the irrepressible Agneta replied, "I don't know about advantages, auntie, except that very few have ever fallen to my share. Some of the things we call advantages are, to my mind, quite the other way. I dare say Constance has been much better brought up than either you or I. We'll leave Addie out of the question."

After that nothing more could be said, and Lady Maria sipped her tea in dignified silence. Addie was contemplating flight, and wishing that afternoon tea were served in the little drawing-room, or anywhere else except in her own private territories, when Agneta began again on a fresh subject--"When are you going into your own house, Constance?"

"Some time next week, I expect."

"It is curious that it should not be ready, even to the door mats and blacking-brushes, considering what a long honey-mooning you have made of it! You must be very much in love, Constance, not to tire of Percy all this time; I am convinced I should be sick of any man--that is, of his continual society, in three months at the furthest; and here have you been eating honey and the honeycomb for a whole twelve months."

"My father and mother have been eating them, then, for the last thirty years," said Constance, gravely.

A statement to which Lady Maria evidently took exception, for she set down her Sèvres china cup still half-full of tea, and addressed her daughter in the most formal fashion. "Adela, if you have quite finished I want you in my own room. I shall probably see you again, Agneta, as we are both to be at Mrs. Boisragons to-night." Adela, who would gladly have been left behind now that the censor of morals was departing, meekly followed.

"Now, where is Percy?" was Lady Agneta's first question when she and Constance were alone.

"At Castledine, I believe," was the reply. "We parted on the day of our arrival in town. I stayed here, the house in Park Lane not being quite ready--some stupid blunder with the water-pipes, I am told; and Percy took the train from Paddington."

"He ought to have stayed to see you in your Court dress. You know, as your first presentation is on the occasion of your marriage, he will not have another chance. Now do tell me, Connie, how soon does a lover turn into a husband?"

"He becomes a husband as he stands at the altar-rails."

"Don't be tiresome; you know what I mean! How soon does a man fall off in les petits soins; how soon does he begin to take your little attentions and expressions of regard as a matter of course? At what period of married life does he commence to scold and lecture, and show his displeasure, and comport himself generally as lord and master?"

"Really, Agneta, I cannot answer you. I began by assuming that my husband was, and ought to be, my lord and master. He is still aux petits soins; he neither scolds nor lectures, nor even disapproves. He was rather cross and abrupt once, but he had influenza, and I bored him to take gruel."

"No wonder he was cross! Gruel and influenza combined must be too trying to flesh and blood, especially masculine flesh and blood, which naturally rejects spoon- meats, unless it be in the shape of well-flavoured soups and dainty puddings. What a model couple you are! Have you never had a difference?"

"Agneta, do you think that is a question you ought to ask, or I to answer?"

"I sit reproved, Mrs. Lauriston. You are right! No! I ought not to have made so impertinent an inquiry. 'Fools kiss and tell,' says the old wise-saw. What a mercy that my august aunt is not here! but they are fools, indeed, and something worse than fall out, and then proclaim the dismal fact. May I have another cup of tea?"

"I think we have in some sort to thank you for our house in Park Lane, have we not?"

"Not myself, but papa. It was he who discovered that the bijou of a place was positively to be sold! So he spoke to your papa, and your papa, as you know, wrote to Percy, and the bargain was finally concluded. I believe the house and all it contains is a present to yourself from the respected personage whom you are requested in future not to designate as 'father!' I mean to leave off saying 'papa,' and shall call the Earl 'father' henceforth."

"Agneta, you will make Lady Maria very much displeased."

"My dear, she is always displeased with something or somebody. It is her normal condition. If she ceased to reprove the members of her own family, I should conclude that she was what the Scotch call fey. I should immediately advise a consultation of eminent physicians."

"Don't, Agneta!"

"Constance, my dear, may I speak faithfully to you?"

"Certainly you may! But speaking 'faithfully' generally means something unpleasant. What have I done?"

"You have done nothing. You are as good as gold--the goodest young woman in all Mayfair. I wish to warn you against what you may do; against extra goodness, in fact. You must not be too meek; you must not--shall I say knock under?--another objectionable phrase!--to Lady Maria. Don't be patronised by her, and don't be snubbed by her, and, above all, don't be ruled by her--if you can help it."

"Is that the best advice?"

"The very best, depend upon it. I know Lady Maria Lauriston--you don't. We all know her, and we--her nieces--with the approbation of our father, her brother long ago came to the determination to hold our own, and in every possible way resist being sat upon by the lady of Castledine. It is one of her favourite pursuits, my dear, sitting upon people. She is good in herself, you understand--oh! very good! an exemplary wife and mother!--I wouldn't for worlds say a word against her to an outsider. She is truly kind-hearted, as long as you keep friends with her; she is virtue personified. I believe if her fan were accidentally used by a person who was compromised--or supposed to be compromised--she would burn it, even if were a fan of fans! But sitting upon people not so exemplary or so well-instructed as herself is her little infirmity and though such a woman may be permitted to sit upon her husband and her own children--women-children especially--as long and as often as she pleases; because, you see, one's wife is one's wife, and one's mother is one's mother--yet it by no means follows that such 'sitting upon' should be tolerated, or in any way allowed, by nieces, brothers and sisters, cousins, and--daughters-in-law. Take my word for it, Constance, Lady Maria will respect you all the more if you quietly, yet determinately, refuse to be sat upon by any living creature--except, perhaps, your husband; as, of course, we all know it is the prerogative of husbands not only to 'sit upon,' but to stamp upon their wives, under provocation! When she finds that you are made of sterner stuff than perhaps she anticipated, she will subside, and behave herself most amiably. I know no one with a larger amount of true savoir-faire, nor with a better capacity for gracefully accepting the inevitable than my most respected aunt, Lady Maria Lauriston! There, dear! I have had my say! I have done my duty as friend and kinswoman--done it valiantly and faithfully! Be advised, or unadvised, exactly as you please. Now about the house in Park Lane; can I be of any use to you?"

"I dare say you can; I know you can. Lady Maria is quite right when she says that I have not enjoyed 'advantages'--of a certain sort. It is true that I was--that I am by birth, of the bourgeoisie. You are an Earl's daughter; you came into the world an aristocrat, as I entered it a democrat; you are naturally of the charmed circle into which I am somewhat abruptly thrust. Your help, your countenance, will be of the greatest service to me; and I know no one from whom I would more willingly receive the help and countenance I need."

"It is a bargain, then--we are to be fast friends?"

"Friends, decidedly; fast friends if we find that we fit into one another."

"How cautious you are!"

"Only prudent, only reasonable. Let our friendship have space to grow and ripen. Why should it burst into sadden and fullest bloom, like those unfortunate Pelargoniums, forced by the florist into perfect flower to dazzle for a day or two, and die afterwards of exhaustion?"

"Very well! we will be friends, then--and the fastness shall prove itself. Besides, we are not school-girls to gush and swear eternal friendship. I will be reticent, lest, like the player-queen in Hamlet, I 'protest too much.' But you may count upon me, Constance--you may, indeed!"

"Thank you--I do. I shall count upon you, Agneta. You must be my first visitor in my own house."

"Are you going to the Boisragons' to-night?"

"No; I am not 'going out' till Percy returns, and we are in our own home. Lady Maria and Adela are going, I know."

"What a nuisance! it is just the house where I should like you to be seen. It is a shame to shut you up because your husband is out of town and your own house not ready for occupation."

"I am more than willing to endure such 'shutting up,' which includes shopping, driving, garden-parties, and morning calls, to say nothing of galleries, concerts, and the Academy."

"Oh, the Academy! Don't mention it! We are obliged to do it, even if we cannot tell sepia from oil-paints--it is one of the awful obligations of society; and no properly-constituted person--not an invalid--would dream of shirking so obvious a duty; but I must say it is very hard work. The Oriental 'upper ten' keep slaves to do their dancing for them, and wonder at us, who persist in galloping and valsing all night for ourselves. They must marvel, too, why we don't send our servants to see the pictures for us. The dust, the cram, the heat, the bad air, the elbowing of the crowd, take away all the pleasure which the pictures are supposed to impart--at least, to the unartistic mind. Indeed, Clara, who has art on the brain, was dreadfully ill the other day, after six hours of the Academy."

"I will be warned; I will go frequently, and pay short visits. But the pictures I must see, though I am no artist, and know only what I care for, and what I do not."

"Lady Fanny Prestbury had a bad bilious attack last week, entirely brought on through her rambles at the Academy. By the bye, do you know the Prestbury girls? They are my great chums; and, oh! now I come to think of it, Susan is a wicked schismatic, an out-and-out Dissenter--a Spurgeonite! And I know you are something of a Nonconformist yourself."

"A good deal of one. I was brought up a Dissenter. I am one at heart now, though, having married a Churchman, I am supposed to be a Churchwoman. But Percy has been very good so far. In Paris I generally went to the Rue Royale, and I found to my great delight a Baptist church at Rome, which I attended when Percy did not wish me to go elsewhere."

"You horrible little thing, to go poking about conventicles! Still, I don't actually disapprove, and it's really quite the thing, if you are not too 'High,' to go and hear Dr. Parker and Mr. Spurgeon. You and Lady Susan will get on delightfully; she has a sitting at the Tabernacle. Lady Fanny is a burning and a shining light at All Saints', Margaret Street, and is occasionally seen at St. Alban's and St. Vedast's."

"What incongruities between sisters!"

"Sisters nearly always are incongruous. My eldest sister, Laura Wraysbury--you don't know her, I think; she was in Ireland when you married--is awfully 'High'--so High, that I feel sure she will grow dizzy some day, and topple over, as that enchanting Anthony Trollope has it 'into the cesspool of Rome!' She teaches her little girls to make the sign of the cross, and gives the most delightful fish-dinners in Lent! You must taste her Halibut Cutlets à l'Empresse! Her Sole Normande is superior to any I ever ate; and her cook has a way of doing smelts that is altogether ravishing. I am sure I wish Lent came twice a year. I make a point of staying w