APRIL'S LADY. 

 A NOVEL. 

 BY "THE DUCHESS"

_Author of "Molly Bawn, " "Phyllis, " "Lady Branksmere, " "Beauty'sDaughters, " etc. , etc. _

Montreal:JOHN LOVELL & SON, 23 St. Nicholas Street. 

Entered according to Act of Parliament in the year 1890, by John Lovell& Son, in the office of the Minister of Agriculture and Statistics atOttawa. 

APRIL'S LADY. 

 "Must we part? or may I linger? Wax the shadows, wanes the day. " Then, with voice of sweetest singer, That hath all but died away, "Go, " she said, but tightened finger Said articulately, "Stay!"

CHAPTER I. 

 "Philosophy triumphs easily over past and over future evils, but present evils triumph over philosophy. "

"A letter from my father, " says Mr. Monkton, flinging the letter inquestion across the breakfast-table to his wife. 

"A letter from Sir George!" Her dark, pretty face flushes crimson. 

"And _such_ a letter after eight years of obstinate silence. There! readit, " says her husband, contemptuously. The contempt is all for thewriter of the letter. 

Mrs. Monkton taking it up, with a most honest curiosity, that mightalmost be termed anxiety, reads it through, and in turn flings it fromher as though it had been a scorpion. 

"Never mind, Jack!" says she with a great assumption of indifferencethat does not hide from her husband the fact that her eyes are full oftears. "Butter that bit of toast for me before it is _quite_ cold, andgive Joyce some ham. Ham, darling? or an egg?" to Joyce, with a forcedsmile that makes her charming face quite sad. 

"Have you two been married eight whole years?" asks Joyce laying herelbows on the table, and staring at her sister with an astonished gaze. "It seems like yesterday! What a swindler old Time is. To look atBarbara, one would not believe she could have been _born_ eight yearsago. "

"Nonsense!" says Mrs. Monkton laughing, and looking as pleased asmarried women--even the happiest--always do, when they are told theylook _un_married. "Why Tommy is seven years old. "

"Oh! That's nothing!" says Joyce airily, turning her dark eyes, that arelovelier, if possible, than her sister's, upon the sturdy child who issitting at his father's right hand. "Tommy, we all know, is much olderthan his mother. Much more advanced; more learned in the wisdom of_this_ world; aren't you, Tommy?"

But Tommy, at this present moment, is deaf to the charms ofconversation, his young mind being nobly bent on proving to his sister(a priceless treasure of six) that the salt-cellar planted between thembelongs _not_ to her, but to him! This sounds reasonable, but thedifficulty lies in making Mabel believe it. There comes the pauseeloquent at last, and then, I regret to say, the free fight!

It might perhaps have been even freer, but for the swift intervention ofthe paternal relative, who, swooping down upon the two belligerents witha promptitude worthy of all praise, seizes upon his daughter, and inspite of her kicks, which are noble, removes her to the seat on his lefthand. 

Thus separated hope springs within the breasts of the lookers-on thatpeace may soon be restored; and indeed, after a sob or two from Mabel, and a few passes of the most reprehensible sort from Tommy (entirely ofthe facial order), a great calm falls upon the breakfast-room. 

"When I was your age, Tommy, " says Mr. Monkton addressing his son, andstriving to be all that the orthodox parent ought to be, "I should havebeen soundly whipped if I had behaved to my sister as you have just nowbehaved to yours!"

"You _haven't_ a sister, " says Tommy, after which the argument fallsflat. It is true, Mr. Monkton is innocent of a sister, but how did thelittle demon remember that so _apropos_. 

"Nevertheless, " said Mr. Monkton, "if I _had_ had a sister, I _know_ Ishould not have been unkind to her. "

"Then she'd have been unkind to you, " says Tommy, who is evidently notafraid to enter upon a discussion of the rights and wrongs of mankindwith his paternal relative. "Look at Mabel! And I don't care _what_ shesays, " with a vindictive glance at the angelic featured Mabel, whoglares back at him with infinite promise of a future settlement of alltheir disputes in her ethereal eyes. "'Twas _my_ salt-cellar, not hers!"

"Ladies first--pleasure afterwards, " says his father somewhat idly. 

"Oh _Freddy_!" says his wife. 

"Seditious language _I_ call it, " says Jocelyne with a laugh. 

"Eh?" says Mr. Monkton. "Why what on earth have I been saying now. Iquite believed I was doing the heavy father to perfection and teachingTommy his duty. "

"Nice duty, " says Jocelyne, with a pretence of indignation, that makesher charming face a perfect picture. "Teaching him to regard us assecond best! I like that. "

"Good heavens! did I give that impression? I must have swooned, " saysMr. Monkton penitently. "When last in my senses I thought I had beentelling Tommy that he deserved a good whipping; and that if good oldTime could so manage as to make me my own father, he would assuredlyhave got it. "

"Oh! _your_ father!" says Mrs. Monkton in a low tone; there is enoughexpression in it, however, to convey the idea to everyone present thatin her opinion her husband's father would be guilty of any atrocity at amoment's notice. 

"Well, _'twas_ my salt-cellar, " says Tommy again stoutly, and as iftotally undismayed by the vision of the grand-fatherly scourge held outto him. After all we none of us feel things much, unless they comepersonally home to us. 

"Was it?" says Mr. Monkton mildly. "Do you know, I really quite fanciedit was mine. "

"What?" says Tommy, cocking his ear. He, like his sister, is in acertain sense a fraud. For Tommy has the face of a seraph with the heartof a hardy Norseman. There is nothing indeed that Tommy would not dare. 

"Mine, you know, " says his father, even more mildly still. 

"No, it wasn't, " says Tommy with decision, "it was at _my_ side of thetable. _Yours_ is over there. "

"Thomas!" says his father, with a rueful shake of the head thatsignifies his resignation of the argument; "it is indeed a pity that Iam _not_ like my father!"

"Like him! Oh _no_, " says Mrs. Monkton emphatically, impulsively; thelatent dislike to the family who had refused to recognize her on hermarriage with their son taking fire at this speech. 

Her voice sounds almost hard--the gentle voice, that in truth was onlymeant by Mother Nature to give expression to all things kind and loving. 

She has leant a little forward and a swift flush is dyeing her cheek. She is of all women the youngest looking, for her years; as a matronindeed she seems absurd. The delicate bloom of girlhood seems never tohave left her, but--as though in love of her beauty--has clung to herday by day. So that now, when she has known eight years of married life(and some of them deeply tinctured with care--the cruel care that wantof money brings), she still looks as though the morning of womanhood wasas yet but dawning for her. 

And this is because love the beautifier went with her all the way! Handin hand he has traveled with her on the stony paths that those who marrymust undoubtedly pursue. Never once had he let go his hold, and so itis, that her lovely face has defied Time (though after all thatobnoxious Ancient has not had yet much opportunity given him to spoilit), and at twenty-five she looks but a little older than her sister, who is just eighteen, and seven years younger than she is. 

Her pretty soft grey Irish eyes, that are as nearly _not_ black as it ispossible for them to be, are still filled with the dews of youth. Hermouth is red and happy. Her hair--so distinctly chestnut as to be almostguilty of a shade of red in it here and there--covers her dainty head inrippling masses, that fall lightly forward, and rest upon a brow, snow-white, and low and broad as any Greek's might be. 

She had spoken a little hurriedly, with some touch of anger. But quickas the anger was born, so quickly does it die. 

"I shouldn't have said that, perhaps, " says she, sending a littletremulous glance at her husband from behind the urn. "But I couldn'thelp it. I can't _bear_ to hear you say you would like to be like him. "

She smiles (a little, gentle, "don't-be-angry-with-me" smile, scarcelyto be resisted by any man, and certainly not by her husband, who adoresher). It is scarcely necessary to record this last fact, as all who runmay read it for themselves, but it saves time to put it in black andwhite. 

"But why not, my dear?" says Mr. Monkton, magisterially. "Surely, considering all things, you have reason to be deeply grateful to SirGeorge. Why, then, abuse him?"

"Grateful! To Sir George! To your father!" cries his wife, hotly andquick, and----

"Freddy!" from his sister-in-law brings him to a full stop for a moment. 

"Do you mean to tell me, " says he, thus brought to bay, "that you havenothing to thank Sir George for?" He is addressing his wife. 

"Nothing, nothing!" declares she, vehemently, the remembrance of thatlast letter from her husband's father, that still lies within reach ofher view, lending a suspicion of passion to her voice. 

"Oh, my dear girl, _consider_!" says Mr. Monkton, lively reproach in histone. "Has he not given you _me_, the best husband in Europe?"

"Ah, what it is to be modest, " says Joyce, with her little quickbrilliant laugh. 

"Well, it's not true, " says Mrs. Monkton, who has laughed also, in spiteof herself and the soreness at her heart. "He did _not_ give you to me. You made me that gift of your own free will. I have, as I said before, nothing to thank him for. "

"I always think he must be a silly old man, " says Joyce, which seems toput a fitting termination to the conversation. 

The silence that ensues annoys Tommy, who dearly loves to hear the humanvoice divine. As expressed by himself first, but if that beimpracticable, well, then by somebody else. _Anything_ is better thandull silence. 

"Is he that?" asks he, eagerly, of his aunt. 

Though I speak of her as his aunt, I hope it will not be misunderstoodfor a moment that Tommy totally declines to regard her in anyreverential light whatsoever. A playmate, a close friend, a confidante, a useful sort of person, if you will, but certainly not an _aunt_, inthe general acceptation of that term. From the very first year thatspeech fell on them, both Mabel and he had refused to regard MissKavanagh as anything but a confederate in all their scrapes, a friend torejoice with in all their triumphs; she had never been aunt, never, indeed, even so much as the milder "auntie" to them; she had been"Joyce, " only, from the very commencement of their acquaintance. Theunited commands of both father and mother (feebly enforced) had beeninsufficient to compel them to address this most charming specimen ofgirlhood by any grown up title. To them their aunt was just such an oneas themselves--only, perhaps, a little _more_ so. 

A lovely creature, at all events, and lovable as lovely. A littleinconsequent, perhaps at times, but always amenable to reason, when putinto a corner, and full of the glad, laughter of youth. 

"Is he what?" says she, now returning Tommy's eager gaze. 

"The best husband in Europe. He _says_ he's that, " with a doubtful stareat his father. 

"Why, the _very_ best, of course, " says Joyce, nodding emphatically. "Always remember that, Tommy. It's a good thing to _be_, you know. _You'll_ want to be that, won't you?"

But if she has hoped to make a successful appeal to Tommy's noblequalities (hitherto, it must be confessed, carefully kept hidden), shefinds herself greatly mistaken. 

"No, I won't, " says that truculent person distinctly. "I want to be abig general with a cocked hat, and to kill people. I don't want to be ahusband _at all_. What's the good of that?"

"To pursue the object would be to court defeat, " says Mr. Monktonmeekly. He rises from the table, and, seeing him move, his wife risestoo. 

"You are going to your study?" asks she, a little anxiously. He is aboutto say "no" to this, but a glance at her face checks him. 

"Yes, come with me, " says he instead, answering the lovely silent appealin her eyes. That letter has no doubt distressed her. She will behappier when she has talked it over with him--they two alone. "As foryou, Thomas, " says his father, "I'm quite aware that you ought to beconsigned to the Donjon keep after your late behavior, but as we don'tkeep one on the premises, I let you off this time. Meanwhile I haste tomy study to pen, with the assistance of your enraged mother, a letter toour landlord that will induce him to add one on at once to thisbuilding. After which we shall be able to incarcerate you at ourpleasure (but _not_ at yours) on any and every hour of the day. "

"Who's Don John?" asks Tommy, totally unimpressed, but filled withlively memories of those Spaniards and other foreign powers who haveunkindly made more difficult his hateful lessons off and on. 

CHAPTER II. 

 "No love lost between us. "

"Well, " says Mr. Monkton, turning to his wife as the study (a rathernondescript place) is reached. He has closed the door, and is nowlooking at her with a distinctly quizzical light in his eyes and in thesmile that parts his lips. "Now for it. Have no qualms. I've beenpreparing myself all through breakfast and I think I shall survive it. You are going to have it out with me, aren't you?"

"Not with _you_, " says she, returning his smile indeed, but faintly, andwithout heart, "that horrid letter! I felt I _must_ talk of it tosomeone, and----"

"_I_ was that mythical person. I quite understand. I take it as aspecial compliment. "

"I know it is hard on you, but when I am really vexed about anything, you know, I always want to tell you about it. "

"I should feel it a great deal harder if you _didn't_ want to tell meabout it, " says he. He has come nearer to her and has pressed her into achair--a dilapidated affair that if ever it _had_ a best day hasforgotten it by now--and yet for all that is full of comfort. "I am onlysorry"--moving away again and leaning against the chimney piece--"thatyou should be so foolish as to let my father's absurd prejudices annoyyou at this time of day. "

"He will always have it in his power to annoy me, " says she quickly. "That perhaps, " with a little burst of feeling, "is why I can't forgivehim. If I could forget, or grow indifferent to it all, I should not havethis _hurt_ feeling in my heart. But he is your father, and though he isthe most unjust, the cruellest man on earth, I still hate to think heshould regard me as he does. "

"There is one thing, however, you do forget, " says Mr. Monkton gravely. "I don't want to apologize for him, but I would remind you that he hasnever seen you. "

"That's only an aggravation of his offence, " her color heightening; "thevery fact that he should condemn me unseen, unheard, adds to the wronghe has done me instead of taking from it. " She rises abruptly and beginsto pace up and down the room, the hot Irish blood in her veins afire. "No"--with a little impatient gesture of her small hand--"I _can't_ sitstill. Every pulse seems throbbing. He has opened up all the old wounds, and----" She pauses and then turns upon her husband two lovely flashingeyes. "Why, _why_ should he suppose that I am vulgar, lowly born, unfitto be your wife?"

"My darling girl, what can it matter what he thinks? A ridiculousheadstrong old man in one scale, and----"

"But it does matter. I want to _convince_ him that I am not--not--whathe believes me to be. "

"Then come over to England and see him. "

"No--never! I shall never go to England. I shall stay in Ireland always. My own land; the land whose people he detests because he knows nothingabout them. It was one of his chief objections to your marriage with me, that I was an Irish girl!"

She stops short, as though her wrath and indignation and contempt is toomuch for her. 

"Barbara, " says Monkton, very gently, but with a certain reproach, "doyou know you almost make me think that you regret our marriage. "

"No, I don't, " quickly. "If I talked for ever I shouldn't be able tomake you think _that_. But----" She turns to him suddenly, and gazes athim through large eyes that are heavy with tears. "I shall always besorry for one thing, and that is--that you first met me where you did. "

"At your aunt's? Mrs. Burke's?"

"She is _not_ my aunt, " with a little frown of distaste; "she is nothingto me so far as blood is concerned. Oh! Freddy. " She stops close to him, and gives him a grief-stricken glance. "I wish my poor father had beenalive when first you saw me. That we could have met for the first timein the old home. It was shabby--faded"--her face paling now with intenseemotion. "But you would have known at once that it _had been_ a fine oldplace, and that the owner of it----" She breaks down, very slightly, almost imperceptibly, but Monkton understands that even one more word isbeyond her. 

"That the owner of it, like St. Patrick, came of decent people, " quoteshe with an assumption of gaiety he is far from feeling. "My good child, I don't want to see _anyone_ to know that of you. You carry the signmanual. It is written in large characters all over you. "

"Yet I wish you had known me before my father died, " says she, her griefand pride still unassuaged. "He was so unlike anybody else. His mannerswere so lovely. He was offered a baronetcy at the end of that Whiteboybusiness on account of his loyalty--that nearly cost him his life--buthe refused it, thinking the old name good enough without a handle toit. "

"Kavanagh, we all know, is a good name. "

"If he had accepted that title he would have been as--the same--as yourfather!" There is defiance in this sentence. 

"_Quite_ the same!"

"No, no, he would not, " her defiance now changes into, sorrowfulhonesty. "Your father has been a baronet for _centuries_, my fatherwould have only been a baronet for a few years. "

"For centuries!" repeats Mr. Monkton with an alarmed air. There is alatent sense of humor (or rather an appreciation of humor) about himthat hardly endears him to the opposite sex. His wife, being Irish, condones it, because she happens to understand it, but there aremoments, we all know, when even the very best and most appreciativewomen refuse to understand _anything_. This is one of them. "Condemn myfather if you will, " says Mr. Monkton, "accuse him of all the crimes inthe calendar, but for _my_ sake give up the belief that he is the realand original Wandering Jew. Debrett--Burke--either of those immaculatepeople will prove to you that my father ascended his throne in----"

"You can laugh at me if you like, Freddy, " says Mrs. Monkton withseverity tempered with dignity; "but if you laughed until this day monthyou couldn't make me forget the things that make me unhappy. "

"I don't want to, " says Mr. Monkton, still disgracefully frivolous. "_I'm_ one of the things, and yet----"

"Don't!" says his wife, so abruptly, and with such an evidentdetermination to give way to mirth, coupled with an equally strongdetermination to give way to tears, that he at once lays down his arms. 

"Go on then, " says he, seating himself beside her. She is not in thearm-chair now, but on an ancient and respectable sofa that gives ampleroom for the accommodation of two; a luxury denied by that oldcurmudgeon the arm-chair. 

"Well, it is this, Freddy. When I think of that dreadful old woman, Mrs. Burke, I feel as though you thought she was a fair sample of the rest ofmy family. But she is _not_ a sample, she has nothing to do with us. Anuncle of my mother married her because she was rich, and there herrelationship to us began and ended. "

"Still----"

"Yes, I know, you needn't remind me, it seems burnt into my brain, Iknow she took us in after my father's death, and covered me and Joycewith benefits when we hadn't a penny in the world we could call our own. I quite understand, indeed, that we should have starved but for her, andyet--yet--" passionately, "I cannot forgive her for perpetuallyreminding us that we had _not_ that penny!"

"It must have been a bad time, " says Monkton slowly. He takes her handand smoothes it lovingly between both of his. 

"She was vulgar. That was not her fault; I forgive her that. What Ican't forgive her, is the fact that you should have met me in herhouse. "

"A little unfair, isn't it?"

"Is it? You will always now associate me with her!"

"I shan't indeed. Do you think I have up to this? Nonsense! A moreabsurd amalgamation I couldn't fancy. "

"She was not one of us, " feverishly. "I have never spoken to you aboutthis, Freddy, since that first letter your father wrote to you justafter our marriage. You remember it? And then, I couldn't explainsomehow--but now--this last letter has upset me dreadfully; I feel as ifit was all different, and that it was my duty to make you aware of the_real_ truth. Sir George thinks of me as one beneath him; that is nottrue. He may have heard that I lived with Mrs. Burke, and that she wasmy aunt; but if my mother's brother chose to marry a woman of no familybecause she had money, "--contemptuously, "that might disgrace _him_, butwould not make her kin to _us_. You saw her, you--" lifting distressedeyes to his--"you thought her dreadful, didn't you?"

"I have only had one thought about her. That she was good to you in yourtrouble, and that but for her I should never have met you. "

"That is like you, " says she gratefully, yet impatiently. "But it isn'tenough. I want you to understand that she is quite unlike my own _real_people--my father, who was like a prince, " throwing up her head, "and myuncle, his brother. "

"You have an uncle, then?" with some surprise. 

"Oh no, _had_, " sadly. 

"He is dead then?"

"Yes. I suppose so. You are wondering, " says she quickly, "that I havenever spoken to you of him or my father before. But I _could_ not. Thethought that your family objected to me, despised me, seemed to compelme to silence. And you--you asked me very little. "

"How could I, Barbara? Any attempt I made was repulsed. I thought itkinder to----"

"Yes--I was wrong. I see it now. But I couldn't bear to explain myself. I told you what I could about my father, and that seemed to mesufficient. Your people's determination to regard me as impossible tiedmy tongue. "

"I don't believe it was that, " says he laughing. "I believe we were sohappy that we didn't care to discuss anything but each other. Delightfulsubjects full of infinite variety! We have sat so lightly to the worldall these years, that if my father's letter had not come this morning Ihonestly think we should never have thought about him again. "

This is scarcely true, but he is bent on giving her mind a happier turnif possible. 

"What's the good of talking to me like that, Freddy, " says shereproachfully. "You know one never forgets anything of that sort. Aslight I mean; and from one's own family. You are always thinking of it;you know you are. "

"Well, not always, my dear, certainly--" says Mr. Monkton temporizing. "And if even I _do_ give way to retrospection, it is to feel indignantwith both my parents. "

"Yes; and I don't want you to feel like that. It must be dreadful, andit is my fault. When I think how I felt towards my dear old dad, and myuncle--I----"

"Well, never mind that. I've got you, and without meaning any grossflattery, I consider you worth a dozen dads. Tell me about your uncle. He died?"

"We don't know. He went abroad fifteen years ago. He must be dead Ithink, because if he were alive he would certainly have written to us. He was very fond of Joyce and me; but no letter from him has reached usfor years. He was charming. I wish you could have known him. "

"So do I--if you wish it. But--" coming over and sitting down besideher, "don't you think it is a little absurd, Barbara, after all theseyears, to think it necessary to tell me that you have good blood in yourveins? Is it not a self-evident fact; and--one more word dearest--surelyyou might do me the credit to understand that I could never have fallenin love with anyone who hadn't an ancestor or two. "

"And yet your father----"

"I know, " rising to his feet, his brow darkening. "Do you think I don'tsuffer doubly on your account? That I don't feel the insolence of hisbehavior toward you _four-fold_? There is but one excuse for him and mymother, and that lies in their terrible disappointment about mybrother--their eldest son. "

"I know; you have told me, " begins she quickly, but he interrupts her. 

"Yes, I have been more open with you than you with me. _I_ feel no pridewhere you are concerned. Of course my brother's conduct towards them isno excuse for their conduct towards you, but when one has a sore heartone is apt to be unjust, and many other things. You know what aheart-break he has been to the old people, _and is_! A gambler, adishonorable gambler!" He turns away from her, and his nostrils dilate alittle; his right hand grows clenched. "Every spare penny they possesshas been paid over to him of his creditors, and they are notover-burdened with riches. They had set their hearts on him, and alltheir hopes, and when he failed them they fell back on me. The name isan old one; money was wanted. They had arranged a marriage for me, thatwould have been worldly wise. I _too_ disappointed them!"

"Oh!" she has sprung to her feet, and is staring at him with horrifiedeyes. "A marriage! There was someone else! You accuse me of want ofcandor, and now, you--did you ever mention this before?"

"Now, Barbara, don't be the baby your name implies, " says he, placingher firmly back in her seat. "I _didn't_ marry that heiress, you know, which is proof positive that I loved you, not her. "

"But she--she--" she stammers and ceases suddenly, looking at him with aglance full of question. Womanlike, everything has given way to theawful thought, that this unknown had not been unknown to him, and thatperhaps he had admired--loved----

"Couldn't hold a candle to you, " says he, laughing in spite of himselfat her expression which, indeed, is nearly tragic. "You needn'tsuffocate yourself with charcoal because of her. She had made her pile, or rather her father had, at Birmingham or elsewhere, I never took thetrouble to inquire, and she was undoubtedly solid in _every way_, but Idon't care for the female giant, and so I--you know the rest, I met_you_; I tell you this only to soften your heart, if possible, towardsthese lonely, embittered old people of mine. "

"Do you mean that when your brother disappointed them that they----" shepauses. 

"No. They couldn't make me their heir. The property is strictly entailed(what is left of it); you need not make yourself miserable imagining youhave done me out of anything more than their good-will. George willinherit whatever he has left them to leave. "

"It is sad, " says she, with downcast eyes. 

"Yes. He has been a constant source of annoyance to them ever since heleft Eton. "

"Where is he now?"

"Abroad, I believe. In Italy, somewhere, or France--not far from agaming table, you may be sure. But I know nothing very exactly, as hedoes not correspond with me, and that letter of this morning is thefirst I have received from my father for four years. "

"He must, indeed, hate me, " says she, in a low tone. "His elder son sucha failure, and you--he considers you a failure, too. "

"Well, _I_ don't consider myself so, " says he, gaily. 

"They were in want of money, and you--you married a girl without apenny. "

"I married a girl who was in herself a mine of gold, " returns he, layinghis hands on her shoulders and giving her a little shake. "Come, nevermind that letter, darling; what does it matter when all is said anddone?"

"The first after all these years; and the, _last_--you remember it? Itwas terrible. Am I unreasonable if I remember it?"

"It was a cruel letter, " says he slowly; "to forget it would beimpossible, either for you or me. But, as I said just now, how does itaffect us? You have me, and I have you; and they, those foolish oldpeople, they have----" He pauses abruptly, and then goes on in a changedtone, "their memories. "

"Oh! and sad ones!" cries she, sharply, as if hurt. "It is a terriblepicture you have conjured up. You and I so happy, and they--Oh! _poor_old people!"

"They have wronged you--slighted you--ill-treated you, " says he, lookingat her. 

"But they are unhappy; they must be wretched always about your brother, their _first_ child. Oh! what a grief is theirs!"

"What a heart is _yours_!" says he, drawing her to him. "Barbara! surelyI shall not die until they have met you, and learned why I love you. "

CHAPTER III. 

 "It was a lover and his lass With a hey and a ho, and a hey-nonino! That o'er the green cornfield did pass In the Spring-time, the only pretty ring-time, When birds do sing hey-ding-a-ding, Sweet lovers love the Spring. "

Joyce is running through the garden, all the sweet wild winds of heavenplaying round her. They are a little wild still. It is the end of lovelyMay, but though languid Summer is almost with us, a suspicion of hermore sparkling sister Spring fills all the air. 

Miss Kavanagh has caught up the tail of her gown, and is flying as iffor dear life. Behind her come the foe, fast and furious. Tommy, indeed, is now dangerously close at her heels, armed with a ferocious-lookinggarden fork, his face crimson, his eyes glowing with the ardor of thechase; Mabel, much in the background, is making a bad third. 

Miss Kavanagh is growing distinctly out of breath. In another momentTommy will have her. By this time he has fully worked himself into thebelief that he is a Red Indian, and she his lawful prey, and is preparedto make a tomahawk of his fork, and having felled her, to scalp her_somehow_, when Providence shows her a corner round a rhododendron bushthat may save her for the moment. She makes for it, gains it, turns it, dashes round it, and _all but_ precipitates herself into the arms of ayoung man who has been walking leisurely towards her. 

He is a tall young man, not strictly handsome, but decidedly good tolook at, with honest hazel eyes, and a shapely head, and altogether verywell set up. As a rule he is one of the most cheerful people alive, anda tremendous favorite in his regiment, the ---- Hussars, though just nowit might suggest itself to the intelligent observer that he considers hehas been hardly used. A very little more haste, and that precipitation_must_ have taken place. He had made an instinctive movement towards herwith protective arms outstretched; but though a little cry had escapedher, she had maintained her balance, and now stands looking at him withlaughing eyes, and panting breath, and two pretty hands pressed againsther bosom. 

Mr. Dysart lets his disappointed arms fall to his sides, and assumes theaggrieved air of one who has been done out of a good thing. 

"You!" says she, when at last she can speak. 

"I suppose so, " returns he discontentedly. He might just as well havebeen anyone else, or anywhere else--such a chance--and _gone_!

"Never were you so welcome!" cries she, dodging behind him as Tommy, fully armed, and all alive, comes tearing round the corner. "Ah, ha, Tommy, _sold_! I've got a champion now. I'm no longer shivering in myshoes. Mr. Dysart will protect me--_won't_ you, Mr. Dysart?" to theyoung man, who says "yes" without stirring a muscle. The heaviest bribewould not have induced him to move, because, standing behind him, shehas laid her dainty fingers on his shoulders, from which safe positionshe mocks at Tommy with security. Were the owners of the shoulders tostir, the owners of the fingers might remove the delightful members. Need it be said that, with this awful possibility before him, Mr. Dysartis prepared to die at his post rather than budge an inch. 

And, indeed, death seems imminent. Tommy charging round therhododendron, finding himself robbed of his expected scalp, growsfrantic, and makes desperate passes at Mr. Dysart's legs, which thathero, being determined, as I have said, not to stir under anyprovocation, circumvents with a considerable display of policy, such as:

"I say, Tommy, old boy, is that you? How d'ye do? Glad to see me, aren'tyou?" This last very artfully with a view to softening the attacks. "Youdon't know what I've brought you!" This is more artful still, anddistinctly a swindle, as he has brought him nothing, but on the spot hedetermines to redeem himself with the help of the small toy-shops andsweety shops down in the village. "Put down that fork like a good boy, and let me tell you how----"

"Oh, _bother_ you!" says Tommy, indignantly. "I'd have had her only foryou! What brought you here now? Couldn't you have waited a bit?"

"Yes! what brought you?" says Miss Kavanagh, most disgracefully goingover to the other side, now that danger is at an end, and Tommy hasplanted his impromptu tomahawk in a bed close by. 

"Do you want to know?" says he quickly. 

The fingers have been removed from his shoulders, and he is now atliberty to turn round and look at the charming face beside him. 

"No, no!" says she, shaking her head. "I've been rude, I suppose. But itis such a wonderful thing to see you here so soon again. "

"Why should I not be here?"

"Of course! That is the one unanswerable question. But you must confessit is puzzling to those who thought of you as being elsewhere. "

"If you are one of 'those' you fill me with gratitude. That you shouldthink of me even for a moment----"

"Well, I haven't been thinking much, " says she, frankly, and with themost delightful if scarcely satisfactory little smile: "I don't believeI was thinking of you at all, until I turned the corner just now, andthen, I confess, I was startled, because I believed you at theAntipodes. "

"Perhaps your belief was mother to your thought. "

"Oh, no. Don't make me out so nasty. Well, but _were_ you there?"

"Perhaps so. Where are they?" asks he gloomily. "One hears a good dealabout them, but they comprise so many places that now-a-days one ishardly sure where they exactly lie. At all events no one has made themclear to me. "

"Does it rest with me to enlighten you?" asks she, with a littleaggravating half glance from under her long lashes; "well--the NorthPole, Kamtschatka, Smyrna, Timbuctoo, Maoriland, Margate----"

"We'll stop there, I think, " says he, with a faint grimace. 

"There! At Margate? No, thanks. _You_ can, if you like, but as forme----"

"I don't suppose you would stop anywhere with me, " says he. "I haveoccasional glimmerings that I hope mean common sense. No, I have notbeen so adventurous as to wander towards Margate. I have only been totown and back again. "

"What town?"

"Eh? What town?" says he astonished. "_London_, you know. "

"No, I don't know, " says Miss Kavanagh, a little petulantly. "One wouldthink there was only one town in the world, and that all you Englishpeople had the monopoly of it. There are other towns, I suppose. Even wepoor Irish insignificants have a town or two. Dublin comes under thathead, I suppose?"

"Undoubtedly. Of _course_, " making great haste to abase himself. "It ismere snobbery our making so much of London. A kind of despicable cant, you know. "

"Well, after all, I expect it is a big place in every way, " says MissKavanagh, so far mollified by his submission as to be able to allow himsomething. 

"It's a desert, " says Tommy, turning to his aunt, with all the air ofone who is about to impart to her useful information. "It's raging withwild beasts. They roam to and fro and are at their wits' ends----" hereTommy, who is great on Bible history, but who occasionally gets mixed, stops short. "Father says they're there, " he winds up defiantly. 

"Wild beasts!" echoes Mr. Dysart, bewildered. "Is _this_ the teachingabout their Saxon neighbors that the Irish children receive at the handsof their parents and guardians. Oh, well, come now, Tommy, really, youknow----"

"Yes; they are there, " says Tommy, rebelliously. "_Frightful_ beasts!_Bears!_ They'd tear you in bits if they could get at you. They have noreason in them, father says. And they climb up posts, and roar atpeople. "

"Oh, nonsense!" says Mr. Dysart. "One would think we were having aFrench Revolution all over again in England. Don't you think, " glancingseverely at Joyce, who is giving way to unrestrained mirth, "that it isnot only wrong, but dangerous, to implant such ideas about the Englishin the breasts of Irish children? There isn't a word of truth in it, Tommy. "

"There _is_!" says Monkton, junior, wagging his head indignantly. "Father _told_ me. "

"Father told us, " repeats the small Mabel, who has just come up. 

"And father says, too, that the reason that they are so wicked isbecause they want their freedom!" says Tommy, as though this is anunanswerable argument. 

"Oh, I see! The socialists!" says Mr. Dysart. "Yes; a troublesome pack!But still, to call them wild beasts----"

"They _are_ wild beasts, " says Tommy, prepared to defend his position tothe last. "They've got _manes_, and _horns_, and _tails_!"

"He's romancing, " says Mr. Dysart looking at Joyce. 

"He's not, " says she demurely. "He is only trying to describe to you theZoological Gardens. His father gives him a graphic description of themevery evening, and--the result you see. "

Here both she and he, after a glance at each other, burst out laughing. 

"No wonder you were amused, " says he, "but you might have given me ahint. You were unkind to me--as usual. "

"Now that you have been to London, " says she, a little hurriedly, as ifto cover his last words and pretend she hasn't heard them, "you willfind our poor Ireland duller than ever. At Christmas it is not so bad, but just _now_, and in the height of your season, too, ----"

"Do you call this place dull?" interrupts he. "Then let me tell you youmisjudge your native land; this little bit of it, at all events. I thinkit not only the loveliest, but the liveliest place on earth. "

"You are easily pleased, " says she, with a rather embarrassed smile. 

"He isn't!" says Tommy, breaking into the conversation with greataplomb. He has been holding on vigorously to Mr. Dysart's right hand forthe last five minutes, after a brief but brilliant skirmish with Mabelas to the possession of it--a skirmish brought to a bloodless conclusionby the surrender, on Mr. Dysart's part, of his left hand to the weakerbelligerent. "He hates Miss Maliphant, nurse says, though Lady Baltimorewants him to marry her, and she's a fine girl, nurse says, an' raalsmart, and with the gift o' the gab, an' lots o' tin----"

"_Tommy!_" says his aunt frantically. It is indeed plain to everybodythat Tommy is now quoting nurse, _au naturel_, and that he is betrayingconfidences in a perfectly reckless manner. 

"Don't stop him, " says Mr. Dysart, glancing at Joyce's crimson cheekswith something of disfavor. "'What's Hecuba to me, or I to Hecuba?' I_defy_ you, " a little stormily, "to think I care a farthing for MissMaliphant or for any other woman on earth--_save one_!"

"Oh, you mustn't press your confidences on me, " says she, smiling anddissembling rather finely; "I know nothing. I accuse you of nothing. Only, Tommy, you were a little rude, weren't you?"

"I wasn't, " says Tommy, promptly, in whom the inborn instinct ofself-defence has been largely developed. "It's true. Nurse says she hasa voice like a cow. Is _that_ true?" turning, unabashed to Dysart. 

"She's expected at the Castle, next week. You shall come up and judgefor yourself, " says he, laughing. "And, " turning to Joyce, "you willcome, too, I hope. "

"It is manners to wait to be asked, " returns she, smiling. 

"Oh, as for that, " says he, "Lady Baltimore crossed last night with meand her husband. And here is a letter for you. " He pulls a note of thecocked hat order out of one of his pockets. 

CHAPTER IV. 

 "Tell me where is fancy bred, Or in the heart, or in the head? How begot, how nourished? Reply, reply. "

"An invitation from Lady Baltimore, " says Joyce, looking at the big redcrest, and coloring slightly. 

"Yes. "

"How do you know?" asks she, rather suspiciously. 

The young man raises his hands and eyes. 

"I _swear_ I had nothing to do with it, " says he, "I didn't so much ashint at it. Lady Baltimore spent her time crossing the Channel indeclaring to all who were well enough to hear her, that she lived onlyin the expectation of soon seeing you again. "

"Nonsense!" scornfully; "it is only a month ago since I was stayingthere, just before they went to London. By the bye, what brings themhome now? In the very beginning of their season?"

"_I_ don't know. And it is as well not to inquire perhaps. Baltimore andmy cousin, as all the world knows, have not hit it off together. Yetwhen Isabel married him, we all thought it was quite an ideal marriage, they were so much in love with each other. "

"Hot love soon cools, " says Miss Kavanagh in a general sort of way. 

"I don't believe it, " sturdily, "if it's the right sort of love. However, to go back to your letter--which you haven't even deigned toopen--you _will_ accept the invitation, won't you?"

"I don't know, " hesitating. 

"Oh! I say, _do_ come! It is only for a week, and even if it does boreyou, still, as a Christian, you ought to consider how much, even in thatshort time, you will be able to add to the happiness of your fellowcreatures. "

"Flattery means insincerity, " says she, tilting her chin, "keep all thatsort of thing for your Miss Maliphant; it is thrown away upon me. "

"_My_ Miss Maliphant! Really I must protest against your accrediting mewith such a possession. But look here, _don't_ disappoint us all; andyou won't be dull either, there are lots of people coming. Dicky Brown, for one. "

"Oh! will he be there?" brightening visibly. 

"Yes, " rather gloomily, and perhaps a little sorry that he has saidanything about Mr. Browne's possible arrival--though to feel jealousyabout that social butterfly is indeed to sound the depths of folly; "youlike him?"

"I _love_ him, " says Miss Kavanagh promptly and with sufficiententhusiasm to restore hope in the bosom of any man except a lover. 

"He is blessed indeed, " says he stiffly. "Beyond his deserts I can'thelp thinking. I really think he is the biggest fool I ever met. "

"Oh! not the biggest, surely, " says she, so saucily, and with such areprehensible tendency towards laughter, that he gives way and laughstoo, though unwillingly. 

"True. I'm a bigger, " says he, "but as that is _your_ fault, you shouldbe the last to taunt me with it. "

"Foolish people always talk folly, " says she with an assumption ofindifference that does not hide her red cheeks. "Well, go on, who is tobe at the Court besides Dicky?"

"Lady Swansdown. "

"I like her too. "

"But not so well as you like Dicky, _you_ love him according to your ownstatement. "

"Don't be matter-of-fact!" says Miss Kavanagh, giving him awell-deserved snub. "Do you always say exactly what you mean?"

"Always--to _you_. "

"I daresay you would be more interesting if you didn't, " says she, witha little, lovely smile, that quite spoils the harshness of her words. Ofher few faults, perhaps the greatest is, that she seldom knows her ownmind, where her lovers are concerned, and will blow hot and cold, andmerry and sad, and cheerful, and petulant all in one breath as it were. Poor lovers! they have a hard time of it with her as a rule. But youthis often so, and the cold, still years, as they creep on us, with dullcommon sense and deadly reason in their train, cure us all too soon ofour pretty idle follies. 

Just now she was bent on rebuffing him, but you see her strength failedher, and she spoiled her effect by the smile she mingled with therebuff. The smile indeed was so charming that he remembers nothing butit, and so she not only gains nothing, but loses something to the otherside. 

"Well, I'll try to mend all that, " says he, but so lovingly, and withsuch unaffected tenderness, that she quails beneath his glance. Coquetteas undoubtedly Nature has made her, she has still so gentle a soulwithin her bosom that she shrinks from inflicting _actual_ pain. A pangor two, a passing regret to be forgotten the next hour--or at all eventsin the next change of scene--she is not above imparting, but when peoplegrow earnest like--like Mr. Dysart for example--they grow troublesome. And she hasn't made up her mind to marry, and there are other people----

"The Clontarfs are to be there too, " goes on Dysart, who is a cousin ofLady Baltimore's, and knows all about her arrangements; "and theBrownings, and Norman Beauclerk. "

"The--Clontarfs, " says Joyce, in a hurried way, that might almost becalled confused; to the man who loves her, and who is watching her, itis quite plain that she is not thinking of Lord and Lady Clontarf, whoare quite an ordinary couple and devoted to each other, but of that lastname spoken--Norman Beauclerk; Lady Baltimore's brother, a man, handsome, agreeable, aristocratic--the man whose attentions to her amonth ago had made a little topic for conversation amongst the countrypeople. Dull country people who never go anywhere or see anything beyondtheir stupid selves, and who are therefore driven to do something orother to avoid suicide or the murdering of each other; gossip unlimitedis their safety valve. 

"Yes, and Beauclerk, " persists Dysart, a touch of despair at his heart;"you and he were good friends when last he was over, eh?"

"I am generally very good friends with everybody; not an altogetherdesirable character, not a strong one, " says she smiling, and stillopenly parrying the question. 

"You liked Beauclerk, " says he, a little doggedly perhaps. 

"Ye--es--very well. "

"Very _much_! Why can't you be _honest_!" says he flashing out at her. 

"I don't know what you mean, " coldly. "If, however, you persist on mylooking into it, I--" defiantly--"yes, I _do_ like Mr. Beauclerk verymuch. "

"Well, I don't know what you see in that fellow. "

"Nothing, " airily, having now recovered herself, "that's his charm. "

"If, " gravely, "you gave that as your opinion of Dicky Browne I couldbelieve you. "

She laughs. 

"Poor Dicky, " says she, "what a cruel judgment; and yet you are right;"she has changed her whole manner, and is now evidently bent on restoringhim to good humor, and compelling him to forget all about Mr. Beauclerk. "I must give in to you about Dicky. There isn't even the vaguestsuggestion of meaning about _him_. I--" with a deliberate friendlyglance flung straight into his eyes--"don't often give in to you, do I?"

On this occasion, however, her coquetry--so generally successful--iscompletely thrown away. Dysart, with his dark eyes fixeduncompromisingly upon hers, makes the next move--an antagonistic one. 

"You have a very high opinion of Beauclerk, " says he. 

"Have I?" laughing uneasily, and refusing to let her rising temper giveway. "We all have our opinions on every subject that comes under ournotice. You have one on this subject evidently. "

"Yes, but it is not a high one, " says he unpleasantly. 

"After all, what does that matter? I don't pretend to understand you. Iwill only suggest to you that our opinions are but weak things--mereprejudices--no more. "

"I am not prejudiced against Beauclerk, if you mean that, " a littlehotly. 

"I didn't, " with a light shrug. "Believe me, you think a great deal moreabout him than I do. "

"Are you sure of that?"

"I am at all events sure of one thing, " says she quickly darting at hima frowning glance, "that you have no right to ask me that question. "

"I have not indeed, " acknowledges he stiffly still, but with so open anapology in his whole air that she forgives him. "Many conflictingthoughts led me astray. I must ask your pardon. "

"Why, granted!" says she. "And--I was cross, wasn't I? After all an oldfriend like you might be allowed a little laxity. There, never mind, "holding out her hand. "Let us make it up. "

Dysart grasps the little extended hand with avidity, and peace seemsrestored when Tommy puts an end to all things. To anyone acquainted withchildren I need hardly remark that he has been listening to theforegoing conversation with all his ears and all his eyes and every bitof his puzzled intelligence. 

"Well, go on, " says he, giving his aunt a push when the friendlyhand-shake has come to an end. 

"Go on? Where?" asks she, with apparent unconcern but a deadlyforeboding at her breast. She knows her Tommy. 

"You _said_ you were going to make it up with him!" says that hero, regarding her with disapproving eyes. 

"Well, I have made it up. "

"No, you haven't! When you make it up with me you always kiss me! Whydon't you kiss him?"

Consternation on the part of the principal actors. Dysart, strange tosay, is the first to recover. 

"Why indeed?" says he, giving way all at once to a fatal desire forlaughter. This, Miss Kavanagh, being vexed with herself for her lateconfusion, resents strongly. 

"I am sure, Tommy, " says she, with a mildness that would not haveimposed upon an infant, "that your lesson hour has arrived. Come, saygood-bye to Mr. Dysart, and let us begin at once. You know I am going toteach you to-day. Good-bye, Mr. Dysart--if you want to see Barbara, youwill find her very probably in the study. "

"Don't go like this, " says he anxiously. "Or if you _will_ go, at leasttell me that you will accept Lady Baltimore's invitation. "

"I don't know, " smiling coldly. "I think not. You see I was there forsuch a _long_ time in the beginning of the year, and Barbara alwayswants me, and one should not be selfish you know. "

"One should not indeed!" says he, with slow meaning. "What answer, then, must I give my cousin? You know, " in a low tone, "that she is notaltogether happy. You can lighten her burden a little. She is fond ofyou. "

"I can lighten Barbara's burden also. Think me the very incarnation ofselfishness if you will, " says she rather unjustly, "but still, ifBarbara says 'don't go, ' I shall stay here. "

"Mrs. Monkton won't say that. "

"Perhaps not, " toying idly with a rose, in such a careless fashion asdrives him to despair. Brushing it to and fro across her lips she seemsto have lost all interest in the question in hand. 

"If she says to you 'go, ' how then?"

"Why then--I may still remain here. "

"Well stay then, of course, if you so desire it!" cries he angrily. "Ifto make all your world _un_happy is to make you happy, why be so by allmeans. "

"_All_ my world! Do you suppose then that it will make Barbara andFreddy unhappy to have my company? What a gallant speech!" says she, with a provoking little laugh and a swift lifting of her eyes to his. 

"No, but it will make other people (more than _twice_ two) miserable tobe deprived of it. "

"Are you one of that quartette?" asks she, so saucily, yet withal somerrily that the hardest-hearted lover might forgive her. A littleirresistible laugh breaks from her lips. Rather ruefully he joins in it. 

"I don't think I need answer that question, " says he. "To you at allevents. "

"To me of all people rather, " says she still laughing, "seeing I am theinterested party. "

"No, that character belongs to me. You have no interest in it. To me itis life or death--to--you----"

"No, no, you mustn't talk to me like that. You know I forbid you lasttime we met, and you promised me to be good. "

"I promised then the most difficult thing in the world. But never mindme; the principal thing is, your acceptance or rejection of that note. Joyce!" in a low tone, "_say_ you will accept it. "

"Well, " relenting visibly, and now refusing to meet his eyes, "I'll askBarbara, and if she says I may go I----" pause. 

"You will then accept?" eagerly. 

"I shall then--think about it. "

"You look like an angel, " says he, "and you have the heart of a flint. "

This remark, that might have presumably annoyed another girl, seems tofill Miss Kavanagh with mirth. 

"Am I so bad as that?" cries she, gaily. "Why I shall make amends then. I shall change my evil ways. As a beginning, see here. If Barbara saysgo to the Court, go I will. Now, stern moralist! where are you?"

"In the seventh heaven, " says he, promptly. "Be it a Fool's Paradise orotherwise, I shall take up my abode there for the present. And now youwill go and ask Mrs. Monkton?"

"In what a hurry to get rid of me!" says this coquette of all coquettes. "Well, good-bye then----"

"Oh no, don't go. "

"To the Court? Was ever man so unreasonable? In one breath 'do' and'don't'!"

"Was ever woman so tormenting?"

"Tormenting? No, so discerning if you will, or else so----"

"Adorable! You can't find fault with _that_ at all events. "

"And therefore my mission is at an end! Good-bye, again. "

"Good-bye. " He is holding her hand as though he never means to let herhave it again. "That rose, " says he, pointing to the flower that hadkissed her lips so often. "It is nothing to you, you can pick yourselfanother, give it to me. "

"I can pick you another too, a nice fresh one, " says she. "Here, " movingtowards a glowing bush; "here is a bud worth having. "

"Not that one, " hastily. "Not one this garden, or any other gardenholds, save the one in your hand. It is the only one in the world ofroses worth having. "

"I hate to give a faded gift, " says she, looking at the rose she holdswith apparent disfavor. 

"Then I shall take it, " returns he, with decision. He opens her prettypink palm, releases the dying rosebud from it and places it triumphantlyin his coat. 

"You haven't got any manners, " says she, but she laughs again as shesays it. 

"Except bad ones you should add. "

"Yes, I forgot that. A point lost. Good-bye now, good-bye indeed. "

She waves her hand lightly to him and calling to the children runstowards the house. It seems as if she has carried all the beauty andbrightness and sweetness of the day with her. 

As Dysart turns back again, the afternoon appears grey and gloomy. 

CHAPTER V. 

 "Look ere thou leap, see ere thou go. "

"Well, Barbara, can I go?"

"I don't know"--doubtfully. There is a cloud on Mrs. Monkton's brow, sheis staring out of the window instead of into her sister's face, and sheis evidently a little distressed or uncertain. "You have been there solately, and----"

"You want to say something, " says the younger sister, seating herself onthe sofa, and drawing Mrs. Monkton down beside her. "Why don't you doit?"

"You can't want to go so very much, can you now?" asks the latter, anxiously, almost entreatingly. 

"It is I who don't know this time!" says Joyce, with a smile. "Andyet----"

"It seems only like yesterday that you came back after spending a monththere. "

"A yesterday that dates from six weeks ago, " a little reproachfully. 

"I know. You like being there. It is a very amusing house to be at. Idon't blame you in any way. Lord and Lady Baltimore are both charming intheir ways, and very kind, and yet----"

"There, don't stop; you are coming to it now, the very heart of themeaning. Go on, " authoritatively, and seizing her sister in her arms, "or I'll _shake_ it out of you. "

"It is this then, " says Mrs. Monkton slowly. "I don't think it is a_wise_ thing for you to go there so often. "

"Oh Barbara! Owl of Wisdom as thou art, why not?" The girl is laughing, yet a deep flush of color has crept into each cheek. 

"Never mind the why not. Perhaps it is unwise to go _anywhere_ toooften; and you must acknowledge that you spent almost the entire springthere. "

"Well, I hinted all that to Mr. Dysart. "

"Was he here?"

"Yes. He came down from the Court with the note. "

"And--who else is to be there?"

"Oh! the Clontarfs, and Dicky Browne, and Lady Swansdown and a greatmany others. "

"Mr. Beauclerk?" she does not look at Joyce as she asks this question. 

"Yes. "

A little silence follows, broken at last by Joyce. 

"_May_ I go?"

"Do you think it is the best thing for you to do?" says Mrs. Monkton, flushing delicately. "_Think_, darling! You know--you _must_ know, because you have it always before you, " flushing even deeper, "that tomarry into a family where you are not welcomed with open heart is toknow much private discomfiture. "

"I know this too, " says the girl, petulantly, "that to be married to aman like Freddy, who consults your lightest wish, and is your loveralways, is worth the enduring of anything. "

"I think that too, " says Mrs. Monkton, who has now grown rather pale. "But there is still one more thing to know--that in making such amarriage as we have described, a woman lays out a thorny path for herhusband. She separates him from his family, and as all good men havestrong home ties, she naturally compels him to feel many a secret pang. "

"But he has his compensations. Do you think if Freddy got the chance, hewould give you up and go back to his family?"

"No--not that. But to rejoice in that thought is to be selfish. Whyshould he not have my love and the love of his people too? There is awant somewhere. What I wish to impress upon you, Joyce, is this, that awoman who marries a man against his parents' wishes has much to regret, much to endure. "

"I think you are ungrateful, " says the girl a little vehemently. "Freddyhas made you endure nothing. You are the happiest married woman I know. "

"Yes, but I have made _him_ endure a great deal, " says Mrs. Monkton in alow tone. She rises, and going to the window, stands there looking outupon the sunny landscape, but seeing nothing. 

"Barbara! you are crying, " says Joyce, going up to her abruptly, andfolding her arms round her. 

"It is nothing, dear. Nothing at all, darling. Only--I wish he and hisfather were friends again. Freddy is too good a man not to regret theestrangement. "

"I believe you think Freddy is a little god!" says Joyce laughing. 

"O! not a _little_ one, " says Mrs. Monkton, and as Freddy stands sixfoot one in his socks, they both laugh at this. 

"Still you don't answer me, " says the girl presently. "You don't say'you may' or 'you shan't'--which is it to be, Barbara?"

Her tone is distinctly coaxing now, and as she speaks she gives hersister a little squeeze that is plainly meant to press the desiredpermission out of her. 

Still Mrs. Monkton hesitates. 

"You see, " says she temporizing, "there are so many reasons. The Court, "pausing and flushing, "is not _quite_ the house for so young a girl asyou. "

"Oh Barbara!"

"You can't misunderstand me, " says her sister with agitation. "You knowhow I like, _love_ Lady Baltimore, and how good Lord Baltimore has beento Freddy. When his father cast him off there was very little left to usfor beginning housekeeping with, and when Lord Baltimore gave him hisagency--Oh, _well_! it isn't likely we shall either of us forget to begrateful for _that_. If it was only for ourselves I should say nothing, but it is for you, dear; and--this unfortunate affair--this determinedhostility that exists between Lord and Lady Baltimore, makes itunpleasant for the guests. You know, " nervously, "I hate gossip of anysort, but one must defend one's own. "

"But there is nothing unpleasant; one sees nothing. They are charming toeach other. I have been staying there and I know. "

"Have I not stayed there too? It is impossible Joyce to fight againstfacts. All the world knows they are not on good terms. "

"Well, a great many other people aren't perhaps. "

"When they aren't the tone of the house gets lowered. And I have noticedof late that they have people there, who----"

"Who what, Barbara?"

"Oh yes, I _know_ they are all right; they are received everywhere, butare they good companions for a girl of your years? It is not a healthyatmosphere for you. They are rich people who think less of a hundredguineas than you do of five. Is it wise, I ask you again to accustomyourself to their ways?"

"Nonsense, Barbara!" says her sister, looking at her with a growingsurprise. "That is not like you. Why should we despise the rich, whyshould we seek to emulate them? Surely both you and I have too goodblood in our veins to give way to such follies. " She leans towards Mrs. Monkton, and with a swift gesture, gentle as firm, turns her face to herown. 

"Now for the real reason, " says she. 

Unthinkingly she has brought confusion on herself. Barbara, as thoughstung to cruel candor, gives her the real reason in a sentence. 

"Tell me this, " says she, "which do you like best, Mr. Dysart, or Mr. Beauclerk?"

Joyce, taking her arm from round her sister's neck, moves back from her. A deep color has flamed into her cheeks, then died away again. She looksquite calm now. 

"What a question, " says she. 

"Well, " feverishly, "answer it. "

"Oh, no, " says the girl quickly. 

"Why not? Why not answer it to me, your chief friend? You think thequestion indelicate, but why should I shrink from asking a question onwhich, perhaps, the happiness of your life depends? If--if you have setyour heart on Mr. Beauclerk----" She stops, checked by something in MissKavanagh's face. 

"Well, what then?" asks the latter coldly. 

"It will bring you unhappiness. He is Lady Baltimore's brother. Shealready plans for him. The Beauclerks are poor--he is bound to marrymoney. "

"That is a good deal about Mr. Beauclerk, but what about the otherpossible suitor whom you suppose I am madly in love with?"

"Don't talk to me like that, Joyce. Do you think I have anything atheart except your interests? As to Mr. Dysart, if you like _him_, Iconfess I should be glad of it. He is only a cousin of the Baltimores, and of such moderate means that they would scarcely object to hismarrying a penniless girl. "

"You rate me highly, " says Joyce, with a sudden rather sharp littlelaugh. "I am good enough for the cousin--I am _not_ good enough for thebrother, who may reasonably look higher. "

"Not higher, " haughtily. "He can only marry a girl of good birth. _You_are that, but he, in his position, will look for money, or else hispeople will look for it for him. Whereas, Mr. Dysart----"

"Yes, you needn't go over it all. Mr. Dysart is about on a level withme, he will _never_ have any money, neither shall I. " Suddenly she looksround at her sister, her eyes very bright. "Tell me then, " says she, "what does it all come to? That I am bound to refuse to marry a manbecause he has money, and because I have none. "

"That is not the argument, " says Barbara anxiously. 

"I think it is. "

"It is not. I advise you strongly not to think of Mr. Beauclerk, yet_he_ has no money to speak of. "

"He has more than Freddy. "

"But he is a different man from Freddy--with different tastes, differentaspirations, different----He's different, " emphatically, "in _every_way!"

"To be different from the person one loves is not to be a bad man, " saysJoyce slowly, her eyes on the ground. 

"My dear girl, who has called Mr. Beauclerk a bad man?"

"You don't like him, " says Miss Kavanagh, still more slowly, still withthoughtful eyes downcast. 

"I like Mr. Dysart better if you mean that. "

"No, I don't mean that. And, besides, that is no answer. "

"Was there a question?"

"Yes. Why don't you like Mr. Beauclerk?"

"Have I said I didn't like him?"

"Not in so many words, but----Well, why don't you?"

"I don't know, " rather lamely. 

Miss Kavanagh laughs a little satirically, and Mrs. Monkton, objectingto mirth of that description, takes fire. 

"Why do you _like_ him?" asks she defiantly. 

"I don't know either, " returns Joyce, with a rueful smile. "And afterall I'm not sure that I like him so _very_ much. You evidently imagineme to be head over ears in love with him, yet I, myself, scarcely knowwhether I like him or not. "

"You always look at him so kindly, and you always pull your skirts asideto give him a place by your side. "

"I should do that for Tommy. "

"Would you? That would be _too_ kind, " says Tommy's mother, laughing. "It would mean ruin to your skirts in two minutes. "

"But, consider the gain. The priceless scraps, of wisdom I should hear, even whilst my clothes were being demolished. "

This has been a mere interlude, unintentional on the part of either, and, once over, neither knows how to go on. The question _must_ besettled one way or the other. 

"There is one thing, " says Mrs. Monkton, at length, "You certainlyprefer Mr. Beauclerk to Mr. Dysart. "

"Do I? I wish I knew as much about myself as you know about me. And, after all, it is of no consequence whom I like. The real thingis----Come, Barbara, you who know so much can tell me this----"

"Well?" says Mrs. Monkton, seeing she has grown very red, and isevidently hesitating. 

"No. This absurd conversation has gone far enough. I was going to askyou to solve a riddle, but----"

"But what?"

"You are too serious about it. "

"Not _too_ serious. It is very important. "

"Oh, Barbara, do you _know_ what you are saying?" cries the girl with anangry little stamp, turning to her a face pale and indignant. "You havebeen telling me in so many words that I am in love with either Mr. Beauclerk or Mr. Dysart. Pray now, for a change, tell me which of themis in love with _me_. "

"Mr. Dysart, " says Barbara quietly. 

Her sister laughs angrily. 

"You think everybody who looks at me is in love with me. "

"Not _every_one!"

"Meaning Mr. Beauclerk. "

"No, " slowly. "I think he likes you, too, but he is a man who willalways _think_. You know he has come in for that property in Hampshirethrough his uncle's death, but he got no money with it. It is a largeplace, impossible to keep up without a large income, and his uncle leftevery penny away from him. It is in great disrepair, the houseespecially. I hear it is falling to pieces. Mr. Beauclerk is anambitious man, he will seek means to rebuild his house. "

"Well what of that? It is an interesting bit of history, but how does itconcern me? Take that troubled look out of your eyes, Barbara. I assureyou Mr. Beauclerk is as little to me as I am to him. "

She speaks with such evident sincerity, with such an undeniable beliefin the truth of her own words, that Mrs. Monkton, looking at her andreading her soul through her clear eyes, feels a weight lifted from herheart. 

"That is all right then, " says she simply. She turns as if to go away, but Miss Kavanagh has still a word or two to say. 

"I may go to the Court?" says she. 

"Yes; I suppose so. "

"But you won't be vexed if I go, Barbie?"

"No; not now. "

"Well, " slipping her arm through hers, with an audible sigh of delight. "_That's_ settled. "

"Things generally _do_ get settled the way you want them to be, " saysMrs. Monkton, laughing. "Come, what about your frocks, eh?"

From this out they spend a most enjoyable hour or two. 

CHAPTER VI. 

 "Or if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer, That leaves look pale, thinking the winter's near. "

The visit to the Court being decided on, Miss Kavanagh undertakes lifeafresh, with a joyous heart. Lord and Lady Baltimore are the best hostand hostess in the world, and a visit to them means unmixed pleasurewhile it lasts. The Court is, indeed, the pleasantest house in thecounty, the most desirable in all respects, and the gayest. Yet, strangeand sad to add, happiness has found no bed within its walls. 

This is the more remarkable in that the marriage of Lord and LadyBaltimore had been an almost idealistic one. They had been very much inlove with each other. All the hosts of friends and relations thatbelonged to either side had been delighted with the engagement. So manyimprudent marriages were made, so many disastrous ones; but _here_ was amarriage where birth and money went together, and left no guardians orparents lamenting. All Belgravia stood still and stared at the youngcouple with genuine admiration. It wasn't often that love, pure andsimple, fell into their midst, and such a _satisfactory_ love too! Noneof your erratic darts that struck the wrong breasts, and createdconfusion for miles round, but a thoroughly proper, respectable wingedarrow that pierced the bosoms of those who might safely be congratulatedon the reception of it. 

They had, indeed, been very much in love with each other. Few peoplehave known such extreme happiness as fell to their lot for two wholeyears. They were wrapt up in each other, and when the little son came atthe end of that time, _nothing_ seemed wanted. They grew so strong intheir belief in the immutability of their own relations, one to theother, that when the blow fell that separated them, it proved a verylightning-stroke, dividing soul from body. 

Lady Baltimore could be at no time called a beautiful woman. But thereis always a charm in her face, a strength, an attractiveness that mightwell defy the more material charms of a lovelier woman than herself. With a soul as pure as her face, and a mind entirely innocent of theworld's evil ways--and the sad and foolish secrets she is compelled tobear upon her tired bosom from century to century--she took with abitter hardness the revelations of her husband's former life before hemarried her, related to her by--of course--a devoted friend. 

Unfortunately the authority was an undeniable one. It was impossible forLady Baltimore to refuse to believe. The past, too, she might havecondoned; though, believing in her husband as she did, it would alwayshave been bitter to her, but the devoted friend--may all such meet theirjust reward!--had not stopped there; she had gone a step further, afatal step; she had told her something that had _not_ occurred sincetheir marriage. 

Perhaps the devoted friend believed in her lie, perhaps she did not. Anyway, the mischief was done. Indeed, from the beginning seeds ofdistrust had been laid, and, buried in so young and unlearned a bosom, had taken a fatal grip. 

The more fatal in that there was truth in them. As a fact, LordBaltimore had been the hero of several ugly passages in his life. Hisearly life, certainly; but a young wife who has begun by thinking himimmaculate, would hardly be the one to lay stress upon _that_. And whenher friend, who had tried unsuccessfully to marry Lord Baltimore and hadfailed, had in the kindliest spirit, _of course_, opened her eyes to hismisdoings, she had at first passionately refused to listen, then _had_listened, and after that was ready to listen to anything. 

One episode in his past history had been made much of. The sorry heroineof it had been an actress. This was bad enough, but when thedisinterested friend went on to say that Lord Baltimore had been seen inher company only so long ago as last week, matters came to a climax. That was a long time ago from to-day, but the shock when it cameshattered all the sacred feelings in Lady Baltimore's heart. She grewcold, callous, indifferent. Her mouth, a really beautiful feature, thatused to be a picture of serenity and charity personified, hardened. Shebecame austere, cold. Not difficult, so much as unsympathetic. She wasstill a good hostess, and those who had known her _before_ hermisfortune still loved her. But she made no new friends, and she satdown within herself, as it were, and gave herself up to her fate, andwould probably have died or grown reckless but for her little son. 

And it was _after_ the birth of this beloved child that she had beentold that _her_ husband had again been seen in company with MadameIstray; _that_ seemed to add fuel to the fire already kindled. She couldnot forgive that. It was proof positive of his baseness. 

To the young wife it was all a revelation, a horrible one. She had beenso stunned by it, that she, accepted it as it stood, and learning thatthe stories of his life _before_ marriage were true, had decided thatthe stories told of his life _after_ marriage were true also. She wasyoung, and youth is always hard. 

To her no doubt remained of his infidelity. She had come of a brave oldstock, who, if they could not fight, could at least endure in silence, and knew well the necessity of keeping her name out of the public mouth. She kept herself well in hand, therefore, and betrayed nothing of allshe had been feeling. She dismissed her friend with a gentle air, dignified, yet of sufficient haughtiness to let that astute and nowdecidedly repentant lady know that never again would she enter the doorsof the Court, or any other of Lady Baltimore's houses; yet sherestrained herself all through so well that, even until the very endcame, her own husband never knew how horribly she suffered through herdisbelief in him. 

He thought her heartless. There was no scandal, no public separation. She said a word or two to him that told him what she had heard, and whenhe tried to explain the truths of that last libel that had declared himunfaithful to her since her marriage, she had silenced him with so cold, so scornful, so contemptuous a glance and word, that, chilled andangered in his turn, he had left her. 

Twice afterwards he had sought to explain matters, but it was useless. She would not listen; the treacherous friend, whom she never betrayed, had done her work well. Lady Baltimore, though she never forgave _her_, would not forgive her husband either; she would make no formal attemptat a separation. Before the world she and he lived together, seeminglyon the best terms; at all events on quite as good terms as most of theiracquaintances; yet all the world knew how it was with them. So long asthere are servants, so long will it be impossible to effectually concealour most sacred secrets. 

Her friends, when the Baltimores went to visit them, made arrangementsto suit them. It was a pity, everybody said, that such complicationsshould have arisen, and one would not have expected it from Isabel, butthen she seemed so cold, that probably a climax like that did not affecther as much as it might another. She was so entirely wrapped up in herboy--some women were like that--a child sufficed them. And as for LordBaltimore--Cyril--why----Judgment was divided here; the women taking hispart, the men hers. The latter finding an attraction hardly to bedefined in her pure, calm, rather impenetrable face, that had yet asmile so lovely that it could warm the seemingly cold face into asomething that was more effective than mere beauty. It was a wonderfulsmile, and, in spite of all her troubles, was by no means rare. LadyBaltimore, they all acknowledged, was a delightful guest and hostess. 

As for Lord Baltimore, he--well, he would know how to console himself. Society, the crudest organization on earth, laughed to itself about him. He had known how to live before his marriage; now that the marriage hadproved a failure, he would still know how to make life bearable. 

In this they wronged him. 

CHAPTER VII. 

 "Ils n'employent les paroles qué pour déguiser leurs pensées. "--VOLTAIRE. 

Even the most dyspeptic of the guests had acknowledged at breakfast, some hours ago now, that a lovelier day could hardly be imagined. LadyBaltimore, with a smile, had agreed with him. It was, indeed, impossiblenot to agree with him. The sun was shining high in the heavens, and asoft, velvetty air blew through the open windows right on to the table. 

"What shall we do to-day?" Lady Swansdown, one of the guests, had asked, addressing her question to Lord Baltimore, who just then was helping hislittle son to porridge. 

Whatever she liked. 

"Then _nothing_!" says she, in that soft drawl of hers, and that littlefamiliar imploring, glance of hers at her hostess, who sat behind theurn, and glanced back at her ever so kindly. 

"Yes, it was too warm to dream of exertion; would Lady Swansdown like, to remain at home then, and dream away the afternoon in a hammock?"

"Dreams were delightful; but to dream _alone_----"

"Oh, no; they would all, or at least most of them, stay with her. " Itwas Lady Baltimore who had said this, after waiting in vain for herhusband to speak--to whom, indeed, Lady Swansdown's question had beenrather pointedly addressed. 

So at home they all had stayed. No one being very keen about doinganything on a day so sultry. 

Yet now, when luncheon is at an end, and the day still heavy with heat, the desire for action that lies in every breast takes fire. They are alltired of doing nothing. The Tennis-courts lie invitingly empty, andrackets thrust themselves into notice at every turn; as for the balls, worn out from _ennui_, they insert themselves under each arched instep, threatening to bring the owners to the ground unless picked up and madeuse of. 

"Who wants a beating?" demands Mr. Browne at last, unable to pretendlassitude any longer. Taking up a racket he brandishes it wildly, presumably to attract attention. This is necessary. As a rule nobodypays any attention to Dicky Browne. 

He is a nondescript sort of young man, of the negative order; with nofeatures to speak of, and a capital opinion of himself. Income vague. Age unknown. 

"Well! That's _one_ way of putting it, " says Miss Kavanagh, with alittle tilt of her pretty chin. 

"Is it a riddle?" asks Dysart. "If so I know it. The answer is--DickyBrowne. "

"Oh, I _like_ that!" says Mr. Browne unabashed. "See here, I'll give youplus fifteen, and a bisque, and start myself at minus thirty, and beatyou in a canter. "

"Dear Mr. Browne, consider the day! I believe there are such things assunstrokes, " says Lady Swansdown, in her sweet treble. 

"There are. But Dicky's all right, " says Lord Baltimore, drawing up agarden chair close to hers, and seating himself upon it. "His head issafe. The sun makes no impression upon granite!"

"Ah, _granite_! that applies to a heart not a head, " says LadySwansdown, resting her blue eyes on Baltimore's for just a swift second. 

It is wonderful, however, what her eyes can do in a second. Baltimorelaughs lightly, returns her glance four-fold, and draws his chair aquarter of an inch closer to hers. To move it more than that would havebeen an impossibility. Lady Swansdown makes a slight movement. With asmile seraphic as an angel's, she pulls her lace skirts a little to oneside, as if to prove to Baltimore that he has encroached beyond hisprivileges upon her domain. "People should not _crush_ people. And _why_do you want to get so very close to me?" This question lies within theserene eyes she once more raises to his. 

She is a lovely woman, blonde, serene, dangerous! In each glance sheturns upon the man who happens at any moment to be next to her, lies anentire chapter on the "Whole Art of Flirtation. " Were she reduced topenury, and the world a little more advanced in its fashionable ways, she might readily make a small fortune in teaching young ladies "How toMarry Well. " No man could resist her pupils, once properly finished byher and turned out to prey upon the stronger sex. "The Complete Angler"would be a title they might filch with perfect honor and call their own. 

She is a tall beauty, with soft limbs, graceful as a panther, or a cat. Her eyes are like the skies in summer time, her lips sweet and full. Thesilken hair that falls in soft masses on her Grecian brow is light ascorn in harvest, and she has hands and feet that are absolutelyfaultless. She has even more than all these--a most convenient husband, who is not only now but apparently always in a position of trust abroad. Very _much_ abroad. The Fiji, or the Sandwich Islands for choice. Onecan't hear from those centres of worldly dissipation in a hurry. Andafter all, it really doesn't very much matter _where_ he is!

There had been a whisper or two in the County about her and LordBaltimore. Everybody knew the latter had been a little wild since hisestrangement with his wife, but nothing to signify very much--nothingthat one could lay one's finger on, until Lady Swansdown had come downlast year to the Court. Whether Baltimore was in love with her wasuncertain, but all were agreed that she was in love with him. Not thatshe made an _esclandre_ of any sort, but _one could see_! And still! shewas such a friend of _Lady_ Baltimore's--an old friend. They had beengirls together--that was what was so wonderful! And Lady Baltimore madevery much of her, and treated her with the kindliest observances, and----But one had often heard of the serpent that one nourished inone's bosom only that it might come to life and sting one! The Countygrew wise over this complication; and perhaps when Mrs. Monkton hadhinted to Joyce of the "odd people" the Baltimores asked to the Court, she had had Lady Swansdown in her mind. 

"Whose heart?" asks Baltimore, _à propos_ of her last remark. "Yours?"

It is a leading remark, and something in the way it is uttered strikesunpleasantly on the ears of Dysart. Baltimore is bending over his lovelyguest, and looking at her with an admiration too open to be quiterespectful. But she betrays no resentment. She smiles back at him indeedin that little slow, seductive way of hers, and makes him an answer in atone too low for even those nearest to her to hear. It is a sort ofchallenge, a tacit acknowledgment that they two are alone even in themidst of all these tiresome people. 

Baltimore accepts it. Of late he has grown a little reckless. Thebattling against circumstances has been too much for him. He has goneunder. The persistent coldness of his wife, her refusal to hear, orbelieve in him, has had its effect. A man of a naturally warm and kindlydisposition, thrown thus back upon himself, he has now given a looserein to the carelessness that has been a part of his nature since hismother gave him to the world, and allows himself to swim or go down withthe tide that carries his present life upon its bosom. 

Lady Swansdown is lovely and kind. Always with that sense of injury fullupon him, that half-concealed but ever-present desire for revenge uponthe wife who has so coldly condemned and cast him aside, he flingshimself willingly into a flirtation, ready made to his hand, and asdangerous as it seems light. 

His life, he tells himself, is hopelessly embittered. The best things init are denied him; he gives therefore the more heed to the honeyed wordsof the pretty creature near him, who in truth likes him too well for herown soul's good. 

That detested husband of hers, out there _somewhere_, the only thoughtshe ever gives him is when she remembers with horror how as a young girlshe was sold to him. For years she had believed herself heartless--ofall her numerous love affairs not one had really touched her until now, and _now_ he is the husband of her oldest friend; of the one woman whomperhaps in all the world she really respects. 

At times her heart smites her, and a terrible longing to go away--todie--to make an end of it--takes possession of her at other times. Sheleans towards Baltimore, her lovely eyes alight, her soft mouth smiling. Her whispered words, her only half-averted glances, all tell their tale. Presently it is clear to everyone that a very fully developed flirtationis well in hand. 

Lady Baltimore coming across the grass with a basket in one hand and herlittle son held fondly by the other, sees and grasps the situation. Baltimore, leaning over Lady Swansdown, the latter lying back in herlounging chair in her usual indolent fashion, swaying her feather fanfrom side to side, and with white lids lying on the azure eyes. 

Seeing it all, Lady Baltimore's mouth hardens, and a contemptuousexpression destroys the calm dignity of her face. For the moment _only_. Another moment, and it is gone: she has recovered herself. The one signof emotion she has betrayed is swallowed up by her stern determinationto conceal all pain at all costs, and if her fingers tighten somewhatconvulsively on those of her boy's, why, who can be the wiser of _that_?No one can see it. 

Dysart, however, who is honestly fond of his cousin, has mastered thatfirst swift involuntary contraction of the calm brow, and a sense ofindignant anger against Baltimore and his somewhat reckless companionfires his blood. He springs quickly to his feet. 

Lady Baltimore, noting the action, though not understanding the motivefor it, turns and smiles at him--so controlled a smile that it quietshim at once. 

"I am going to the gardens to try and cajole McIntyre out of someroses, " says she, in her sweet, slow way, stopping near the first groupshe reaches on the lawn--the group that contains, amongst others, herhusband, and----her friend. She would not willingly have stayed wherethey were, but she is too proud to pass them by without a word. "Whowill come with me? Oh! _no_, " as several rise to join her, laughing, though rather faintly. "It is not compulsory--even though I go alone, Ishall feel that I am equal to McIntyre. "

Lord Baltimore had started as her first words fell upon his ears. He hadbeen so preoccupied that her light footfalls coming over the grass hadnot reached him, and her voice, when it fell upon the air, gave him ashock. He half rises from his seat:

"Shall I?" he is beginning, and then stops short, something in her facechecking him. 

"_You!_" she conquers herself a second later; all the scorn and contemptis crushed, by sheer force of will, out of look and tone, and she goeson as clearly, and as entirely without emotion, as though she were amere machine--a thing she has taught herself to be. "Not you, " she saysgaily, waving him lightly from her. "You are too useful here"--as shesays this she gives him the softest if fleetest smile. It is amasterpiece. "You can amuse one here and there, whilst I--I--I want agirl, I think, " looking round. "Bertie, "--with a fond, an almostpassionate glance at her little son--"always likes one of hissweethearts (and they are many) to accompany him when he takes his walksabroad. "

"Like father, like son, I daresay. Ha, ha!" laughs a fatuous youth--aMr. Courtenay--who lives about five miles from the Court, and hasdropped in this afternoon, very unfortunately, it must be confessed, topay his respects to Lady Baltimore. Fools always hit on the truth!_Why_, nobody knows, except the heavens above us--but so it is. YoungCourtenay, who has heard nothing of the unpleasant relations existingbetween his host and hostess, and who would be quite incapable ofunderstanding them if he _had_ heard, now springs a remark upon theassembled five or six people present that almost reduces them to powder. 

Dysart casts a murderous glance at him. 

"A clever old proverb, " says Lady Baltimore lightly. She is apparentlythe one unconcerned person amongst them. "I always like those oldsayings. There is so much truth in them. "

She has forced herself to say this; but as the words pass her lips sheblanches perceptibly. As if unable to control herself she draws herlittle son towards her; her arms tighten round him. The boy respondsgladly to the embrace, and to those present who know nothing, it seemsthe simplest thing in the world. The mother, --the child; naturally theywould caress each other on each and every occasion. The agony of themother is unknown to them; the fear that her boy, her treasure, mayinherit something of his father, and in his turn prove unfaithful to theheart that trusts him. 

It is a very little scene, scarcely worth recording, yet the anguish ofa strong heart lies embodied in it. 

"If you are going to the gardens, Lady Baltimore, let me go with you, "says Miss Maliphant, rising quickly and going toward her. She is a big, loud girl, with money written all over her in capital letters, but DickyBrowne watching her, tells himself she has a good heart. "I should_love_ to go there with you and Bertie. "

"Come, then, " says Lady Baltimore graciously. She makes a step forward;little Bertie, as though he likes and believes in her, thrusts his smallfist into the hand of the Birmingham heiress, and thus united, all threepass out of sight. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

 "I have no other but a woman's reason: I think him so, because I think him so. "

When a corner near the rhododendrons has concealed them from view, Dysart rises from his seat and goes deliberately over to where LadySwansdown is sitting. She is an old friend of his, and he has thereforeno qualms about being a little brusque with her where occasion demandsit. 

"Have a game?" says he. His suggestion is full of playfulness, his tone, however, is stern. 

"Dear Felix, why?" says she, smiling up at him beautifully. There iseven a suspicion of amusement in her smile. 

"A change!" says he. His words this time might mean something, his toneanything. She can read either as she pleases. 

"True!" says she laughing. "There is nothing like change. You havewakened me to a delightful fact. Lord Baltimore, " turning languidly toher companion, who has been a little _distrait_ since his wife and sonpassed by him. "What do you say to trying a change for just we two. Variety they _say_ is charming, shall we try if shade and coolness andcomfort are to be found in that enchanting glade down there?" She pointsas she speaks to an opening in the wood where perpetual twilight seemsto reign, as seen from where they now are sitting. 

"If you will, " says Baltimore, still a little vaguely. He gets up, however, and stretches his arms indolently above his head as one mightwho is flinging from him the remembrance of an unpleasant dream. 

"The sun here is intolerable, " says Lady Swansdown, rising too. "Morethan one can endure. Thanks, dear Felix, for your suggestion. I shouldnever have thought of the glade if you hadn't asked me to play thatimpossible game. "

She smiles a little maliciously at Dysart, and, accompanied by LordBaltimore, moves away from the assembled groups upon the lawn to the dimrecesses of the leafy glade. 

"_Sold!_" says Mr. Browne to Dysart. It is always impossible to Dicky tohold his tongue. "But you needn't look so cut up about it. 'Tisn't goodenough, my dear fellow. I know 'em both by heart. Baltimore is as muchin love with her as he is with his Irish tenants, but his imagination ishis strong point, and it pleases him to think he has found at last forthe twentieth time a solace for all his woes in the disinterested loveof somebody, it really never much matters who. "

"There is more in it than _you_ think, " says Dysart gloomily. 

"Not a fraction!" airily. 

"And what of her? Lady Swansdown?"

"Of her! Her heart has been in such constant use for years that by thistime it must be in tatters. Give up thinking about that. Ah! here is mybeloved girl again!" He makes an elaborate gesture of delight as he seesJoyce advancing in his direction. "_Dear_ Joyce!" beaming on her, "whoshall say there is nothing in animal magnetism. Here I have been justtalking about you to Dysart, and telling him what a lost soul I feelwhen you're away, and instantly, as if in answer to my keen desire, youappear before me. "

"Why aren't you playing tennis?" demands Miss Kavanagh, with a crueldisregard of this flowery speech. 

"Because I was waiting for you. "

"Well, I'll beat you, " says she, "I always do. "

"Not if you play on my side, " reproachfully. 

"What! Have you for a _partner_! Nonsense, Dicky, you know I shouldn'tdream of that. Why it is as much as ever you can do to put the ball overthe net. "

"'Twas ever thus, '" quotes Mr. Browne mournfully. "The sincerest worshipgains only scorn and contumely. But never mind! the day will come!----"

"To an end, " says Miss Kavanagh, giving a finish to his sentence nevermeant. "That, " cheerfully, "is just what I think. If we don't have agame now, the shades of night will be on us before we can look roundus. "

"Will you play with me?" says Dysart. 

"With pleasure. Keep your eye on this near court, and when this game isat an end, call it ours;" she sinks into a chair as she speaks, andDysart, who is in a silent mood, flings himself on the grass at her feetand falls into a reverie. To be conversational is unnecessary, DickyBrowne is on the spot. 

 * * * * *

Hotter and hotter grows the sun; the evening comes on apace; a fewpeople from the neighboring houses have dropped in; Mrs. Monkton amongstothers, with Tommy in tow. The latter, who is supposed to entertain astrong affection for Lady Baltimore's little son, no sooner, however, sees Dicky Browne than he gives himself up to his keeping. What theattraction is that Mr. Browne has for children has never yet beenclearly defined. It is the more difficult to arrive at a satisfactoryconclusion about it, in that no child was ever yet left in his sole carefor ten minutes without coming to blows, or tears, or a determinedattempt at murder or suicide. 

His mother, seeing Tommy veering towards this uncertain friend, turns adoubtful eye on Mr. Browne. 

"Better come with me, Tommy, " says she, "I am going to the gardens tofind Lady Baltimore. She will have Bertie with her. "

"I'll stay with Dicky, " says Tommy, flinging himself broadcast on Mr. Brown's reluctant chest, that gives forth a compulsory "Wough" as hedoes so. "He'll tell me a story. "

"Don't be unhappy, Mrs. Monkton, " says the latter, when he has recovereda little from the shock--Tommy is a well-grown boy, with a sufficientamount of adipose matter about him to make his descent felt. "I'llpromise to be careful. Nothing French I assure you. Nothing that couldshock the young mind, or teach it how to shoot in the wrong direction. My tales are always strictly moral. "

"Well, Tommy, be _good_!" says Mrs. Monkton with a last imploring glanceat her son, who has already forgotten her existence, being lost in awild wrestling match with his new friend. With deep forebodings hismother leaves him and goes upon her way. Passing Joyce, she says in alow whisper:

"Keep an eye on Tommy. "

"Both eyes if you like, " laughing. "But Dicky, in spite of his evilreputation, seldom goes to extremes. "

"Tommy does, however, " says Mrs. Monkton tritely. 

"Well--I'll look after him. "

And so perhaps she might have done, had not a light step sounding justbehind her chair at this moment caused her to start--to look round--toforget all but what she now sees. 

He is a very aristocratic-looking man, tall, with large limbs, and bigindeed, in every way. His eyes are light, his nose a handsome Roman, hisforehead massive, and if not grand in the distinctly intellectual way, still a fine forehead and impressive. His hands are of a goodly size, but exquisitely proportioned, and very white, the skin almost delicate. He is rather like his sister, Lady Baltimore, and yet so different fromher in every way that the distinct resemblance that is surely theretorments the observer. 

"_Why!_" says Joyce. It is the most foolish exclamation and meansnothing, but she finds herself a little taken off her guard. "I didn'tknow you were here!" She has half risen. 

"Neither did I--how d'ye do, Dysart?--until half an hour ago. Won't youshake hands?"

He holds out his own hand to her as he speaks. There is a quizzicallight in his eyes as he speaks, nothing to offend, but one can see thathe finds amusement in the fact that the girl has been so much impressedby his unexpected appearance that she has even forgotten the small usualact of courtesy with which we greet our friends. She had, indeed, beendead to everything but his coming. 

"You came----" falters she, stammering a little, as she notes hermistake. 

"By the mid-day train; I gave myself just time to snatch a sandwich fromPurdon (the butler), say a word or two to my sister, whom I found in thegarden, and then came on here to ask you to play this next game withme. "

"Oh! I am so sorry, but I have promised it to----"

The words are out of her mouth before she has realized the fact thatDysart is listening--Dysart, who is lying at her feet, watching everyexpression in her mobile face. She colors hotly, and looks down at himconfused, lovely. 

"I didn't mean--_that_!" says she, trying to smile indifferently, "Only----"

"_Don't!_" says Dysart, not loudly, not curtly, yet in so strange anddecided a way that it renders her silent. "You mustn't mind me, " sayshe, a second later, in his usual calm tone. "I know you and Beauclerkare wonderful players. You can give me a game later on. "

"A capital arrangement, " says Beauclerk, comfortably sinking into achair beside her, with all the lazy manner of a man at peace withhimself and his world, "especially as I shall have to go in presently towrite some letters for the evening post. "

He places his elbows on the arms of the chair, brings the ends of hisfingers together, and beams admiringly at Joyce over the tops of them. 

"How busy you always are, " says she, slowly. 

"Well you see, this appointment, or, rather, the promise of it, keeps megoing. Tremendous lot of interest to work up. Good deal of bother, youknow, but then, beggars--eh?--can't be choosers, can they? And I shouldlike to go to the East; that is, if----"

He pauses, beams again, and looks boldly into Miss Kavanagh's eyes. Sheblushes hotly, and, dropping her fan, makes a little attempt to pick itup again. Mr. Beauclerk makes another little attempt, and so managesthat his hand meets hers. There is a slight, an almost benevolentpressure. 

Had they looked at Dysart as they both resumed their places, they couldhave seen that his face is white as death. Miss Kavanagh, too, looks alittle pale, a little uncertain, but as a whole nervously happy. 

"I've been down at that old place of mine, " goes on Mr. Beauclerk. "Terrible disrepair--take thousands to put it in any sort of order. Andwhere's one to get them? That's the one question that has got no answernow-a-days. Eh, Dysart?"

"There is an answer, however, " says Dysart, curtly, not looking at him. 

"Ah, well, I suppose so. But I haven't heard it yet. "

"Oh, yes, I think you have, " says Dysart, quite politely, but grimly, nevertheless. 

"Dear fellow, how? where? unless one discovers a _mine_ or an Africandiamond-field?"

"Or an heiress, " says Dysart, incidentally. 

"Hah! lucky dog, that comes home to _you_, " says Beauclerk, giving him aplayful pat on his shoulder, and stooping from his chair to do it, asDysart still sits upon the grass. 

"Not to me. "

"No? You _will_ be modest? Well, well! But talking of that old place, Iassure you, Miss Kavanagh, it worries me--it does, indeed. It soundslike one's _duty_ to restore it, and still----"

"There are better things than even an old place, " says Dysart. 

"Ah! you haven't one you see, " cries Beauclerk, with the utmostgeniality. "If you had----I really think if you had you would understandthat it requires a sacrifice to give it up to moths and rust and ruin. "

"I said there were better things than old places, " says Dysart doggedly, never looking in his direction. "And if there are, _make_ a sacrifice. "

"Pouf! Lucky fellows like you--gay soldier lads--with hearts as light assunbeams, can easily preach; but sacrifices are not so easily made. There is that horrid word, Duty! And a man must sometimes _think_!"

Joyce, as though the last word has struck some answering chord thatwounds her as it strikes, looks suddenly at him. _What_ was it Barbarahad said? "He was a man who would always _think_, "--is he thinkingnow--even now--at this moment?--is he weighing matters in his mind?

"Hah!" says Beauclerk rising and pointing to the court nearest them;"_that_ game is over. Come on, Miss Kavanagh, let us go and get ourscalps. I say, Dysart, will you fight it out with us?"

"No thanks. "

"Afraid?" gaily. 

"Of you--no, " smiling; the smile is admirably done, and would be takenas the genuine article anywhere. 

"Of Miss Kavanagh; then?"

For a brief instant, and evidently against his wish, Dysart's eyes meetthose of Joyce. 

"Perhaps, " says he. 

"A poor compliment to me, " says Beauclerk, with his pleasant laugh thatalways rings _so_ softly. "Well, never mind; I forgive you. Get a goodpartner, my dear fellow, and _she_ may pull you through. You see Idepend entirely upon mine, " with a glance at Joyce, full of expression. "There's Miss Maliphant now--she'd make a good partner if you like. "

"I shouldn't, " says Dysart, immovably. 

"She plays a good game, I can tell you. "

"So do you, " says Dysart. 

"Oh, now, Dysart, don't be sarcastic, " says Beauclerk laughing. "Ibelieve you are afraid of me, not of Miss Kavanagh, and that's why youwon't play. But if you were to put yourself in Miss Maliphant's hands, Idon't say but that you would have a chance of beating me. "

"I shall beat you by myself or not at all, " says Dysart suddenly, andfor the first time looking fair at him. 

"A single, you mean?"

"Yes, a single. "

"Well--we shall see, " says Beauclerk. "Hah, there is Courtenay. Comealong, Miss Kavanagh, we must make up a set as best we may, as Dysart istoo lazy to face us. "

"The next game is ours, Mr. Dysart, remember, " says she, glancing atDysart over her shoulder. There is a touch of anxiety in her eyes. 

"I _always_ remember, " says he, with a rather ambiguous smile. What ishe remembering now? Joyce's mouth takes a grave curve as she followsBeauclerk down the marble steps that lead to the tennis-ground below. 

The evening has grown very still. The light wind that all day long hassung among the leaves has gone to sleep. Only the monotonous countingsof the tennis players can be heard. Suddenly above these, another soundarises. It is _not_ the voice of the charmer. It is the voice of Tommyin full cry, and mad with a desire to gain the better of the argumentnow going on between him and Mr. Browne. Mr. Browne is still, however, holding his own. He generally does. His voice grows eloquent. _All_ canhear. 

"I shall tell my story, Tommy, in my own way, or I shall not tell it atall!" The dignity that Mr. Browne throws into this threat is hardly tobe surpassed. 

CHAPTER IX. 

 "Sweet food of sweetly uttered knowledge. "

"Tisn't right, " says Tommy. 

"_I_ think it is. If you kindly listen to it once again, and give yourentire attention to it, you will see how faulty is the ignorantconclusion to which you have come. "

"I'm not one bit ignorant, " says Tommy indignantly. "Nurse says I'm thedickens an' all at my Bible, and that I know Genesis better'n _she_does. "

"And a very engaging book it is too, " says Mr. Browne, "but it isn'teverything. What _you_ want to study, my good boy, is natural history. You are very ignorant about that, at all events. "

"A cow _couldn't_ do it, " says Tommy. 

"History says she can. Now, listen again. It is a grand old poem, and Iam grieved and distressed, Thomas, to find that you refuse to accept itas one of the gems of truth thrown up to us out of the Dark Ages. Areyou ready?

 "'Diddle-dee, diddle-dee dumpty, The cow ran up the plum-tree. Half-a-crown to fetch her----'"

"She _didn't_--'twas the _cat_, " cries Tommy. 

"Not in _my_ story, " says Mr. Browne, mildly but firmly. 

"A cow _couldn't_ go up a plum-tree, " indignantly. 

"She could in _my_ story, " persists Mr. Browne, with all the air of onewho, even to avoid unpleasantness, would not consent to go against thedictates of his conscience. 

"She _couldn't_, I tell you, " roars Tommy, now thoroughly incensed. "Shecouldn't _climb_. Her horns would stick in the branches. She'd be too_heavy_!"

"I admit, Thomas, " says Mr. Browne gravely, "that your argument soundsas though there were some sense in it. But who am I that I should dareto disbelieve ancient history? It is unsafe to throw down old landmarks, to blow up the bulwarks of our noble constitution. Beware, Tommy! nevertread on the tail of Truth. It may turn and rend you. "

"Her name isn't Truth, " says Tommy. "Our cow's name is Biddy, and shenever ran up a tree in her life. "

"She's young, " says Mr. Browne. "She'll learn. So are _you_--_you'll_learn. And remember this, my boy, always respect old legends. Adisregard for them will so unsettle you that finally you will findyourself--at the foot of the gallows in all human probability. Isuppose, " sadly, "that you are even so far gone in scepticism as todoubt the glorious truth of the moon's being made of green cheese?"

"Father says that's nonsense, " says Tommy promptly, and with an air oftriumph, "and father always knows. "

"I blush for your father, " says Mr. Browne with increasing melancholy. "Both he and you are apparently sunk in heathen darkness. Well, well; wewill let the question of the moon go by, though I suppose you know, Tommy, that the real and original moon first rose in Cheshire. "

"No, I don't, " says Tommy, with a militant glare. "There was once aCheshire cat; there never was a Cheshire moon. "

"I suppose you will tell me next there never was a Cheshire cheese, "says Mr. Browne severely. "Don't you see the connection? But never mind. Talking of cats brings us back to our mutton, and from thence to ourcow. I do hope, Tommy, that for the future you will, at all events, _try_ to believe in that faithful old animal who skipped so gaily up anddown, and hither and thither, and in and out, and all about, thatlong-suffering old plum-tree. "

"She never did it, " says Tommy stamping with rage and now nearly intears. "I've books--I've books, and 'tisn't in _any_ of them. "

"It is in _my_ book, " says Mr. Browne, who ought to be ashamed ofhimself. 

"I don't believe you ever _read_ a book, " screams Tommy furiously. "'Twas the cat--the cat--the cat!"

"No; 'twas the horned cow, " says Mr. Browne, in a sepulchral tone, whereat Tommy goes for him. 

There is a wild and desperate conflict. Tooth and nail Tommy attacks, the foe, fists and legs doing very gallant service. There would indeedhave been a serious case of assault and battery for the next Court day, had not Providence sent Mrs. Monkton on the scene. 

"Oh, Tommy!" cries she, aghast. It is presumably Tommy, though, as hehas his head thrust between Mr. Browne's legs, and his feet in mid air, kicking with all their might, there isn't much of him by which to proveidentification. And--"Oh, Dicky, " says, she again, "how _could_ youtorment him so, when you know how easy it is to excite him. See what astate he is in!"

"And what about me?" demands Mr. Browne, who is weak with laughter. "Isno sympathy to be shown me? See what a state _I'm_ in. I'm black andblue from head to heel. I'm at the point of death!"

"Nonsense! you are all right, but look at _him_! Oh! Tommy, what aterrible boy you are. And you promised me if I brought you, thatyou----Just look at his clothes!"

"Look at _mine_!" says Mr. Browne. "My best hat is done for, and I'mafraid to examine my trousers. _You_ might tell me if there is a bigrent anywhere. No? Eh? Well--if you won't I must only risk it. But Ifeel tattered and torn. By-the-bye, Tommy, that's part of another oldstory. I'll tell you about it some day. "

"Come with me, Tommy, " says his mother, with awful severity. She holdsout her hand to her son, who is still glaring at Dicky with an undyingferocity. "You are a naughty boy, and I'm sure your father will be angrywith you when he hears of this. "

"Oh, but he must not hear of it, must he, Tommy?" says Mr. Browne, withdecision, appealing to his late antagonist as airily, as utterly without_arrière pensée_ as though no unpleasant passages have occurred betweenthem. "It's awfully good of you to desire our company, Mrs. Monkton, butreally on the whole I think----"

"It is Tommy I want, " says Mrs. Monkton still with a meaning eye. 

"Where Tommy goes, I go, " says Mr. Browne, firmly. "We are wedded toeach other for the day. Nothing shall part us! Neither law nor order. Just now we are going down to the lake to feed the swans with thesucculent bun. Will you come with us?"

"You are very uncertain, Dicky, " says Mrs. Monkton, regarding Mr. Brownewith a gravity that savors of disapproval. "How shall I be sure that ifyou take him to the lake you will not let him drown himself?"

"He is far more likely to drown me, " says Mr. Browne. "Come along, Tommy, the biscuits are in the hall, and the lake a quarter of a mileaway. The day waneth; let us haste--let us haste!"

"Where has Dicky gone?" asks Joyce, who has just returned victoriousfrom her game. 

"To the lake with Tommy. I have been imploring him not to drown my son, "says Mrs. Monkton with a rather rueful smile. 

"Oh, he won't do that. Dicky is erratic, but pretty safe, for all that. And he is fond of Tommy. "

"He teases him, however, beyond endurance. "

"That is because he _does_ like him. "

"A strange conclusion to arrive at, surely, " says Dysart, looking ather. 

"No. If he didn't like him, he wouldn't take the trouble, " says she, nonchalantly. She is evidently a little _distrait_. She looks as thoughshe wanted something. 

"You won your game?" says her sister, smiling at her. 

"Yes, quite a glorious victory. They had only two games out of the six;and you know Miss Connor plays very well. "

"Where is Mr. Beauclerk?"

"Gone into the house to write some letters and telegrams. "

"Norman, do you mean?" asks Lady Baltimore, coming up at this moment, her basket full of flowers, and minus the little son and the heiress;"he has just gone into the house to hear Miss Maliphant sing. You knowshe sings remarkably well, and that last song of Milton Wettings suitsher so entirely. Norman is very fond of music. Have you had a game, Joyce?"

"Yes, and won it, " says Joyce, smiling back at her, though her face haspaled a little. _Had_ she won it?

"Well, I must take these into the house before they fade. Righton wantsthem for the dinner-table, " says Lady Baltimore. A little hurried notehas crept into her voice. She turns away somewhat abruptly. LordBaltimore and Lady Swansdown have just appeared in view, Lady Swansdownwith a huge bunch of honeysuckle in her hand, looking very picturesque. 

Baltimore, seeing his wife move towards the house, and Lady Swansdowndisplaying the spoils of her walk to Dysart, darts quickly after her. 

"Let me carry that burden for you, " says he, laying his hand upon thebasket of flowers. 

"No, oh! no, thank you, " says Lady Baltimore, glancing up at him forjust a moment, with a little curious expression in her eyes. "I havecarried it quite a long time. I hardly feel it now. No; go back to thelawn to Lady Swansdown--see; she is quite alone at this moment. You willbe doing me a real service if you will look after our guests. "

"As you will, " says Baltimore, coldly. 

He turns back with a frown, and rejoins those he had left. 

Joyce is talking to Lady Swansdown in her prettiest way--she seems, indeed, exceptionally gay even for her, who, as a rule, is the life ofevery party. Her spirits seem to have risen to quite an abnormal height, and her charming laugh, soft as it is sweet, rings gaily. With theadvent of Baltimore, however, Lady Swansdown's attention veers aside, and Joyce, feeling Dysart at her elbow, turns to him. 

"We postponed _one_ game, I think, " says she. "Well--shall we play thenext?"

"I am sorry, " says he, deliberately, "but I think not. " His eyes are onthe ground. 

"No?" says she, coloring warmly. There is open surprise in her glance. That he should refuse to accept an advance from her seems truly beyondbelief. 

"You must forgive me, " says he, deliberately still. He had sworn tohimself that he would not play second fiddle on _this_ occasion at allevents, and he holds himself to his word. "But I feel as if I could notplay to-day. I should disgrace you. Let me get you another partner. Captain Grant is out there, he----"

"Thank you. I shall be able to provide myself with a partner when I wantone, " interrupts she, haughtily, turning abruptly away. 

CHAPTER X. 

 "Nature has sometimes made a fool. "

The fiddles are squeaking, the 'cellos are groaning, the man with thecornet is making a most ungodly row. As yet, the band have the ballroomall to themselves, and are certainly making the most of their time. Suchunearthly noises rarely, if ever, have been heard in it before. Why theycouldn't have tuned their instruments before coming is a question thatfills the butler's mind with wrath, but perhaps the long journey downfrom Dublin would have untuned them all again, and left the players ofthem disconsolate. 

The dismal sounds penetrate into the rooms right and left of theballroom, but fail to kill the melancholy sweetness of the drippingfountains or the perfume of the hundred flowers that gave their sleepingdraughts to all those who chose to come and inhale them. Mild draughtsthat please the senses without stealing them. 

The sounds even penetrate to the library, where Joyce is standing beforethe low fire, that even in this July evening burns upon the hearth, fastening her long gloves. She had got down before the others, and now, finding the room empty, half wishes herself back again upstairs. But sheis so young, so full of a fresh delight in all the gaiety around her, that she had hurried over her dressing, and, with the first dismalsounds of the toning, had turned her steps its way. 

The library seems cold to her, bare, unfriendly. Had she expected tomeet somebody there before her--somebody who had promised to get a freshtie in a hurry, but who had possibly forgotten all about it in the joyof an after-dinner cigar?

It seems a long time since that first day when she had been startled byhis sudden reappearance at the Court. A long, _long_ time. Soon thislast visit of hers to the Court must come to an end. The Baltimores willbe going abroad in a fortnight or so--and he with them. The summer iswaning--dreary autumn coming. He will go--and----

A sense of dissatisfaction sits heavily on her, toning down to rather atoo cruel a degree the bright expectancy of her face. He had _said_ hewould come, and now----She drums in a heavy-hearted listless fashion onthe table with the tips of her pale gloves, and noticing, halfconsciously in so doing, that they have not been sufficiently drawn upher arm, mechanically fits them closer to the taper fingers. 

Certainly he had said he would be here. "Early you know. Before theothers can get down. " A quick frown grows upon her forehead, and nowthat the fingers are quiet, the little foot begins to beat a tattoo uponthe ground. Leaning against the table in a graceful attitude, with thelamplight streaming on her pretty white frock, she gives a loose rein toher thoughts. 

They are a little angry, a little frightened perhaps. During the pastweek had he not said many things that in the end proved void of meaning. He had haunted her in a degree, at certain hours, certain times, hadloitered through gardens, lingered in conservatories by her side, whispered many things--looked so very many more. But----

There were other times, other opportunities for philandering (_she_ doesnot give it this unpleasant name); how has he spent them?--A vaguethought of Miss Maliphant crosses her mind. That he laughs at the plain, good-natured heiress to her (Joyce), had not prevented the fact that heis very attentive to her at times. Principally such times as when Joycemay reasonably be supposed to be elsewhere. Human reason, however, oftenfalls short of the mark, and there have been unsuspected moments duringthe past week when Miss Kavanagh has by chance appeared upon the sceneof Mr. Beauclerk's amusements, and has found that Miss Maliphant has hada good deal to do with them. But then--"That poor, good girl you know!"Here, Beauclerk's joyous laugh would ring forth for Joyce's benefit. "_Such_ a good girl; and so--er--_don't_ you know!" He was certainlyalways a little vague. He didn't explain himself. Miss Kavanagh, lookingback on all he had ever said against the heiress, is obliged to confessto herself that the great "er" had had to express everything. Contempt, dislike, kindly disdain--he was always _kindly_--he made quite a pointof _that_. Truly, thinks Miss Kavanagh to herself after thisretrospective glance, "er" is the greatest word in the English language!

And so it is. It declares. It conceals. It conveys a laugh. It suggestsa frown. It helps a sorrowful confession. It adorns a lame one. It iskindly, as giving time. It is cruel, as being full of sarcasm. It----Infact what is it it _cannot_ do?

Joyce's feet have grown quite steady now. She has placed her hands onthe table behind her, and thus compelled to lean a little forward, stands studying the carpet without seeing it. A sense of anger, of_shame_ against herself is troubling her. If he should _not_ be inearnest! If he should not--like her as she likes him!

She rouses herself suddenly as if stung by some thought. "Like" _is_ theword. It has gone no deeper yet. It _shall_ not. He is handsome, he hashis charm, but if she is not all the world to him, why, he shall not beall the world to _her_. If it is money he craves, for the restoration ofthat old home of his, why money let it be. But there, shall not be thetwo things, the desire of one for filthy lucre, the desire of the otherfor love. He shall decide. 

She has grown very pale. She has drawn herself up to her full height, and her lips are pressed together. And now a strange thought comes toher. If--_if_ she loved him, could she bear thus to analyze him. To takehim to pieces, to dissect him as it were? Once again that feeling offear oppresses her. Is she so cold, so deliberate in herself that shesuspects others of coldness. After all--if he does love her--if he onlyhesitates because----

_A step outside the door!_

Instinctively she glances at one of the long mirrors that line the wallsfrom floor to ceiling. Involuntarily her hands rush to her head. Shegives a little touch to her gown. And now is sitting in alounging-chair, a little pale still perhaps, but in all other respectsthe very picture of unconsciousness. It is--it must be----

It isn't, however. 

Mr. Browne, opening the door in his own delightfully breezy fashion thatgenerally plays old Harry with the hinges and blows the ornaments offthe nearest tables, advances towards her with arms outspread, and theliveliest admiration writ upon his features, which, to say the truth, are of goodly proportions. 

"Oh! Thou wonder of the world!" cries he in accents ecstatic. He hasbeen reading "Cleopatra" (that most charming of books) assiduously forthe past few days, during which time he has made himself an emphaticnuisance to his friends: perpetual quotations, however apt or salutary, proving as a rule a bore. 

"That will do, Dicky! We _all_ know about that, " says Miss Kavanagh, whois a little unnerved, a little impatient perhaps. Mr. Browne, however, is above being snubbed by anyone. He continues on his way rejoicing. 

"Thou living flame!" cries he, making what he fondly supposes to be astage attitude. "Thou thing of beauty. Though _fleshpot of Egypt_!"

He has at last surpassed himself! He stands silent waiting for theplaudits of the crowd. The crowd, however, is unappreciative. 

"Nonsense!" says Miss Kavanagh shortly. "I wonder you aren't tired of_making_ people tired. Your eternal quotations would destroy thepatience of an anchorite. And as for that last sentence of yours, youknow very well it isn't in Rider Haggard's book. He'd have been ashamedof it. "

"_Would_ he? Bet you he wouldn't! And if it isn't in his book, all I cansay is it ought to have been. Mere oversight leaving it out. He _will_be sorry if I drop him a line about it. Shouldn't wonder if it produceda new edition. But for my part, I believe it _is_ in the book. Fleshpots, Egypt, you know; hardly possible to separate 'em now from thepublic mind. "

"Well; he could separate them any way. There isn't a single word aboutthem in the book from start to finish. "

"No? D'ye say so?" Here Mr. Browne grows lost in thought. "Fleshpots--pots--hot pots; hot _potting_! Hah!" He draws himselftogether with all the manner of one who has gone down deep into a thing, and comes up from it full of knowledge. "I've 'mixed those babies up, '"says he mildly. "But still I can hardly believe that that last valuableaddition to Mr. Haggard's work is all my own. "

"Distinctly your own, " with a suggestion of scorn, completely thrownaway upon the receiver of it. 

"D'ye say so! By Jove! And very neat too! Didn't think I had it in me. After all to write a book is an easy matter; here am I, who neverthought about it, was able to form an entire sentence full of the mostexquisite wit and humor without so much as knowing I was doing it. Tellyou what, Joyce, I'll send it to the author with a card and mycompliments you know. Horrid thing to be _mean_ about anything, and if Ican help him out with a 999th edition or so, I'll be doing him a goodturn. Eh?"

"I suppose you think you are amusing, " says Miss Kavanagh, regarding himwith a critical eye. 

"My good child, I _know_ that expression, " says Mr. Browne, amiably. "Iknow it by heart. It means that you think I'm a fool. It's politernow-a-days to look things than to say them, but wait awhile and you'll_see_. Come; I'll bet you a shilling to a sovereign that he'll bedelighted with my suggestion, and put it into his next edition withoutdelay. No charge! Given away! The lot for a penny-three-farthings. Infact, I make it a present to him. Noble, eh? Give it to him for_nothing_!"

"About its price, " says Miss Kavanagh thoughtfully. 

"Think you so? You are dull to-night, Jocelyne. Flashes of wit pass youby without warming you. Yet I tell you this idea that has flowed from mybrain is a priceless one. Never mind the door--he's not coming yet. Attend to me. "

"_Who's_ not coming?" demands she, the more angrily in that she isgrowing miserably aware of the brilliant color that is slowly but surelybedecking her cheeks. 

"Never mind! It's a mere detail; attend to _me_ and I entreat you, " saysMr. Browne, who is now quite in his element, having made sure of thefact that she is expecting somebody. It doesn't matter in the least whoto Mr. Browne, expectation is the thing wherein to catch theembarrassment of Miss Kavanagh, and forthwith he sets himself gaily tothe teazing of her. 

"Attend to _what_?" says she with a little frown. 

"If you had studied your Bible, Jocelyne, with that care that I shouldhave expected from you, you would have remembered that forty odd yearsthe Israelites hankered after those very fleshpots of Egypt to which Ihave been alluding. Now I appeal to you, as a sensible girl, wouldanybody hanker after anything for forty odd years (_very_ odd years asit happens), unless it was to their advantage to get it; unless, indeed, the object pursued was _priceless_!"

"You ask too much of _this_ sensible girl, " says Miss Kavanagh, with acarefully manufactured yawn. "Really, dear Dicky, you must forgive me ifI say I haven't gone into it as yet, and that I don't suppose I shallever _see_ the necessity for going into it. "

"But, my good child, you must see that those respectable people, theIsraelites, wouldn't have pursued a mere shadow for forty years. "

"That's just what I _don't_ see. There are such a number of foolseverywhere, in every age, that one couldn't tell. "

"This is evasion, " says Mr. Browne sternly. "To bring you face to facewith facts must be my very unpleasant if distinct duty. Joyce, do youdare to doubt for one moment that I speak aught but the truth? Will youdeny that Cleopatra, that old serpent of the----"

"Ha--ha--ha, " laughs Joyce ironically. "I wish she could hear you. Yourlife wouldn't be worth a moment's purchase. "

"Mere slip. Serpent of _old_ Nile. Doesn't matter in the least, " saysMr. Browne airily, "because she couldn't hear me as it happens. My deargirl, follow out the argument. Cleopatra, metaphorically speaking, was afleshpot, because the world hankered after her. And--you're another. "

"Really, Dicky, I must protest against your talking slang to me. "

"Where does the slang come in? You're another fleshpot. I meant tosay--or convey--because _we_ all hanker after you. "

"Do you?" with rising wrath. "May I ask what hankering means?"

"You had better not, " says Mr. Browne mysteriously. "It was one of therites of Ancient Kem!"

"Now there is _one_ thing, Dicky, " says Miss Kavanagh, her wrath boilingover. "I won't be called names. I won't be called a _fleshpot_. You'lldraw the line there if you please. "

"My dear girl, why not? Those delectable pots must have been_bric-à-brac_ of the most _recherché_ description. Of a most delicateshape, no doubt. Of a pattern, tint, formation, general get up--not tobe hoped for in these prosaic days. "

"Nonsense, " indignantly. She is fairly roused now, and Mr. Browneregarding her with a proud eye, tells himself he is about to have hisreward at last. "You know very well that the term 'fleshpots' referredto what was _in_ the pots, not to the pots themselves. "

"That's all you know about it. That's where your fatal ignorance comesin, my poor Joyce, " says he, with immense compassion. "Search your Biblefrom cover to cover, and I defy you to find a single mention of thecontents of those valuable bits of _bric-à-brac_. Of flesh_pots_--heavyemphasis on the _pots_--and ten fingers down at once if you please--weread continually as being hankered after by the Israelites, who then, asnow, were evidently avid collectors. "

"You've been having champagne, Dicky, " says Miss Kavanagh, regarding himwith a judicial eye. 

"So have you. But I can't see what that excellent beverage has got to dowith the ancient Jews. Keep to the point. Did you ever hear that theyexpressed a longing for the _flesh_ of Egypt? No. So far so good. Thepots themselves were the objects of their admiration. During thatremarkable run of theirs through the howling wilderness they, one andall, to a _man_, betrayed the true æsthetic tendency. They ravedincessantly for the girl--I beg pardon--the _land_ they had left behindthem. The land that contained those priceless jars. "

"I wonder how you can be so silly, " says Miss Kavanagh disdainfully. Will he _never_ go away! If he stays, and if--the other--comes----

"Silly! my good child. _How_ silly! Why everything goes to prove theprobability of my statement. The taste for articles of _vertu_--forantiquities--for fossils of all descriptions that characterized themthen, has lived to the present day. _Then_ they worried after old china, and who shall deny that now they have an overwhelming affection for oldclo'. "

"Well; your folly doesn't concern me, " says Miss Kavanagh, gathering upher skirts with an evident intention of shaking off the dust of hispresence from her feet and quitting him. 

"I am sorry that you should consider it folly, " says Mr. Brownesorrowfully. "I should not have said so much about it perhaps but that Iwanted to prove to you that in calling _you_ a fleshpot I only meantto----"

"I won't be called that, " interrupts Miss Kavanagh angrily. "It's_horrid_! It makes me feel quite _fat_! Now, once for all, Dicky, Iforbid it. I won't have it. "

"I don't see how you are to get out of it, " says Mr. Browne, shaking hishead and hands in wild deprecation. "Fleshpots were desirablearticles--you're another--ergo--you're a fleshpot. See the argument?"

"No I don't, " indignantly. "I see only you--and--I wish I _didn't_. "

"Very rude; _very_!" says Mr. Browne, regretfully. "Yet I entreat theenot to leave me without one other word. Follow up the argument--_do_. Give me an answer to it. "

"Not one, " walking to the door. 

"That's because it is unanswerable, " says Mr. Browne complacently. "Youare beaten, you----"

There is a sound outside the door; Joyce with her hand on the handle ofit, steps back and looks round nervously at Dicky. A quick color hasdyed her cheeks; instinctively she moves a little to one side and givesa rapid glance into a long mirror. 

"I don't think really he could find a fault, " says Mr. Brownemischievously. "I should think there will be a good deal of hankeringgoing on to-night. "

Miss Kavanagh has only just barely time to wither him, when Beauclerkcomes hurriedly in. 

CHAPTER XI. 

 "Thinkest thou there are no serpents in the world But those who slide along the grassy sod, And sting the luckless foot that presses them? There are, who in the path of social life Do bask their spotted skins in fortune's son, And sting the soul. "

"Oh, there you are, " cries he jovially. "Been looking for youeverywhere. The music has begun; first dance just forming. Gay andlively quadrille, you know--country ball wouldn't know itself without abeginning like that. Come; come on. "

Nothing can exceed his _bonhomie_. He tucks her hand in the mostdelightfully genial, appropriative fashion under his arm, and with abeaming nod to Mr. Browne (he never forgets to be civil to anybody)hurries Joyce out of the room, leaving the astute Dicky gazing after himwith mingled feelings in his eye. 

"Deuce and all of a smart chap, " says Mr. Browne to himself slowly. "Buthe'll fall through some day for all that, I shouldn't wonder. "

Meantime Mr. Beauclerk is still carrying on a charming recitative. 

"_Such a bore!_" he is saying, with heartfelt disgust in his tone. It isreally wonderful how he can _always_ do it. There is never a moment whenhe flags. He is for ever up to time as it were, and equal to theoccasion. "I'm afraid you rather misunderstood me just now, when I saidI'd been looking for you--but the fact is, Browne's such an ass, if heknew we had made an appointment to meet in the library, he'd have brayedthe whole affair to any and every one. "

"Was there an appointment?" says Miss Kavanagh, who is feeling a littleunsettled--a little angry with herself perhaps. 

"No--no, " with a delightful acceptation of her rebuke. "You are right asever. I was wrong. But then, you see, it gave me a sort of joy tobelieve that our light allusion to a possible happy half-hour before theturmoil of the dance began might mean something _more_--something----Ah!well never mind! Men are vain creatures; and after all it would havebeen a happy half-hour to me _only_!"

"Would it?" says she with a curious glance at him. 

"_You_ know that!" says he, with the full and earnest glance he can turnon at a second's notice without the slightest injury to heart or mind. 

"I don't indeed. "

"Oh well, you haven't time to think about it perhaps. I found you veryfully occupied when--at last--I was able to get to the library. Brownewe all know is a very--er--lively companion--if rather wanting in thehigher virtues. "

"'_At last_, '" says she quoting his words. She turns suddenly and looksat him, a world of inquiry in her dark eyes. "I hate pretence, " says shecurtly, throwing up her young head with a haughty movement. "You saidyou would be in the library at such an hour, and though I did not_promise_ to meet you there, still, as I happened to be dressed earlierthan I believed possible, I came down, and you----? Where were you?"

There is a touch of imperiousness in that last question that augursbadly for a false wooer; but the imperiousness suits her. With herpretty chin uptilted, and that little scornful curve upon her lips, andher lovely eyes ablaze, she looks indeed "a thing of beauty. " Beauclerkregards her with distinct approbation. After all--had she even _half_the money that the heiress possesses, _what_ a wife she would make. Andit isn't decided yet one way or the other; sometimes Fate is kind. Theday may come when this delectable creature may fall to his portion. 

"I can see you are thinking hard things of me, " says he reproachfully;"but you little know how I have been passing the time I had so beenlooking forward to. Time to be passed with _you_. That old LadyBlake--she _would_ keep me maundering to her about that son of hers inthe Mauritius; _you_ know he and I were at St. Petersburg together. Icouldn't get away. You blame me--but what was I to do? An oldwoman--unhappy----"

"Oh no. You were _right_, " says Joyce quickly. How good he is after all, and how unjustly she had been thinking of him. So kind, so careful ofthe feelings of a tiresome old woman. How few men are like him. How fewwould so far sacrifice themselves. 

"Ah, you see it like that!" says, Mr. Beauclerk, not triumphantly, butso modestly that the girl's heart goes out to him even more. How_generous_ he is! Not a word of rebuke to her for her vile suspicion ofhim. 

"Why you put me into good spirits again, " says he laughing gaily. "Wemust make haste, I fear, if we would save the first dance. "

"Oh yes--come, " says Joyce going quickly forward. Evidently he is goingto ask her for the first dance! That _shows_ that he prefers her to----

"I'm so glad you have been able to sympathize with me about my lastdisappointment, " says Beauclerk. "If you hadn't--if you had had even onehard thought of me, I don't know _how_ I should have been able to endurewhat still lies before me. I am almost raging with anger, but when one'ssister is in question----"

"You mean?" say Joyce a little faintly. 

"Oh, you haven't heard. I am so annoyed myself about it, that I fanciedeverybody knew. You know I hoped that you would have been good enough togive me the first dance, but when Isabel asked me to dance it with thatdreadful daughter of Lady Dunscombe's, what _could_ I do, now I askyou?" appealing to her with hands and eyes. "What _could_ I do?"

"Obey, of course, " says she with an effort, but a successful one. "Youmust hurry too, if you want to secure Miss Dunscombe. "

"Ah; what a misfortune it is to be the brother of one's hostess, " sayshe, with a sort of comic despair. His eyes are centred on her face, reading her carefully, and with much secret satisfaction;--rapid as thatslight change upon her face had been, he had seen and noted it. 

"It couldn't possibly be a misfortune to be Lady Baltimore's brother, "says she smiling. "On the contrary, you are to be congratulated. "

"Not just at this moment surely!"

"At this or any other moment. Ah!"--as they enter the ballroom. "Theroom is already fuller than I thought. Engaged, Mr. Blake?" to LordBlake's eldest son. "No, not for this. Yes, with pleasure. "

She makes a little charming inclination of her head to Beauclerk, andlaying her hand on Mr. Blake's arm, moves away with him to where a setis already forming at the end of the room. It is without enthusiasm shetakes her place with Dysart and one of the O'Donovan girls as_vis-à-vis_, and prepares to march, retreat, twist and turn with thebest of them. 

"A dull old game, " she is irreverently terming the quadrilles--thatmassing together of inelegant movements so dear to the bucolicmind--that saving clause for the old maids and the wall-flowers; when alittle change of position shows her the double quartette on the righthand side of the magnificent ballroom. 

She had been half through an unimportant remark to Mr. Blake, but shestops short now and forgets to finish it. Her color comes and goes. Thesides are now prancing through _their_ performance, and she and herpartner are standing still. Perhaps--_perhaps_ she was mistaken; withall these swaying idiots on every side of her she might well have mixedup one man's partner with another; and Miss Dunscombe (she had caught aglimpse of her awhile ago) was surely in that set on the right handside. 

She stoops forward, regardless--_oblivious_--of her partner's surprisedglance, who has just been making a very witty remark, and being a rathersmart young man, accustomed to be listened to, is rather taken aback byher open indifference. 

A little more forward she leans; yes, _now_--the couples part--for onemoment the coast lies clear. She can see distinctly. Miss Dunscombe isindeed dancing in that set but _not_ as Mr. Beauclerk's partner. MissMaliphant has secured that enviable _rôle_. 

Even as Joyce gazes, Beauclerk, turning his head, meets her earnestregard. He returns it with a beaming smile. Miss Maliphant, whose dutyit is at this instant to advance and retire and receive without thesupport of a chaperone the attacks of the bold, bad man opposite, havingmoved out of Beauclerk's sight, the latter, with an expressive glancedirected at Joyce, lifts his shoulders forlornly, and gives aserio-comic shrug of his shoulders. All to show now bored a being he isat finding himself thus the partner of the ugly heiress! It is all donein a second. An inimitable bit of acting--but unpleasant. 

Joyce draws herself up. Her eyes fall away from his; unless the distanceis too far, the touch of disdain that lies in them should havedisconcerted even Mr. Beauclerk. Perhaps it has!

"Our turn?" says she, giving her partner a sudden beautiful glance fullof fire--of life--of something that he fails to understand, but does_not_ fail to consider charming. She smiles; she grows radiant. She is adifferent being from a moment ago. How could he--Blake--have thought herstupid. How she takes up every word--and throws new meaning into it--and_what_ a laugh she has! Low-sweet--merry--music to its core!

Beauclerk in his turn finds a loop-hole through which to look at her, and is conscious of a faint feeling of chagrin. She oughtn't to havetaken it like that. To be a little pensive--a little sad--that wouldhave shewn a right spirit. Well--the night is long. He can play his gamehere and there. There is plenty of time in which to regain lost groundwith one--to gain fresh ground with the other. Joyce will forgivehim--when she hears _his_ version of it. 

CHAPTER XII. 

 "If thou canst see not, hast thou ears to hear?--Or is thy soul too as a leaf that dies?"

"Well, after all, life has its compensations, " says Mr. Beauclerk, sinking upon the satin lounge beside Miss Kavanagh, and giving way to arapturous sigh. He is looking very big and very handsome. Hisclose-cropped eminently aristocratic head is thrown a little back, togive full play to the ecstatic smile he is directing at Joyce. 

She bears it wonderfully. She receives it indeed with all the amiableimbecility of a person who doesn't understand what on earth you aretalking about. Whether this reception of his little opening speech--socarefully prepared--puzzles or nettles Mr. Beauclerk there is no way oflearning. He makes no sign. 

"I thought I should never be able to get a dance with you; yousee, "--smiling--"when one is the belle of the evening, one growsdifficult. But you _might_ have kept a fifth or sixth for a pooroutsider like me. An old friend too. "

"Old friends don't count at a dance, I'm afraid, " says she, with a smileas genial as his own; "though for the matter of that you could have hadthe first; _no one_--hard as it may be to make you believe it--had askedthe belle of the evening for that. "

This is not quite true. Many had asked for it, Dysart amongst others;but she had kept it open for--the one who didn't want it. However, fibsof this sort one blinks at where pretty girls are the criminals. Hertone is delicately sarcastic. She would willingly suppress the sarcasmaltogether as beneath her, but she is very angry; and when a woman isangry there is generally somebody to pay. 

"Oh! that _first_!" says he, with a gesture of impatience. "I shan'tforgive Isabel in a hurry about that; she ruined my evening--up to_this_. However, " throwing off as it were unpleasant memories by a shakeof his head, "don't let me spoil my one good time by dwelling upon a badone. Here I am now, at all events; here is comfort, here is peace. Thehour I have been longing for is mine at last. "

"It might have been yours considerably earlier, " says Miss Kavanagh withvery noteworthy deliberation, unmoved by his lover-like glances, whichafter all have more truth in them than most of his declarations. Shesits playing with her fan, and with a face expressionless as any sphinx. 

"Oh! my _dear_ girl!" says Mr. Beauclerk reproachfully, "how can you saythat! You know in one's sister's house one must--eh? And she laidpositive commands on me----"

"To dance the first dance with Miss Maliphant?"

"Now, that's not like you, " says Mr. Beauclerk very gently. "It's notjust. When I found Miss Dunscombe engaged for that ridiculous quadrille, what could I do? _You_ were engaged to Blake. I was looking aimlesslyround me, cursing my luck in that I had not thrown up even my sister'swishes and secured before it was too late the only girl in the room Icared to dance with when Isabel came again. 'Not dancing, ' says she;'and there's Miss Maliphant over there, partnerless!'"

He tells all this with as genuine an air as if it was not false fromstart to finish. 

"You _know_ Isabel, " says he, laughing airily; "she takes the oddestfancies at times. Miss Maliphant is her latest craze. Though what shecan see in her----A _nice_ girl. Thoroughly nice--essentially _real_--alittle _too_ real perhaps, " with a laugh so irresistible that even MissKavanagh against her will is compelled to join in it. 

"Honest all through, I admit; but as a _waltzer_! Well, well, weshouldn't be too severe--but really, there you know, she leaves_everything_ to be desired. And I've been victimized not once, buttwice--_three_ times. "

"It is nothing remarkable, " says Miss Kavanagh, coldly. "Many verycharming girls do not dance well. It is a gift. "

"A very precious one. When a charming girl can't waltz, she ought tolearn how to sit down charmingly, and not oppress innocent people. Asfor Miss Maliphant!" throwing out his large handsome hands expressively, "_she_ certainly should not dance. Her complexion doesn't stand it. Didyou notice her?"

"No, " icily. 

"Ah, you wouldn't, you know. I could see how thoroughly well occupied_you_ were! Not a thought for even an old friend; and besides you're agirl in ten thousand. Nothing petty or small about you. Now, anotherwoman would not have failed to notice the fatal tendency towardsrubicundity that marks Miss Maliphant's nose whenever----"

"I do so dislike discussing people behind their backs, " says MissKavanagh, slowly. "I always think it is so _unfair_. They can't defendthemselves. It is like maligning the dead. "

"Miss Maliphant isn't dead at all events. She is dreadfully alive, " saysMr. Beauclerk, totally unabashed. He laughs gaily. To refuse to belectured was a rule he had laid down for his own guidance early in life. Those people who will not see when they ought to be offended havegenerally the best of the game. 

"Would you have her dead?" asks Joyce, with calm interrogation. 

"I don't remember saying I would have her _any_ way, " says he, stillevidently clinging to the frivolous mood. "And at all events I wouldn'thave her _dancing_. It disagrees with her nose. It makes her suggestive;it betrays one into the making of bad parodies. One I made to-night whenlooking at her; I couldn't resist it. For once in her life you see shewas irresistible. Hear it. 'Oh! my love's got a red, red nose!' Ha! ha!Not half bad, eh? It kept repeating itself in my brain all the time Iwas looking at her. "

"I thought you liked her, " says Joyce, lifting her large dark eyes forthe first time to his. Beautiful eyes! a little shocked now--a littlecold--almost entreating. Surely, surely, he will not destroy her idealof him. 

"You think I am censorious, " says he readily, "cruel almost; but to_you_"--with delicate flattery--"surely I may speak to _you_ as I wouldspeak to no other. May I not?" He leans a little forward, and compellingthe girl's reluctant gaze, goes on speaking. It chafes him that sheshould put him on his defence; but some _one_ divine instinct within himwarns him not to break with her entirely. "Still, " says he, in a lowtone, always with his eyes on hers, "I see that you condemn me. "

"Condemn you! No! Why should _I_ be your judge?"

"You _are_, however--and my judge and jury too. I cannot bear to thinkthat you should despise me. And all because of that wretched girl. "

"I don't despise you, " says the girl, quickly. "If you were reallydespicable I should not like you as well as I do; I am only sorry thatyou should say little unkind things of a girl like Miss Maliphant, who, if not beautiful, is surely to be regarded in a very kindly light. "

"Do you know, " says Mr. Beauclerk, gently, "I think you are the onesweet character in the world. " There is a great amount of belief in histone, perhaps half of it is honest. "I never met any one like you. Womenas a rule are willing to tear each other to pieces but you--you condoneall faults; that is why I----"

A pause. He leans forward. His eyes are eloquent; his tongue alonerefrains from finishing the declaration that he had begun. To the girlbeside him, however, ignorant of subterfuge, unknowing of the wiles thatrun in and out of society like a thread, his words sound sweet--thesweeter for the very hesitation that accompanies them. 

"I am not so perfect as you think me, " says she, rather sadly--her voicea little faint. 

"That is true, " says he quickly, as though compelled against his will tofind fault with her. "A while ago you were angry with me because I wasdriven to waste my time with people uncongenial to me. _That_ was unfairif you like. " He throws her own accusation back at her in the gentlestfashion. "I danced with this, that, and the other person it is true, butdo you not know where my heart was all this time?"

He pauses for a moment, just long enough to make more real his question, but hardly long enough to let her reply to it. To bring matters to aclimax, would not suit him at all. 

"Yes, you _do_ know, " says he, seeing her about to speak. "And _yet_ youmisjudge me. If--if I were to tell you that I would rather be with youthan with any other woman in the world, you would believe me, wouldn'tyou?"

He stoops over her, and taking her hand presses it fondly, lingeringly. "Answer me. "

"Yes, " says Joyce in a low tone. It has not occurred to her that hiswords are a question rather than an asseveration. That he loves her, seems to her certain. A soft glow illumines her cheeks; her eyes sinkbeneath his; the idea that she is happy, or at all events _ought_ to behappy, fills her with a curious wonderment. Do people always feel sostrange, so surprised, so _unsure_, when love comes to them?

"Yet you _did_ doubt, " says Beauclerk, giving her hand a last pressure, and now nestling back amongst his cushions with all the air of a man whohas fought and conquered and has been given his reward. "Well, don't letus throw an unpleasant memory into this happy hour. As I have said, "taking up her fan and idly, if gracefully, waving it to and fro, "afterall the turmoil of the fight it is sweet to find oneself at last in thehaven where one would be. "

He is smiling at Joyce--the gayest, the most candid smile in the world. Smiles become him. He is looking really handsome and _happy_ at findinghimself thus alone with her. Sincerity declares itself in every line ofhis face. Perhaps he _is_ as sincere as he has ever yet been in hislife. The one thing that he unquestionably does regard with interestbeyond his own poor precious bones, is the exquisite bit of nature'sworkmanship now sitting beside him. 

At this present moment, in spite of his flattering words, his smiles andtelling glances, she is still a little cold, a little uncertain, a phaseof manner that renders her indescribably charming to the one watchingher. 

Beauclerk indeed is enjoying himself immensely. To a man of histemperament to be able to play upon a nature as fine, as honest, as pureas Joyce's is to know a keen delight. That the girl is dissatisfied, vaguely, nervously dissatisfied, he can read as easily as though theworkings of her soul lay before him in broad type, and to assuage thosehalf-defined misgivings of hers is a task that suits him. He attacks it_con amore_. 

"How silent you are, " says he, very gently, when he has let quite a longpause occur. 

"I am tired, I think. "

"Of me?"

"No. "

"Of what then?" He has found that as a rule there is nothing a womanlikes better than to be asked to define her own feelings, Joyce, however, disappoints him. 

"I don't know. Sitting up so late I suppose. "

"Look here!" says he, in a voice so full of earnest emotion that Joyceinvoluntarily stares at him; "_I_ know what is the matter with you. Youare fighting against your better nature. You are _trying_ to beungenerous. You are trying to believe what you know is not true. Tellme--_honestly_ mind--are you not forcing yourself to regard me as amonster of insincerity?"

"You are wrong, " says she, slowly. "I am forcing myself, on thecontrary, to believe you a very giant of sincerity. "

"And you find that difficult?"

"Yes. "

An intense feeling of admiration for her sways Beauclerk. How new athing to find a girl so beautiful, with so much intelligence. Surelyinstinct is the great lever that moves humanity. Why has not this girlthe thousands that render Miss Maliphant so very desirable? What a_bêtise_ on the part of Mother Nature. Alas! it would be too much toexpect from that niggardly Dame. Beauty, intelligence, wealth! Allrolled into one personality. Impossible!

"You are candid, '" says he, his tone sorrowful. 

"That is what one should always be, " says she in turn. 

"You are _too_ stern a judge. How shall I convince you, " exclaimshe--"of _what_ he leaves open? If I were to swear----"

"_Do_ not, " says she quickly. 

"Well, I won't. But Joyce!" He pauses, purposely. It is the first timehe has ever called her by her Christian name, and a little soft colorsprings into the girl's cheeks as she hears him. "You know, " says he, "you _do_ know?"

It is a question; but _again_ what? _What_ does she know? He hadaccredited her with remarkable intelligence a moment ago, but as a factthe girl's knowledge of life is but a poor thing in comparison with thatof the man of the world. She belies her intelligence on the spot. 

"Yes, I think I do, " says she shyly. In fact she is longing to believe, to be sure of this thing, that to her is so plain that she has omittedto notice that he has never put it into words. 

"You will trust in me?" says he. 

"Yes, I trust you, " says she simply. 

Her pretty gloved hand is lying on her lap. Raising it, he presses itpassionately to his lips. Joyce, with a little nervous movement, withdraws it quickly. The color dies from her lips. Even at this suprememoment does Doubt hold her in thrall!

Her face is marvelously bright and happy, however, as she risesprecipitately to her feet, much to Beauclerk's relief. It has gone quitefar enough he tells himself--five minutes more and he would have foundhimself in a rather embarrassing position. Really these pretty girls arevery dangerous. 

"Come, we must go back to the ballroom, " says she gaily. "We have beenhere an unconscionable time. I am afraid my partner for this dance hasbeen looking for me, and will scarcely forgive my treating him so badly. If I had only told him I _wouldn't_ dance with him he might have gotanother partner and enjoyed himself. "

"Better to have loved and lost, " quotes Beauclerk in his airiest manner. It is _so_ airy that it strikes Joyce unpleasantly. Surely afterall--after----She pulls herself together angrily. Is she _always_ tofind fault with him? Must she have his whole nature altered to suit hertaste?

"Ah, there is Dicky Browne, " says she, glancing from where she is nowstanding at the door of the conservatory to where Mr. Browne may be seenleaning against a curtain with his lips curved in a truly benevolentsmile. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

 "Now the nights are all past over Of our dreaming, dreams that hover In a mist of fair false things: Night's afloat on wide wan wings. "

"Why, so it is! Our _own_ Dicky, in the flesh and an admirable temperapparently, " says Mr. Beauclerk. "Shall we come and interview him?"

They move forward and presently find themselves at Mr. Browne's elbow;he is, however, so far lost in his kindly ridicule of the poor sillyrevolving atoms before him, that it is not until Miss Kavanagh gives hisarm a highly suggestive pinch that he learns that she is beside him. 

"_Wough!_" says he, shouting out this unclassic if highly expressiveword without the slightest regard for decency. "_What_ fingers you'vegot! I really think you might reserve that kind of thing for Mr. Dysart. _He'd_ like it. "

This is a most infelicitous speech, and Miss Kavanagh might haveresented it, but for the strange fact that Beauclerk, on hearing it, laughs heartily. Well, if _he_ doesn't mind, it can't matter, but howsilly Dicky can be! Mr. Beauclerk continues to laugh with muchenjoyment. 

"Try him!" says he to Miss Kavanagh, with the liveliest encouragement inhis tone. If it occurs to her that, perhaps, lovers, as a rule, do notadvise their sweethearts to play fast and loose with other men, sherefuses to give heed to the warning. He is not like other men. He is notbasely jealous. He knows her. He trusts her. He had hinted to her butjust now, so very, very kindly that _she_ was suspicious, that she musttry to conquer that fault--if it is hers. And it is. There can be nodoubt of that. She had even distrusted _him_!

"Is that your advice?" asks Mr. Browne, regarding him with a ratherpiercing eye. "Capital, _under the circumstances_, but rather, eh?----Has it ever occurred to you that Dysart is capable of a good dealof feeling?"

"So few things occur to me, I'm ashamed to say, " says Beauclerk, genially. "I take the present moment. It is all-sufficing, so far as I'mconcerned. Well; and so you tell me Dysart has feeling?"

"Yes; I shouldn't advise Miss Kavanagh to play pranks with him, " saysDicky, with a pretentiously rueful glance at the arm she has justpinched so very delicately. 

"You're a poor soldier!" says she, with a little scornful uptilting ofher chin. "You wrong Mr. Dysart if you think he would feel so slight aninjury. What! A mere touch from _me_!"

"Your touch is deadlier than you know, perhaps, " says Mr. Browne, lightly. 

"What a slander!" says Miss Kavanagh, who, in spite of herself, isgrowing a little conscious. 

"Yes; isn't it?" says Beauclerk, to whom she has appealed. "As forme----" He breaks off suddenly and fastens his gaze severely on theother side of the room. "By Jove! I had forgotten! There is my partnerfor this dance looking daggers at me. Dear Miss Kavanagh, you willexcuse me, won't you? Shall I take you to your chaperone, or will youlet Browne have the remainder of this waltz?"

"I'll look after Miss Kavanagh, if she will allow me, " says Dicky, rather drily. "Will you?" with a quizzical glance at Joyce. 

She makes a little affirmative sign to him, returns Beauclerk's partingbow, and, still with a heart as light as a feather, stands by Mr. Browne's side, watching in silence the form of Beauclerk as it moveshere and there amongst the crowd. What a handsome man he is! Howdistinguished! How tall! How big! Every other man looks dwarfed besidehim. Presently he disappears into an anteroom, and she turns to find Mr. Browne, for a wonder, as silent as herself, and evidently lost inthought. 

"What are you thinking of?" asks she. 

"Of you!"

"Nonsense! What were you doing just then when I spoke to you?"

"I have told you. "

"No, you haven't. What _were_ you doing?"

"_Hankering!_" says Mr. Browne, heavily. 

"_Dicky!_" says she indignantly. 

"Well; what? Do you suppose a fellow gets rid of a disease of that sortall in a minute? It generally lasts a good month, I can tell you. Butcome; that 'Beautiful Star' of yours, that 'shines in your heaven sobright, ' has given you into my charge. What can I do for you?"

"Deliver me from the wrath of that man over there, " says Miss Kavanagh, indicating Mr. Blake, who, with a thunderous brow, is making his waytowards her. "The last was his. I forgot all about it. Take me away, Dicky; somewhere, anywhere; I know he's got a horrid temper, and he isgoing to say uncivil things. Where" (here she meanly tries to get behindMr. Browne) "_shall_ we go. "

"Right through this door, " says Mr. Browne, who, as a rule, is equal toall emergencies. He pushes her gently towards the conservatory she hasjust quitted, that has steps leading from it to the illuminated gardensbelow, and just barely gets her safely ensconced behind a respectablebarricade of greenery before Mr. Blake arrives on the spot they havejust vacated. 

They have indeed the satisfaction of seeing him look vaguely round, murmur a gentle anathema or two, and then resign himself to theinevitable. 

"He's gone!" says Miss Kavanagh, with a sigh of relief. 

"To perdition!" says Mr. Browne in an awesome tone. 

"I really wish you wouldn't, Dicky, " says Joyce. 

"Why not? You seem to think men's hearts are made of adamant! A momentago you sneered at _mine_, and now----By Jove! Here's Baltimore--andalone, for a wonder. "

"Well! _His_ heart is adamant!" says she softly. 

"Or hers--which?"

"Of course--manlike--you condemn our sex. That's why I'm glad I'm not aman. "

"Why? Because, if you were, you would condemn your present sex?"

"_Certainly_ not! Because I wouldn't be of an unfair, mean, ungenerousdisposition for the world. "

"Good old Jo!" says Mr. Browne, giving her a tender pat upon the back. 

By this time Baltimore has reached them. 

"Have you seen Lady Baltimore anywhere?" asks he. 

"Not quite lately, " says Dicky; "last tune I saw her she was dancingwith Farnham. "

"Oh--after that she went to the library, " says Joyce quickly. "I fancyshe may be there still, because she looked a little tired. "

"Well, she had been dancing a good deal, " says Dicky. 

"Thanks. I dare say I'll find her, " says Baltimore, with an air ofindifference, hurrying on. 

"I hope he will, " says Joyce, looking after him. 

"I hope so too--and in a favorable temper. "

"You're a cynic, Dicky, under all that airy manner of yours, " says MissKavanagh severely. "Come out to the gardens, the air may cool yourbrain, and reduce you to milder judgments. "

"Of Lady Baltimore?"

"Yes. "

"Truly I do seem to be sitting in judgment on her and her family. "

"Her _family_! What has Bertie done?"

"Oh, there is more family than Bertie, " says Mr. Browne. "She has abrother, hasn't she?"

 * * * * *

Meantime Lord Baltimore, taking Joyce's hint, makes his way to thelibrary, to find his wife there lying back in a huge arm-chair. She islooking a little pale. A little _ennuyée_; it is plain that she hassought this room--one too public to be in much request--with a view togetting away for a little while from the noise and heat of the ballroom. 

"Not dancing?" says her husband, standing well away from her. She hadsprung into a sitting posture the moment she saw him, an action that hasangered Baltimore. His tone is uncivil; his remark, it must beconfessed, superfluous. _Why_ does she persist in treating him as astranger? Surely, on whatever bad terms they may be, she need not feelit necessary to make herself uncomfortable on his appearance. She hasevidently been enjoying that stolen lounge, and _now_----

The lamplight is streaming full upon her face. A faint color has creptinto it. The white velvet gown she is wearing is hardly whiter than herneck and arms, and her eyes are as bright as her diamonds; yet there isno feature in her face that could be called strictly handsome. This, Baltimore tells himself, staring at her as he is, in a sort of insolentdefiance of the cold glance she has directed at him. No; there is nobeauty about that face; distinctly bred, calm and pure, it mightpossibly be called charming by those who liked her, but nothing more. She is not half so handsome as--as--any amount of other women he knows, and yet----

It increases his anger towards her tenfold to know that in her secretsoul she has the one face that to _him_ is beautiful, and ever _will_ bebeautiful. 

"You see, " says she gently, and with an expressive gesture, "I longedfor a moment's pause, so I came here. Do they want me?" She rises fromher seat, looking very tall and graceful. If her face is not strictlylovely, there is, at all events, no lack of loveliness in her form. 

"I can't answer for 'they, '" says Baltimore, "but"----he stops deadshort here. If he _had_ been going to say anything, the desire to carryout his intention dies upon the spot. "No, I am not aware that 'they' oranybody wants you particularly at this moment. Pray sit down again. "

"I have had quite a long rest already. "

"You look tired, however. _Are_ you?"

"Not in the least. "

"Give me this dance, " then says he, half mockingly, yet with a terribleearnestness in his voice. 

"Give it to _you_! Thank you. No. "

"Fearful of contamination?" with a smiling sneer. 

"Pray spare me your jibes, " says she very coldly, her face whitening. 

"Pray spare me your presence, you should rather say. Let us have thetruth at all hazards. A saint like you should be careful. "

To this she makes him no answer. 

"What!" cries he, sardonically; "and will you miss this splendidopportunity of giving a sop to your Cerberus? Of conciliating yourbugbear? your _bête noire_? your _fear of gossip_?"

"I fear nothing"--icily. 

"You do, however. Forgive the contradiction, " with a sarcasticinclination of the head. "But for this fear of yours you would have castme off long ago, and bade me go to the devil as soon as--nay, the soonerthe better. And indeed if it were not for the child----By the bye, doyou forget I have a hold on _him_--a stronger than yours?"

"I _forget_ nothing either, " returns she as icily as before; but now atremor, barely perceptible, but terrible in its intensity, shakes hervoice. 

"Hah! You need not tell me _that_. You are relentless as--well, 'Fate'comes in handy, " with a reckless laugh. "Let us be conventional by allmeans, and it is a good old simile, well worn! You decline my proposalthen? It is a sensible one, and should suit you. Dance with me to-night, when all the County is present, and Mother Grundy goes to bed with asore heart. Scandal lies slain. All will cry aloud: '_There they go!_Fast friends in spite of all the lies we have heard about them. ' Is itpossible you can deliberately forego so great a chance of puzzling ourneighbors?"

"I can. "

"Why, where is your sense of humor? One trembles for it! To be able todeceive them all so deliriously; to send them home believing us on goodterms, a veritable loving couple"--he breaks into a curious laugh. 

"This is too much, " says she, her face now like death. "You would insultme! Believe me, that not to spare myself all the gossip with which thewhole world could hurt me would I endure your arm around my waist!"

His short-lived, most unmirthful mirth has died from him, he has laid ahand upon the table near him to steady himself. 

"You are candid, on my soul, " says he slowly. 

She moves quickly towards the door, her velvet skirt sweeping over hisfeet as she goes by--the perfume of the violets lying in her bosomreaches him. 

Hardly knowing his own meaning, he puts out his hand and catches her byher naked arm, just where the long glove ceases above the elbow. 

"Isabel, give me this dance, " says he a little wildly. 

"_No!_"

She shakes herself free of him. A moment her eyes blaze into his. "No!"she says again, trembling from head to foot. Another moment, and thedoor has closed behind her. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

 "The old, old pain of earth. "

It is now close upon midnight--that midnight of the warmer months whenday sets its light finger on the fringes of it. There is a sighingthrough the woods, a murmur from the everlasting sea, and though Dianastill rides high in heaven with her handmaiden Venus by her side, yet ina little while her glory will be departed, and her one rival, the sun, will push her from her throne. 

The gleaming lamps among the trees-are scarcely so bright as they werean hour ago, the faint sighing of the wind that heralds the morning isshaking them to and fro. A silly bird has waked, and is chirping in afoolish fashion among the rhododendrons, where, in a secluded path, Joyce and Dicky Browne are wandering somewhat aimlessly. Before themlies a turn in the path that leads presumably into the dark wood, darkest of all at this hour, and where presumably, too, no one hasventured, though one should never presume about hidden corners. 

"I can't think what you see in him, " says Mr. Browne, after a big pause. "I'd say nothing if his face wasn't so fat, but if I were you, thatwould condemn him in my eyes. "

"I can't see that his face is fatter than yours, " says Miss Kavanagh, with what she fondly believes perfect indifference. 

"Neither is it, " says Mr. Browne meekly, "but my dear girl, there liesthe gist of my argument. You have condemned me. All my devotion has beenscouted by you. I don't pretend to be the wreck still that once by yourcruelty you made me, but----"

"Oh, that will do, " says Joyce, unfeelingly. "As for Mr. Beauclerk, Idon't know why you should imagine I see anything in him. "

"Well, I confess I can't quite understand it myself. He couldn't hold acandle to--er--well, several other fellows I could name, myself notincluded, Miss Kavanagh, so that supercilious smile is thrown away. Hemay be good to look at, there is certainly plenty of him on which tofeast the eye, but to fall in love with----"

"What do you mean, Dicky? What are you speaking about--do you know?You, " with a deadly desire to insult him, "must be in love yourselfto--to maunder as you are doing?"

"I'm not, " says Mr. Browne, "that's the queer part of it. I don't knowwhat's the matter with me. Ever since you blighted me, I have lainfallow, as it were. I, " dejectedly, "haven't been in love for quite along, long time now. I miss it--I can't explain it. I can't be well, canI? I, " anxiously, "I don't look well, do I?"

"I never saw you looking better, " with unkind force. 

"Ah!" sadly, "that's because you don't give your attention to me. It'smy opinion that I'm fading away to the land o' the leal, like oldWhat-you-may-call-'em. "

"If that's the way he did it, it must have taken him some time. In fact, he must be still at it, " says Miss Kavanagh, heartlessly. 

By this time they had come to the end of the walk, and have turned thecorner. Before them lies a small grass plot surrounded by evergreens, acosy nook not to be suspected by any one until quite close upon it. Itbursts upon the casual pedestrian, indeed, as a charming surprise. Thereis something warm, friendly, confidential about it--something safe. Beyond lies the gloomy wood, embedded in night, but here the moonbeamsplay. Some one with a thoughtful care for loving souls has placed inthis excellent spot for flirtation a comfortable garden seat, justbarely large enough for two, sternly indicative of being far too smallfar the leanest three. 

Upon this delightful seat four eyes now concentrate themselves. As if byone consent, although unconsciously, Mr. Browne and his companion cometo a dead stop. The unoffending seat holds them in thrall. 

Upon it, evidently on the best of terms with each other, are two people. One is Miss Maliphant, the other Mr. Beauclerk. They are whispering"soft and low. " Miss Maliphant is looking, perhaps, a littleconfused--for her--and the cause of the small confusion is transparent. Beauclerk's hand is tightly closed over hers, and even as Dicky and MissKavanagh gaze spellbound at them, he lifts the massive hand of theheiress and imprints a lingering kiss upon it. 

"Come away, " says Dicky, touching Joyce's arm. "Run for your life, butsoftly. "

He and she have been standing in shadow, protected from the view of theother two by a crimson rhododendron. Joyce starts as he touches her, asone might who is roused from an ugly dream, and then follows himswiftly, but lightly, back to the path they had forsaken. 

She is trembling in a nervous fashion, that angers herself cruelly, andsomething of her suppressed emotion becomes known to Mr. Browne. Perhaps, being a friend of hers, it angers him, too. 

"What strange freaks moonbeams play, " says he, with a truly delightfulair of saying nothing in particular. "I could have sworn that just thenI saw Beauclerk kissing Miss Maliphant's hand. "

No answer. There is a little silence, fraught with what angry grief whocan tell? Dicky, who is not all froth, and is capable of a liking hereand there, is conscious of, and is sorry for, the nervous tremor thatshakes the small hand he has drawn within his arm; but he is so far aphilosopher that he tells himself it is but a little thing in her life;she can bear it; she will recover from it; "and in time forget that shehad been ever ill, " says this good-natured skeptic to himself. 

Joyce, who has evidently been struggling with herself, and has nowconquered her first feeling, turns to him. 

"You should not condemn the moonbeams unheard, " says she, bravely, withthe ghost of a little smile. "The evidence of two impartial witnessesshould count in their favor. "

"But, my dear girl, consider, " says Mr. Browne, mildly. "If it had beenanyone else's hand! I could then accuse the moonbeams of a secondaryoffense, and say that their influence alone, which we all know has amaddening effect, had driven him to so bold a deed. But not madnessitself could inspire me with a longing to kiss her hand. "

"She is a very good girl, and I like her, " says Joyce, with a suspiciousvehemence. 

"So do I; so much, indeed, that I should shrink from calling her a goodgirl. It is very damnatory, you know. You could hardly say anything moreprejudicial. It at once precludes the idea of her having any such minorvirtues as grace, beauty, wit, etc. Well, granted she is 'a good girl, 'that doesn't give her pretty hands, does it? As a rule, I think that allgood girls have gigantic points. I don't think I would care to kiss MissMaliphant's hands, even if she would let me. "

"She is a very honest, kind-hearted girl, " says Miss Kavanagh a littleheavily. It suggests itself to Mr. Browne that she has not beenlistening to him. 

"And a very rich one. "

"I never think about that when I am with her. I couldn't. "

"Beauclerk could, " says Mr. Browne, tersely. 

There is another rather long silence, and Dicky is beginning to think hehas gone a trifle too far, and that Miss Kavanagh will cut himto-morrow, when she speaks again. Her tone is composed, but icy enoughto freeze him. 

"It is a mistake, " says she, "to discuss people towards whom one feels anatural antagonism. It leads, one, perhaps, to say more than oneactually means. One is apt to grow unjust. I would never discuss Mr. Beauclerk if I were you. You don't like him. "

"Well, " says Mr. Browne, thoughtfully, "since you put it to me, Iconfess I think he is the most rubbishy person I ever met!"

After this sweeping opinion, conversation comes to a deadlock. It is notresumed. Reaching the stone steps leading to the conservatory, theyascend them in silence, and reach that perfumed retreat to find Dysarton the threshold. 

"Oh, there you are!" cries he to Miss Kavanagh. "I thought you lost forgood and all!" His face has lighted up. Perhaps he feels a sense ofrelief at finding her with Dicky, who is warranted harmless. He looksalmost handsome, better than handsome! The very soul of honesty shines, in his kind eyes. 

"Oh! it is hard to lose what nobody wants, " says Joyce in a would-beplayful tone, but something in the drawn, pained lines about her mouthbelies her mirth. Dysart, after a swift examination of her face, takesher hand and draws it within his arm. 

"The last was our dance, " says he. 

"Speak kindly of the dead, " says Mr. Browne, as he beats a hastyretreat. 

CHAPTER XV. 

 "Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly; Most friendship is feigning, most loving is folly. "

"Did you forget?" asks Dysart, looking at her. 

"Forget?"

"That the last dance was mine?"

"Oh, was it? I'm so sorry. You must forgive me, " with a feverish attemptat gayety, "I will try to make amends. You shall have this one instead, no matter to whom it may belong. Come. It is only just begun, I think. "

"Never mind, " says Dysart, gently. "We won't dance this, I think. It iscool and quiet here, and you are tired. "

"Oh, so tired, " returns she with a little sudden pathetic cry, soimpulsive, so inexpressible that it goes to his heart. 

"Joyce! what is it?" says he, quickly. "Here, come and sit down. No, Idon't want an answer. It was an absurd question. You have overdone it alittle, that is all. "

"Yes, that is all!" She sinks heavily into the seat he has pointed outto her, and lets her head fall back against the cushions. "However, whenyou come to think of it, that means a great deal, " says she, smilinglanguidly. 

"There, don't talk, " says he. "What is the good of having a friend ifyou can't be silent with him when it so pleases you. That, " laughing, and arranging the cushions behind her head, "is one for you and two formyself. I, too, pine for a moment when even the meagre 'yes' and 'no'will not be required of me. "

"Oh, no, " shaking her head. "It is all for me and nothing for yourself!"she pauses, and putting out her hand lays it on his sleeve. "I think, Felix, " says she, softly, "you are the kindest man I ever met. "

"I told you you felt overdone, " says he, laughing as if to hide thesudden emotion that is gleaming in his eyes. He presses the hand restingon his arm very gently, and then replaces it in her lap. To takeadvantage of any little kindness she may show him now, when it is plainthat she is suffering from some mental excitement, grief or anger, orboth, would seem base to him. 

She has evidently accepted his offer of silence, and lying back in hersoft couch stares with unseeing eyes at the bank of flowers before her. Behind her tall, fragrant shrubs rear themselves, and somewhere behindher, too, a tiny fountain is making musical tinklings. The faint, tenderglow of a colored lamp gleams from the branches of a tropical tree closeby, and round it pale, downy moths are flitting, the sound of theirwings, as every now and then they approach too near the tempting glowand beat them against the Japanese shade, mingling with the silvery fallof the scented water. 

The atmosphere is warm, drowsy, a little melancholy. It seems to seizeupon the two sitting within its seductive influence, and threatens towaft them from day dreams into dreams born of idle slumber. The rustleof a coming skirt, however, a low voice, a voice still lower whisperinga reply, recalls them both to the fact that rest, complete and perfect, is impossible under the circumstances. 

A little opening among the tall evergreens upon their right shows themLord Baltimore once more, but this time not alone. Lady Swansdown iswith him. 

She is looking rather lovelier than usual, with that soft tinge of redupon her cheeks born of her last waltz, and her lips parted in a happysmile. The subdued lights of the many lamps falling on her satin gownrest there as if in love with its beauty. It is an old shade made new, ayellow that is almost white, and has yet a tinge of green in it. Acurious shade, difficult, perhaps, to wear with good effect; but on LadySwansdown it seems to reign alone as queen of all the toilets in therooms to-night. She looks, indeed, like a perfect picture stepped downfrom its canvas, "a thing of beauty, " a very vision of delight. 

She seems, indeed, to Joyce watching her--Joyce who likes her--that shehas grown beyond herself (or rather into her own real self) to-night. There is a touch of life, of passionate joy, of abandonment, of hopethat has yet a sting in it, in all her air, that, though not understoodof the girl, is still apparent. 

The radiant smile that illumines her beautiful face as she glances up atBaltimore--who is bending over her in more lover-like fashion thanshould be--is still making all her face a lovely fire as she passes outof sight down the steps that lead to the lighted gardens--the steps thatJoyce had but just now ascended. 

The latter is still a little wrapt in wonder and admiration, and someother thought that is akin to trouble, when Dysart breaks in upon herfancies. 

"I am sorry about that, " says he, bluntly, indicating with a nod of hishead the departing shadows of the two who have just passed out. Thereare no fancies about Dysart. Nothing vague. 

"Yes; it is a pity, " says Joyce, hurriedly. 

"More than that, I think. "

"Something ought to be done, " nervously. 

"Yes, " flushing hotly; "I know--I know what you mean"--she had meantnothing--"but it is so difficult to know what to do, and--I am only acousin. "

"Oh, I wasn't thinking of you. I wasn't, really, " says she, a good dealshocked. "As you say, why should you speak, when----"

"There is Beauclerk, " says Dysart, quickly, as if a little angry withsomebody, but certainly not with her. "How can he stand by and see it?"

"Perhaps he doesn't see it, " says she in a strange tone, her eyes on themarble flooring. It seems to herself that the words are forced from her. "Because--because he has----"

She brings her hands tightly together, so tightly that she reduces thefeathers on the fan she is holding to their last gasp. Because she isnow disappointed in him; because he has proved himself, perhaps, unstable, deceptive to the heart's core, is she to vilify, him? Athousand times no! That would be, indeed, to be base herself. 

"Perhaps not, " says Dysart, drily. In his secret heart this defence ofhis rival is detestable to him. Something in her whole manner when shecame in from the garden had suggested to him the possibility that shehad at last found him out. Dysart would have been puzzled to explain howBeauclerk was supposed to be "found out" or for what, but that he wasliable to discovery at any moment on some count or counts unknown, wasone of his Christian beliefs. "Perhaps not, " says he. "And yet I cannothelp thinking that a matter so open to all must be patent to him. "

"But, " anxiously, "is it so open?"

"I leave that to your own judgment, " a little warmly. "You, " with rathersharp question, "are a friend of Isabel's?"

"Yes, yes, " quickly. "You know that. But----"

"But?" sternly. 

"I like Lady Swansdown, too, " says she, with some determination. "I findit hard to believe that she can--can----"

"Be false to her friend, " supplements he. "Have you yet to learn thatfriendship ends where love begins?"

"You think----?"

"That she is in love with Baltimore. "

"And he?"

"Oh!" contemptuously; "who shall gauge the depth of his heart? What canhe mean?" he has risen and is now pacing angrily up and down the smallspace before her. "He used to be such a good fellow, and now----Is hedead to all sense of honor, of honesty?"

"He is a man, " says Joyce, coldly. 

"No. I deny that. Not a true man, surely. "

"Is there a true man?" says she. "Is there any truth, any honesty to befound in the whole wide world?"

She too has risen now, and is standing with her large dark eyes fixedalmost defiantly on his. There is something so strange, so wild, sounlike her usual joyous, happy self in this outburst, in her wholeattitude, that Dysart regards her with an astonishment that is largelytinctured with fear. 

"I don't know what is in your mind, " says he, calmly; "something out ofthe common has occurred to disturb you so much, I can guess, but, "looking at her earnestly, "whatever it maybe, I entreat you to beat itunder. Conquer it; do not let it conquer you. There must be evil in theworld, but never lose sight of the good; that must be there, just assurely. Truth, honor, honesty, are no fables; they are to be foundeverywhere. If not in this one, then in that. Do not lose faith inthem. "

"You think me evidently in a bad way, " says she, smiling faintly. Shehas recovered herself in part, but though she tries to turn his earnestwords into a jest, one can see that she is perilously near to tears. 

"You mean that I am preaching to you, " says he, smiling too. "Well, so Iam. What right has a girl like you to disbelieve in anything? Why, "laughing, "it can't be so very long ago since you believed in fairies, in pixies, and the fierce dragons of our childhood. "

"I don't know that I am not a believer in them still, " says she. "In thedragons, at all events. Evil seems to rule the world. "

"Tut!" says he. "I have preached in vain. "

"You would have me believe in good only, " says she. "You assure me verypositively that all the best virtues are still riding to and fro, redeeming the world, with lances couched and hearts on fire. But whereto find them? In you?"

It is a very gentle smile she gives him as she says this. 

"Yes: so far, at least, as you are concerned, " says he, stoutly. "Ishall be true and honest to you so long as my breath lives in my body. So much I can swear to. "

"Well, " says she, with a rather meagre attempt at light-heartedness, "you almost persuade me with that truculent manner of yours intobelieving in you at all events, or is it, " a little sadly, "that theways of others drive me to that belief? Well, " with a sigh, "never mindhow it is, you benefit by it, any way. "

"I don't want to force your confidence, " says Dysart; "but you have beenmade unhappy by somebody, have you not?"

"I have not been made happy, " says she, her eyes on the ground. "I don'tknow why I tell you that. You asked a hard question. "

"I know. I should have been silent, perhaps, and yet----"

At this moment the sound of approaching footsteps coming up the stepsstartles them. 

"Joyce!" says he, "grant me one request. "

"One! You rise to tragedy!" says she, as if a little amused in spite ofthe depression under which she is so evidently laboring. "Is it to beyour last, your dying prayer?"

"I hope not. Nevertheless I would have it granted. "

"You have only to speak, " says she, with a slight gesture that is halfmocking, half kindly. 

"Come with me after luncheon, to-morrow, up to St. Bridget's Hill?"

"Is that all? And to throw such force into it. Yes, yes; I shall enjoy along walk like that. "

"It is not because of the walk that I ask you to go there with me, " saysDysart, the innate honesty that distinguishes him compelling him to laybare to her his secret meaning. "I have something to say to you. Youwill listen?"

"Why should I not?" returns she, a little pale. He might, perhaps, havesaid something further, but that now the footsteps sound close at hand. A glance towards the door that leads from the fragrant night into thestill more perfumed air within reveals to them two figures. 

Mr. Beauclerk and Miss Maliphant come leisurely forward. The bloodreceding to Joyce's heart leaves her cold and singularly calm. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

 "Out of the day and night A joy has taken flight. "

 "Life, I know not what thou art. "

"You two, " cries Miss Maliphant pleasantly, in her loud, good-naturedvoice. She addresses them as though it has been borne in upon her byconstant reminding that Joyce and Dysart are for the best of all reasonsgenerally to be found together. There is something not only genial, butsympathetic in her tones, something that embarrasses Dysart, and angersJoyce to the last degree. "Well, I'm glad to have met you for one momentout of the hurly-burly, " goes on the massive heiress to Joyce, with thefriendliest of smiles. "I'm off at cock-crow, you know, and so mightn'thave had the opportunity of saying good-bye to you, but for thisfortunate meeting. "

"To-morrow?" says Joyce, more with the manner of one who feels she mustsay something than from any desire to say it. 

"Yes, and so early that I shall not have it in my power to bid farewellto any one. Unless, indeed, " with a glance at Beauclerk, meant, perhaps, to be coquettish, but so elephantine in its proportions as to be almostanything in the world but that, "some of my friends may wish to see thesun rise. "

"We shall miss you, " says Joyce, gracefully, though with an effort. 

"Just what I've been saying, " breaks in Beauclerk at this juncture, whohitherto has been looking on, with an altogether delightful smile uponhis handsome face. "We shall all miss Miss Maliphant. It is not oftenthat one meets with an entirely genial companion. My sister is to becongratulated on securing such an acquisition, if only for a shorttime. "

Joyce, lifting her eyes, stares straight at him. "For a short time!"What does that mean? If Miss Maliphant is to be Lady Baltimore'ssister-in-law, she will undoubtedly secure her for a lifetime!

"Oh, you are too good, " says Miss Maliphant, giving him a playful flickwith her fan. 

"Well, what would you have me say?" persists Beauclerk still lightly, with wonderful lightness, in fact, considering the weight of thatplayful tap upon his bent knuckles. "That we shall not be sorry? Wouldyou have me lie, then? Fie, fie, Miss Maliphant! The truth, the truth, and nothing but the truth! At all risks and hazards!" here he almostimperceptibly sends flying a shaft from his eyes at Joyce, who receivesit with a blank stare. "We shall, I assure you, be desolated when yougo, specially Isabel. "

This last pretty little speech strikes Dysart as being specially neat:This putting the onus of the regret on to Isabel's shoulders. Allthrough, Beauclerk has been careful to express himself as one who is anappreciative friend of Miss Maliphant, but nothing more; yet so guardedare these expressions, and the looks that accompany them, that MissMaliphant might be pardoned if she should read a warmer feeling in them. 

A sensation of disgust darkens his brow. 

"I must say you are all very nice to me, " says the heiress complacently. Poor soul! No doubt, she believes in every bit of it, and a large courseof kow-towing from the world has taught her the value of her pile. "However, " with true Manchester grace, "there's no need for howling overit. We'll all meet again, I dare say, some time or other. For one thing, Lady Baltimore has asked me to come here again after Christmas;February, I dare say. "

"So glad!" murmurs Joyce rather vaguely. 

"So you see, " said Miss Maliphant with ponderous gayety, "that we areall bound to put in a second good time together; you're coming, I know, Mr. Dysart, and Miss Kavanagh is always here, and Mr. Beauclerk "--witha languishing glance at that charming person, who returns it in the mostopen manner--"has promised me that he will be here to meet me. "

"Well, if I can, you know, " says he, now beaming at her. 

"How's that?" says the heiress, turning promptly upon him. It is strangehow undesirable the very richest heiress can be at times. "Why, it'sonly just this instant that you told me nothing would keep you away fromthe Court next spring. What d'ye mean?"

She brings him to book in a most uncompromising fashion; a fashion thatbetrays unmistakably her plebeian origin. Dysart, listening, admires herfor it. Her rough and ready honesty seems to him preferable to the bestbred shuffling in the world. 

"Did I say all that?" says Beauclerk lightly, coloring a little, nevertheless, as he marks the fine smile that is curling Joyce's lips. "Why, then, " gayly, "if I said it, I meant it. If I hesitated aboutindorsing my intentions publicly, it is because one is never sure ofhappiness beforehand; believe me, Miss Maliphant, " with a little bow-toher, but with a direct glance at Joyce, "every desire I have is centeredin the hope that next spring may see me here again. "

"Well, I expect we all have the same wish, " says Miss Maliphantcheerfully, who has not caught that swift glance at Joyce. "I'm sure Ihope that nothing will interfere with my coming here in February. "

"It is agreed, then, " says Beauclerk, with a delightfully comprehensivesmile that seems to take in every one, even the plants and the drippingfountain and the little marble god in the corner, who is evidentlylistening with all his might. "We all meet here again early next year ifthe fates be propitious. You, Dysart, you pledge yourself to join ourcircle then?"

"I pledge myself, " says Dysart, fixing a cold gaze on him. It is socold, so distinctly hostile, that Beauclerk grows uncomfortable beneathit. When uncomfortable his natural bias leads him towards a display ofbonhomie. 

"Here we have before us a prospect to cheer the soul of any man, "declares he, shifting his eyes from Dysart to Miss Maliphant. 

"It cheers me certainly, " responds that heavy maiden with alacrity. "Ilike to think we shall all meet again. "

"Like the witches in Macbeth, " says Joyce, indifferently. 

"But not so malignantly, I hope, " says the heiress brilliantly, who, like most worthy people, can never see beyond her own nose. "For my partI like old friends much better than new. " She looks round for theappreciation that should attend this sound remark, and is gratified tofind Dysart is smiling at her. Perhaps the core of that smile might nothave been altogether to her taste--most cores are difficult ofdigestion. To her, to whom all things are new, where does the flavor ofthe old come in?

Beauclerk is looking at Joyce. 

"I hope the prospect cheers you too, " says he a little sharply, as ifnettled by her determined silence and bent on making her declareherself. "You, I trust, will be here next February. "

"Sure to be!" says she with an enigmatical smile. "Not a jot or tittleof your enjoyments will be lost to you in the coming year. Both yourfriends--Miss Maliphant and I--will be here to welcome you when youreturn. "

Something in her manner, in the half-defiant light in her eyes, puzzlesBeauclerk. What has happened to her since they last were together? Notmore than an hour ago she had seemed--er--well. Inwardly he smilescomplacently. But now. Could she? Is it possible? Was there a chancethat----

"Miss Kavanagh, " begins he, moving toward her. But she makes short workof his advance. 

"I repent, " says she, turning a lovely, smiling face on Dysart. "A whileago I said I was too tired to dance. I did myself injustice. Thatwaltz--listen to it"--lifting up an eager finger--"would it not wake ananchorite from his ascetic dreams? Come. There is time. ". 

She has sprung to her feet--life is in every movement. She slips her arminto Dysart's. Not understanding--yet half understanding, moves withher--his heart on fire for her, his puzzlement rendering him miserable. 

Beauclerk, with that doubt of what she really knows full upon him, iswiser. Without hesitation he offers his arm to Miss Maliphant; and, soswift is his desire to quit the scene, he passes Dysart and Joyce, thelatter having paused for a moment to recover her fan. 

"You see!" says Beauclerk, bending over the heiress, when a turn in theconservatory has hidden him from the view of those behind. "I told you!"He says nothing more. It is the veriest whisper, spoken with anassumption of merriment very well achieved. Yet, if she would havelooked at him, she could have seen that his very lips are white. But asI have said, Miss Maliphant's mind has not been trained to the highercourses. 

"Yes. One can see!" laughs she happily. "And it is charming, isn't it?To find two people thoroughly in love with each other now-a-days, is tobelieve in that mad old world of romance of which we read. They're verynice too, both of them. I do like Joyce. She's one in a thousand, andMr. Dysart is just suited to her. They are both thorough! There's nononsense about them. Now that you have pointed it out to me, I think Inever saw two people so much in love with each other as they. "

Providentially, she is looking away from him to where a quadrille isforming in the ballroom, so that the deadly look of hatred that adornshis handsome face is unknown to her. 

 * * * * *

Meantime, Joyce, with that convenient fan recovered, is looking with sadeyes at Dysart. 

"Come; the music will soon cease, " says she. 

"Why do you speak to me like that?" cries he vehemently. "If you don'twant to dance, why not say so to me? Why not trust me? Good heavens! ifI were your bitterest enemy you could not treat me more distantly. Andyet--I would die to make you happy. "

"Don't!" says she in a little choking sort of way, turning her face fromhim. She struggles with herself for a moment, and then, still with herface averted, says meekly: "Thank you, then. If you don't mind, I shouldrather not dance any more to-night. "

"Why didn't you say that at first?" says he, with a last remnant ofreproach. "No; there shall be no more dancing to-night for either you orme. A word, Joyce!" turning eagerly toward her, "you won't forget yourpromise about that walk to-morrow?"

"No. No, indeed. "

"Thank you!"

They are sitting very close together, and almost insensibly his handseeks and finds hers. It was lying idle on her lap, and lifting it, hewould have raised it to his lips, but with a sharp, violent action shewrests it from him, and, as a child might, hides it behind her. 

"If you would have me believe in you----No, no, not that, " says she, alittle incoherently, her voice rendering her meaning with difficulty. Dysart, astonished, stands back from her, waiting for something more;but nothing comes, except two large tears, that steal heavily, painfully, down her cheeks. 

She brushes them impatiently away. 

"Forgive me, " she says, somewhat brokenly. "To you, who are so good tome, I am unkind, while to those who are unkind to me I----" She istrying to rally. "It was a mere whim, believe me. I have always hateddemonstrations of any sort, and why should you want to kiss my hand?"

"I shouldn't, " says he. "If----" His eyes have fallen from her eyes toher lips. 

"Never mind, " says she; "I didn't understand, perhaps. But why can't yoube content with things as they are?"

"Are you content with them?"

"I think so. I have been examining myself, and honestly I think so, "says she a little feverishly. 

"Well, I'm not, " returns he with decision. "You must give me credit fora great private store of amiability, if you imagine that I am satisfiedto take things as they now exist--between you and me!"

"You have your faults, you see, as well as another, " says she with afrown. "You are persistent! And the worst of it is that you aregenerally right. " She frowns again, but even while frowning glancessideways from under her long lashes with an expression hardly uncivil. "That is the worst crime in the calendar. Be wrong sometimes, an' youlove me, it will gain you a world of friends. "

"If it could gain me your love in return, I might risk it, " says heboldly. "But that is hopeless I'm afraid, " shaking his head. "I am toooften in the wrong not to know that neither my many frailties nor my fewvirtues can ever purchase for me the only good thing on which my soul isset. "

"I have told you of one fault, now hear another, " says she capriciously. "You are too earnest! What, " turning upon him passionately, as if alittle ashamed of her treatment of him, "is the use of being earnest?Who cares? Who looks on, who gives one moment to the guessing of themeaning that lies beneath? To be in earnest in this life is merely to bemad. Pretend, laugh, jest, do anything, but be what you really are, andyou will probably get through the world in a manner, if not satisfactoryto yourself, at all events to '_les autres_. '"

"You preach a crusade against yourself, " says he gently. "You preachagainst your own conscience. You are the least deceptive person I know. Were you to follow in the track you lay out for others, the cruelty ofit would kill you. 

 "To your own self be true, And----"

"Yes, yes; I know it all, " says she, interrupting him with someirritation. "I wish you knew how--how unpleasant you can be. As I tellyou, you are always right. That last dance--it is true--I didn't want tohave anything to do with it; but for all that I didn't wish to be toldso. I merely suggested it as a means of getting rid of----"

"Miss Maliphant, " says Dysart, who is feeling a little sore. Thedisingenuousness of this remark is patent to her. 

"No; Mr. Beauclerk, " corrects she, coldly. 

"Forgive me, " says Dysart quickly, "I shouldn't have said that. Well, "drawing a long breath, "we have got rid of them, and may I give you aword of advice? It is disinterested because it is to my owndisadvantage. Go to your room--to your bed. You are tired, exhausted. Why wait to be more so. Say you will do as I suggest. "

"You want to get rid of me, " says she with a little weary smile. 

"That is unworthy of an answer, " gravely; "but if a 'yes' to it willhelp you to follow my advice, why, I will say it. Come, " rising, "letme take you to the hall. "

"You shall have your way, " says she, rising too, and following him. 

A side door leading to the anteroom on their left, and thus skirting theballroom without entering it, brings them to the foot of the centralstaircase. 

"Good-night, " says Dysart in a low tone, retaining her hand for amoment. All round them is a crowd separated into twos and threes, sothat it is impossible to say more than the mere commonplace. 

"Good night, " returns she in a soft tone. She has turned away from him, but something in the intense longing and melancholy of his eyes compelsher to look back again. "Oh, you have been kind! I am not ungrateful, "says she with sharp contrition. 

"Joyce, Joyce! Let me be the grateful one, " returns he. His voice is amere whisper, but so fraught is it with passionate appeal that it ringsin her brain for long hours afterward. 

Her eyes fall beneath his. She moves silently away. What can she say tohim?

It is with a sense of almost violent relief that she closes the door ofher own room behind her, and knows herself to be at last alone. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

 "And vain desires, and hopes dismayed, And fears that cast the earth in shade, My heart did fret. "

Night is waning! Dies pater, Father of Day, is making rapid stridesacross the heavens, creating havoc as he goes. Diana faints! the starsgrow pale, flinging, as they die, a last soft glimmer across the sky. 

Now and again a first call from the birds startles the drowsy air. Thewood dove's coo, melancholy sweet--the cheep-cheep of the robin--thehoarse cry of the sturdy crow. 

 "A faint dawn breaks on yonder sedge, And broadens in that bed of weeds; A bright disk shows its radiant edge, All things bespeak the coming morn, Yet still it lingers. "

As Lady Swansdown and Baltimore descend the stone steps that lead to thegardens beneath, only the swift rush of the tremulous breeze that stirsthe branches betrays to them the fact that a new life is at hand. 

"You are cold?" says Baltimore, noticing the quick shiver that runsthrough her. 

"No: not cold. It was mere nervousness. "

"I shouldn't have thought you nervous. "

"Or fanciful?" adds she. "You judged me rightly, and yet--coming all atonce from the garish lights within into this cool sweet darkness here, makes one feel in spite of oneself. "

"In spite! Would you never willingly feel?"

"Would you?" demands she very slowly. 

"Not willingly, I confess. But I have been made to feel, as you know. And you?"

"Would you have a woman confess?" says she, half playfully. "That istaking an unfair advantage, is it not? See, " pointing to a seat, "what acharming resting place! I will make one confession to you. I am tired. "

"A meagre one! Beatrice, " says he suddenly, "tell me this: are all womenalike? Do none really feel? Is it all fancy--the mere idle emotion of amoment--the evanescent desire for sensation of one sort or another--ofanger, love, grief, pain, that stirs you now and then? Are none of thesethings lasting with you, are they the mere strings on which you playfrom time to time, because the hours lie heavy on your hands? It seemsto me----"

"It seems to me that you hardly know what you are saying, " said LadySwansdown quickly. "Do you think then that women do not feel, do notsuffer as men never do? What wild thoughts torment your brain that youshould put forward so senseless a question?--one that has been answeredsatisfactorily thousands of years ago. All the pain, the suffering ofearth lies on the woman's shoulders; it has been so from thebeginning--it shall be so to the end. On being thrust forth from theirEden, which suffered most do you suppose, Adam or Eve?"

"It is an old story, " says he gloomily, "and why should you, of allpeople, back it up? You--who----"

"Better leave me out of the question. "

"You!"

"I am outside your life, Baltimore, " says she, laying her hand on theback of the seat beside her, and sinking into it. "Leave me there!"

"Would you bereave me of all things, " says he, "even my friends? Ithought--I believed, that you at least--understood me. "

"Too well!" says she in a low tone. Her hands have met each other andare now clasped together in her lap in a grip that is almost hurtful. Great heavens! if he only knew--could he then probe, and wound, andtempt!

"If you do----" begins he--then stops short, and passing her, paces toand fro before her in the dying light of the moon. Lady Swansdownleaning back gazes at him with eyes too sad for tears--eyes "wild withall regret. " Oh! if they two might but have met earlier. If thisman--this man in all the world, had been given to her, as her allotment. 

"Beatrice!" says he, stopping short before her, "were you ever in love?"

There is a dead silence. Lady Swansdown sinking still deeper into thearm of the chair, looks up at him with strange curious eyes. What doeshe mean? To her--to put such a question to her of all women! Is he deaf, blind, mad--or only cruel?

A sort of recklessness seizes upon her. Well, if he doesn't know, heshall know, though it be to the loss of her self-respect forever!

"Never, " says she, leaning a little forward until the moonbeams gleamupon her snowy neck and arms. "Never--never--until----"

The pause is premeditated. It is eloquence itself! The light of heavenplaying on her beautiful face betrays the passion of it--the richpallor! One hand resting on the back of the seat taps upon the ironwork, the other is now in Baltimore's possession. 

"Until now----?" suggests he boldly. He is leaning over her. She shakesher head. But in this negative there is only affirmation. 

His hand tightens more closely upon hers. The long slender fingers yieldto his pressure--nay more--return it; they twine round his. 

"If I thought----" begins he in a low, stammering tone--he moves nearerto her, nearer still. Does she move toward him? There is a second'shesitation on his part, and then, his lips meet hers!

It is but a momentary touch, a thing of an instant, but it includes awhole world of meaning. Lady Swansdown has sprung to her feet, and islooking at him with eyes that seem to burn through the mystic darkness. She is trembling in every limb. Her nostrils are dilated. Her haughtymouth is quivering, and there--are there honest, real tears in thosemocking eyes?

Baltimore, too, has risen. His face is very white, very full ofcontrition. That he regrets his action toward her is unmistakable, butthat there is a deeper contrition behind--a sense of self-loathing notto be appeased betrays itself in the anguish of his eyes. She hadaccused him of falsity, most falsely up to this, but now--now----Hismind has wandered far away. 

There is something so wild in his expression that Lady Swansdown losessight of herself in the contemplation of it. 

"What is it, Baltimore?" asks she, in a low, frightened tone. It rouseshim. 

"I have offended you beyond pardon, " begins he, but more like oneseeking for words to say than one afraid of using them. "I have angeredyou----"

"Do not mistake me, " interrupts she quickly, almost fiercely. "I am notangry. I feel no anger--nothing--but that I am a traitor. "

"And what am I?"

"Work out your own condemnation for yourself, " says she, still with thatfeverish self-disdain upon her. "Don't ask me to help you. She was myfriend, whatever she is now. She trusted me, believed in me. And afterall----And you, " turning passionately, "you are doubly a traitor, youare a husband. "

"In name!" doggedly. He has quite recovered himself now. Whatevertorture his secret soul may impress upon him in the future, no one buthe shall know. 

"It doesn't matter. You belong to her, and she to you. "

"That is what she doesn't think, " bitterly. 

"There is one thing only to be said, Baltimore, " says she, after aslight pause. "This must never occur again. I like you, you know that. I----" she breaks off abruptly, and suddenly gives way to a sort ofmirthless laughter. "It is a farce!" she says. "Consider my feelinganything. And so virtuous a thing, too, as remorse! Well, as one lives, one learns. If I had seen the light for the first time in the middle ofthe dark ages, I should probably have ended my days as the prioress of aconvent. As it is, I shouldn't wonder if I went in for hospital nursingpresently. Pshaw!" angrily, "it is useless lamenting. Let me face thetruth. I have acted abominably toward her so far, and the worst of itis"--with a candor that seems to scorch her--"I know if the chance begiven me, I shall behave abominably toward her again. I shall leaveto-morrow--the day after. One must invent a decent excuse. "

"Pray don't leave on Lady Baltimore's account, " says he slowly, "shewould be the last to care about this. I am nothing to her. "

"Is your wish father to that thought?" regarding him keenly. 

"No. I assure you. The failing I mention is plain to all the world Ishould have thought. "

"It is not plain to me, " still watching him. 

"Then learn it, " says he. "If ever she loved me, which I now disbelieve(I would that I had let the doubt creep in earlier), it was in a pastthat now is irretrievably dead. I suppose I wearied her--I confess, "with a meagre smile, "I once loved her with all my soul, and heart, andstrength--or else she is incapable of knowing an honest affection. "

"That is not true, " says Lady Swansdown, some generous impulse forcingthe words unwillingly through her white lips. "She can love! you mustsee that for yourself. The child is proof of it. "

"Some women are like that, " says he gloomily. "They can open wide theirhearts to their children, yet close it against the fathers of them. Isabel's whole life is given up to her child: she regards it as hersentirely; she allows me no share in him. Not, " eagerly, "that I grudgehim one inch the affection she gives him. He has a father worthlessenough. Let his mother make it up to him. "

"Yet he loves the father best, " says Lady Swansdown quickly. 

"I hope not, " with a suspicion of violence. 

"He does, believe me. One can see it. That saintly mother of his has nothalf the attraction for him that you have. Why, look you, it is the wayof the world, why dispute it? Well, well, " her triumphant voicedeepening to a weary whisper. "When one thinks of it all, she is not toohappy. " She draws her hand in a little bewildered way across her whitebrow. 

"You don't understand her, " says Baltimore frigidly. "She lives in aworld of her own. No one would dare penetrate it. Even I--her husband, as you call me in mockery--am outside it. I don't believe she ever caredfor me. If she had, do you think she would have given a thought to thatinfamous story?"

"About Madame Istray?"

"Yes. You, too, heard of it then?"

"Who hasn't heard. Violet Walden was not the one to spare you. " Shepauses and looks at him, with all her heart in her eyes. "Was there notruth in that story?" asks she at last, her words coming with a littlerush. 

"None. I swear it! You believe me!" He has come nearer to her and takenher hand in the extremity of this desire to be believed in by somebody. 

"I believe you, " says she, gently. Her voice is so low that he can catchthe words only; the grief and misery in them is unknown to him. Mercifully, too, the moon has gone behind a cloud, a tender preparationfor an abdication presently, so that he cannot see the two heartbrokentears that steal slowly down her cheeks. 

"That is more than Isabel does, " says he, with a laugh that hassomething of despair in it. 

"You tell me, then, " says Lady Swansdown, "that you never saw Mme. Istray after your marriage?"

"Never, willingly. "

"Oh, willingly!"

"Don't misjudge me. Hear the whole story then--if you must, " cries hepassionately--"though if you do, you will be the first to hear it. I amtired of being thought a liar!"

"Go on, " says she, in a low shocked tone. His singular vehemence hascompelled her to understand how severe have been his sufferings. If evershe had doubted the truth of the old story that has wrecked thehappiness of his married life she doubts no longer. 

"I tell you, you will be the first to hear it, " says he, advancingtoward her. "Sit down there, " pressing her into the garden seat. "I cansee you are looking overdone, even by this light. Well----" drawing along breath and stepping back from her--"I never opened my lips uponthis subject except once before. That was to Isabel. And she"--hepauses--"she would not listen. She believed, then, all things base ofme. She has so believed ever since. "

"She must be a fool!" says Lady Swansdown impetuously, "she couldnot----"

"She did, however. She, " coldly, "even believed that I could lie toher!"

His face has become ashen; his eyes, fixed upon the ground, seemed togrow there with the intensity of his regard. His breath seems to comewith difficulty through his lips. 

"Well, " says he at last, with a long sigh, "it's all over! The onemerciful thing belonging to our life is that there must come, sooner orlater, an end to everything. The worst grief has its termination. Shehas been unjust to me. But you, " he lifts his haggard face, "you, perhaps, will grant me a kindlier hearing. "

"Tell it all to me, if it will make you happier, " says she, very gently. Her heart is bleeding for him. Oh, if she might only comfort him in someway! If--if that other fails him, why should not she, with the passionof love that lies in her bosom, restore him to the warmth, the sweetnessof life. That kiss, half developed as it only was, already begins tobear fatal fruit. Unconsciously she permits herself a license in herthoughts of Baltimore hitherto strenuously suppressed. 

"There is absurdly little to tell. At that time we lived almost entirelyat our place in Hampshire, and as there were business matters connectedwith the outlying farms found there, that had been grossly neglectedduring my grandfather's time, I was compelled to run up to town, almostdaily. As a rule I returned by the evening train, in time for dinner, but once or twice I was so far delayed that it was out of my power to doit. I laugh at myself now, " he looks very far from laughter as he saysit, "but I assure you the occasions on which I was compulsorily keptaway from my home were----" He pauses, "oh, well, there is no use inbeing more tragic than one need be. They were, at least, a trouble tome. "

"Naturally, " says she, coldly. 

"I loved her, you see, " says Baltimore, in a strange jerky sort of way, as if ashamed of that old sentiment. "She----"

"I quite understand. I have heard all about it once or twice, " says LadySwansdown, with a kind of slow haste, if such a contradiction may beallowed. That he has forgotten her is evident. That she has forgottennothing is more evident still. 

"Well, one day, one of the many days during which I went up to town, after a long afternoon with Goodman and Smale, in the course of whichthey had told me they would probably require me to call at their officeto meet one of the most influential tenants at nine the next morning, Imet, on leaving their office, Marchmont--Marchmont of the Tenth, youknow. "

"Yes, I know. "

"He and a couple of other fellows belonging to his regiment were goingdown to Richmond to dine. Would I come? It was dull in town, toward theclose of the season, and I was glad of any invitation that promised achange of programme--anything that would take me away from a dullevening at my club. I made no inquiries; I accepted the invitation, gotdown in time for dinner, and found Mme. Istray was one of the guests. I----"

He hesitates. 

"Go on. "

"You are a woman of the world, Beatrice; you will let me confess to youthat there had been old passages between me and Mme. Istray--well, Iswear to you I had never so much as thought of her since mymarriage--nay, since my engagement to Isabel. From that hour my life hadbeen clear as a sheet of blank paper. I had forgotten her; I verilybelieve she had forgotten me, too. At that dinner I don't think sheexchanged a dozen words with me. On my soul, " pushing back his hair witha slow, troubled gesture from his brow, "this is the truth. "

"And yet----"

"And yet, " interrupting her with now a touch of vehement excitement, "agarbled, a most cursedly false account of that dinner was given her. Itcame round to her ears. She listened to it--believed in it--condemnedwithout a hearing. She, who has sworn, not only at the altar, but to mealone, that she loved me. "

"She wronged you terribly, " says Lady Swansdown in a low tone. 

"Thank you, " cried he, a passion of gratitude in his tone. "To bebelieved in by someone so thoroughly as you believe in me, is to knowhappiness indeed. Whatever happens, I can count on you as my friend. "

"Your friend, always, " says she, in a very low voice--a voice somewhatbroken. "Come, " she says, rising suddenly and walking toward the distantlights in the house. 

He accompanies her silently. 

Very suddenly she turns to him, and lays her hand upon his arm. 

"Be my friend, " says she, with a quick access of terrible emotion. 

Entreaty and despair mingle in her tone. 

"Forever!" returns he, fervently, tightening his grasp on her hand. 

"Well, " sighing, "it hardly matters. We shall not meet again for a long, long time. "

"How is that? Isabel, the last time she condescended to speak to me ofher own accord, " with an unpleasant laugh, "told me that she had askedyou to come here again next February, and that you had accepted theinvitation. She, indeed, made quite a point of it. "

"Ah! that was a long time ago. "

"Weeks do not make a long time. "

"Some weeks hold more than years. Yes, you are right; she made quite apoint about my coming. Well, she is always very civil. "

"She has always perfect manners. She is, as you say, very civil. "

"She is proud, " coldly. 

"You will come?"

"I think not. By that time you will in all probability have made it upwith her. "

"The very essence of improbability. "

"While I--shall not have made it up with my husband. "

"One seems quite as possible as the other. "

"Oh, no. Isabel is a good woman. You would do well to go back to her. Swansdown is as bad a man as I know, and that, " with a mirthless laugh, "is saying a great deal. I should gain nothing by a reconciliation withhim. For one thing, an important matter, I have a great deal more moneythan he has, and, for another, there are no children. " Her voice changeshere; an indescribable alteration not only hardens, but desolates it. "Ihave been fortunate there, " she says, "if in nothing else in myunsatisfactory life. There is no smallest bond between me and Swansdown. If I could be seriously glad of anything it would be of that. I havenothing belonging to him. "

"His name. "

"Oh, as for that--does it belong to him? Has he not forfeited a decentright to it a thousand times? No; there is nothing. If there had been achild he would have made a persecution of it--and so I am better off asit is. And yet, there are moments when I envy you that little child ofyours. However----"

"Yet if Swansdown were to make an overture----"

"Do not go on. It is of all speculations the most useless. Do not pursuethe subject of Swansdown, I entreat you. Let"--with bittermeaning--"'sleeping dogs lie. '"

Baltimore laughs shortly. 

"That is severe, " says he. 

"It is how I feel toward him; the light in which I regard him. If, "turning a face to his that is hardly recognizable, so pale it is withill-suppressed loathing, "he were lying on his deathbed and sent for me, it would give me pleasure to refuse to go to him. "

She takes her hand from his arm and motions him to ascend the stepsleading into the conservatory. 

"But you?" says he, surprised. 

"Let me remain here a little while. I am tired. My head aches, I----"

"Let me stay with you. "

"No, " smiling faintly. "What I want is to be alone. To feel the silence. Go. Do not be uneasy about me. Believe me you will be kind if you do asI ask you. "

"It is a command, " says he slowly. And slowly, too, he turns away fromher. 

Seeing him so uncertain about leaving her, she steps abruptly into adark side path, and finding a chair sinks into it. 

The soft breaking of the dawn over the tree tops far away seems to addanother pang to the anguish that is consuming her. She covers her facewith her hands. 

Oh! if it had all been different. Two lives sacrificed! nay, three! Forsurety Isabel cannot care for him. Oh! if it had been she, sheherself--what is there she could not have forgiven him? Nay, she musthave forgiven him, because life without him would have beeninsupportable. If only she might have loved him honorably. If only shemight ever love him--successfully--dishonorably!

The thought seems to sting her. Involuntarily she throws up her head andcourts the chill winds of dawn that sweep with a cool touch her burningforehead. 

She had called her proud. Would she herself, then, be less proud? ThatIsabel dreads her, half scorns her of late, is well known to her, andyet, with a very passion of pride, would dare her to prove it. She, Isabel, has gone even so far as to ask her rival to visit her again inthe early part of the coming year to meet her present friends. So farthat pride had carried her. But pride--was pride love? If she herselfloved Baltimore, would she, even for pride's sake, entreat the woman hesingled out for his attentions to spend another long visit in hercountry house? And if Isabel does not honestly love him, why then--is henot lawful prey for one who can, who does not love him?

One--who loves him. But he--whom does he love?

Torn by some last terrible thought she starts to her feet, and, asthough inaction has become impossible to her, draws her white silkenwrap around her, and sweeps rapidly out of all view of the waningChinese lamps into the gray obscurity of the coming day that lies in thefar gardens. 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

 "Song have thy day, and take thy fill of light Before the night be fallen across thy way; Sing while he may, man hath no long delight. "

"What a delicious day!" says Joyce, stopping short on the hill to take alook round her. It is the next day, and indeed far into it. Luncheon isa thing of the past, and both she and Dysart know that it will take themall their time to reach St. Bridget's Hill and be back again forafternoon tea. They had started on their expedition in defiance of manybribes held out to them. For one thing, there was to be a reception atthe Court at five; many of those who had danced through last nighthaving been asked to come over late in the afternoon of to-day to talkover the dance itself and the little etceteras belonging to it. 

The young members of the Monkton family had been specially invited, too, as a sort of make up to Bertie, the little son of the house, who hadbeen somewhat aggrieved at being sent to bed without his share of thefestivities on hand. He had retired to his little cot, indeed, with hisarms stuffed full of crackers, but how could crackers and cakes andsweets console any one for the loss of being out at an ungodly hour andseeing a real live dance! The one thing that finally helped him toendure his hard lot was a promise on his mother's part that Tommy andMabel Monkton should come down next day and revel with him among theglorious ruins of the supper table. The little Monktons had not come, however, when Joyce left for her walk. 

"Going out?" Lady Swansdown had said to her, meeting her in the hall, fully equipped for her excursion. "But why, my dear girl? We expectthose amusing Burkes in an hour or so, and the Delaneys, and----"

"Yes, why go?" repeats Beauclerk, who has just come up. His manner isfriendly in the extreme, yet a very careful observer might notice astrain about it, a determination to be friendly that rather spoils theeffect. Her manner toward him last night after his interview with MissMaliphant in the garden and her growing coldness ever since, hassomewhat disconcerted, him mentally. Could she have heard, or seen, orbeen told of anything? There might, of course, have been a little_contretemps_ of some sort. People, as a rule, are so beastlytreacherous! "You will make us wretched if you desert us, " says he with_empressement_. As he speaks he goes up to her and lets his eyes as wellas his lips implore her. Miss Maliphant had left by the early train, sothat he is quite unattached, and able to employ his whole battery offascinations on the subjugation of this refractory person. 

"I am sorry. Don't be more wretched than you can help!" says Joyce, witha smile wonderfully unconcerned. "After a dance I want to walk to clearmy brain, and Mr. Dysart has been good enough to say he will accompanyme. "

"Is he accompanying you?" says Beauclerk, with an unpardonablesupercilious glance around him as if in search of the absent Dysart. 

"You mustn't think him a laggard at his post, " says Miss Kavanagh, stillsmiling, but now in a little provoking way that seems to jest at hispretended suspicion of Dysart's constancy and dissolve it into thethinnest of thin air. "He was here just now, but I sent him to loose thedogs. I like to have them with me, and Lady Baltimore is pleased whenthey get a run. "

"Isabel is always so sympathetic, " says he, with a quite new anddelightful rush of sympathy toward Isabel. "I suppose, " glancing atJoyce keenly, "you would not care for an additional escort? Thedogs--and Dysart--will be sufficient?"

"Mr. Dysart and the dogs will be, " says she. "Ah! Here he comes, " asDysart appears at the open doorway, a little pack of terriers at hisheels. "What a time you've been!" cries she, moving quickly to him. "Ithought you would never come. Good-bye, Lady Swansdown; good-bye, "glancing casually at Beauclerk. "Keep one teapot for us if you can!"

She trips lightly up the avenue at Dysart's side, leaving Beauclerk in arather curious frame of mind. 

"Yes, she has heard something!" That is his first thought. How tocounteract the probable influence of that "something" is the second. Alittle dwelling upon causes and effects shows him the way. For an effectthere is often an antidote!

 * * * * *

"Delicious indeed!" says Dysart, in answer to her remark. His answer is, however, a little _distrait_. His determination of last night to bringher here, and compel her to listen to the honest promptings of his heartis still strong within him. 

They have now ascended the hill, and, standing on its summit, can lookdown on the wild deep sea beneath them that lies, to all possibleseeming, as calm and passive at their feet as might a thing inanimate. 

Yet within its depths what terrible--what mournful tragedies lie! And, as if in contrast, what ecstatic joys! To one it speaks like deathitself--to another:

 "The bridegroom sea Is toying with the shore, his wedded bride, And in the fullness of his marriage joy He decorates her tawny brow with shells, Retires a pace to see how fair she looks, Then, proud, runs up to kiss her. "

"Shall we sit here?" says Dysart, indicating a soft mound of grass thatoverlooks the bay. "You must be tired after last night's dancing. "

"I _am_ tired, " says she, sinking upon the soft cushion that Nature hasprovided with a little sigh of satisfaction. 

"Perhaps I should not have asked--have extracted--a promise from you tocome here, " says Dysart, with contrition in his tone. "I should haveremembered you would be overdone, and that a long walk like this----"

"Would be the very thing to restore me to a proper state of health, " sheinterrupts him, with the prettiest smile. "No, don't pretend you aresorry you brought me here. You know it is the sheerest hypocrisy on yourpart. You are glad, that you brought me here, I hope, andI"--deliberately--"am glad that you did. "

"Do you mean that?" says Dysart, gravely. He had not seated himselfbeside her, and is now looking down her from a goodly height. "Do youknow why I brought you?"

"To bring me back again as fresh as a daisy, " suggests she, with a laughthat is spoiled in its birth by a glance from him. 

"No, I did not think of you at all. I thought only of myself, " saysDysart, speaking a little quickly now. "Call that selfish if youwill--and yet----"

He stops short, and comes closer to her. "To think in that way was tothink of you too. Joyce, there is at all events one thing you doknow--that I love you. "

Miss Kavanagh nods her head silently. 

"There is one thing, too, that I know, " says Dysart now with a littletremble in his voice, "that you do not love me!"

She is silent. 

"You are honest, " says he, after a pause. "Still"--looking at her--"ifthere wasn't hope one would know. Though the present is empty for me, Icannot help dwelling on the thought that the future maycontain--something!"

"The future is so untranslatable, " says she, with a little evasion. 

"Tell me this at least, " says Dysart, very earnestly, bending over herwith the air of one determined to sift his chances to the last grain, "you like me?"

"Oh, yes. "

"Better than Courtenay, for example?" with a fleeting smile that failsto disguise the real anxiety he is enduring. 

"What an absurd question!"

"Than Dicky Brown?"

"Yes. "

But here she lifts her head and gazes at him in a startled way thatspeaks of quick suspicion. There is something of entreaty, too, in herdark eyes, a desire that he will go no further. 

But Dysart deliberately disregards it. 

"Than Beauclerk?" asks he in a clear, almost cruel tone. 

A horrible red rushes up to dye her pretty cheeks, in spite of all herefforts to subdue it. Great tears of shame and confusion suffuse hereyes. One little reproachful glance she casts at him, and then:

"Of course, " says she, almost vehemently, if a little faintly, her eyessinking to the ground. 

Dysart stands before her as if stricken into stone. Then the knowledgethat he has hurt her pierces him with a terrible certainty, overcomesall other thoughts, and drives him to repentance. 

"I shouldn't have asked you that, " says he bluntly. 

"No, no!" says she, acquiescing quickly, "and yet, " raising an eager, lovely face to his, "I hardly know anything about--about myself. Sometimes I think I like him, sometimes----" She stops abruptly andlooks at him with a pained and frightened gaze. "Do you despise me forbetraying myself like this?"

"No--I want to hear all about it. "

"Ah! That is what I want to hear myself. But who is to tell me? Naturewon't. Sometimes I hate him. Last night----"

"Yes, I know. You hated him last night. I don't wish to know why. I amquite satisfied in that you did so. "

"But shall I hate him to-morrow? Oh, yes, I think so--I hope so, " criesshe suddenly. "I am tired of it all. He is not a real person, not onepossible to class. He is false--naturally treacherous, and yet----"

She breaks off again very abruptly, and turns to Dysart as if for help. 

"Let us forget him, " she says, and then in a little frightened way, "Oh, I wish I could be sure I could forget him!"

"Why can't you?" says Dysart, in his downright way. "It means only astrong effort after all. If you feel honestly, " with an earnest glanceat her, "like that toward him, you must be mad to give him even a cornerin your heart. "

"That is it, " says she, "there the puzzle begins. I don't know if heever has a corner in my heart. He attracts me, but attraction is notaffection, and the heart holds only love and hatred. Indifference isnothing. "

"You can get rid of him finally, " says Dysart, boldly, "by givingyourself to me. That will kill all----"

All he may be going to say is killed on his lips at this moment by twolittle wild shrieks of joy that sound right behind his head. Both he andJoyce turn abruptly in its direction--he with a sense of angryastonishment, she with a fell knowledge of its meaning. It is, indeed, no surprise to her when Tommy and Mabel appear suddenly from behind therock just close to them, that hides the path in part, and precipitatesthemselves into her arms. 

"We saw you, we saw you!" gasps Tommy, breathless from his run up thehill: "we saw you far away down there on the road, and we told Bridgie"(the maid) "that we'd run up, and she said 'cut along, ' so here we are. "

"You are, indeed, " says Dysart, with feeling. 

"We knew you'd be glad to see us, " goes on Tommy to Joyce in thebeautiful roar he always adopts when excited; "you haven't been home foryears, and Bridgie says that's because you are going to be marriedto----"

"Get up, Tommy, you are too heavy, and, besides, I want to kiss Mabel, "says Tommy's aunt with prodigious haste and a hot cheek. 

"But mammy says you're a silly Billy, " says Mabel in her shrill treble, "an' that----"

"Mammy is a shockingly rude person, " says Mr. Dysart, hurrying to breakinto the dangerous confidence, no matter at what cost, even at theexpense of the adored mammy. His remark is taken very badly. 

"She's not, " says Tommy, glowering at him. "Father says she's an angel, and he knows. I heard him say it, and angels are never rude!"

"'Twas after he made her cry about something, " says Mabel, lifting herlittle flower-like face to Dysart's in a miniature imitation of herbrother's indignation. "She was boo-booing like anything, and thenfather got sorry--oh!--dreadful sorry--and he said she was an angel, andshe said----"

"Oh, Mabel!" says Joyce, weakly, "you know you oughtn't to say such----"

"Well, 'twas your fault, 'twas all about you, " says Tommy, defiantly. "Why don't you come home? Father says you ought to come, and mammy saysshe doesn't know which of 'em it'll be; and father says it won't be anyof them, and--what's it all about?" turning a frankly inquisitive littleface up to hers. "They wouldn't tell us, and we want to know which of'em it will be. "

"Yes, an' is it jints?" demands Mabel, who probably means giants, andnot cold meats. 

"I don't know what she means, " says Miss Kavanagh, coldly. 

"I say, you two, " says Mr. Dysart, brilliantly, "wouldn't you like torun a race? Bridget must be tired of waiting for you down there at theend of the hill, and----"

"She isn't waiting, she's talking to Mickey Daly, " says Tommy. 

"Oh, I see. Well, look here. I bet you, Tommy, strong as you look, Mabelcan outrun you down the hill. "

"She! she!" cries Tommy, indignantly; "I could beat her in a minute. "

"You can't, " cries Mabel in turn. "Nurse says I'm twice the child thatyou are. "

"Your legs are as short as a pin, " roars Tommy; "you couldn't run. "

"I can. I can. I can, " says Mabel, on the verge of a violent flood oftears. 

"Well, we'll see, " says Mr. Dysart, who now begins to think he hasthrown himself away on a silly Hussar regiment, when he ought to havetaken rank as a distinguished diplomat. "Come, I'll start you both downthe hill, and whichever reaches Bridget first wins the day. "

Instantly both children spring to the front of the path. 

"You're standing before me, Tommy. "

"No, I'm not. "

"You're cheating--you are!"

"Cheat yourself! Mr. Dysart, ain't I all right?"

"I think you should give her a start; she's the girl, you know, " saysDysart. "There now, go. That's very good. Five yards, Tommy, is a smallallowance for a little thing like Mabel. Steady now, you two! One--Goodgracious, they're off, " says he, turning to Miss Kavanagh with a sigh ofrelief mingled with amusement. "They had no idea of waiting for morethan one signal. I hope they will meet this Bridget, and get back totheir mother. "

"They are not going to her just now. They are going on to the Court tospend the afternoon with Bertie, " says Joyce; "Barbara told me so lastnight. Dear things! How sweet they looked!"

"They are the prettiest children I know, " says Dysart--a little absentperhaps. He falls into silence for a moment or two, and then suddenlylooks at her. He advances a step. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

 "A continual battle goes on in a child's mind between what it knows and what it comprehends. "

"Well?" says he. 

He advances even nearer, and dropping on a stone close to her, takespossession of one of her hands. 

"As you can't make up your mind to him; and, as you say, you like me, say something more. "

"More?"

"Yes. A great deal more. Take the next move. Say--boldly--that you willmarry me!"

Joyce grows a little pale. She had certainly been prepared for thisspeech, had been preparing herself for it all the long weary wakefulnight, yet now that she hears it, it seems as strange, as terrible, asthough it had never suggested itself to her in its vaguest form. 

"Why should I say that?" says she at last, stammering a little, andfeeling somewhat disingenuous. She had known, yet now she is trying topretend that she did not know. 

"Because I ask you. You see I put the poorest reason at first, andbecause you say I am not hateful to you, and because----"

"Well?"

"Because, when a man's last chance of happiness lies in the balance, hewill throw his very soul into the weighing of it--and knowing this, youmay have pity on me. "

As though pressed down by some insupportable weight, the girl rises andmakes a little curious gesture as if to free herself from it. Her face, still pale, betrays an inward struggle. After all, why cannot she giveherself to him? Why can't she love him? He loves her; love, as some poorfool says, begets love. 

And he is honest. Yes, honest! A pang shoots through her breast. That, when all is told, is the principal thing. He is notuncertain--untrustworthy--double-faced, as _some_ men are. Again thatcruel pain contracts her heart. To be able to believe in a person, to beable to trust implicitly in each lightest word, to read the real meaningin every sentence, to see the truth shining in the clear eyes, this isto know peace and happiness; and yet--

"You know all, " says she, looking up at him, her eyes compressed, herbrow frowning; "I am uncertain of myself, nothing seems sure to me, butif you wish it----"

"Wish it!" clasping her hands closer. 

"There is this to be said, then. I will promise to answer you this daytwelve-month. "

"Twelve months, " says he, with consternation; his grasp on her handsloosens. 

"If the prospect frightens or displeases you, there is nothing more tobe said, " rejoins she coldly. It is she who is calm and composed, he isnervous and anxious. 

"But a whole year!"

"That is nothing, " says she, releasing her hands, with a littledetermined show of strength, from his. "It is for you to decide. I don'tcare!"

Perhaps she hardly grasps the cruelty that lies in this half-impatientspeech, until she sees Dysart's face flush painfully. 

"You need not have said that, " says he. "I know it. I am nothing to youreally. " He pauses, and then says again in a low tone, "Nothing. "

"Oh, you mustn't feel so much!" cries she, as if tortured. "It is follyto feel at all in this world. What's the good of it. And to feel aboutme, I am not worth it. If you would only bear that in mind, it mighthelp you. "

"If I bore that in mind I should not want to make you my wife!" returnshe steadily, gravely. "Think as you will yourself, you do not shake myfaith in you. Well, " with a deep breath, "I accept your terms. For ayear I shall feel myself bound to you (though that is a farce, for Ishall always be bound to you, soul and body) while you shall holdyourself free, and try to----"

"No, no. We must both be equal--both free, while I--" she stops short, coloring warmly, and laughing, "what is it I am to try to do?"

"To love me!" replies he, with infinite sadness in look and tone. 

"Yes, " says Joyce slowly, and then again meditatively, "yes. " She liftsher eyes presently and regards him strangely. "And if all my tryingshould not succeed? If I never learn to love you?"

"Why, then it is all over. This hope of mine is at an end, " say he, socalmly, yet with such deep melancholy, such sad foreboding, that herheart is touched. 

"Oh! it is a hope of mine too, " says she quickly. "If it were not wouldI listen to you to-day? But you must not be so downhearted; let theworst come to the worst, you will be as well off as you are at thisinstant. "

He shakes his head. 

"Does hope count for nothing, then?"

"You would compel me to love you, " says she, growing the more vexed asshe grows the more sorry for him. "Would you have me marry you even if Idid not love you?" Her soft eyes have filled with tears, there is asuspicion of reproach in her voice. 

"No. I suppose not. "

He half turns away from her. At this moment a sense of despair falls onhim. She will never care for him, never, never. This proposed probationis but a mournful farce, a sorry clinging to a hope that is built onsand. When in the future she marries, as so surely she will, he will notbe her husband. Why not give in at once? Why fight with the impossible?Why not break all links (frail as they are sweet), and let her go herway, and he his, while yet there is time? To falter is to courtdestruction. 

Then all at once a passionate reaction sets in. Joyce, looking at him, sees the light of battle, the warmth of love the unconquerable, springinto his eyes. No, he will not cave in! He will resist to the last!dispute every inch of the ground, and if finally only defeat is to crownhis efforts still----And why should defeat be his? Be it Beauclerk oranother, whoever declares himself his rival shall find him a formidableenemy to overcome. 

"Joyce, " says he quickly, turning to her and grasping her hands, "giveme my chance. Give me those twelve months; give me your thoughts now andthen while they last. I brought you here to-day to say all this knowingwe should be alone, and without----"

"Tommy?" says she, with a little laugh. 

"Oh, well! You must confess I got rid of him, " says he, smiling too, andglad in his heart to find her so cheerful. "I think if you look into it, that my stratagem, the inciting him to the overcoming of his sister inthat race, was the work of a diplomatist of the first water. I quitefelt that----"

A war whoop behind him dissolves his self-gratulations into nothing. Here comes Tommy the valiant, triumphant, puffed beyond all descriptionwith pride and want of breath. 

"I beat her, I beat her, " shrieks he, with the last note left in histuneful pipe. He staggers the last yard or two and falls into Joyce'sarms, that are opened wide to receive him. Who shall say he is not ahappy interlude? Evidently Joyce regards him as such. 

"I came back to tell you, " says Tommy, recovering himself a little. "Iknew, " with the fearless confidence of childhood, "that you'd be longingto know if I beat her, and I did. She's down there how with Bridgie, "pointing to the valley beneath, "and she's mad with me because I didn'tlet her win. "

"You ought to go back to her, " says Dysart, "she'll be madder if youdon't. "

"She won't. She's picking daisies now. "

"But Bridget will want you. "

"No, " shaking his lovely little head. "Bridgie said: 'ye may go, sir, an' ye needn't be in a hurry back, me an' Mickey Daily have a lot to sayabout me mother's daughter. '"

It would be impossible to describe the accuracy with which Tommydescribes Bridget's tone and manner. 

"Oh! I daresay, " says Mr. Dysart. "Me mother's daughter must be a trulyenthralling person. "

"I think Tommy ought to be educated for the stage, " says Joyce in alittle whisper. 

"He'll certainly make his mark wherever he goes, " says Dysart, laughing. "Tommy, " after a careful examination of Monkton, Junior's, seraphiccountenance, "don't you think you ought to take your sister on to theCourt?"

"So I will, " says Tommy, "in a minute or two. " He has climbed intoJoyce's lap, and is now sitting on her with his arms round her neck. Tomake love to a young woman and to induce her to marry you with abarnacle of this sort hanging round her suggests difficulties. Mr. Dysart waits. "All things come to those who wait, " says a wily oldproverb. But Dysart proves this proverb a swindle. 

"Now, Tommy, " says he, "the two minutes are up. "

"I don't care, " says Tommy. "I'm tired, and Bridgie said I needn'thurry. "

"The charms of Mr. Mickey Daly are no doubt great, " says Dysart, mildly, "yet I think Bridget must by this time be aware that she wasn't sent outby your mother to tattle to him, but to take you and your sister to playwith Bertie. Here, Tommy, " decisively, "get off your aunt's lap and runaway. "

"But why?" demands Tommy, aggressively. "What harm am I doing?"

"You are tiring your aunt, for one thing. "

"I'm not! She likes to have me here, " defiantly. "I ride a 'cock horse'every night when she's at home, don't I, Joyce? I wish you'd go away, "wrathfully, "because then Joyce would come home and play with us again. 'Tis you, " glaring at him with deep-seated anger in his eyes, "who arekeeping her here!"

"Oh, no; you are wrong there, " says Dysart with a sad smile. "I couldnot keep her anywhere, she would not stay with me. But really, Tommy, you know you ought to go on to the Court. Poor little Bertie is lookingout for you eagerly. See, " plunging his hand into his pocket, "here ishalf a crown for you to spend on lollipops. I'll give it to you ifyou'll go back to Bridget. "

Tommy's eyes brighten. But as quickly the charming blue in them darkensagain. There is no tuck shop between this and the Court. 

"'Tisn't any good, " says he mournfully, "the shop's away down there, "pointing vaguely backward on the journey he has come. 

"You look strong in wind and limb; there is no reason to believe thatthe morrow's sun may not dawn on you, " says Mr. Dysart. "And then think, Tommy, think what a joy you will be to old Molly Brien. "

"Molly gives me four bull's-eyes for a penny, " says Tommy reflectively. "That's two to Mabel and two to me, because mammy says baby mustn't haveany for fear she'd choke. If there's four for a penny, how many is therefor this?" holding out the half crown that lies upon his little brownshapely palm. 

"That's a sum, " says Mr. Dysart. "Tommy, you're a cruel boy;" and havingstruggled with it for a moment, he says "one hundred and twenty. "

"No!" says Tommy in a voice faint with hopeful unbelief. "Joyce, 'tisn'ttrue, is it?"

"Quite true, " says Joyce. "Just fancy, Tommy, one hundred and twentybull's-eyes, all in one day!"

There is such a genuine support of his desire to get rid of Tommy in hertone that Dysart's heart rises within him. 

"Tie it into my hankercher, " says Tommy, without another second'shesitation. "Tie it tight, or it'll slip out and I'll lose it. Good-bye, and thank you, Mr. Dysart, " thrusting a hot little fist into his. "I'llkeep some of the hundred and twenty ones for you and Joyce. "

He rushes away down the hill, eager to tell his grand news to Mabel, andpresently Joyce and Dysart are alone again. 

"You see you were not so clever a diplomatist as you thought yourself, "says Joyce, smiling faintly; "Tommy came back. "

"Tommy and I have one desire in common; we both want to be with you. "

"Could you be bought off like Tommy?" says she, half playfully. "Oh, no!Half a crown would not be good enough. "

"Would all the riches the world contains be good enough?" says he in avoice very low, but full of emotion. "You know it would not. But you, Joyce--twelve months is a long time. You may see others--if notBeauclerk--others--and----"

"Money would not tempt me, " says the girl slowly. "If money were yourrival, you would indeed be safe. You ought to know that. "

"Still--Joyce----" He stops suddenly. "May I think of you as Joyce? Ihave called you so once or twice, but----"

"You may always call me so, " says she gently, if indifferently. "All myfriends call me so, and you--are my friend, surely!"

The very sweetness of her manner, cold as ice as it is, drives him todesperation. 

"Not your friend--your lover!" says he with sudden passion. "Joyce, think of all that I have said--all you nave promised. A small matter toyou perhaps--the whole world to me. You will wait for me for twelvemonths. You will try to love me. You----"

"Yes, but there is something more to be said, " cries the girl, springingto her feet as if in violent protest, and confronting him with a curiouslook--set--determined--a little frightened perhaps. 

CHAPTER XX. 

 "'I thought love had been a joyous thing, ' quoth my uncle Toby. "

 "He hath a heart as sound as a bell, and his tongue is the clapper. For what his heart thinks his tongue speaks. "

"More?" says Dysart startled by her expression, and puzzled as well. 

"Yes!" hurriedly. "This!" The very nervousness that is consuming herthrows fire into her eyes and speech. "During all these long twelvemonths I shall be free. Quite free. You forgot to put that in! You mustremember that! If--if I should, after all this thinking, decide on nothaving anything to do with you--you, " vehemently, "will have no right toreproach me. Remember, " says she going up to him and laying her handupon his arm while the blood receding from her face leaves her verywhite; "remember should such a thing occur--and it is very likely, "slowly, "I warn you of that--you are not to consider yourself wronged oraggrieved in any way. "

"Why should you talk to me in this way?" begins he, aggrieved now at allevents. 

"You must recollect, " feverishly, "that I have made you no promise. Notone. I refuse even to look upon this matter as a serious thing. I tellyou honestly, " her dark eyes gleaming with nervous excitement, "I don'tbelieve I ever shall so look at it. After all, " pausing, "you will dowell if you now put an end to this farce between us; and tell me to takemyself and my dull life out of yours forever. "

"I shall never tell you that, " in a low tone. 

"Well, well, " impatiently; "I have warned you. It will not be my faultif----O! it is foolish of you!" she blurts out suddenly. "I have toldyou I don't understand myself: and still you waste yourself--you throwyourself away. In the end you will be disappointed in me, if not in oneway, then in another. It hurts me to think of that. There is time still;let us be friends--friends----" Her hands are tightly clasped, she looksat him with a world of entreaty in her beautiful eyes. "Friends, Felix!"breathes she softly. 

"Let things rest as they are, I beseech you, " says he, taking her handand holding it in a tight grasp. "The future--who can ever say what thatgreat void will bring us. I will trust to it; and if only loss andsorrow be my portion, still----As for friendship, Joyce; whateverhappens I shall be your friend and lover. "

"Well--you quite know, " says the girl, almost sullenly. 

"Quite. And I accept the risk. Do not be angry with me, my beloved. " Helifts the hand he holds and presses it to his lips, wondering always atthe coldness of it. "You are free, Joyce; you desire it so, and I desireit, too. I would not hamper you in any way. "

"I should not be able to endure it, if--afterward--I thought you werereproaching me, " says she, with a little weary smile. 

"Be happy about that, " says he: "I shall never reproach you. " He issilent for a moment; her last speech has filled him with thoughts thatpresently grow into extremely happy ones: unless--unless she likedhim--cared for him, in some decided, if vague manner, would his futuremisery be of so much importance to her? Oh! surely not! A small flood ofjoy flows over him. A radiant smile parts his lips. The light of acoming triumph that shall gird and glorify his whole life illumines hiseyes. 

She regarding him grows suddenly uneasy. 

"You--you fully understand, " says she, drawing back from him. 

"Oh, you have made me do that, " says he, but his radiant smile stilllingers. 

"Then why, " mistrustfully, "do you look so happy?" She draws evenfurther away from him. It is plain she resents that happiness. 

"Is there not reason?" says he. "Have you not let me speak, and havingspoken, do you not still let me linger near you? It is more than I daredhope for! Therefore, poor as is my chance, I rejoice now. Do not forbidme. I may have no reason to rejoice in the future. Let me, then, have myday. "

"It grows very late, " says Miss Kavanagh abruptly. "Let us go home. "

Silently they turn and descend the hill. Halfway down he pauses andlooks backward. 

"Whatever comes of it, " says he, "I shall always love this spot. Though, if the year's end leave me desolate, I hope I shall never see it again. "

"It is unlucky to rejoice too soon, " says she, in a low whisper. 

"Oh! don't say that word 'Rejoice. ' How it reminds me of you. It oughtto belong to you. It does. You should have been called 'Rejoice' insteadof 'Joyce'; they have cut off half your name. To see you is to feel newlife within one's veins. "

"Ah! I said you didn't know me, " returns she sadly. 

 * * * * *

Meantime the hours have flown; evening is descending. It is all verywell for those who, traveling up and down romantic hills, can findengrossing matters for conversation in their idle imaginings of love, ortheir earnest belief therein, but to the ordinary ones of the earth, mundane comforts are still of some worth. 

Tea, the all powerful, is now holding high revelry in the library at theCourt. Round the cosy tables, growing genial beneath the steam of themany old Queen Anne "pots, " the guests are sitting singly or in groups. 

"What delicious little cakes!" says Lady Swansdown, taking up a smokingmorsel of cooked butter and flour from the glowing tripod beside her. 

"You like them?" says Lady Baltimore in her slow, earnest way. "So doesJoyce. She thinks they are the nicest cakes in the world. By the by, where is Joyce?"

"She went out for a walk at twenty minutes after two, " says Beauclerk. He has pulled out his watch and is steadily consulting it. 

"And it is now twenty minutes after five, " says Lady Swansdown, maliciously, who detests Beauclerk and who has read his relations withJoyce as clear as a book. "How she must have enjoyed herself!"

"Yes; but where?" says Lady Baltimore anxiously. Joyce has been left inher charge, and, apart from that, she likes the girl well enough, to beuneasy about her when occasion arises. 

"With whom would be a more appropriate question, " says Dicky Browne, who, as usual, is just where he ought not to be. 

"Oh, I know where she is, " cries a little, shrill voice from thebackground. It comes from Tommy, and from that part of the room whereTommy and Mabel and little Bertie are having a game behind the windowcurtains. Blocks, dolls, kitchens, farm yards, ninepins--all have beengiven to them as a means of keeping them quiet. One thing only has beenforgotten: the fact that the human voice divine is more attractive tothem, more replete with delightful mystery, fuller of enthrallingpossibilities than all the toys that ever yet were made. 

"Thomas, are you fully alive to the responsibilities to which you pledgeyourself?" demands Mr. Browne severely. 

"What?" says Tommy. 

"Do you pledge yourself to declare where Miss Kavanagh is now?"

"Is it Joyce?" says Tommy, coming forward and standing undaunted in hisknickerbockers and an immaculate collar that defies suspicion. 

"Yes--Joyce, " says Mr. Browne, who never can hold his tongue. 

"Well, I know. " Tommy pauses, and an unearthly silence falls on theassembled company. Half the county is present, and as Tommy, in thecharacter of _reconteur_, is widely known and deservedly dreaded, expectation spreads itself among his audience. 

Lady Baltimore moves uneasily, and for once Dicky Browne feels as if heshould like to sink into his boot. 

"She's up on the top of the hill with Mr. Dysart, " says Tommy, and nomore. Lady Baltimore sighs with relief, and Mr. Browne feels now as ifhe should like to give Tommy something. 

"How do you know?" asks Beauclerk, as though he finds it impossible torepress the question. 

"Because I saw her there, " says Tommy, "when Mabel and me was cominghere. I like Mr. Dysart, don't you?" addressing Beauclerk specially. "Heis a very kind sort of man. He gave me half a crown. "

"For what, Tommy?" asks Baltimore, idly, to whom Tommy is an unfailingjoy. 

"To go away and leave him alone with Joyce, " says Tommy, with awfuldistinctness. 

Tableau!

Lady Baltimore lets her spoon fall into her saucer, making a littlequick clatter. Everybody tries to think of something to say; nobodysucceeds. 

Mr. Browne, who is evidently choking, is mercifully delivered bybeneficent nature from a sudden death. He gives way to a loud andsonorous sneeze. 

"Oh, Dicky! How funny you do sneeze, " says Lady Swansdown. It is asafety valve. Everybody at once affects to agree with her, and universallaughter makes the room ring. 

"Tommy, I think it is time for you and Mabel to go home, " says LadyBaltimore. "I promised your mother to send you back early. Give her mylove, and tell her I am so sorry she couldn't come to me to-day, but Isuppose last night's fatigue was too much for her. "

"'Twasn't that, " says Tommy; "'twas because cook----"

"Yes, yes; of course. I know, " says Lady Baltimore, hurriedly, afraid offurther revelations. "Now, say good-bye, and, Bertie, you can go as faras the first gate with them. "

The children make their adieus, Tommy reserving Dicky Browne for a lastfond embrace. 

"Good-bye, old man! So-long!"

"What's that?" says Tommy, appealing to Beauclerk for information. 

"What's what?" says Beauclerk, who isn't in his usual amiable mood. 

"What's the meaning of that thing Dicky said to me?"

"'So-long?' Oh that's Browne's charming way of saying good-bye. "

"Oh!" says Tommy, thoughtfully. He runs it through his busy brain, andbrings it out at the other end satisfactorily translated. "I know, " sayshe: "Go long! That's what he meant! But I think, " indignantly, "heneedn't be rude, anyway. "

The children have hardly gone when Joyce and Dysart enter the room. 

"I hope I'm not dreadfully late, " cries Joyce, carelessly, taking offher cap, and giving her head a little light shake, as if to make herpretty soft hair fall into its usual charming order. "I have no ideawhat the time is. "

"Broken your watch, Dysart?" says Beauclerk, in a rather nasty tone. 

"Come and sit here, dearest, and have your tea, " says Lady Baltimore, making room on the lounge beside her for Joyce, who has grown a littlered. 

"It is so warm here, " says she, nervously, that one remark ofBeauclerk's having, somehow, disconcerted her. "If--if I might----"

"No, no; you mustn't go upstairs for a little while, " says LadyBaltimore, with kindly decision. "But you may go into the conservatoryif you like, " pointing to an open door off the library, that leads intoa bower of sweets. "It is cooler there. "

"Far cooler, " says Beauclerk, who has followed Joyce with a sort ofdetermination in his genial air. "Let me take you there, Miss Kavanagh. "

It is impossible to refuse. Joyce, coldly, almost disdainfully and withher head held higher than usual, skirts the groups that line the wallson the western side of the room and disappears with him into theconservatory. 

CHAPTER XXI. 

 "Who dares think one thing and another tell, My heart detests him as the gates of hell. "

"A little foolish going for that walk, wasn't it?" says he, leading herto a low cushioned chair over which a gay magnolia bends its whiteblossoms. His manner is innocence itself; ignorance itself would perhapsbetter express it. He has decided on ignoring everything; though ashrewd guess that she saw something of his passages with Miss Maliphantlast night has now become almost a certainty. "I thought you seemedrather played out last night--fatigued--done to death. I assure you Inoticed it. I could hardly, " with deep and affectionate concern, "failto notice anything that affected you. "

"You are very good!" says Miss Kavanagh icily. Mr. Beauclerk lets a fullminute go by, and then----

"What have I done to merit that tone from you?" asks he, not angrily;only sorrowfully. He has turned his handsome face full on hers, and isregarding her with proud, reproachful eyes. "It is idle to deny, " sayshe, with some emotion, half of which, to do him justice, is real, "thatyou are changed to me; something has happened to alter the feelingsof--of--friendship--that I dared to hope you entertained for me. I hadhoped still more, Joyce--but----What has happened?" demands he suddenly, with all the righteous strength of one who, free from guilt, resentsaccusation of it. 

"Have I accused you?" says she, coldly. 

"Yes, a thousand times, yes. Do you think your voice alone can condemn?Your eyes are even crueller judges. "

"Well I am sorry, " says she, faintly smiling. "My eyes must be deceiversthen. I bear you no malice, believe me. "

"So be it, " says he, with an assumption of relief that is very welldone. "After all, I have worried myself, I daresay, very unnecessarily. Let us talk of something else, Miss Maliphant, for example, " with aglance at her, and a pleasant smile. "Nice girl eh? I miss her. "

"She went early this morning, did she?" says Joyce, scarcely knowingwhat to say. Her lips feel a little dry; an agonized certainty that sheis slowly growing crimson beneath his steady gaze brings the tears toher eyes. 

"Too early. I quite hoped to be up to see her off, but sleep had madeits own of me and I failed to wake. Such a good, genuine girl! Universalfavorite, don't you think? Very honest, and very, " breaking into anapparently irrepressible laugh, "ugly! Ah! well now, " with smiling selfcondemnation, "that's really a little too bad; isn't it?"

"A great deal too bad, " says Joyce, gravely. "I shouldn't speak of herif I were you. "

"But why, my dear girl?" with arched brows and a little gesture of hishandsome hands. "I allow her everything but beauty, and surely it wouldbe hypocrisy to mention that in the same breath with her. "

"It isn't fair--it isn't sincere, " says the girl almost passionately. "Do you think I am ignorant of everything, that I did not see you withher last night in the garden? Oh!" with a touch of scorn that is yetfull of pain, "you should not. You should not, indeed!"

In an instant he grows confused. Something in the lovely horror of hereyes undoes him. Only for an instant--after that he turns the momentaryconfusion to good account. 

"Ah! you did see her, then, poor girl!" says he. "Well, I'm sorry aboutthat for her sake. "

"Why for her sake?" still regarding him with that charming disdain. "Foryour own, perhaps, but why for hers?"

Beauclerk pauses: then rising suddenly, stands before her. Grief andgentle indignation sit upon his massive brow. He looks the veryincarnation of injured rectitude. 

"Do you know, Joyce, you have always been ready to condemn, to misjudgeme, " says he in a low, hurt tone. "I have often noticed it, yet havefailed to understand why it is. I was right, you see, when I told myselflast night and this morning that you were harboring unkindly thoughtstoward me. You have not been open with me, you have been willfullysecretive, and, believe me, that is a mistake. Candor, complete andperfect, is the only great virtue that will steer one clear through allthe shoals and rocks of life. Be honest, above board, and, I can assureyou, you will never regret it. You accused me just now of insincerity. Have you been sincere?"

There is a dead pause. He allows it to last long enough to make itdramatic, and to convince himself he has impressed her, and then, with avery perceptible increase of dignified pain in his voice, he goes on. 

"I feel I ought not to explain under the circumstances, but as it is toyou"--heavy emphasis, and a second affected silence. "You have heard, perhaps, of Miss Maliphant's cousin in India?"

"No, " says Joyce, after racking her brain in vain for some memory of thecousin question. And, indeed, it would have been nothing short of amiracle if she could have remembered anything about that apocryphalperson. 

"You will understand that I speak to you in the strictest confidence, "says Beauclerk, earnestly: "I wouldn't for anything you could offer me, that it should get back to that poor girl's ears that I had beendiscussing her and the most sacred feelings of her heart. Well, there isa cousin, and she--you may have noticed that she and I were greatfriends?"

"Yes, " says Joyce, whose heart is beating now to suffocation. Oh! hasshe wronged him? Does she still wrong him? Is this vile, suspiciousfeeling within her one to be encouraged? Is all this story of his, thissimple explanation--false--false?

"I was, indeed, a sort of confidant of hers. Poor dear girl! it was arelief to her to talk to somebody. "

"There were others. "

"But none here who knew him. "

"You knew him then? Is his name Maliphant, too?" asks Joyce, ashamed ofher cross-examination, yet driven to it by some power beyond hercontrol. 

"You mustn't ask me that, " says Beauclerk playfully. "There are somethings I must keep even from you. Though you see I go very far tosatisfy your unjust suspicions of me. You can, however, guess a gooddeal; you--saw her crying?"

"She was not crying, " says Joyce slowly, a little puzzled. MissMaliphant had seemed at the moment in question well pleased. 

"No! Not when you saw her? Ah! that must have been later then, " with asigh, "you see now I am betraying more than I should. However, I candepend upon your silence. It will be a small secret between you and me. "

"And Miss Maliphant, " says Joyce, coldly. "As for me, what is thesecret?"

"You haven't understood? Not really? Well, between you and me and thewall, " with delightful gaiety, "I think she gives a thought or two tothat cousin. I fancy, " whispering, "she is even in--eh? you know. "

"I don't, " says Joyce slowly, who is now longing to believe in him, andyet is held steadily backward by some strong feeling. 

"I believe she is in love with him, " says Beauclerk, still in amysterious whisper. "But it is a sore subject, " with an expressivefrown. "Not best pleased when it is mentioned to her. Mauvais sujet, youunderstand. But girls are often foolish in that way. Better say nothingabout it. "

"I shall say nothing, of course, " says Joyce. "Why should I? It isnothing to me, though I am sorry for her. "

Yet as she says this, a doubt arises in her mind as to whether she needbe sorry. Is there a cousin in India? Could that big, jolly, livelygirl, who had come into the conservatory with Beauclerk last night, withthe light of triumph in her eyes, be the victim of an unhappy loveaffair? Should she write and ask her if there is a cousin in India? Oh, no, no! She could not do that! How horrible, how hateful to distrust himlike this! What a detestable mind must be hers. And besides, why dwellso much upon it. Why not accept him as a pleasing acquaintance. One withwhom to pass a pleasant hour now and then. Why ever again regard him asa possible lover!

A little shudder runs through her. At this moment it seems to her thatshe could never really have so regarded him. And yet only last night----

And now. What is it? Does she still doubt? Will that strange, curious, tormenting feeling that once she felt for him return no more. Is it goneforever? Oh! that it might be so!

CHAPTER XXII. 

 "So over violent, or over civil!" "A man so various. "

"Dull looking day, " says Dicky Browne, looking up from his broiledkidney to glare indignantly through the window at the gray sky. 

"It can't be always May, " says Beauclerk cheerfully, whose point it isto take ever a lenient view of things. Even to heaven itself he is kind, and holds out a helping hand. 

"I expect it is we ourselves who are dull, " says Lady Baltimore, lookinground the breakfast table, where now many vacant seats make the edgesbare. Yesterday morning Miss Maliphant left. To-day the Clontarfs, andone or two strange men from the barracks in the next town. Desertionindeed seems to be the order of the day. "We grow very small, " says she. "How I miss people when they go away. "

"Do you mean that as a liberal bribe for the getting rid of the rest ofus, " says Dicky, who is now devoting himself to the hot scones. "If so, let me tell you it isn't good enough. I shall stay here until you chooseto cross the channel. I don't want to be missed. "

"That will be next week, " says Lady Baltimore. "I do beseech all herepresent not to forsake me until then. "

"I must deny your prayer, " says Lady Swansdown. "These tiresome lawyersof mine say they must see me on Thursday at the latest. "

"I shall meet you in town at Christmas, however, " says Lady Baltimore, making the remark a question. 

"I hardly think so. I have promised the Barings to join them in Italyabout then. "

"Well, here then in February. "

Lady Swansdown smiles at her hostess, but makes no audible reply. 

"I suppose we ought to do something to-day, " says Lady Baltimorepresently, in a listless tone. It is plain to everybody, however, thatin reality she wants to do nothing. "Suggest something, Dicky. "

"Skittles, " says that youth, without hesitation. Very properly, however, no one takes any notice of him. 

"I was thinking that if we went to 'Connor's Cross, ' it would be a nicedrive, " says Lady Baltimore, still struggling with her duties as ahostess. "What do you say, Beatrice?"

"I pray you excuse me, " says Lady Swansdown. "As I leave to-morrow, Imust give the afternoon to the answering of several letters, and toother things besides. "

"Connor's Cross, " says Joyce, idly. "I've so often heard of it. Yet, oddly enough, I have never seen it; it is always the way, isn't it, whenever one lives very close to some celebrated spot. "

"Celebrated or not, it is at least lovely, " says Lady Baltimore. "Youreally ought to see it. "

"I'll drive you there this afternoon, Miss Kavanagh, " says Beauclerk, inhis friendly way, that in public has never a tincture of tendernessabout it. "We might start after luncheon. It is only about ten milesoff. Eh?" to Baltimore. 

"Ten, " briefly. 

"I am right then, " equably; "we might easily do it in a little over anhour. "

"Hour and a half with best horse in the stables. Bad road, " saysBaltimore. 

"Even so we shall get there and back in excellent time, " says Beauclerk, deaf to his brother-in-law's gruffness. "Will you come, Miss Kavanagh?"

"I should like it, " says Joyce, in a hesitating sort of way; "but----"

"Then why not go, dear?" says Lady Baltimore kindly. "The Morroghs ofCreaghstown live not half a mile from it, and they will give you tea ifyou feel tired; Norman is a very good whip, and will be sure to have youback here in proper time. "

Dysart lifting his head looks full at Joyce. 

"At that rate----" says she, smiling at Beauclerk. 

"It is settled then, " says Beauclerk pleasantly. "Thank you ever so muchfor helping me to get rid of my afternoon in so delightful a fashion. "

"It is going to rain. It will be a wet evening, " says Dysart abruptly. 

"Oh, my dear fellow! You can hardly be called a weather prophet, " saysBeauclerk banteringly. "You ought to know that a settled gray sky likethat seldom means rain. "

No more is said about it then, and no mention is made of it at luncheon. At half-past two precisely, however, a dog cart comes round to the halldoor. Joyce running lightly down stairs, habited for a drive, meetsDysart at the foot of the staircase. 

"Do not go, " says he abruptly. 

"Not go--now, " with a glance at her costume. 

"I didn't believe you would go, " says he vehemently. "I didn't believeit possible--or I should have spoken sooner. Nevertheless, at this lastmoment, I entreat you to give it up. "

"Impossible, " says she curtly, annoyed by his tone, which is perhaps, unconsciously, a little dictatorial. 

"You refuse me?"

"It is not the question. I have said I would go. I see no reason for notgoing. I decline to make myself foolish in the eyes of everybody bydrawing back at the last moment. "

"You have forgotten everything then. "

"I don't know, " coldly, "that there is anything to remember. "

"Oh!" bitterly, "not so far as I am concerned. I count for nothing. Iallow that. But he--I fancied you had at least read him. "

"I think, perhaps, there was nothing to read, " says she, lowering hereyes. 

"If you can think that, it is useless my saying anything further. "

He moves to one side as if to let her pass, but she hesitates. Perhapsshe would have said something to soften her decision--but--a rare thingwith him, he loses his temper. Seeing her standing there before him, sosweet, so lovely, so indifferent, as he tells himself, his despairovercomes him. 

"I have a voice in this matter, " says he, frowning heavily. "I forbidyou to go with that fellow. "

A sharp change crosses Miss Kavanagh's face. All the sudden softnessdies out of it. She stoops leisurely, and disengaging the end of theblack lace round her throat from an envious banister that would havedetained her, without further glance or word for Dysart, she goes up thehall and through the open doorway. Beauclerk, who has been waiting forher outside, comes forward. A little spring seats her in the cart. Beauclerk jumps in beside her. Another moment sees them out of sight. 

 * * * * *

The vagrant sun, that all day long had been coming and going in fitfulfashion, has suddenly sunk behind the thunderous gray cloud that, risingfrom the sea, now spreads itself o'er hill and vale. The light has diedout of the sky; dull muttering sounds come rumbling down from thedistant mountains. The vast expanse of barren bog upon the left hasbecome almost obscure. Here and there a glint of its watery wastes maybe seen, but indistinctly, giving the eye a mournful impression of"lands forlorn. "

A strange hot quiet seems to have fallen upon the trembling earth. 

 "We often see, against some storm. A silence in the heavens, the rack stand still, The bold wind speechless, and the orb below Is hushed as death. "

Just now that "boding silence reigns. " A sense of fear falls on Joyce, she scarcely knows why, as her companion, with a quick lash of the whip, urges the horse up the steep hill. They are still several miles fromtheir destination, and, though it is only four o'clock, it is no longerday. The heavens are black as ink, the trees are shivering in expectantmisery. 

"What is it?" says Joyce, and even as she asks the question it isanswered. The storm is upon them in all its fury. All at once, withoutan instant's warning, a violent downpour of rain comes from the burstingclouds, threatening to deluge them. 

"We are in for it, " says Beauclerk in a sharp, short tone, so unlike hisusual dulcet accents that even now, in her sudden discomfort, itstartles her. The rain is descending in torrents, a wild wind hasarisen. The light has faded, and now the day resembles nothing so muchas the dull beginning of a winter's night. 

"Have you any idea where we are?" asks Beauclerk presently. 

"None. You know I told you I had never been here before. But you--youmust have some knowledge of it. "

"How should I? These detestable Irish isolations are as yet unknownpaths to me. "

"But I thought you said--you gave me the impression that you knewConnor's Cross. "

"I regret it if I did, " shortly. The rain is running down his neck bythis time, leaving a cold, drenched collar to add zest to his rising illtemper. "I had heard of Connor's Cross. I never saw it. I devoutlyhope, " with a snarl, "I never shall. "

"I don't think you are likely to, " says Joyce, whose own temper isbeginning to be ruffled. 

"Well, this is a sell, " says Beauclerk. He is buttoning up a heavyulster round his handsome form. He is very particular about thefastening of the last button--that one that goes under the chin--andhaving satisfactorily accomplished it, and found, by a careful movingbackward and forward of his head, that it is comfortably adjusted, itoccurs to him to see if his companion is weather-proof. 

"Got wraps enough?" asks he. "No, by Jove! Here, put on this, " dragginga warm cloak of her own from under the seat and offering it to her withall the air of one making a gift. "What is it? Coat--cloak--ulster? Onenever knows what women's clothes are meant for. "

"To cover them, " says Joyce calmly. 

"Well, put it on. By Jove, how it pours! All right now?" havingcarelessly flung it round her, without regard for where her arms oughtto go through the sleeves. "Think you can manage the rest by yourself?So beastly difficult to do anything in a storm like this, with thisbrute tugging at the reins and the rain running up one's sleeve. "

"I can manage it very well myself, thank you, " says Joyce, giving up thefinding of the sleeves as a bad job; after a futile effort to discovertheir whereabouts she buttons the cloak across her chest and sits besidehim, silent but shivering. A little swift, wandering thought of Dysartmakes her feel even colder. If he had been there! Would she be thusroughly entreated? Nay, rather would she not have been a mark fortenderest care, a precious charge entrusted to his keeping. A thingbeloved and therefore to be cherished. 

"Look there, " says she, suddenly lifting her head and pointing a littleto the right. "Surely, even through this denseness, I see lights. Is ita village?"

"Yes--a village, I should say, " grimly. "A hamlet rather. Would you, "ungraciously, "suggest our seeking shelter there?"

"I think it must be the village called 'Falling, '" says she, too pleasedat her discovery to care about his gruffness, "and if so, the owner ofthe inn there was an old servant of my father's. She often comes over tosee Barbara and the children, and though I have never come here to seeher, I know she lives somewhere in this part of the world. A goodcreature she is. The kindest of women. "

"An inn, " says Beauclerk, deaf to the virtues of the old servant, theinnkeeper, but altogether alive to the fact that she keeps an inn. "Whata blessed oasis in our wilderness! And it can't be more than half a mileaway. Why, " recovering his usual delightful manner, "we shall findourselves housed in no time. I do hope, my dear girl, you arecomfortable! Wrapped up to the chin, eh? Quite right--quite right. Afterall, the poor driver has the worst of it. He must face the elements, whatever happens. Now you, with your dear little chin so cosily hiddenfrom the wind and rain, and with hardly a suspicion of the blast I amfighting, make a charming picture--really charming! Ah, you girls! youhave the best of it beyond doubt! And why not? It is the law ofnature--weak woman and strong man! You know those exquisite lines----"

"Can't that horse go faster?" said Miss Kavanagh, breaking in on thislittle speech in a rather ruthless manner. "Lapped in luxury, as youevidently believe me, I still assure you I should gladly exchange mypresent condition for a good wholesome kitchen fire. "

"Always practical. Your charm--one of them, " says Mr. Beauclerk. But hetakes the hint, nevertheless, and presently they draw up before a small, dingy place of shelter. 

Not a man is to be seen. The village, a collection of fifty houses, whenall is told, is swept and garnished. A few geese are stalking up thestreet, uttering creaking noises. Some ducks are swimming in a gladastonishment down the muddy streams running by the edges of thecurbstones. Such a delicious wealth of filthy water has not been seen inFalling for the past three dry months. 

"The deserted village with a vengeance, " says Beauclerk. He has risen inhis seat and placed his whip in the stand with a view of descending andarousing the inhabitants of this Sleepy Hollow, when a shock head isthrust out of the inn ("hotel, " rather, as is painted on a huge signover the door) and being instantly withdrawn again with a muttered"Och-a-yea, " is followed by a shriek for:

"Mrs. Connolly--Mrs. Connolly, ma'am! Sure, 'tis yourself that's wanted!Come down, I tell ye! There's ginthry at the door, an' the rain peltin'on em like the divil. Come down, I'm tellin' ye! Or fegs they'll go onto Paddy Sheehan's, an' thin where'll ye be? Och, murdher! Where are ye, at all, at all? 'Tis ruined ye'll be intirely wid the stayin' of ye!"

"Arrah, hould yer whisht, y'omadhaun o' the world, " says another voice, and in a second a big, buxom, jolly, hearty-looking woman appears on thethreshold, peering a little suspiciously through the gathering gloom atthe dog cart outside. First she catches sight of the crest and coronet, and a gleam of pleased intelligence brightens her face. Then, liftingher eyes, she meets those of Joyce, and the sudden pleasure gives way toactual and honest joy. 

"It is Mrs. Connolly, " says Joyce, in a voice that is supposed toaccompany a smile, but has in reality something of tears in it. 

Mrs. Connolly, regardless of the pelting rain and her best cap, takes astep forward. 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

 "All is not golde that outward shewith bright. "

 "I love everything that's old--old friends, old times, old manners, old books, old wine. "

"An' is it you, Miss Joyce? Glory be! What a day to be out! 'Tisdrenched y'are, intirely! Oh! come in, me dear--come in, me darlin'!Here, Mikey, Paddy, Jerry!--come here, ivery mother's son o' ye, an'take Mr. Beauclerk's horse from him. Oh! by the laws!--but y'are soaked!Arrah, what misfortune dhrove y'out to-day, of all days, Miss Joyce? Wasthere niver a man to tell ye that 'twould be a peltin' storm beforenightfall?"

There had been one. How earnestly Miss Kavanagh now wishes she hadlistened to his warning. 

"It looked so fine two hours ago, " says she, clambering down from thedog cart with such misguided help from the ardent Mrs. Connolly asalmost lands her with the ducks in the muddy stream below. 

"Och! there's no more depindince to be placed upon the weather thanthere is upon a man. However, 'tis welcome y'are, any way. Your father'sdaughter is dear to me--yes, come this way--up these stairs. 'Tis AnneConnolly is proud to be enthertainin' one o' yer blood inside her door. "

"Oh! I'm so glad I found you, " says Joyce, turning when she has reachedMrs. Connolly's bedroom to imprint upon that buxom widow's cheek a warmkiss. "It was a long way here--long, and so cold and wet. "

"An' where were ye goin' at all, if I may ax?" says Mrs. Connolly, taking off the girl's dripping outer garments. 

"To see Connor's Cross----"

"Faith, 'twas little ye had to do! A musty ould tomb like that, widnothin but broken stones around it. Wouldn't the brand-new graveyardbelow there do ye? Musha! but 'tis quare the ginthry is! Och! me dear, 'tis wet y'are; there isn't a dhry stitch on ye. "

"I don't think I'm wet once my coats are off, " says Joyce; and indeed, when those invaluable wraps are removed; it is proved beyond doubt--evenMrs. Connolly's doubt, which is strong--that her gown is quite dry. 

"You see, it was such a sudden rain, " says Joyce, "and fortunately wesaw the lights in this village almost immediately after it began. "

"Fegs, too suddint to be pleasant, " says Mrs. Connolly. "'Twas well theearly darkness made us light up so quickly, or ye might have missed us, not knowin' yer road. An' how's all wid ye, me dear--Miss Barbara, an'the masther, an' the darling childher? I've a Brammy cock and a hen thatI'm thinkin' of takin' down to Masther Tommy this two weeks, but theould mare is mighty quare on her legs o' late. Are ye all well?"

"Quite well, thank you, Mrs. Connolly. "

"Wisha--God keep ye so. "

"And how are all of you? When did you hear from America?"

"Last month thin--divil a less; an' the greatest news of all! A lettherfrom Johnny--me eldest boy--wid a five-pound note in it, an' a pictherof the girl he's goin' to marry. I declare to ye when that letther cameI just fell into a chair an' tuk to laughin' an' cryin' till thatounchal of a girl in the kitchen began to bate me on the back, thinkin'I was bad in a fit. To think, me dear, of little Johnneen I used tonurse on me knee thinkin' of takin' a partner. An' a sthrappin' finegirl too, fegs, wid cheeks like turnips. But there, now, I'll show herto ye by-and-by. She's a raal beauty if them porthraits be thrue, butthere's a lot o' lies comes from over the wather. An' what'll ye betakin' now, Miss Joyce dear?"--with a return to her hospitable mood--"adhrop o' hot punch, now? Whiskey is the finest thing out for givin' thegood-bye to the cowld. "

"Oh, no, thank you, Mrs. Connolly"--hastily--"if I might have a cup oftea, I----"

"Arrah, bad cess to that tay! What's the good of it at all at all to afrozen stomach? Cowld pison, I calls it. Well, there! Have it yer ownway! An' come along down wid me, now, an' give yerself to theenthertainin' of Misther Beauclerk, whilst I wet the pot. Glory! what aman he is!--the size o' the house! A fine man, in airnest. Tell me now, "with a shrewd glance at Joyce, "is there anything betwixt you and him?"

"Nothing!" says Joyce, surprised even herself by the amount of vehementdenial she throws into this word. 

"Oh, well, there's others! An' Mr. Dysart would be more to my fancy. There's a nate man, if ye like, be me fegs!" with a second half sly, wholly kindly, glance at the girl. "If 'twas he, now, I'd give ye meblessin' wid a heart and a half. An' indeed, now, Miss Joyce, 'tis timeye were thinkin' o' settlin'. "

"Well, I'm not thinking of it this time, " says Joyce, laughing, though alittle catch in her throat warns her she is not far from tears. PerhapsMrs. Connolly hears that little catch, too, for she instantly changesher tactics. 

"Faith, an' 'tis right y'are, me dear. There's a deal o' trouble inmarriage, an' 'tis too young y'are intirely to undertake the likes ofit, " says she, veering round with a scandalous disregard forappearances. "My, what hair ye have, Miss Joyce! 'Tis improved, it is;even since last I saw ye. I'm a great admirer of a good head o' hair. "

"I wonder when will the rain be over?" asks Joyce, wistfully gazingthrough the small window at the threatening heavens. 

"If it's my opinion y'are askin', " says Mrs. Connolly, "I'd say not tillto-morrow morning. "

"Oh! Mrs. Connolly!" turning a distressed face to that good creature. 

"Well, me dear, what can I say but what I think?" flinging out her amplearms in self-justification. "Would ye have me lie to ye? Why, a sky likethat always----"

Here a loud crash of thunder almost shakes the small inn to itsfoundations. 

"The heavens be good to us!" says Mrs. Connolly, crossing herselfdevoutly. "Did ye iver hear the like o' that?"

"But--it can't last--it is impossible, " says Joyce, vehemently. "Isthere no covered car in the town? Couldn't a man be persuaded to driveme home if I promised him to----"

"If ye promised him a king's ransom ye couldn't get a covered carto-night, " says Mrs. Connolly. "There's only one in the place, an' thatbelongs to Mike Murphy, an' 'tis off now miles beyant Skibbereen, attindin' the funeral o' Father John Maguire. 'Twon't be home tillto-morrow any way, an'-faix, I wouldn't wondher if it wasn't here then, for every mother's son at that wake will be as dhrunk as fiddlersto-night. Father John, ye know, me dear, was greatly respected. "

"Are you sure there isn't another car?"

"Quite positive. But why need ye be so unaisy, Miss Joyce, dear? Sure, 'tis safe an' sure y'are wid me. "

"But what will they think at home and at the Court?" says Joyce, faltering. 

"Arrah! what can they think, miss, but that the rain was altogether toomastherful for ye? Ye know, me dear, we can't (even the best of us)conthrol the illimints!" This incontrovertible fact Mrs. Connolly givesforth with a truly noble air of resignation. "Come down now, and let meget ye that palthry cup o' tay y'are cravin' for. "

She leads Joyce downstairs and into a snug little parlor with a roaringfire that is not altogether unacceptable this dreary evening. The smellof stale tobacco smoke that pervades it is a drawback, but, if you thinkof it, we can't have everything in this world. 

Perhaps Joyce has more than she wants. It occurs to her, as Beauclerkturns round from the solitary window, that she could well have dispensedwith his society. That lurking distrust of him she had known vaguely, but kept under during all their acquaintance, has taken a permanentplace in her mind during her drive with him this afternoon. 

"Oh! here you are. Beastly, smoky hole!" he says, taking no notice ofMrs. Connolly, who is doing her best curtsey in the doorway. 

"I think it looks very comfortable, " says Joyce, with a gracious smileat her hostess, and a certain sore feeling at her heart. Once again herthoughts fly to Dysart. Would that have been his first remark when sheappeared after so severe a wetting?

"'Tis just what I've been sayin' to Miss Kavanagh, sir, " says Mrs. Connolly, with unabated good humor. "The heavens above is always toomuch for us. We can't turn off the wather up there as we can the cock inthe kitchen sink. Still, there's compinsations always, glory be! An'what will ye plaze have wid yer tay, Miss?" turning to Joyce with greatrespect in look and tone. In spite of all her familiarity with herupstairs, she now, with a looker-on, proceeds to treat "her young lady"as though she were a stranger and of blood royal. 

"Anything you have, Mrs. Connolly, " says Joyce; "only don't be long!"There is undoubted entreaty in the request. Mrs. Connolly, glancing ather, concludes it is not so much a desire for what will be brought, asfor the bringer that animates the speaker. 

"Give me five minutes, Miss, an' I'll be back again, " says shepleasantly. Leaving the room, she stands in the passage outside for amoment, and solemnly moves her kindly head from side to side. It takesher but a little time to make up her shrewd Irish mind on severalpoints. 

"While this worthy person is getting you your tea I think I'll take alook at the weather from the outside, " says Mr. Beauclerk, turning toJoyce. It is evident he is eager to avoid a tête-à-tête, but this doesnot occur to her. 

"Yes--do--do, " says she, nevertheless with such a liberal encouragementas puzzles him. Women are kittle cattle, however, he tells himself;better not to question their motives too closely or you will findyourself in queer street. He gets to the door with a cheerful assumptionof going to study the heavens that conceals his desire for a cigar and abrandy and soda, but on the threshold Joyce speaks again. 

"Is there no chance--would it not be possible to get home?" says she, ina tone that trembles with nervous longing. 

"I'm afraid not. I'm just going to see. It is impossible weather for youto be out in. "

"But you----? It is clearing a little, isn't it?" with a despairingglance out of the window. "If you could manage to get back and tell themthat----"

She is made thoroughly ashamed of her selfishness a moment later. 

"But my dear girl, consider! Why should I tempt a severe attack ofinflammation of the lungs by driving ten or twelve miles through thisunrelenting torrent? We are very well out of it here. ThisMrs. --er--Connor--Connolly seems a very respectable person, and is knownto you. I shall tell her to make you as comfortable as her 'limitedliabilities, '" with quite a laugh at his own wit, "will allow. "

"Pray tell her nothing. Do not give yourself so much trouble, " saysJoyce calmly. "She will do the best she can for me without theintervention of any one. "

"As you will, au revoir!" says he, waving her a graceful farewell forthe moment. 

He is not entirely happy in his mind, as he crosses the tiny hall andmakes his way first to the bar and afterward to the open doorway. Like acat, he hates rain! To drive back through this turmoil of wind and wetfor twelve long miles to the Court is more than his pleasure-lovingnature can bear to look upon. Yet to remain has its drawbacks, too. 

If Miss Maliphant, for example, were to hear of this escapade theremight be trouble there. He has not as yet finally made up his mind togive inclination the go by and surrender himself to sordidconsiderations, but there can be no doubt that the sordid things of thislife have, with some natures, a charm hardly to be rivaled successfullyby mere beauty. 

The heiress is attractive in one sense; Joyce equally so in another. Miss Maliphant's charms are golden--are not Joyce's more golden still?And yet, to give up Miss Maliphant--to break with her finally--to throwaway deliberately a good £10, 000 a year!

He lights his cigar with an untrembling hand, and, having found itsatisfactory, permits his mind to continue its investigations. 

Ten thousand pounds a year! A great help to a man; yet he is glad atthis moment that he is free to accept or reject it. Nothing definite hasbeen said to the heiress--nothing definite to Joyce either. It strikeshim at this moment, as he stands in the dingy doorway of the inn andstares out at the descending rain, that he has shown distinct clevernessin the way in which he has manoeuvred these two girls, without either ofthem feeling the least suspicion of the other. Last night Joyce had beenon the point of a discovery, but he had smoothed away all that. Evidently he was born to be a successful diplomatist, and if thatappointment he has been looking for ever comes his way, he will be ableto show the world a thing or two. 

How charming that little girl in there can look! And never more so thanwhen she allows her temper to overcome her. She had been angry just now. Yes. But he can read between the lines; angry--naturally that he has notcome to the point--declared himself--proposed as the saying is. Well, puffing complacently at his cigar, she must wait--she must wait--if theappointment comes off, if Sir Alexander stands to him, she has a verygood chance, but if that falls through, why then----

And it won't do to encourage her too much, by Jove! If Miss Maliphantwere to hear of this evening's adventure, she is headstrong, stolidenough, to mark out a line for herself and fling him aside withoutwaiting for judge or jury. Much as it might cost her, she would nothesitate to break all ties with him, and any that existed were veryslight. He, himself, had kept them so. Perhaps, after all, he had betterorder the trap round, leave Miss Kavanagh here, and----

And yet to go out in that rain; to feel it beating against his face fortwo or three intolerable hours. Was anything, even £10, 000 a year, worththat? He would be a drowned rat by the time he reached the Court. 

And, after all, couldn't it be arranged without all this bother? Hemight easily explain it all away to Miss Maliphant, even should somekind friend tell her of it. That was his role. He had quite a talent forexplaining away. But he must also make Joyce thoroughly understand. Shewas a sensible girl. A word to her would be sufficient. Just a word toshow that marriage at present was out of the question. Nothingunpleasant; nothing finite; but just some little thing to waken her tothe true state of the case. Girls, as a rule, were sentimental, andwould expect much of an adventure such as this. But Joyce was proud--heliked that in her. There would be no trouble; she would quiteunderstand. 

"Tea is just comin' up, sorr!" says a rough voice behind him. "Themisthress tould me to tell ye so!"

The red-headed Abigail who attends on Mrs. Connolly beckons him, with agrimy forefinger, to the repast within. He accepts the invitation. 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

 "It is the mynd that maketh good or ill, That maketh wretch or happy, rich or poore. "

As he enters the inn parlor he finds Joyce sitting by the fire, listening to Mrs. Connolly, who, armed with a large tray, is advancingup the room toward the table. Nobody but the "misthress" herself isallowed to wait upon "the young lady. "

"An' I hope, Miss Joyce, 'twill be to your liking. An' sorry I am, sir, "with a courteous recognition of Beauclerk's entrance, "that 'tis onlyone poor fowl I can give ye. But thim commercial thravellers are thedivil. They'd lave nothing behind 'em if they could help it. Still, Miss, " with a loving smile at Joyce, "I do think ye'll like the ham. 'Tis me own curing, an' I brought ye just a taste o' this year's honey;ye'd always a sweet tooth from the time ye were born. "

"I could hardly have had a tooth before that, " says Joyce, laughing. "Oh, thank you, Mrs. Connolly; it is a lovely tea, and it is very goodof you to take all this trouble. "

"Who'd be welcome to any trouble if 'twasn't yerself, Miss?" says Mrs. Connolly, bowing and retreating toward the door. 

A movement on the part of Joyce checks her. The girl has made animpulsive step as if to follow her, and now, seeing Mrs. Connolly stopshort, holds out to her one hand. 

"But, Mrs. Connolly, " says she, trying to speak naturally, andsucceeding very well, so far as careless ears are in question, but the"misthress" marks the false note, "you will stay and pour out tea forus; you will?"

There is an extreme treaty in her tone; the stronger in that it has tobe suppressed. Mrs. Connolly, halting midway between the table and thedoor with the tray in her hands, hears it, and a sudden light comes, notonly into her eyes, but her mind. 

"Why, if you wish it, Miss, " says she directly. She lays down the tray, standing it up against the wall, and coming back to the table lifts theteapot and begins to fill the cups. 

"Ye take sugar, sir?" asks she of Beauclerk, who is a little puzzled, but not altogether displeased at the turn affairs have taken. After all, as he has told himself a thousand times, Joyce is a clever girl. She isdetermined not to betray the anxiety for his society that beyondquestion she is feeling. And this prudence on her part will relieve himof many small embarrassments. Truly, she is a girl not to be found everyday. 

He is accordingly most gracious to Mrs. Connolly; praises her ham, extols her tea, says wonderful things about the chicken. 

When tea is at an end, he rises gracefully, and expresses his desire tosmoke one more cigar and have a last look at the weather. 

"You will be able to put us up?" says he. 

"Oh yes, sir, sure. "

He smiles beautifully, and with a benevolent request to Joyce to takecare of herself in his absence, leaves the room. 

"He's a dale o' talk, " says Mrs. Connolly, the moment his back isturned. She is now sure that Joyce has some private grudge against him, or at all events is not what she herself would call "partial to him. "

"Yes, " says Joyce. "He is very conversational. How it rains, still. "

"Yes, it does, " says Mrs. Connolly, comfortably. She is not at all putout by the girl's reserved manner, having lived among the "ginthry" formany years, and being well up to their "quare ways. " A thought, however, that had been formulating in her mind for a long time past--ever since, indeed, she found her young lady could not return home untilmorning--now compels her to give the conversation a fresh turn. 

"I've got to apologize to ye, Miss, but since ye must stay the night widme, I'm bound to tell ye I have no room for ye but a little one leadin'out o' me own. "

"Are you so very full, then, Mrs. Connolly? I'm glad to hear that foryour sake. "

"Full to the chin, me dear. Thim commercials always dhrop down upon onejust whin laste wanted. "

"Then I suppose I ought to be thankful that you can give me a room atall, " says Joyce, laughing. "I'm afraid I shall be a great trouble toyou. "

"Ne'er a scrap in life, me dear. 'Tis proud I am to be of any sarvice toye. An' perhaps 'twill make ye aisier in yer mind to know as your undhermy protection, and that no gossip can come nigh ye. "

The good woman means well, but she has flown rather above Joyce's head, or rather under her feet. 

"I'm delighted to be with you, " says Miss Kavanagh, with a pretty smile. "But as for protection--well, the Land Leaguers round here are not sobad as that one should fear for one's life in a quiet village likethis. "

"There's worse than Land Leaguers, " says Mrs. Connolly. "There's thimwho talk. "

"Talk--of what?" asks Joyce, a little vaguely. 

"Well now, me dear, sure ye haven't lived so long widout knowin' there'scruel people in the world, " says Mrs. Connolly, anxiously. "An' the facto' you goin' out dhrivin' wid Mr. Beauclerk, an' stayin' out the nightwid him, might give rise to the talk I'm fightin' agin. Don't be angrywid me now, Miss Joyce, an' don't fret, but 'tis as well to prepare ye. "

Joyce's heart, as she listens, seems to die within her. A kind of sickfeeling renders her speechless; she had never thought of that--of--ofthe idea of impropriety being suggested as part of this most unluckyescapade. Mrs. Connolly, noting the girl's white face, feels as thoughshe ought to have cut her tongue out, rather than have spoken, yet shehad done all for the best. 

"Miss Joyce, don't think about it, " says she, hurriedly. "I'm sorry Isaid a word, but--An', afther all, I am right, me dear. 'Tis betther forye when evil tongues are waggin' to have a raal friend like me to yerback to say the needful word. Ye'll sleep wid me to-night, an' I'll takeye back to her ladyship in the morning, an' never leave ye till I see yein safe hands once more. If ye liked him, " pointing to the door throughwhich Beauclerk had gone, "I'd say nothing, for thin all would comeright enough. But as it is, I'll take it on meself to be the nurse to yenow that I was when ye were a little creature creeping along the floor. "

Joyce smiles at her, but rather faintly. A sense of terror is oppressingher. Lady Baltimore, what will she think? And Freddy and Barbara! Theywill all be angry with her! Oh! more than angry--they will think she hasdone something that other girls would not have done. How is she to facethem again? The entire party at the Court seems to spread itself beforeher. Lady Swansdown and Lord Baltimore, they will laugh about it; andthe others will laugh and whisper, and----

Felix--Felix Dysart. What will he think? What is he thinking now? Tofollow out this thought is intolerable to her; she rises abruptly. 

"What o'clock is it, Mrs. Connolly?" says she in a hard, strained voice. "I am tired, I should like to go to bed now. "

"Just eight, Miss. An' if you are tired there's nothing like the bed. Yewill like to say good-night to Mr. Beauclerk?"

"Oh, no, no!" with frowning sharpness. Then recovering herself. "I neednot disturb him. You will tell him that I was chilled--tired. "

"I'll tell him all that he ought to know, " says Mrs. Connolly. "Come, Miss Joyce, everything, is ready for ye. An' a lie down and a good sleepwill be the makin' of ye before morning. "

Joyce, to her surprise, is led through a very well-appointed chamber, evidently unused, to a smaller but scarcely less carefully arrangedapartment beyond. The first is so plainly a room not in daily use, thatshe turns involuntarily to her companion. 

"Is this your room, Mrs. Connolly?"

"For the night, me dear, " says that excellent woman mysteriously. 

"You have changed your room to suit me. You mean something, " says thegirl, growing crimson, and feeling as if her heart were going to burst. "What is it?"

"No, no, Miss! No, indeed!" confusedly. "But, Miss Joyce, I'll say this, that 'tis eight year now since Misther Monkton came here, an' many's thegood turn he's done me since he's been me lord's agint. An' that'snothing at all, Miss, to the gratitude I bear toward yer poor father, the ould head o' the house. An' d'ye think when occasion comes Iwouldn't stand up an' do the best I could for one o' yer blood? Fegs, I'll take care that it won't be in the power of any one to say a wordagin you. "

"Against me?"

"You're young, Miss. But there's people ould enough to have sinse an'charity as haven't it. I can see ye couldn't get home to-night throughthat rain, though I'm not sayin'"--a little spitefully--"but that hemight have managed it. Still, faith, 'twas bad thravellin' for man orbaste, " with a view to softening down her real opinion of Beauclerk'sbehavior. How can she condemn him safely? Is he not my lady's ownbrother? Is not my lord the owner of the very ground on which the inn isbuilt, of the farm a mile away, where her cows are chewing the cud bythis time in peace and safety?

"You have changed your room to oblige me, " says Joyce, still with thatstrange, miserable look in her eyes. 

"Don't think about that, Miss Joyce, now. An' don't fret yerself aboutanything else, ayther; sure ye can remimber that I'm to yer backalways. "

She bridles, and draws up her ample figure to its fullest height. Indeed, looking at her, it might suggest itself to any reasonable beingthat even the forlornest damsel with any such noble support might welldefy the world. 

But Joyce is not to be so easily consoled. What is support to her? Whocan console a torn heart? The day has been too eventful! It has overcomeher courage. Not only has she lost faith in her own power to face theangry authorities at home, she has lost faith, too, in one to whom, against her judgment, she had given more of her thoughts than was wise. The fact that she had recovered from that folly does not render thememory of the recovery less painful. The awakening from a troubled dreamis full of anguish. 

Rising from a sleepless bed, she goes down next morning to find Mrs. Connolly standing on the lowest step of the stairs, as if awaiting her, booted and spurred for the journey. 

"I tould him to order the thrap early, me dear, for I knew ye'd beanxious, " says the kind woman, squeezing her hand. "An' now, " with ananxious glance at her, "I hope ye ate yer breakfast. I guessed ye'd likeit in yer room, so I sint it up to ye. Well--come on, dear. Mr. Beauclerk is outside waitin'. I explained it all to him. Said ye weretired, ye know, an' eager to get back. And so all's ready an' the horseimpatient. "

In spite of the storm yesterday, that seemed to shake earth and heaven, to-day is beautiful. Soft glistening steams are rising from every hilland bog and valley, as the hot sun's rays beat upon them. The worldseems wrapped in one vast vaporous mist, most lovely to behold. All thewoodland flowers are holding up their heads again, after their pastsmiting from the cruel rain; the trees are swaying to and fro in thefresh morning breeze, thousands of glittering drops brightening the air, as they swing themselves from side to side. All things speak of a newbirth, a resurrection, a joyful waking from a terrifying past. The grasslooks greener for its bath, all dust is laid quite low, the very lichenson the walls as they drive past them look washed and glorified. 

The sun is flooding the sky with gorgeous light; there are "sweete smelsal arownd. " The birds in the woods on either side of the roadway aresinging high carols in praise of this glorious day. All nature seemsjoyous. Joyce alone is silent, unappreciative, unhappy. 

The nearer she gets to the Court the more perturbed she grows in mind. How will they receive her there? Barbara had said that Lady Baltimorewould not be likely to encourage an attachment between her andBeauclerk, and now, though the attachment is impossible, what will shethink of this unfortunate adventure? She is so depressed that speechseems impossible to her, and to all Mr. Beauclerk's sallies she scarcelyreturns an answer. 

His sallies are many. Never has he appeared in gayer spirits. The factthat the girl beside him is in unmistakably low spirits has eitherescaped him, or he has decided on taking no notice of it. Last night, over that final cigar, he had made up his mind that it would be wise tosay to her some little thing that would unmistakably awaken her to thefact that there was nothing between him and her of any seriousimportance. Now, having covered half the distance that lies between themand the Court, he feels will be a good time to say that little thing. She is too distrait to please him. She is evidently brooding oversomething. If she thinks----Better crush all such hopes at once. 

"I wonder what they are thinking about us at home?" he says presently, with quite a cheerful laugh, suggestive of amusement. 

No answer. 

"I daresay, " with a second edition of the laugh, full now of a wideramusement, as though the comical fancy that has caught hold of him hasgrown to completion, "I shouldn't wonder, indeed, if they were thinkingwe had eloped. " This graceful speech he makes with the easiest air inthe world. 

"They may be thinking you have eloped, certainly, " says Miss Kavanaghcalmly. "One's own people, as a rule, know one very thoroughly, and arequite alive to one's little failings; but that they should think it ofme is quite out of the question. "

"Well, after all, I daresay you are right. I don't suppose it lies inthe possibilities. They could hardly think it of me either, " saysBeauclerk, with a careless yawn, so extraordinarily careless indeed asto be worthy of note. "I'm too poor for amusement of that kind. "

"One couldn't be too poor for that kind of amusement, surely. Romanceand history have both taught us that it is only the impecunious who everindulge in that folly. "

"I am not so learned as you are, but----Well, I'm an 'impecunious one, 'in all conscience. I couldn't carry it out. I only wish, " tenderly, "Icould. "

"With whom?" icily. As she asks the question she turns deliberately andlooks him steadily in the eyes. Something in her regard disconcerts him, and compels him to think that the following up of the "little thing" islikely to prove difficult. 

"How can you ask me?" demands he with an assumption of reproachfulfondness that is rather overdone. 

"I do, nevertheless. "

"With you, then--if I must put it in words, " says he, lowering his toneto the softest whisper. It is an eminently lover-like whisper; it is adistinctly careful one, too. It is quite impossible for Mrs. Connolly, sitting behind, to hear it, however carefully she may be attending. 

"It is well you cannot put your fortune to the touch, " says Joycequietly; "if you could, disappointment alone would await you. "

"You mean----?" ask he, somewhat sharply. 

"That were it possible for me to commit such a vulgarity as to run awaywith any one, you, certainly, would not be that one. You are the verylast man on earth I should choose for so mistaken an adventure. Let mealso add, " says she, turning upon him with flashing eyes, though stillher voice is determinately low and calm, "that you forget yourselfstrangely when you talk in this fashion to me. " The scorn andindignation in her charming face is so apparent that it is nowimpossible to ignore it. Being thus compelled to acknowledge it he growsangry. Beauclerk angry is not nice. 

"To do myself justice, I seldom do that!" says he, with a rather nastylaugh. "To forget myself is not part of my calculations. I can generallyremember No. One. "

"You will remember me, too, if you please, so long as I am with you, "says Joyce, with a grave and very gentle dignity, but with a certaindetermination that makes itself felt. Beauclerk, conscious of beingsomewhat cowed, is bully enough to make one more thrust. 

"After all, Dysart was right, " says he. "He prophesied there would berain. He advised you not to undertake our ill-starred journeyof--yesterday. " There is distinct and very malicious meaning in theemphasis he throws into the last word. 

"I begin to think Mr. Dysart is always right, " says Joyce, bravely, though her heart has begun to beat furiously. That terrible fear of whatthey will say to her when she gets back--of their anger--their courteousanger--their condemnation--has been suddenly presented to her again andher courage dies within her. Dysart, what will he say? It strikes evenherself as strange that his view of her conduct is the one that mostdisturbs her. 

"Only, beginning to think it? Why, I always understood Dysart wasimmaculate--the 'couldn't err' sort of person one reads of but neversees. You have been slow, surely, to gauge his merits. I confess I havebeen even slower. I haven't gauged them yet. But then--Dysart and I werenever much in sympathy with each other. "

"No. One can understand that, " says she. 

"One can, naturally, " with the utmost self-complaisance. "I confess, indeed, " with a sudden slight burst of vindictiveness, "that I neverliked Dysart; idiotic sort of fool in my estimation, self-opinionatedlike all fools, and deucedly impertinent in that silent way of his. Ibelieve, " with a contemptuous laugh, "he has given it as his opinionthat there is very little to like in me either. "

"Has he? We were saying just now he is always right, " says MissKavanagh, absently, and in a tone so low that Beauclerk may be excusedfor scarcely believing his ears. 

"Eh?" says he. But there is no answer, and presently both fall into asilent mood--Joyce because conversation is terrible to her, and hebecause anger is consuming him. 

He had kept up a lively converse all through the earlier part of theirdrive, ignoring the depression that only too plainly was crushing uponhis companion, with a view to putting an end to sentimentality of anysort. Her discomfort, her unhappiness, was as nothing to him--he thoughtonly of himself. Few men, under the circumstances, would have so acted, for most men, in spite of all the old maids who so generously abusethem, are chivalrous and have kindly hearts; and indeed it is only amelancholy specimen here and there who will fail to feel pity for awoman in distress. Beauclerk is a "melancholy specimen. "

CHAPTER XXV. 

 "Man, false man, smiling, destructive man. "

 "Who breathes, must suffer, and who thinks, most mourn; And he alone is bless'd who ne'er was born. "

"Oh! my dear girl, is it you at last?" cries Lady Baltimore, running outinto the hall as Joyce enters it. "We have been so frightened! Such astorm, and Baltimore says that mare you had is very uncertain. Where didyou get shelter?"

The very warmth and kindliness of her welcome, the utter absence ofdisapproval in it of any sort, so unnerves Joyce that she can make noreply; can only cling to her kindly hostess, and hide her face on hershoulder. 

"Is that you, Mrs. Connolly?" says Lady Baltimore, smiling at minehostess of the Baltimore Arms, over the girl's shoulder. 

"Yes, my lady, " with a curtsey so low that one wonders how she evercomes up again. "I made so bould, my lady, as to bring ye home MissJoyce myself. I know Misther Beauclerk to be a good support in himself, but I thought it would be a raisonable thing to give her the company ofone of her own women folk besides. "

"Quite right. Quite, " says Lady Baltimore. 

"Oh! she has been so kind to me, " says Joyce, raising now a pale face toturn a glance of gratitude on Mrs. Connolly. 

"Why, indeed, my lady, I wish I might ha' bin able to do more for her;an' I'm sorry to say I'd to put her up in a small, most inconvenientroom, just inside o' me own. "

"How was that?" asks Lady Baltimore, kindly. "The inn so full then?"

"Fegs 'twas that was the matther wid it, " says Mrs. Connolly, with abeaming smile. "Crammed from cellar to garret. "

"Ah! the wet night, I suppose. "

"Just so, my lady, " composedly, and with another deep curtsey. 

Lady Baltimore having given Mrs. Connolly into the care of thehousekeeper, who is an old friend of hers, leads Joyce upstairs. 

"You are not angry with me?" says Joyce, turning on the threshold of herroom. 

"With you, my dear child? No, indeed. With Norman, very! He should haveturned back the moment he saw the first symptom of a storm. A shortwetting would have done neither of you any harm. "

"There was no warning; the storm was on us almost immediately, and wewere then very close to Falling. "

"Then, having placed you once safely in Mrs. Connolly's care, he shouldhave returned himself, at all hazards. "

"It rained very hard, " says Joyce in a cold, clear tone. Her eyes are onthe ground. She is compelling herself to be strictly just to Beauclerk, but the effort is too much for her. She fails to do it naturally, and sogives a false impression to her listener. Lady Baltimore casts a quickglance at her. 

"Rain, what is rain?" says she. 

"There was storm, too, a violent storm; you must have felt it here. "

"No storm should have prevented his return. He should have thought onlyof you. "

A little bitter smile curls the girl's lips: it seems a farce to suggestthat he should have thought of her. He! Now with her eyes effectuallyopened, a certain scorn of herself, in that he should have been able soeasily to close them, takes possession of her. Is his sister blind stillto his defects, that she expects so much from him; has she not read himrightly yet? Has she yet to learn that he will never consider any one, where his own interests, comforts, position, clash with theirs?

"You look distressed, tired. I believe you are fretting about this, "says Lady Baltimore, with a little kindly bantering laugh. "Don't be asilly child. Nobody has said or thought anything that has not beenkindly of you. Did you sleep last night? No. I can see you didn't. There, lie down, and get a little rest before luncheon. I shall send youup a glass of champagne and a biscuit; don't refuse it. "

She pulls down the blinds, and goes softly out of the room to herboudoir, where she finds Beauclerk awaiting her. 

He is lounging comfortably on a satin fauteuil, looking the very _beauideal_ of pleasant, careless life. He makes his sister a present of abeaming smile as she enters. 

"Ah! good morning, Isabel. I am afraid we gave you rather a fright; butyou see it couldn't be helped. What an evening and night it turned out!By Jove! I thought the water works above were turned on for good at lastand for ever. We felt like the Babes in the Wood--abandoned, lost. Poor, dear Miss Kavanagh! I felt so sorry for her! You have seen her, I hope, "his face has now taken the correct lines of decorous concern. "She isnot over fatigued?"

"She looks tired! depressed!" says Lady Baltimore, regarding himseriously. "I wish, Norman, you had come home last evening. "

"What! and bring Miss Kavanagh through all that storm!"

"No, you could have left her at Falling. I wish you had come home. "

"Why?" with an amused laugh. "Are you afraid I have compromised myself?"

"I was not thinking of you. I am more afraid, " with a touch of colddispleasure, "of your having compromised Miss Kavanagh. There are suchthings as gossips in this curious world. You should have left Joyce inMrs. Connolly's safe keeping, and come straight back here. "

"To be laid up with rheumatism during the whole of the coming winter!Oh! most unnatural sister, what is it you would have desired of me?"

"You showed her great attention all this summer, " says Lady Baltimore. 

"I hope I showed a proper attention to all your guests. "

"You were very specially attentive to her. "

"To Miss Kavanagh, do you mean?" with a puzzled air. "Ah! well, yes. Perhaps I did give more of my time to her and to Miss Maliphant than tothe others. "

"Ah! Miss Maliphant! one can understand that, " says his sister, with anintonation that is not entirely complimentary. 

"Can one? Here is one who can't, at all events. I confess I tried veryhard to bring myself to the point there, but I failed. Nature was toostrong for me. Good girl, you know, but--er--awful!"

"We were not discussing Miss Maliphant, we were talking of Joyce, "icily. 

"Ah, true!" as if just awakening to a delightful fact. "And a far morecharming subject for discussion, it must be allowed. Well, and what ofJoyce--you call her Joyce?"

"Be human, Norman!" says Lady Baltimore, with a sudden suspicion of firein her tone. "Forget to pose once in a way. And this time it isimportant. Let me hear the truth from you. She seems unhappy, uncertain, nervous. I like her. There is something real, genuine, about her. Iwould gladly think, that----Do you know, " she leans towards him, "I havesometimes thought you were in love with her. "

"Have you? Do you know, so have I, " with a frankness very admirable. "She is one of the most agreeable girls of my acquaintance. There issomething very special about her. I'm not surprised that both you and Ifell into a conclusion of that sort. "

"Am I to understand by that----?"

"Just one thing. I am too poor to marry. "

"With that knowledge in your mind, you should not have acted towards heras you did yesterday. It was a mistake, believe me. You should have comehome alone, or else brought her back as your promised wife. "

"Ah! what a delightful vista you open up before me, but what an unkindone, too, " says Mr. Beauclerk, with a little reproachful uplifting ofhis hands and brows. "Have you no bowels of compassion? You know how thecharms of domestic life have always attracted me. And to be able toenjoy them with such an admirable companion as Miss Kavanagh! Are yousoulless, utterly without mercy, Isabel, that you open up to me aglorious vision such as that merely to taunt and disappoint me?"

"I am neither Joyce nor Miss Maliphant, " says Lady Baltimore, withill-suppressed contempt. "I wish you would try to remember that, Norman;it would spare time and trouble. You speak of Joyce as if she were thewoman you love, and yet--would you subject the woman you love to unkindcomment? If you cared you would not have treated her as----"

"Ah, if I did care for her, " interrupts he. 

"Well, don't you?" sternly. 

She has risen, and is looking down at him from the full height of hertall, slender figure, that now looks taller than usual. 

"Oh, immensely!" declares Mr. Beauclerk, airily. "My dear girl, youcan't have studied me not to know that; as I have told you, I think hercharming. Quite out of the common--quite. "

"That will do, " shortly. 

"You condemn me, " says he, in an aggrieved tone that has got somethingof amused surprise in it. "Yet you know--you of all others--how poor adevil I am! So poor, that I do not even permit the idea of marriage inmy head. "

"Perhaps, however, you have permitted it to enter into hers!" says LadyBaltimore. 

"Oh, my dear Isabel!" with a light laugh and a protesting glance. "Doyou think she would thank you for that suggestion?"

"You should think. You should think, " says Lady Baltimore, with someagitation. "She is a very young girl. She has lived entirely in thecountry. She knows nothing--nothing, " throwing out her hand. "She is notawake to all the intriguing, lying, falsity, " with a rush of bitterdisgust, "that belongs to the bigger world beyond--the terrible worldoutside her own quiet one here. "

"She is quiet here, isn't she?" says Beauclerk, with admirableappreciation. "Pity to take her out of it. Eh? And yet, so far as I cansee, that is the cruel task you would impose on me. "

"Norman, " says his sister, turning suddenly and for the first timedirectly toward him. 

"Well, my dear. What?" throwing one leg negligently over the other. "Itreally comes to this, doesn't it? That you want me to marry a certainsomebody, and that I think I cannot afford to marry her. Then it lies inthe proverbial nutshell. "

"The man who cannot afford to marry should not afford himself thepleasures of flirtations, " says Lady Baltimore, with decision. 

"No? Is that your final opinion? Good heavens! Isabel, what a brow! Whata terrible glance! If, " smiling, "you favor Baltimore with this style ofthing whenever you disapprove of his smallest action I don't wonder hejibs so often at the matrimonial collar. You advised me to think justnow; think yourself, my good Isabel, now and then, and probably you willfind life easier. "

He is still smiling delightfully. He flings out this cruel gibe indeedin the most careless manner possible. 

"Ah! forget me, " says she in a manner as careless as his own. If she hasquivered beneath that thrust of his, at all events she has had strengthenough to suppress all signs of it. "Think--not of her--I daresay shewill outlive it--but of yourself. "

"What would you have me do then?" demands he, rising here andconfronting her. There is a good deal of venom in his handsome face, butLady Baltimore braves it. 

"I would have you act as an honorable man, " says she, in a clear, if icytone. 

"You go pretty far, Isabel, very far, even for a sister, " says hepresently, his face now white with rage. "A moment ago I gave you somesound advice. I give you more now. Attend to your own affairs, which byall account require looking after, and let mine alone. "

He is evidently furious. His sister makes a little gesture towards thedoor. 

"Your taking it like this does not mend matters, " she says calmly, "itonly makes them, if possible, worse. Leave me!"

CHAPTER XXVI. 

"AT SIXES AND SEVENS. "

 Pol. --"What do you read, my lord?"

 Ham. --"Words, words, words. "

She sighs heavily, as the door closes on her brother. A sense ofweakness, of powerlessness oppresses her. She has fought so long, andfor what? Is there nothing to be gained; no truth to be defendedanywhere, no standard of right and wrong. Are all men--all--base, selfish, cowardly, dishonorable? Her whole being seems aflame with theindignation that is consuming her, when a knock sounds at the door. There is only one person in the house who knocks at her boudoir door. Toevery one, servants, guests, child, it is a free land; to her husbandalone it is forbidden ground. 

"Come in, " says she, in a cold, reluctant tone. 

"I know I shall be terribly in your way, " says Baltimore, entering, "butI must beg you to give me five minutes. I hear Beauclerk has returned, and that you have seen him. What kept him?"

Now Lady Baltimore--who a moment ago had condemned her brother heartilyto his face--feels, as her husband addresses her, a perverse desire toopenly contradict all that her honest judgment had led her to say toBeauclerk. That sense of indignation that was burning so hotly in herbreast as Baltimore knocked at her door still stirs within her, but nowits fire is directed against this latest comer. Who is he, that heshould dare to question the honor of any man; and that there isannoyance and condemnation now in Baltimore's eyes is not to be denied. 

"The weather, " returns she shortly. 

"By your tone I judge you deem that an adequate excuse for keeping MissKavanagh from her home for half a day and a night. "

"There was a terrible storm, " says. Lady Baltimore calmly; "the worst wehave had for months. "

"If it had been ten times as bad he should, in my opinion, have comehome. "

The words seem a mere repetition to Lady Baltimore. She had, indeed, used them to Beauclerk herself, or some such, a few minutes ago. Yet sheseems to repudiate all sympathy with them now. 

"On such a night as that? I hardly see why. Joyce was with an oldfriend. Mrs. Connolly was once a servant of her father's, and he----"

"Should have left her with the old friend and come home. "

Again her own argument, and again perversity drives her to take theopposite side--the side against her conscience. 

"Society must be in a very bad state if a man must perforce encounterthunder, rain, lightning; in fact, a chance of death from cold andexposure, all because he dare not spend one night beneath the roof of arespectable woman like Mrs. Connolly, with a girl friend, withoutbringing down on him the censures of his entire world. "

"You can, it appears, be a most eloquent advocate for the supposedfollies of any one but your husband. Nevertheless, I must persist in myopinion that it was, to put it very charitably indeed, inconsiderate ofyour brother to study his own comfort at the expense of his--girlfriend. I believe that is your way of putting it, isn't it?"

"Yes, " immovably. She has so far given way to movement, however, thatshe has taken up a feather fan lying near, and now so holds it betweenher and Baltimore that he cannot distinctly see her face. 

"As for the world you speak of--it will not judge him as leniently asyou do. It can talk. No one, " bitterly, "is as good a witness of that asI am. "

"But seldom, " coldly, "without reason. "

"And no one is a better witness of that than you are! That is what youwould say, isn't it? Put down that fan, can't you?" with a touch ofsavage impatience. "Are you ashamed to carry out your argument with meface to face?"

"Ashamed!" Lady Baltimore has sprung suddenly to her feet, and sent thefan with a little crash to the ground. "Oh! shame on you to mention sucha word. "

"Am I to be forever your one scapegoat? Now take another one, I beseechyou, " says Baltimore with that old, queer, devilish mockery on his facethat was never seen there until gossiping tongues divided him from hiswife. "Here is your brother, actually thrown to you, as it were. Surelyhe will be a proof that I am not the only vile one among all the herd. If nothing else, acknowledge him selfish. A man who thought more of adry coat than a young, a very young, girl's reputation. Is that nothing?Oh! consider, I beseech you!" his bantering manner, in which there is somuch misery that it should have reached her but does not, grows strongerevery instant "Even a big chill from the heavens above would not havekilled him, whereas we all know how a little breath from the world belowcan kill many a----"

"Oh I you can talk, talk, talk, " says she, that late unusual burst ofpassion showing some hot embers still. "But can words alter facts?" Shepauses; a sudden chill seems to enwrap her. As if horrified by her latedescent into passion she gathers herself together, and defies him onceagain with a cold look. "Why say anything more about it?" she says. "Wedo not agree. "

"On this subject, at least, we should, " says he hotly. "I think yourbrother should not have left us in ignorance of Miss Kavanagh's safetyfor so many hours. And you, " with a sneer, "who are such a martinet forpropriety, should certainly be prepared to acknowledge that he shouldnot have so regulated his conduct as to make her a subject for unkindcomment to the County. Badly, " looking at her deliberately, "as youthink of me, I should not have done it. "

"No?" says she. It is a cruel--an unmistakable insulting monosyllable. And, bearing no other word with it--is the more detestable to thehearer. 

"No, " says he loudly. "Sneer as you will--my conscience is at restthere, so I can defy your suspicions. "

"Ah! there!" says she. 

"My dear creature, " says he, "we all know there is but one villain inthe world, and you are the proud possessor of him--as a husband. Permitme to observe, however, that a man of your code of honor, and of minefor the matter of that--but I forget that honor and I have no cousinshipin your estimation--would have chosen to be wet to the skin rather thanimperil the fair name of the girl he loved. "

"Has he told you he loved her?"

"Not in so many words. "

"Then from what do you argue?"

"My dear, I have told you that you are too much for me in argument! I, asimple on-looker, have judged merely from an every-day observance oflittle unobtrusive facts. If your brother is not in love with MissKavanagh, I think he ought to be. I speak ignorantly, I allow. I am not, like you, a deep student of human nature. If, too, he did not feel ithis duty to bring her home last night, or else to leave her at Fallingand return here himself, I fail to sympathize with him. I should nothave so failed her. "

"Oh but you!" says his wife, with a little contemptuous smile. "You whoare such a paragon of virtue. It would not be expected of you that youshould make such a mistake!"

She has sent forth her dart impulsively, sharply, out of the overflowingfullness of her angry heart--and when too late, when it has sped pastrecall--perhaps repents the speeding!

Such repentances, when felt too late, bring vices in their train; thedesire for good, when chilled, turns to evil. The mind, never idle, ifdebarred from the best, leans inevitably toward the worst. Angry withherself, her very soul embittered within her, Lady Baltimore feels moreand more a sense of passionate wrong against the man who had wooed andwon her, and sown the seeds of gnawing distrust within her bosom. 

Baltimore's face has whitened. His brow contracts. 

"What a devilish unforgiving thing is a good woman, " says he, with areckless laugh. "That's a compliment, my lady--take it as you will. What! are your sneers to outlast life itself? Is that old supposed sinof mine never to be condoned? Why--say it was a real thing, instead ofbeing the myth it is. Even so, a woman all prayers, all holiness, suchas you are, might manage to pardon it!"

Lady Baltimore, rising, walks deliberately toward the door. It is her, usual method of putting an end to all discussions of this sort betweenthem--of terminating any allusions to what she believes to be hisunfaithful past--that past that has wrecked her life. 

As a rule, Baltimore makes no attempt to prolong the argument. He hasalways let her go, with a sneering word, perhaps, or a mutteredexclamation; but to-day he follows her, and stepping between her and thedoor, bars her departure. 

"By heavens! you shall hear me, " says he, his face dark with anger. "Iwill not submit any longer, in silence, to your insolent treatment ofme. You condemn me, but I tell you it is I who should condemn. Do youthink I believe in your present attitude toward me? Pretend as you will, even to yourself, in your soul it is impossible that you should givecredence to that old story, false as it is old. No! you cling to it tomask the feet you have tired of me. "

"Let me pass. "

"Not until you have heard me!" With a light, but determined grasp of herarm, he presses her back into the chair she has just quitted. 

"That story was a lie, I tell you. Before our marriage, I confess, therewere some things--not creditable--to which I plead guilty, but----"

"Oh! be silent!" cries she, putting up her hand impulsively to checkhim. There is open disgust and horror on her pale, severe face. 

"Before, before our marriage, " persists he passionately. 

"What! do you think there is no temptation--no sin--no falling away fromthe stern path of virtue in this life? Are you so mad or so ignorant asto believe that every man you meet could show a perfectly clean recordof----"

"I cannot--I will not listen, " interposes she, springing to her feet, white and indignant. 

"There is nothing to hear. I am not going to pollute your ears, " sayshe, with a curl of his lip. "Pray be reassured. What I only wish to sayis that if you condemn me for a few past sins you should condemn alsohalf your acquaintances. That, however, you do not do. For me alone, foryour husband, you reserve all your resentment. "

"What are the others to me?"

"What am I to you, for the matter of that?" with a bitter laugh, "ifthey are nothing I am less than nothing. You deliberately flung me asideall because----Why, look here!" moving toward her in uncontrollableagitation, "say I had sinned above the Galileans--say that lie wastrue--say I had out-Heroded Herod in evil courses, still am I past thepale of forgiveness? Saint as you are, have you no pity for me? Inall your histories of love and peace and perfection is there nevera case of a poor devil of a sinner like me being taken back intograce--absolved--pardoned?"

"To rave like this is useless. There is no good to be got from it. Youknow what I think, what I believe. You deceived--wronged----Let me go, Cecil!"

"Before--before, " repeats he, obstinately. "What that woman told yousince, I swear to you, was a most damned lie. "

"I refuse to go into it again. "

She is deadly pale now. Her bloodless lips almost refuse to let thewords go through them. 

"You mean by that, that in spite of my oath you still cling to yourbelief that I am lying to you?"

His face is livid. There is something almost dangerous about it, butLady Baltimore has come of too old and good a race to be frightened intosubmission. Raising one small, slender hand, she lays it upon hisbreast, and, with a little haughty upturning of her shapely head, pusheshim from her. 

"I have told you I refuse to go into it, " says she, with superbself-control. "How long do you intend to keep me here? When may I beallowed to leave the room?"

There is distinct defiance in the clear glance she casts at him. 

Baltimore draws a long breath, and then bursts into a strange laugh. 

"Why, when you will, " says he, shrugging his shoulders. He makes agraceful motion of his hand toward the door. "Shall I open it for you?But a word still let me say--if you are not in too great a hurry!Christianity, now, my fair saint, so far as ever I could hear or read, has been made up of mercy. Now, you are merciless! Would you mindletting me know how you reconcile one----"

"You perversely mistake me--I am no saint. I do not"--coldly--"professto be one. I am no such earnest seeker after righteousness as youmaliciously represent me. All I desire is honesty of purpose, and adecent sense of honor--honor that makes decency. That is all. For therest, I am only a poor woman who loved once, and was--how many timesdeceived? That probably I shall never know. "

Her sad, sad eyes, looking at him, grow suddenly full of tears. 

"Isabel! My meeting with that woman--that time"--vehemently--"in townwas accidental! I----It was the merest chance----"

"Don't!" says she, raising her hand, with such a painful repression ofher voice as to render it almost a whisper; "I have told you it isuseless. I have heard too much to believe anything now. I shall never, Ithink, " very sadly, "believe in any one again. You have murdered faithin me. Tell this tale of yours to some one else--some one willing tobelieve--to"--with a terrible touch of scorn--"Lady Swansdown, forexample. "

"Why do you bring her into the discussion?" asks he, turning quickly toher. Has she heard anything? That scene in the garden that now seems tofill him with self-contempt. What a _bêtise_ it was! And what did itamount to? Nothing! Lady Swansdown, he is honestly convinced, cares aslittle for him as he for her. And at this moment it is borne in upon himthat he would give the embraces of a thousand such as she for one kindglance from the woman before him. 

"I merely mentioned her as a possible person who might listen to you, "with a slight lifting of her shoulders. "A mere idle suggestion. Youwill pardon me saying that this has been an idle discussion altogether. You began by denouncing my brother to me, and now----"

"You have ended by denouncing your husband to me! As idle a beginning asan end, surely. Still, to go back to Beauclerk. I persist in saying hehas behaved scandalously in this affair. He has imperilled that poorchild's good name. "

"You can imperil names, too!" says she, turning almost fiercely on him. 

"Lady Swansdown again, I suppose, " says he, with a bored uplifting ofhis brows. "The old grievance is not sufficient, then; you must have anew one. I am afraid I must disappoint you. Lady Swansdown, I assureyou, cares nothing at all for me, and I care just the same amount forher. "

"Since when?"

"Since the world began--if you want a long date!"

"What a liar you are, Baltimore!" says his wife, turning to him with asudden breaking out of all the pent-up passion within her. Involuntarilyher hands clench themselves. She is pale no longer. A swift, hot flushhas dyed her cheeks. Like an outraged, insulted queen, she holds him amoment with her eyes, then sweeps out of the room. 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

 'Since thou art not as these are, go thy ways; Thou hast no part in all my nights and days. Lie still--sleep on--be glad. As such things be Thou couldst not watch with me. "

Luncheon has gone off very pleasantly. Joyce, persuaded by LadyBaltimore, had gone down to it, feeling a little shy, and conscious of agrowing headache. But everybody had been charming to her, and Baltimore, in especial, had been very careful in his manner of treating her, sayinglittle nice things to her, and insisting on her sitting next to him, aseat hitherto Lady Swansdown's own. 

The latter had taken this so perfectly, that one might be pardoned forthinking it had been arranged beforehand between her and her host. Atall events Lady Swansdown was very sympathetic, and indeed everybodyseemed bent on treating her as a heroine of the highest order. 

Joyce herself felt dull--nerveless. Words did not seem to come easily toher. She was tired, she thought, and of course she was, having spent asleepless night. One little matter gave her cause for thankfulness. Dysart was absent from luncheon. He had gone on a long walkingexpedition, Lady Baltimore said, that would prevent his returning homeuntil dinner hour--until quite 8 o'clock. Joyce told herself she wasglad of this--though why she did not tell herself. At all events thenews left her very silent. 

But her silence was not noticed. It could not be, indeed, so great andso animated was the flow of Beauclerk's eloquence. Without addressinganybody in particular, he seemed to address everybody. He kept the wholetable alive. He treated yesterday's adventure as a tremendously amusingaffair, and invited everyone to look upon it as he did. He insisted ondescribing Miss Kavanagh and himself in the same light as he haddescribed them earlier to his sister, as the modern Babes in the Wood, Mrs. Connolly being the Robin. He made several of the people who haddropped in to luncheon roar with laughter over his description of thatexcellent inn keeper. Her sayings--her appearance--her stern notions ofmorality that induced her to bring them home, "personallyconducted"--the size of her waist--and her heart--and many other things. He was extremely funny. The fact that his sister smiled only when shefelt she must to avoid comment, and that his host refused to smile atall, and that Miss Kavanagh was evidently on thorns all the time did notfor an instant damp his overflowing spirits. 

 * * * * *

It is now seven, o'clock; Miss Kavanagh, on her way upstairs to dressfor dinner, suddenly remembering that there is a book in the library, left by her early in the afternoon on the central table, turns aside tofetch it. 

She forgets, however, what she has come for when, having entered theroom, she sees Dysart standing before the fire, staring apparently atnothing. To her chagrin, she is conscious that the unmistakable startshe had made on seeing him is known to him. 

"I didn't know you had returned, " says she awkwardly, yet made acourageous effort to appear as natural as usual. 

"No? I knew you had returned, " says he slowly. 

"It is very late to say good-morning, " says she with a poor littleattempt at a laugh, but still advancing toward him and holding out herhand. 

"Too late!" replied he, ignoring the hand. Joyce, as if struck by somecruel blow, draws back a step or two. 

"You are not tired, I hope?" asks Dysart courteously. 

"Oh, no. " She feels stifled; choked. A desire to get to the door, andescape--lose sight of him forever--is the one strong longing thatpossesses her; but to move requires strength, and she feels that herlimbs are trembling beneath her. 

"It was a long drive, however. And the storm was severe. I fear you musthave suffered in some way. "

"I have not suffered, " says she, in a dull, emotionless way. Indeed, shehardly knows what she says, a repetition of his own words seems theeasiest thing to bar, so she adopts it. 

"No?"

There is a considerable pause, and then----

"No! It is true! It is I only who have suffered, " says Dysart with anuncontrollable abandonment to the misery that is destroying him. "Ialone. "

"You mean something, " says Joyce. It is by a terrible effort that shespeaks. She feels thoroughly unnerved--unstrung. Conscious that thenervous shaking of her hands will betray her, she clasps them behind hertightly. "You meant something just now when you refused to take my hand. But what? What?"

"You said it was too late, " replies he. "And I--agreed with you. "

"That was not it!" says she feverishly. "There was more--much more! Tellme"--passionately--"what you meant. Why would you not touch me? What amI to understand----"

"That from henceforth you are free from the persecution of my love, "says Dysart deliberately. "I was mad ever to hope that you could carefor me--still--I did hope. That has been my undoing. But now----"

"Well?" demands she faintly. Her whole being seems stunned. Something ofall this she had anticipated, but the reality is far worse than anyanticipation had been. She had seen him in her thoughts, angry, indignant, miserable, but that he should thus coldly set her aside--bidher an everlasting adieu--be able to make up his mind deliberately toforget her--this--had never occurred to her as being even probable. 

"Now you are to understand that the idiotic farce played between us twothe day before yesterday is at an end? The curtain is down. It is over. It was a failure--neither you, nor I, nor the public will ever hear ofit again. "

"Is this--because I did not come home last evening in the rain andstorm?" Some small spark of courage has come back to her now. She liftsher head and looks at him. 

"Oh! be honest with me here, in our last hour together, " cries hevehemently. "You have cheated me all through--be true to yourself foronce. Why pretend it is my fault that we part? Yesterday I implored younot to go for that drive with him, and yet--you went. What was I--or mylove for you in comparison with a few hours' drive with that lyingscoundrel?"

"It was only the drive I thought of, " says she piteously. "I--there wasnothing else, indeed. And you; if"--raising her hand to her throat as ifsuffocating--"if you had not spoken so roughly--so----"

"Pshaw!" says Dysart, turning from her as if disgusted. To him, in hispresent furious mood, her grief, her fear, her shrinkings, are all somany movements in the game of coquette, at which she is a past mistress. "Will you think me a fool to the end?" says he. "See here, " turning hisangry eyes to hers. "I don't care what you say, I know you now. Toolate, indeed--but still I know you! To the very core of your heart youare one mass of deceit. "

A little spasm crosses her face. She leans back heavily against thetable behind her. "Oh, no, no, " she says in a voice so low as to bealmost unheard. 

"You will deny, of course, " says he mercilessly. "You would even have mebelieve that you regret the past--but you, and such as you never regret. Man is your prey! So many scalps to your belt is all you think about. Why, " with an accent of passion, "what am I to you? Just the filling upof so many hours' amusement--no more! Do you think all my eloquencewould have any chance against one of his cursed words? I might kneel atyour feet from morning until night, and still I should be to you a thingof naught in comparison with him. "

She holds out her hands to him in a little dumb fashion. Her tongueseems frozen. But he repulses this last attempt at reconciliation. 

"It is no good. None! I have no belief in you left, so you can no longercajole me. I know that I am nothing to you. Nothing! If, " drawing a deepbreath through his closed teeth, "if a thousand years were to go by Ishould still be nothing to you if he were near. I give it up. The battlewas too strong for me. I am defeated, lost, ruined. "

"You have so arranged it, " says she in a low tone, singularly clear. Theviolence of his agitation had subdued hers, and rendered hercomparatively calm. 

"You must permit me to contradict you. The arrangement is all your own. "

"Was it so great a crime to stay last night at Falling?" "There is nocrime anywhere. That you should have made a decision between two men isnot a crime. "

"No! I acknowledge I made a decision--but----"

"When did you make it?"

"Last evening--and though you----"

"Oh! no excuses, " says he with a frown. "Do you think I desire them?"

He hesitates for a minute or so, and now turns to her abruptly. "Are youengaged to him finally?"

"No. "

"No!" In accents suggestive of surprise so intense as to almost enlargeinto disbelief. "You refused him then?"

"No, " says she again. Her heart seems to die within her. Oh, the senseof shame that overpowers her. A sudden wild, terrible hatred ofBeauclerk takes her into possession. Why, why, had he not given her thechoice of saying yes, instead of no, to that last searching question?

"You mean--that he----" He stops dead short as if not knowing how toproceed. Then, suddenly, his wrath breaks forth. "And for thatscoundrel, that fellow without a heart, you have sacrificed the best ofyou--your own heart! For him, whose word is as light as his oath, youhave flung behind you a love that would have surrounded you to yourdying day. Good heavens! What are women made of? But----" He sobershimself at once, as if smitten by some sharp remembrance, and, pale withshame and remorse, looks at her. "Of course, " says he, "it is only oneheartbroken, as I am, who would have dared thus to address you. And itis plain to me now that there are reasons why he should not have spokenbefore this. For one thing, you were alone with him; for another, youare tired, exhausted. No doubt to-morrow he----"

"How dare you?" says she in a voice that startles him, a very low voice, but vibrating with outraged pride. "How dare you thus insult me? Youseem to think--to think--that because--last night--he and I were keptfrom our home by the storm----" She pauses; that old, first oddsensation of choking now again oppresses her. She lays her hand upon theback of a chair near her, and presses heavily upon it. "You think I havedisgraced myself, " says she, the words coming in a little gasp from herparched lips. "That is why you speak of things being at an end betweenus. Oh----"

"You wrong me there, " says the young man, who has grown ghastly. "Whatever I may have said, I----"

"You meant it!" says she. She draws herself up to the full height of heryoung, slender figure, and, turning abruptly, moves toward the door. Asshe reaches it, she looks back at him. "You are a coward!" she says, ina low, distinct tone alive with scorn. "A coward!"

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

 "I have seen the desire of mine eyes, The beginning of love, The season of kisses and sighs, And the end thereof. "

Miss Kavanagh put in no appearance at dinner. "A chill, " whispered LadyBaltimore to everybody, in her kindly, sympathetic way, caught duringthat miserable drive yesterday. She hoped it would be nothing, butthought it better to induce Joyce to remain quiet in her own room forthe rest of the evening, safe from draughts and the dangers attendant onthe baring of her neck and arms. She told her small story beautifully, but omitted to add that Joyce had refused to come downstairs, and thatshe had seemed so wretchedly low-spirited that at last her hostess hadceased to urge her. 

She had, however, spent a good deal of time arguing with her on anothersubject--the girl's fixed determination to go home--"to go back toBarbara"--next day. Lady Baltimore had striven very diligently to turnher from this purpose, but all to no avail. She had even gone so far asto point out to Joyce that the fact of her thus leaving the Court beforethe expiration of her visit might suggest itself to some people in avery unpleasant light. They might say she had come to the end of herwelcome there--been given her congé, in fact--on account of thatluckless adventure with her hostess' brother. 

Joyce was deaf to all such open hints. She remained obstinatelydetermined not to stay a moment longer there than could be helped. Wasit because of Norman she was going? No; she shook her head with such alook of contemptuous indifference that Lady Baltimore found itimpossible to doubt her, and felt her heart thereby lightened. Was itFelix?

Miss Kavanagh had evidently resented that question at first, but finallyhad broken into a passionate fit of tears, and when Lady Baltimoreplaced her arms round her had not repulsed her. 

"But, dear Joyce, he himself is leaving to-morrow. "

"Oh, let me go home. Do not ask me to stay. I am more unhappy than I cantell you, " said the girl brokenly. 

"You have had a quarrel with him?"

Joyce bowed her head in a little quick, impatient way. 

"It is Felix then, Joyce; not Norman? Let me say I am glad--for yoursake; though that is a hard thing for a sister to say of her brother. But Norman is selfish. It is his worst fault, perhaps, but a bad one. Asfor this little misunderstanding with Felix, it will not last. He lovesyou, dearest, most honestly. You will make up this tiny----"

"Never!" said Joyce, interrupting her and releasing herself from herembrace. Her young face looked hard and unforgiving, and Lady Baltimore, with a sigh, decided on saying no more just then. So she went downstairsand told her little tale about Joyce's indisposition, and was believedby nobody. They all said they were sorry, as in duty bound, and perhapsthey were, taking their own view of her absence; but dinner went offextremely well, nevertheless, and was considered quite a success. 

Dysart was present, and was apparently in very high spirits; so high, indeed, that at odd moments his hostess, knowing a good deal, stared athim. He, who was usually so silent a member, to-night outshone even theversatile Beauclerk in the lightness and persistency of hisconversation. 

This sudden burst of animation lasted him throughout the evening, carrying him triumphantly across the hour and a half of drawing-roomsmall talk, and even lasting till the more careless hours in thesmoking-room have come to an end, and one by one the men have yawnedthemselves off to bed. 

Then it died. So entirely, so forlornly as to prove it had been only amere passing and enforced exhilaration after all. They were all gone:there was no need now to keep up the miserable farce--to seek to preventtheir coupling her name with his, and therefore discovering the secretof her sad seclusion. 

As Dysart found himself almost the last man in the room, he too rose, reluctantly, as though unwilling to give himself up to the solitarymusings that he knew lay before him; the self-upbraidings, the vagueremorse, the terrible dread lest he had been too severe, that he knowswill be his all through the silent darkness. For what have sleep and heto do with each other to-night?

He bade his host good-night and, with a pretense of going upstairs, turned aside into the deserted library, and, choosing a book, flunghimself into a chair, determined, if possible, to read his brain into astate of coma. 

 * * * * *

Twelve o'clock has struck, slowly, painfully, as if the old timekeeperis sleepy, too, and is nodding over his work. And now one--as slowly, truly, but with the startling brevity that prevents one's dwelling onits drowsy note. Dysart, with a tired groan, flings down his book, and, rising to his feet, stretches his arms above his head in an utterabandonment to sleepless fatigue that is even more mental than bodily. Once the subject of that book had been of an enthralling interest tohim. To-night it bores him. He has found himself unequal to the solvingof the abstruse arguments it contains. One thought seems to have dulledall others. He is leaving to-morrow! He is leaving her to-morrow! Oh!surely it is more than that curt pronoun can contain. He is leaving, ina few short hours, his life, his hope, his one small chance of heavenupon earth. How much she had been to him, how strong his hoping evenagainst hope had been, he never knew till now, when all is swept out ofhis path forever. 

The increasing stillness of the house seems to weigh upon him, renderingeven gloomier his melancholy thoughts. How intolerably quiet the nightis, not even a breath of wind is playing in the trees outside. On such anight as this ghosts might walk and demons work their will. There issomething ghastly in this unnatural cessation of all sound, allmovement. 

"What a strange power, " says Emerson, "there is in silence. " An oldidea, yet always new. Who is there who has not been affected by it--hasnot known that curious, senseless dread of spirits present from someunknown world that very young children often feel? "Fear came upon meand trembling, which made all my bones to shake, " says Job in one of hismost dismal moments; and now to Dysart this strange, unaccountable chillfeeling comes. Insensibly, born of the hour and the silence only, andwith no smallest dread of things intangible. 

The small clock on the mantel-piece sends forth a tiny chime, sodelicate that in broad daylight, with broader views in the listeners, itmight have gone unheard. Now it strikes upon the motionless air asloudly as though it were the crack of doom. Poor little clock!struggling to be acknowledged for twelve long years of nights and days, now is your revenge--the fruition of all your small ambitious desires. 

Dysart starts violently at the sound of it. It is of importance, thislittle clock. It has wakened him to real life again. He has taken a steptoward the door and the bed, the very idea of which up to this has beentreated by him with ignominy, when--a sound in the hall outside stayshim. 

An unmistakable step, but so light as to suggest the idea of burglars. Dysart's spirits rise. The melancholy of a moment since deserts him. Helooks round for the poker--that national, universal mode of defence whenour castles are invaded by the "masked man. "

He has not time, however, to reach it before the handle of the door isslowly turned--before the door is as slowly opened, and----

"What is this?"

For a second Dysart's heart seems to stop beating. He can only gazespellbound at this figure, clad all in white, that walks deliberatelyinto the room, and seemingly directly toward him. It is Joyce! Joyce!

CHAPTER XXIX. 

 "Sleep; and if life was bitter to thee, pardon, If sweet, give thanks; thou hast no more to live; And to give thanks is good, and to forgive. "

Is she dead or still living? Dysart, calmed now, indeed, gazes at herwith a heart contracted. Great heaven! how like death she looks, andyet--he knows she is still in the flesh. How strangely her eyes gleam. Adull gleam and so passionless. Her brown hair--not altogether fallendown her back, but loosened from its hairpins, and hanging in a softheavy knot behind her head--gives an additional pallor to her alreadytoo white face. The open eyes are looking straight before them, unseeing. Her step is slow, mechanical, unearthly. It is only indeedwhen she lays the candle she holds upon the edge of the table, theextreme edge, that he knows she is asleep, and walking in a dreamlandthat to waking mortals is inaccessible. 

Silently, and always with that methodical step, she moves toward thefireplace, and still a little further, until she stands on that eventfulspot where he had given up all claim to her, and thrown her back uponherself. There is the very square on the carpet where she stood somehours ago. There she stands now. To her right is the chair on which shehad leaned in great bitterness of spirit, trying to evoke help andstrength from the dead oak. Now, in her dreams, as if remembering thatpast scene, she puts out her hands a little vaguely, a little blindly, and, the chair not being where in her vision she believes it to be, shegropes vaguely for it in a troubled fashion, the little trembling handsmoving nervously from side to side. It is a very, sad sight, the sadderfor, the mournful change that crosses the face of the sleeping girl. Thelips take a melancholy curve: the long lashes droop over the sightlesseyes, a long, sad sigh escapes her. 

Dysart, his heart beating wildly, makes a movement toward her. Whetherthe sound of his impetuous footstep disturbs her dream, or whether thecoming of her fingers in sudden contact with the edge of the table doesit, who can tell; she starts and wakens. 

At first she stands as if not understanding, and then, with a terrifiedexpression in her now sentient eyes, looks hurriedly around her. Hereyes meet Dysart's. 

"Don't be frightened, " begins he quickly. 

"How did I come here?" interrupts she, in a voice panic-stricken. "I wasupstairs; I remember nothing. It was only a moment since that I----Was Iasleep?"

She gives a hasty furtive glance at the pretty loose white garment thatenfolds her. 

"I suppose so, " says Dysart. "You must have had some disturbing dream, and it drove you down here. It is nothing. Many people walk in theirsleep. "

"But I never. Oh! what is it?" says she, as if appealing to him toexplain herself to herself. "Was, " faintly flushing, "any one else here?Did any one see me?"

"No one. They are in bed; all asleep. "

"And you?" doubtfully. 

"I couldn't sleep, " returns he slowly, gazing fixedly at her. 

"I must go, " says she feverishly. She moves rapidly toward the door; herone thought seems to be to get back to her own room. She looks ill, unstrung, frightened. This new phase in her has alarmed her. What if, for the future, she cannot even depend upon herself?--cannot know whereher mind will carry her when deadly sleep has fallen upon her? It is ahateful thought. And to bring her here. Where he was. What power has heover her? Oh! the sense of relief in thinking that she will be at hometo-morrow--safe with Barbara. 

Her hand is on the door. She is going. 

"Joyce, " says Dysart suddenly, sharply. All his soul is in his voice. Sokeenly it rings, that involuntarily she turns to him. Great agony mustmake itself felt, and to Dysart, seeing her on the point of leaving himforever, it seems as though his life is being torn from him. In truthshe is his life, the entire happiness of it--if she goes through thatdoor unforgiving, she will carry with her all that makes it bearable. 

She is looking at him. Her eyes are brilliant with nervous excitement;her face pale. Her very lips have lost their color. 

"Yes?" says she interrogatively, impatiently. 

"I am going away to-morrow--I shall not----"

"Yes, yes--I know. I am going, too. "

"I shall not see you again?"

"I hope not--I think not. "

She makes another step forward. Opening the door with a little lighttouch, she places one hand before the candle and peers timidly into thedark hall outside. 

"Don't let that be your last word to me, " says the young man, passionately. "Joyce, hear me! There must be some excuse for me. "

"Excuse?" says she, looking back at him over her shoulder, her lovelyface full of curious wonder. 

"Yes--yes! I was mad! I didn't mean a word I said--I swear it!I----Joyce, forgive me!"

The words, though whispered, burst from him with a despairing vehemence. He would have caught her hand but that she lifts her eyes to his--sucheyes!

There is a little pause, and then:

"Oh, no! Never--never!" says she. 

Her tone is very low and clear--not angry, not even hasty orreproachful. Only very sad and certain. It kills all hope. 

She goes quickly through the open doorway, closing it behind her. Thefaint, ghostly sound of her footfalls can be heard as she crosses thehall. After a moment even this light sound ceases. She is indeed gone!It is all over!

 * * * * *

With a kind of desire to hide herself, Joyce has crept into her bed, sore at heart, angry, miserable. No hope that sleep will again visit herhas led her to this step, and, indeed, would sleep be desirable? What atreacherous part it had played when last it fell on her!

How grieved he looked--how white! He was evidently most honestly sorryfor all the unkind things he had said to her. Not that he had said many, indeed, only--he had looked them. And she, she had been very hard--oh!too hard. However, there was an end to it. To-morrow would place moremiles between them, in every way, than would ever be recrossed. He wouldnot come here again until he had forgotten her--married, probably. Theywould not meet. There should have been comfort in that certainty, but, alas! when she sought for it, it eluded her--it was not there. 

In spite of the trick Somnus had just played her, she would now gladlyhave courted him again, if only to escape from ever growing regret. Butthough she turns from side to side in a vain endeavor to secure him, that cruel god persistently denies her, and with mournful memories andtired eyes, she lies, watching, waiting for the tender breaking of thedawn upon the purple hills. 

Slowly, slowly comes up the sun. Coldly, and with a tremulous lingering, the light shines on land and sea. Then sounds the bursting chants ofbirds, the rush of streams, the gentle sighings of the winds throughherb and foliage. 

Joyce, thankful for the blessed daylight, flings the clothes aside, andwith languid step, and eyes, sad always, but grown weary, too, withsleeplessness and thoughts unkind, moves lightly to the window. 

Throwing wide the casement, she lets the cool morning air flow in. 

A new day has arisen. What will it bring her? What can it bring, savedisappointment only and a vain regret? Oh! why must she, of all people, be thus unblessed upon this blessed morn? Never has the sun seemedbrighter--the whole earth a greater glow of glory. 

 "Welcome, the lord of light and lamp of day: Welcome, fosterer of tender herbis green; Welcome, quickener of flourish'd flowers' sheen. Welcome depainter of the bloomit meads; Welcome, the life of everything that spreads!"

Yet to Joyce welcome to the rising sun seems impossible. What is thegood of day when hope is dead? In another hour or two she must rise, godownstairs, talk, laugh, and appear interested in all that is beingsaid--and with a heart at variance with joy--a poor heart, heavy aslead. 

A kind of despairing rage against her crooked fortune moves her. Why hasshe been thus unlucky? Why at first should a foolish, vagrant feelinghave led her to think so strongly of one unworthy and now hateful to heras to prejudice her in the mind of the one really worthy. What madnesspossessed her? Surely she is the most unfortunate girl alive? A sense ofinjustice bring the tears into her eyes, and blots out the slowlywidening landscape from her view. 

 "How happy some o'er other some can be!"

Her thoughts run to Barbara and Monkton. They are happy in spite of manyfrowns from fortune. They are poor--as society counts poverty--but thewant of money is not a cardinal evil. They love each other; and thechildren are things to be loved as well--darling children! well grown, and strong, and healthy, though terrible little Turks at times--Godbless them! Oh! that she could count herself as blessed as Barbara, whose greatest trouble is to deny herself this and that, to be able topay for the other thing. No! to be poor is not to be unhappy. "Ourhappiness in this world, " says a writer, "depends on the affections weare able to inspire. " Truly she--Joyce--has not been successful in herquest. For if he had loved her, would he ever have doubted her? "Perfectlove, " says the oldest, grandest testimony of all, "casteth out fear. "And he had feared. Sitting here in the dawning daylight, the tears ransoftly down her cheeks. 

It is a strange thing, but true, that never once during this wholenight's dreary vigil do her thoughts once turn to Beauclerk. 

CHAPTER XXX. 

 "Oh, there's stony a leaf in Atholl wood, And mony a bird in its breast, And mony a pain may the heart sustain Ere it sab itsel' to rest. "

Barbara meets her on the threshold and draws her with loving arms intothe dining-room. 

"I knew you would be here at this hour. Lady Baltimore wrote me wordabout it. And I have sent the chicks away to play in the garden, as Ithought you would like to have a comfortable chat just at first. "

"Lady Baltimore wrote?"

"Yes, dear. Just to say you were distressed about that unfortunateaffair--that drive, you know--and that you felt you wanted to come backto me. I was glad you wanted that, darling. "

"You are not angry with me, Barbara?" asks the girl, loosening hersister's arms the better to see her face. 

"Angry! No, how could I be angry?" says Mrs. Monkton, the morevehemently in that she knows she _had_ been very angry just at first. "It was the merest chance. It might have happened to anybody. One can'tcontrol storms!"

"No--that's what Mrs. Connolly said, only she called it 'the ilimints, '"says Joyce, with quite a little ghost of a smile. 

"Well, now you are home again, and it's all behind you. And there isreally nothing in it. And you must not think so much about it, " saysBarbara, fondling her hand. "Lady Baltimore said you were too unhappyabout it. "

"Did she say that? What else did she say?" asks the girl, regarding hersister with searching, eyes. What had Lady Baltimore told her? Thatimpulsive admission to the latter last night had been troubling Joyceever since, and now to have to lay bare her heart again, to acknowledgeher seeming fickleness, to receive Barbara's congratulation on it, onlyto declare that this second lover has, too, been placed by Fate outsideher life, seems too bitter to her. Oh, no--she cannot tell Barbara. 

"Why nothing, " says Mrs. Monkton, who is now busying herself removingthe girl's hat and furs. "What was there to tell, after all?" She isplainly determined to treat the matter lightly. 

"Oh--there is a good deal, " says Joyce, bitterly. "Why don't you tellme, " turning suddenly upon her sister, "that you knew how it would beall along? That you distrusted that Mr. Beauclerk from the very first, and that Felix Dysart was always worth a thousand of him?" There issomething that is almost defiant in her manner. 

"Because, for one thing, I very seldom call him Felix, " says Mrs. Monkton, with a smile, alluding to the last accusation. "And because, too, I can't bear the 'I told you so' persons. --You mustn't class mewith them, Joyce, whatever you do. "

"I shan't be able to do much more, at all events, " says Joyce presently. "That's one comfort, not only for myself but for my family. I expect Ihave excelled myself this time. Well, " with a dull little laugh, "itwill have to last, so----"

"Joyce, " says her sister, quickly, "tell me one small thing. Mr. Beauclerk--he----"

"Yes?" stonily, as Barbara goes on a rock. 

"You--you are not engaged to him?"

Joyce breaks into an angry laugh. 

"That is what you all ask, " says she. "There is no variety; none. No, no, no; I am engaged to nobody. Nobody wants me, and I----'I care fornobody, not I, for nobody cares for me. ' Mark the heavy emphasis on the'for, ' I beg you, Barbara!"

She breaks entirely from her sister's hold and springs to her feet. 

"You are tired, " says Mrs. Monkton, anxiously, rising too. 

"Why don't you say what you really mean?" says Joyce, turning almostfiercely to her. "Why pretend you think I am fatigued when you honestlythink I am miserable, because Mr. Beauclerk has not asked me to marryhim. No! I don't care what you think. I am miserable! And though I wereto tell you over and over again it was not because of him, you would notbelieve me, so I will say nothing. "

"Here is Freddy, " says Mrs. Monkton, nervously, who has just seen herhusband's head pass the window. He enters the room almost as she speaks. 

"Well, Joyce, back again, " says he, affectionately. He kisses the girlwarmly. "Horrid drive you must have had through that storm. "

"You, too, blame the storm, then, and not me, " says Joyce, with a smile. "Everybody doesn't take your view of it. It appears I should havereturned, in all that rain and wind and----"

"Pshaw! Never listen to extremists, " says Mr. Monkton, sinking lazilyinto a chair. "They will land you on all sorts of barren coasts if yougive ear to them. For my part I never could see why two people ofopposite sexes, if overcome by nature's artillery, should not spend anight under a wayside inn without calling down upon them the socialartillery of gossip. There is only one thing in the whole affair, " saysMr. Monkton, seriously, "that has given me a moment's uneasiness. "

"And that?" says Joyce, nervously. 

"Is how I can possibly be second to both of them. Dysart, I confess, hasmy sympathies, but if Beauclerk were to appear first upon the field andimplore my assistance I feel I should have a delicacy about refusinghim. "

"Freddy, " says his wife, reprovingly. 

"Oh, as for that, " says Joyce, with a frown, "I do think men are themost troublesome things on earth. " She burst out presently. "When oneisn't loving them, one is hating them. "

"How many of them at a time?" asks her brother-in-law with deepinterest. "Not more than two, Joyce, please. I couldn't grasp any more. My intellect is of a very limited order. "

"So is mine, I think, " says Joyce, with a tired little sigh. 

Monkton, although determined to treat the matter lightly, looks verysorry for her. Evidently she is out of joint with the whole world atpresent. 

"How did Lady Baltimore take it?" asks he, with all the careless air ofone asking a question on some unimportant subject. 

"She was angry with Mr. Beauclerk for not leaving me at the inn, andcoming home himself. "

"Unsisterly woman!"

"She was quite right, after all, " says Mrs. Monkton, who had defendedBeauclerk herself, but cannot bear to hear another take his part. 

"And, Dysart--how did he take it?" asks Monkton, smiling. 

"I don't see how he should take it, anyway, " says Joyce, coldly. 

"Not even with soda water?" says her brother-in-law. "Of course, itwould be too much to expect him to take it neat. You broke it gently tohim I hope. "

"Ah, you don't understand Mr. Dysart, " says the girl, rising abruptly. "I did not understand him until yesterday. "

"Is he so very abstruse?"

"He is very insolent, " says Miss Kavanagh, with a sudden touch of fire, that makes her sister look at her with some uneasiness. 

"I see, " says Mr. Monkton, slowly. He still, unfortunately, looksamused. "One never does know anybody until he or she gives way to atowering passion. So he gave you a right good scolding for being caughtin the rain with Beauclerk. A little unreasonable, surely; but loversnever yet were famous for their common sense. That little ingredient wasforgotten in their composition. And so he gave you a lecture?"

"Well, he is not likely to do it again, " says she slowly. 

"No? Then it is more than likely that I shall be the one to be scoldedpresently. He won't be able to content himself with silence. He willwant to air his grievances, to revenge them on some one, and if yourefuse to see him, I shall be that one. There is really only one smallremark to be made about this whole matter, " says Mr. Monkton, with arueful smile, "and it remains for me to make it. If you will encouragetwo suitors at the same time, my good child, the least you may expect istrouble. You are bound to look out for 'breakers ahead, ' but (and thisis the remark) it is very hard lines for a fourth and most innocentperson to have those suitors dropped straight on him without a second'snotice. I'm not a born warrior; the brunt of the battle is a sort ofgayety that I confess myself unsuited for. I haven't been educated up toit. I----"

"There will be no battle, " says Joyce, in a strange tone, "because therewill be no combatants. For a battle there must be something to fightfor, and here there is nothing. You are all wrong, Freddy. You will findout that after awhile. I have a headache, Barbara. I think, " raising herlovely but pained eyes to her sister, "I should like to go into thegarden for a little bit. The air there is always so sweet. "

"Go, darling, " says Barbara, whose own eyes have filled with tears. "Oh, Freddy, " turning reproachfully to her husband as the door closes onJoyce, "how could you so have taken her? You must have seen how unhappyshe was. And all about that horrid Beauclerk. "

Monkton stares at her. 

"So that is how you read it, " says he at last. 

"There is no difficulty about the reading. Could it be in larger print?"

"Large enough, certainly, as to the unhappiness, but for 'Beauclerk' Ishould advise the printer to insert Dysart. '"

"Dysart? Felix?"

"Unless, indeed, you could suggest a third. "

"Nonsense!" says Mrs. Monkton, contemptuously. "She has never cared forpoor Felix. How I wish she had. He is worth a thousand of the other; butgirls are so perverse. "

"They are. That is just my point, " says her husband. "Joyce is soperverse that she won't allow herself to see that it is Dysart shepreferred. However, there is one comfort, she is paying for herperversity. "

"Freddy, " says his wife, after a long pause, "do you really think that?"

"What? That girls are perverse?"

"No, no! That she likes Felix best?"

"That is indeed my fixed belief. "

"Oh, Freddy!" cries his wife, throwing herself into his arms. "Howbeautiful of you, I've always wanted to think that, but never coulduntil now--now that----"

"My clear judgment has been brought to bear upon it. Quite right, mydear, always regard your husband as a sort of demi-god, who----"

"Pouf!" says she. "Do you think I was born without a grain of sense? Butreally, Freddy----Oh! if it might be! Poor, poor darling! how sad shelooked. If they have had a serious quarrel over her drive with thatdetestable Beauclerk--why--I----" Here she bursts into tears, and withher face buried on Monkton's waistcoat, makes little wild dabs at theair with a right hand that is only to be appeased by having Monkton'shandkerchief thrust into it. 

"What a baby you are!" says he, giving her a loving little shake. "Ideclare, you were well named. The swift transitions from the tremendous'Barbara' to the inconsequent 'Baby' takes but an instant, and exactlyexpresses you. A moment ago you were bent on withering me: now, I amgoing to wither you. "

"Oh, no! don't, " says she, half laughing, half crying. "And besides, itis you who are inconsequent. You never keep to one point for a second. "

"Why should I?" says he, "when it is such a disagreeable one. There letus give up for the day. We can write 'To be continued' after it, andbegin a fresh chapter to-morrow. "

 * * * * *

Meantime, Joyce, making her way to the garden with a hope of findingthere, at all events, silence, and opportunity for thought, seatsherself upon a garden chair, and gives herself up a willing prey tomelancholy. She had desired to struggle against this evil, but it hadconquered her, and tears rising beneath her lids are falling on hercheeks, when two small creatures emerging from the summer house on herleft catch sight of her. 

They had been preparing for a rush, a real Redshank, painted andfeathered, descent upon her, when something in her sorrowful attitudebecomes known to them. 

Fun dies within their kind little hearts. Their Joyce has come home tothem--that is a matter for joy, but their Joyce has come homeunhappy--that is a matter for grief. Step by step, hand in hand, theyapproach her, and even at the very last, with their little breastsoverflowing with the delight of getting her back, it is with a verygentle precipitation that they throw themselves upon her. 

And it never occurs to them, either, to trouble her for an explanation;no probing questions issue from their lips. She is sorry, that is all. It is enough for their sympathies. Too much. 

Joyce herself is hardly aware of the advent of the little comforters, until two small arms steal around her neck, and she finds Mabel's facepressed close against her own. 

"Let me kiss her, too, " says Tommy, trying to push his sister away, andresenting openly the fact of her having secured the first attempt atconsolation. 

"You mustn't tease her, she's sorry. She's very sorry about something, "says Mabel, turning up Joyce's face with her pink palm. "Aren't you, Joyce? There's droppies in your eyes?"

"A little, darling, " says Joyce, brokenly. 

"Then I'll be sorry with you, " says the child, with all childhood'sdivine intuition that to sorrow alone is to know a double sorrow. Shehugs Joyce more closely with her tender arms, and Joyce, after a battlewith her braver self, gives way, and breaks into bitter tears. 

"There now! you've made her cry right out! You're a naughty girl, " saysTommy, to his sister in a raging tone, meant to hide the fact that hetoo, himself is on the point of giving way; in fact, another moment seeshim dissolved in tears. 

"Never mind, Joycie. Never mind. We love you!" sobs he, getting up onthe back of the seat behind her, and making a very excellent attempt atstrangulation. 

"Do you? There doesn't seem to be any one else, then, but you!" sayspoor Joyce, dropping Mabel into her lap, and Tommy more to the front, and clasping them both to her with a little convulsive movement. 

Perhaps the good cry she has on top of those two loving little headsdoes her more good than anything else could possibly have done. 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

 "A bitter and perplexed 'What shall I do?' Is worse to man than worse necessity. "

Three months have come and gone, and winter is upon us. It is close onChristmastide indeed. All the trees lie bare and desolate, the leaveshave fallen from them, and their sweet denizens, the birds, flown ordead. 

Evening has fallen. The children are in the nursery, having a last rompbefore bed hour. Their usual happy hunting ground for that final flingis the drawing-room, but finding the atmosphere there, to-night, distinctly cloudy, they had beaten a simultaneous retreat to Bridget andthe battered old toys upstairs. Children, like rats, dislike discomfort. 

Mrs. Monkton, sitting before the fire, that keeps up a continuous soundas musical as the rippling of a small stream, is leaning back in herchair, her pretty forehead puckered into a thousand doubts. Joyce, nearher, is as silent as she is; while Mr. Monkton, after a vain pretence atbeing absorbed in the morning paper (diligently digested at 11 thismorning), flings it impatiently on the floor. 

"What's the good of your looking like that, Barbara? If you werecompelled to accept this invitation from my mother, I could see somereason for your dismal glances, but when you know I am as far fromwishing you to accept it as you are yourself, why should----?"

"Ah! but are you?" says his wife with a swift, dissatisfied glance athim. The dissatisfaction is a good deal directed toward herself. 

"If you could make her sure of that, " says Joyce, softly. "I have triedto explain it to her, but----"

"I suppose I am unreasonable, " says Barbara, rising, with a little laughthat has a good deal of grief in it. "I suppose I ought to believe, "turning to her husband, "that you are dying for me to refuse thisinvitation from the people who have covered me with insult for eightyears, when I know well that you are dying for me to accept it. "

"Oh! if you know that, " says Monkton rather feebly, it must beconfessed. This fatally late desire on the part of his people to becomeacquainted with his wife and children has taken hold of him, has livedwith him through the day, not for anything he personally could possiblygain by it, but because of a deep desire he has that they, his fatherand mother, should see and know his wife, and learn to admire her andlove her. 

"Of course I know it, " says Barbara, almost fiercely. "Do you think Ihave lived with you all these years and cannot read your heart? Don'tthink I blame you, Freddy. If the cases were reversed I should feel justlike you. I should go to any lengths to be at one with my own people. "

"I don't want to go to even the shortest length, " says Mr. Monkton. Asif a little nettled he takes up the dull old local paper again andbegins a third severe examination of it. But Mrs. Monkton, feeling thatshe cannot survive another silence, lays her hand upon it and capturesit. 

"Let us talk about it, Freddy, " says she. 

"It will only make you more unhappy. "

"Oh, no. I think not. It will do her good, " says Joyce, anxiously. 

"Where is the letter? I hardly saw it. Who is asked?" demands Barbarafeverishly. 

"Nobody in particular, except you. My father has expressed a wish thatwe should occupy that house of his in Harley street for the wintermonths, and my mother puts in, accidentally as it were, that she wouldlike to see the children. But you are the one specially alluded to. "

"They are too kind!" says Barbara rather unkindly to herself. 

"I quite see it in your light. It is an absolute impertinence, " saysMonkton, with a suppressed sigh. "I allow all that. In fact, I am withyou, Barbara, all through: why keep me thinking about it? Put it out ofyour head. It requires nothing more than a polite refusal. "

"I shall hate to make it polite, " says Barbara. And then, recurring toher first and sure knowledge of his secret desires, "you want to go tothem?"

"I shall never go without you, " returns he gravely. 

"Ah! that is almost a challenge, " says she, flushing. 

"Barbara! perhaps he is right, " says Joyce, gently; as she speaks shegets up from the fire and makes her way to the door, and from that toher own room. 

"Will you go without me?" says Barbara, when she has gone, looking ather husband with large, earnest eyes. 

"Never. You say you know me thoroughly, Barbara; why then ask thatquestion?"

"Well, you will never go then, " says she, "for I--I will never enterthose people's doors. I couldn't, Freddy. It would kill me!" She haskept up her defiant attitude so successfully and for so long that Mr. Monkton is now electrified when she suddenly bursts into tears andthrows herself into his arms. 

"You think me a beast!" says she, clinging to him. 

"You are tired; you are bothered. Give it up, darling, " says he, pattingher on the back, the most approved modern plan of reducing people to astale of common sense. 

"But you do think it, don't you?"

"No. Barbara. There now, be a good sensible girl, and try to realizethat I don't want you to accept this invitation, and that I am going towrite to my mother in the morning to say it is impossible for us toleave home just now--as--as--eh?"

"Oh, anything will do. "

"As baby is not very well? That's the usual polite thing, eh?"

"Oh! no, don't say that, " says Mrs. Monkton in a little, frightenedtone. "It--it's unlucky! It might--I'm not a bit superstitious, Freddy, but it might affect baby in some way--do him some harm. "

"Very well, we'll tell another lie, " says Mr. Monkton cheerfully. "We'llsay you've got the neuralgia badly, and that the doctor says it would beas much as your life Is worth to cross the Channel at this time ofyear. "

"That will do very well, " says Mrs. Monkton readily. 

"But--I'm not a bit superstitious, " says he solemnly. "But it mightaffect you in some way, do you some harm, and--"

"If you are going to make a jest of it, Freddy----"

"It is you who have made the jest. Well; never mind, I accept theresponsibility, and will create even another taradiddle. If I say we aredisinclined to leave home just now, will that do?"

"Yes, " says she, after a second's struggle with her better self, inwhich it comes off the loser. 

"That's settled, then, " says Mr. Monkton. "Peace with honor is assured. Let us forget that unfortunate letter, and all the appurtenancesthereof. "

"Yes: do let us, Freddy, " says she, as if with all her heart. 

 * * * * *

But the morning convinces Monkton that the question of the letter stillremains unsettled. Barbara, for one thing, has come down to breakfastgowned in her very best morning frock, one reserved for those rareoccasions when people drop in over night and sleep with them. She has, indeed, all the festive appearance of a person who expects to be calledaway at a second's notice into a very vertex of dissipation. 

Joyce, who is quite as impressed as Monkton with her appearance, gazesat her with a furtive amazement, and both she and Monkton wait in a sortof studied silence to know the meaning of it. They aren't given long topossess their souls in patience. 

"Freddy, I don't think Mabel ought to have any more jam, " says Mrs. Monkton, presently, "or Tommy either. " She looks at the children as shespeaks, and sighs softly. "It will cost a great deal, " says she. 

"The jam!" says her husband. "Well, really, at the rate they areconsuming it--I----"

"Oh, no. The railway--the boat--the fare--the whole journey, " says she. 

"The journey?" says Joyce. 

"Why, to England, to take them over there to see their grandmother, "says Mrs. Monkton calmly. 

"But, Barbara----"

"Well, dear?"

"I thought----"

"Barbara! I really consider that question decided, " says her husband, not severely, however. Is the dearest wish of his heart to beaccomplished at last? "I thought you had finally made up your mind torefuse my mother's invitation?"

"I shall not refuse it, " says she, slowly, "whatever you may do. "

"I?"

"You said you didn't want to go, " says his wife severely. "But I havebeen thinking it over, and----" Her tone has changed, and a slight touchof pink has come into her pretty cheeks. "After all, Freddy, why shouldI be the one to keep you from your people?"

"You aren't keeping me. Don't go on that. "

"Well, then, will you go by yourself and see them?"

"Certainly not. "

"Not even if I give you the children to take over?". 

"Not even then. "

"You see, " says she, with a sort of sad triumph, "I am keeping you fromthem. What I mean is, that if you had never met me you would now befriends with them. "

"I'd a great deal rather be friends with you, " says he struggling wildlybut firmly with a mutton chop that has been done to death by a bad cook. 

"I know that, " in a low and troubled tone, "but I know, too, that thereis always unhappiness where one is on bad terms with one's father andmother. "

"My dear girl, I can't say what bee you have got in your bonnet now, butI beg you to believe, I am perfectly happy at this present moment, inspite of this confounded chop that has been done to a chip. 'God sendsmeat, the devil sends cooks. ' That's not a prayer, Tommy, you needn'tcommit it to memory. "

"But there's 'God' and the 'devil' in it, " says Tommy, skeptically:"that always means prayers. "

"Not this time. And you can't pray to both; your mother has taught youthat; you should teach her something in return. That's only fair, isn'tit?"

"She knows everything, " says Tommy, dejectedly. It is quite plain to hishearers that he regrets his mother's universal knowledge--that he wouldhave dearly liked to give her a lesson or two. 

"Not everything, " says his father. "For example, she cannot understandthat I am the happiest man in the world; she imagines I should be betteroff if she was somebody else's wife and somebody else's mother. "

"Whose mother?" demands Tommy, his eyes growing round. 

"Ah, that's just it. You must ask her. She has evidently some _arrièrepensée_. "

"Freddy, " says his wife in a low tone. 

"Well! What am I to think? You see, " to Tommy, who is now deeplyinterested, "if she wasn't your mother, she'd be somebody else's. "

"No, she wouldn't, " breaks in Tommy, indignantly. "I wouldn't let her, I'd hold on to her. I--" with his mouth full of strawberry jam, yetstriving nobly to overcome his difficulties of expression, "I'd beather!"

"You shouldn't usurp my privileges, " says his father, mildly. 

"Barbara!" says Joyce, at this moment. "If you have decided on going toLondon, I think you have decided wisely; and it may not be such anexpense after all. You and Freddy can manage the two eldest childrenvery well on the journey, and I can look after baby until you return. Orelse take nurse, and leave baby entirely to me. "

Mrs. Monkton makes a quick movement. 

CHAPTER XXXII. 

 "And I go to brave a world I hate, And woo it o'er and o'er; And tempt a wave and try a fate Upon a stranger shore. "

"I shall take the three children and you, too, or I shall not go atall, " says she, addressing her sister with an air of decision. 

"If you have really made up your mind about it, " says Mr. Monkton, "Iagree with you. The house in Harley street is big enough for a regiment, and my mother says the servants will be in it on our arrival, if weaccept the invitation. Joyce will be a great comfort to us, and a helpon the journey over, the children are so fond of her. "

Joyce turns her face to her brother-in-law and smiles in a littlepleased way. She has been so grave of late that they welcome a smilefrom her now at any time, and even court k. The pretty lips, erstwhileso prone to laughter, are now too serious by far. When, therefore, Monkton or his wife go out of their way to gain a pleased glance fromher and succeed, both feel as if they had achieved a victory. 

"Why have they offered us a separate establishment? Was there no roomfor us in their own house?" asks Mrs. Monkton presently. 

"I dare say they thought we should be happier, so--in a place of ourown. "

"Well, I dare say we shall. " She pauses for a moment. "Why are they intown now--at this time of year? Why are they not in their countryhouse?"

"Ah! that is a last thorn in their flesh, " says Monkton, with a quicksigh. "They have had to let the old place to pay my brother's debts. Heis always a trouble to them. This last letter points to greater troublestill. "

"And in their trouble they have turned to you--to the littlegrandchildren, " says Joyce, softly. "One can understand it. "

"Oh, yes. Oh, you should have told me, " says Barbara, flushing as ifwith pain. "I am the hardest person alive, I think. You think it?"looking directly at her husband. 

"I think only one thing of you, " says Mr. Monkton, rising from thebreakfast table with a slight laugh. "It is what I have always thought, that you are the dearest and loveliest thing on earth. " The banteringair he throws into this speech does not entirely deprive it of thetruthful tenderness that formed it. "There, " says he, "that ought totake the gloom off the brow of any well-regulated woman, coming as itdoes from an eight-year-old husband. "

"Oh, you must be older than that, " says she, at which they all laughtogether. 

"You are wise to go, Barbara, " says Joyce, now in a livelier way, as ifthat last quick, unexpected feeling of amusement has roused her to asharper sense of life. "If once they see you!--No, you mustn't put upyour shoulder like that--I tell you, if once they looked at you, theywould feel the measure of their folly. "

"I shall end by fancying myself, " says Mrs. Monkton, impatiently, "andthen you will all have fresh work cut out for you; the bringing of meback to my proper senses. Well, " with a sigh, "as I have to see them, Iwish----"

"What?"

"That I could be a heartier believer in your and Joyce's flattery, orelse, that they, your people, were not so prejudiced against me. It willbe an ordeal. "

"When you are about it wish them a few grains of common sense, " says herhusband wrathfully. "Just fancy the folly of an impertinence thatcondemned a fellow being on no evidence whatsoever; neither eye nor earwere brought in as witnesses. "

"Oh, well, " says she, considerably mollified by his defamation of hispeople, "I dare say they are not so much to be blamed after all. And, "with a little, quick laugh at her sister, "as Joyce says, my beautiesare still unknown to them; they will be delighted when they see me. "

"They will, indeed, " returns Joyce stolidly. "And so you are reallygoing to take me with you. Oh, I am glad. I haven't spent any of mymoney this winter, Barbara; I have some, therefore, and I have alwayswanted to see London. "

"It will be a change for the children, too, " says Barbara, with atroubled sigh. "I suppose, " to her husband, "they will think them verycountrified. "

"Who?"

"Your mother--"

"What do you think of them?"

"Oh, that has got nothing to do with it. "

"Everything rather. You are analyzing them. You are exalting an oldwoman who has been unkind to you at the expense of the children who loveyou!"

"Ah, she analyzes them because she too loves them, " says Joyce. "It iseasy to pick faults in those who have a real hold upon our hearts. Forthe rest--it doesn't concern us how the world regards them. "

"It sounds as if it ought to read the other way round, " says Monkton. 

"No, no. To love is to see faults, not to be blind to them. The oldreading is wrong, " says Joyce. 

"You are unfair, Freddy, " declares his wife with dignity; "I would notdecry the children. I am only a little nervous as to their reception. When I know that your father and mother are prepared to receive them asmy children, I know they will get but little mercy at their hands. "

"That speech isn't like you, " says Monkton, "but it is impossible toblame you for it. "

"They are the dearest children in the world, " says Joyce. "Don't thinkof them. They must succeed. Let them alone to fight their own battles. "

"You may certainly depend upon Tommy, " says his father. "For anyemergency that calls for fists and heels, where battle, murder andsudden death are to be looked for, Tommy will be all there. "

"Oh! I do hope he will be good, " says his mother, half amused, butplainly half terrified as well. 

 * * * * *

Two weeks later sees them settled in town, in the Harley street house, that seems enormous and unfriendly to Mrs. Monkton, but delightful toJoyce and the children, who wander from room to room and, under herguidance, pretend to find bears and lions and bogies in every corner. 

The meeting between Barbara and Lady Monkton had not been satisfactory. There had been very little said on either side, but the chill that layon the whole interview had never thawed for a moment. 

Barbara had been stiff and cold, if entirely polite, but not at all theBarbara to whom her husband had been up to this accustomed. He did notblame her for the change of front under the circumstances, but he couldhardly fail to regret it, and it puzzled him a great deal to know howshe did it. 

He was dreadfully sorry about it secretly, and would have given verymuch more than the whole thing was worth to let his father and mothersee his wife as she really is--the true Barbara. 

Lady Monkton had been stiff, too; unpardonably so--as it was certainlyher place to make amends--to soften and smooth down the preliminaryembarrassment. But then she had never been framed for suavity of anysort; and an old aunt of Monkton's, a sister of hers, had been presentduring the interview, and had helped considerably to keep up thefrigidity of the atmosphere. 

She was not a bad old woman at heart, this aunt. She had indeed fromtime to time given up all her own small patrimony to help her sister toget the eldest son out of his many disreputable difficulties. She haddone this, partly for the sake of the good old family names on bothsides, and partly because the younger George Monkton was very dear toher. 

From his early boyhood the scapegrace of the family had been heradmiration, and still remained so, in imagination. For years she had notseen him, and perhaps this (that she considered a grievance) was akindness vouchsafed to her by Providence. Had she seen the pretty boy oftwenty years ago as he now is she would not have recognized him. Thechange from the merry, blue-eyed, daring lad of the past to the bloated, blear-eyed, reckless-looking man of to-day would have been a shock toocruel for her to bear. But this she was not allowed to realize, and soremained true to her belief in him, as she remembered him. 

In spite of her many good qualities, she was, nevertheless, a dreadfulwoman; the more dreadful to the ordinary visitor because of the falsefront she wore, and the flashing purchased teeth that shone in her upperjaw. She lived entirely with Sir George and Lady Monkton, having indeedgiven them every penny that would have enabled her to live elsewhere. Perhaps of all the many spites they owed their elder son, the fact thathis iniquities had inflicted upon them his maternal aunt for the rest ofher natural days, was the one that rankled keenest. 

She disliked Frederic, not only intensely, but with an openness that hadits disadvantages--not for any greater reason than that he had behavedhimself so far in his journey through life more creditably than hisbrother. She had always made a point against him of his undutifulmarriage, and never failed, to add fuel to the fire of his father's andmother's resentment about it, whenever that fire seemed to burn low. 

Altogether, she was by no means an amiable old lady, and, being veryhideous into the bargain, was not much run after by society generally. She wasn't of the least consequence in any way, being not only old butvery poor; yet people dreaded her, and would slip away round doors andcorners to avoid her tongue. She succeeded, in spite of all drawbacks, in making herself felt; and it was only one or two impervious beings, such is Dicky Browne for example (who knew the Monktons well, and wasindeed distantly connected with them through his mother), who couldendure her manners with any attempt at equanimity. 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

 "Strength wanting judgment and policy to rule overturneth itself. "

It was quite impossible, of course, that a first visit to Lady Monktonshould be a last from Barbara. Lady Monkton had called on her the veryday after her arrival in town, but Barbara had been out then. On theoccasion of the latter's return visit the old woman had explained thatgoing out was a trial to her, and Barbara, in spite of her unconquerabledislike to her, had felt it to be her duty to go and see her now andthen. The children, too, had been a great resource. Sir George, especially, had taken to Tommy, who was quite unabashed by the grandeurof the stately, if faded, old rooms in the Belgravian mansion, but wasfull of curiosity, and spent his visits to his grandfathercross-examining him about divers matters--questionable andotherwise--that tickled the old man and kept him laughing. 

It had struck Barbara that Sir George had left off laughing for sometime. He looked haggard--uneasy--miserably expectant. She liked himbetter than she liked Lady Monkton, and, though reserved with both, relaxed more to him than to her mother-in-law. For one thing, Sir Georgehad been unmistakably appreciative of her beauty, and her soft voice andpretty manners. He liked them all. Lady Monkton had probably noticedthem quite as keenly, but they had not pleased her. They were indeed anoffence. They had placed her in the wrong. As for old Miss L'Estrange, the aunt, she regarded the young wife from the first with a dislike shetook no pains to conceal. 

This afternoon, one of many that Barbara has given up to duty, finds heras usual in Lady Monkton's drawing room listening to her mother-in-law'scomments on this and that, and trying to keep up her temper, forFrederic's sake, when the old lady finds fault with her management ofthe children. 

The latter (that is, Tommy and Mabel) have been sent to the pantomime bySir George, and Barbara with her husband have dropped in towards theclose of the day to see Lady Monkton, with a view to recovering thechildren there, and taking them home with them, Sir George havingexpressed a wish to see the little ones after the play, and hear Tommy'scriticisms on it, which he promised himself would be lively. He hadalready a great belief in the powers of Tommy's descriptions. 

In the meantime the children have not returned, and conversation, itmust be confessed, languishes. Miss L'Estrange, who is present in a capof enormous dimensions and a temper calculated to make life hideous toher neighbors, scarcely helps to render more bearable the dullness ofeverything. Sir George in a corner is buttonholing Frederic andsaddening him with last accounts of the Scapegrace. 

Barbara has come to her final pretty speech--silence seemsimminent--when suddenly Lady Monkton flings into it a bombshell thatexplodes, and carries away with it all fear of commonplace dullness atall events. 

"You have a sister, I believe, " says she to Barbara in a tone she fondlybut erroneously imagines gracious. 

"Yes, " says Barbara, softly but curtly. The fact that Joyce's existencehas never hitherto been alluded to by Lady Monkton renders her mannereven colder than usual, which is saying everything. 

"She lives with you?"

"Yes, " says Barbara again. 

Lady Monkton, as if a little put out by the determined taciturnity ofher manner, moves forward on her seat, and pulls the lace lappets of herdove-gray cap more over to the front impatiently. Long, soft lappetsthey are, falling from a gem of a little cap, made of priceless lace, and with a beautiful old face beneath to frame. A face like an oldminiature; and as stern as most of them, but charming for all that andperfect in every line. 

"Makes herself useful, no doubt, " growls Miss L'Estrange from theopposite lounge, her evil old countenance glowing with the desire tooffend. "That's why one harbors one's poor relations--to get somethingout of them. "

This is a double-barrelled explosion. One barrel for the detested wifeof the good Frederic, one for the sister she has befriended--to thatsister's cost. 

"True, " says Lady Monkton, with an uncivil little upward glance atBarbara. For once--because it suits her--she has accepted her sister'sargument, and determined to take no heed of her scarcely veiled insult. "She helps you, no doubt. Is useful with the children, I hope. Moneylessgirls should remember that they are born into the world to work, not toidle. "

"I am afraid she is not as much help to me as you evidently thinknecessary, " says Barbara smiling, but not pleasantly. "She is veryseldom at home; in the summer at all events. " It is abominable to her tothink that these hateful old people should regard Joyce, her prettyJoyce, as a mere servant, a sisterly maid-of-all-work. 

"And if not with you--where then?" asks Lady Monkton, indifferently, andas if more with a desire to keep up the dying conversation than from anyacute thirst for knowledge. 

"She stays a good deal with Lady Baltimore, " says Barbara, feelingweary, and rather disgusted. 

"Ah! indeed! Sort of companion--a governess, I suppose?"

A long pause. Mrs. Monkton's dark eyes grow dangerously bright, and aquick color springs into her cheeks. 

"No!" begins she, in a low but indignant tone, and then suppressesherself. She can't, she mustn't quarrel with Freddy's people! "My sisteris neither companion nor governess to Lady Baltimore, " says she icily. "She is only her friend. "

"Friend?" repeats the old lady, as if not quite understanding. 

"A great friend, " repeats Barbara calmly. Lady Monkton's astonishment iseven more insulting than her first question. But Barbara has made up hermind to bear all things. 

"There are friends and friends, " puts in Miss L'Estrange with her mostoffensive air. 

A very embarrassing silence falls on this, Barbara would say nothingmore, an inborn sense of dignity forbidding her. But this does notprevent a very natural desire on her part to look at her husband, not somuch to claim his support as to know if he has heard. 

One glance assures her that he has. A pause in the conversation with hisfather has enabled him to hear everything. Barbara has just time to notethat his brow is black and his lips ominously compressed before she seeshim advance toward his mother. 

"You seem to, be very singularly ignorant of my wife's status insociety----" he is beginning is a rather terrible tone, when Barbara, with a little graceful gesture, checks him. She puts out her hand andsmiles up at him, a wonderful smile under the circumstances. 

"Ah! that is just it, " she says, sweetly, but with determination. "Sheis ignorant where we are concerned--Joyce and I. If she had only sparedtime to ask a little question or two! But as it is----" The whole speechis purposely vague, but full of contemptuous rebuke, delicately veiled. "It is nothing, I assure you, Freddy. Your mother is not to be blamed. She has not understood. That is all. "

"I fail even now to understand, " says the old lady, with a somewhattremulous attempt at self-assertion. 

"So do I, " says the antique upon the lounge near her, bristling with awrath so warm that it has unsettled the noble structure on her head, andplaced it in quite an artful situation, right over her left ear. "I seenothing to create wrath in the mind of any one, in the idea of ayoung--er----" She comes to a dead pause; she had plainly been going tosay young person--but Frederic's glare had been too much for her. It hasfrightened her into good behavior, and she changes the obnoxious wordinto one more complaisant. 

"A young what?" demands he imperiously, freezing his aunt with a stonystare. 

"Young girl!" returns she, toning down a little, but still betrayingmalevolence of a very advanced order in her voice and expression. "I seenothing derogatory in the idea of a young girl devoid of fortune takinga----"

Again she would have said something insulting. The word "situation" ison her lips; but the venom in her is suppressed a second time by hernephew. 

"Go on, " says he, sternly. 

"Taking a--er--position in a nice family, " says she, almost spitting outthe words like a bad old cat. 

"She has a position in a very nice family, " says Monkton readily. "Inmine! As companion, friend, playfellow, in fact anything you like of thelight order of servitude. We all serve, my dear aunt, though that ideadoesn't seem to have come home to you. We must all be in bondage to eachother in this world--the only real freedom is to be gained in the worldto come. You have never thought of that? Well, think of it now. To bekind, to be sympathetic, to be even Commonly civil to people is tofulfil the law's demands. "

"You go too far; she is old, Freddy, " Barbara has scarcely time towhisper, when the door is thrown open, and Dicky Browne, followed byFelix Dysart, enters the room. 

It is a relief to everybody. Lady Monkton rises to receive them with asmile: Miss L'Estrange looks into the teapot. Plainly she can still seesome tea leaves there. Rising, she inclines the little silver kettleover them, and creates a second deluge. She has again made tea. May shebe forgiven!

"Going to give us some tea, Miss L'Estrange?" says Dicky, bearing downupon her with a beaming face. She has given him some before this. "Onecan always depend upon you for a good cup. Ah, thanks. Dysart, I canrecommend this. Have a cup; do. "

"No, thank you, " says Dysart, who has secured a seat next to Barbara, and is regarding her anxiously, while replying to her questions ofsurprise at seeing him in town at this time of year. She is surprisedtoo, and a little shocked to see him look so ill. 

Dicky is still holding a brilliant conversation with Miss L'Estrange, who, to him, is a joy for ever. 

"Didn't expect to see me here again so soon, eh?" says he, with acheerful smile. 

"There you are wrong, " returns that spinster, in the hoarse croak thatdistinguishes her. "The fact that you were here yesterday and couldn'treasonably be supposed to come again for a week, made it at once acertainty that you would turn up immediately. The unexpected is whatalways happens where you are concerned. "

"One of my many charms, " says Mr. Browne gayly, hiding his untasted cupby a skillful movement behind the sugar bowl. "Variety, you know, isever charming. I'm a various person, therefore I'm charming. "

"Are you?" says Miss L'Estrange, grimly. 

"Can you look at me and doubt it?" demands Mr. Browne, deep reproach inhis eyes. 

"I can, " returns Miss L'Estrange, presenting an uncompromising front. "Ican also suggest to you that those lumps of sugar are meant to put inthe cups with the tea, not to be consumed wholesale. Sugar, plain, isruinous to the stomach and disastrous to the teeth. "

"True, true, " says Mr. Browne, absently, "and both mine are so pretty. "

Miss L'Estrange rises to her feet and confronts him with a stony glare. 

"Both what?" demands she. 

"Eh? Why, both of them, " persists Mr. Browne. 

"I think, Richard, that the sooner you return to your hotel, or whateverlow haunt you have chosen as your present abode, the better it will befor all present. "

"Why so?" demands Mr. Browne, indignantly. "What have I done now?"

"You know very well, sir, " says Miss L'estrange. "Your language isdisgraceful. You take an opportunity of turning an innocent remark ofmine, a kindly warning, into a ribald----"

"Good heavens!" says he, uplifting brows and hands. "I never yet knew itwas ribaldry to talk about one's teeth. "

"You were not talking about your teeth, " says Miss L'Estrange sternly. "You said distinctly 'both of them. '"

"Just so, " says Dicky. "I've only got two. "

"Is that the truth, Richard?" with increasing majesty. 

"Honest Injun, " says Mr. Browne, unabashed. "And they are out of sight. All you can see have been purchased, and I assure you, dear MissL'Estrange, " with anxious earnestness, "paid for. One guinea the entireset; a single tooth, two-and-six. Who'd be without 'em?"

"Well, I'm sorry to hear it, " says Miss L'Estrange reseating herself andregarding him still with manifest distrust. "To lose one's teeth soearly in life speaks badly for one's moral conduct. Anyhow, I shan'tallow you to destroy your guinea's worth. I shall remove temptation fromyour path. "

Lifting the sugar bowl she removes it to her right side, thus layingbare the fact that Mr. Browne's cup of tea is still full to the brim. 

It is the last stroke. 

"Drink your tea, " says she to the stricken Dicky in a tone that admitsof no delay. He drinks it. 

Meantime, Barbara has been very kind to Felix Dysart, answering hisroundabout questions that always have Joyce as their central meaning. One leading remark of his is to the effect that he is covered withastonishment to find her and Monkton in London. Is he surprised. Well, no doubt, yes. Joyce is in town, too, but she has not come out with herto-day. Have they been to the theatre? Very often; Joyce, especially, isquite devoted to it. Do they go much to the picture galleries? Well, toone or two. There is so much to be done, and the children are ratherexigeant, and demand all the afternoon. But she had heard Joyce say thatshe was going to-morrow to Doré's Gallery. She thought Tommy ought to beshown something more improving than clowns and wild animals and toyshops. 

Mr. Dysart, at this point, said he thought Miss Kavanagh was morereflective than one taking a careless view of her might believe. 

Barbara laughed. 

"Do you take the reflective view?" says she. 

"Do you recommend me to take the careless one?" demands he, now lookingfully at her. There is a good deal of meaning in his question, butBarbara declines to recognize it. She feels she has gone far enough inthat little betrayal about Doré's Gallery. She refuses to take anotherstep; she is already, indeed, a little frightened by what she has doneIf Joyce should hear of it--oh----And yet how could she refrain fromgiving that small push to so deserving a cause?

"No, no; I recommend nothing, " says she, still laughing. "Where are youstaying?"

"With my cousins, the Seaton Dysarts. They had to come up to town abouta tooth, or a headache, or neuralgia, or something; we shall never quiteknow what, as it has disappeared, whatever it is. Give me London smokeas a perfect cure for most ailments. It is astonishing what remarkablerecoveries it can boast. Vera and her husband are like a couple ofchildren. Even the pantomime isn't too much for them. "

"That reminds me the children ought to be here by this time, " says Mrs. Monkton, drawing out her watch. "They went to the afternoon performance. I really think, " anxiously, "they are very late----"

She has hardly spoken when a sound of little running feet up the stairsoutside sets her maternal fears at rest. Nearer and nearer they sound;they stop, there is a distant scuffle, the door is thrown violentlyopen, and Tommy and Mabel literally fall into the room. 

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

 "Then seemed to me this world far less in size, Likewise it seemed to me less wicked far; Like points in heaven I saw the stars arise, And longed for wings that I might catch a star. "

Least said, soonest mended! Tommy is on his feet again in no time, andhas picked up Mabel before you could say Jack Robinson, and once again, nothing daunted by their ignominious entry, they rush up the room andprecipitate themselves upon their mother. This pious act beingperformed, Tommy sees fit to show some small attention to the otherpeople present. 

"Thomas, " says Mr. Browne, when he has shaken hands with him, "if youwait much longer without declaring yourself you will infallibly burst, and that is always a rude thing to do in a friend's drawing-room. Speak, Thomas, or die--you are evidently full of information!"

"Well, I won't tell you!" says Tommy, naturally indignant at thisaddress. He throws a resentful look at him over his shoulder whilemaking his way to his grandfather. There is a queer sort ofsympathy--understanding--what you will--between the child and the sternold man. 

"Come here, " says Sir George, drawing Tommy to him. "Well, and did youenjoy yourself? Was it all your fancy painted it?"

Sir George has sunk into a chair with all the heaviness of an old man, and the boy has crept between his knees and is looking up at him withhis beautiful little face all aglow. 

"Oh! 'twas lovely!" says he. "'Twas splendid! There was lights all overthe house. 'Twas like night--only 'twasn't night, and that was grand!And there were heaps of people. A whole town was there. And therewere----Grandpa! why did they have lamps there when it was daytime?"

"Because they have no windows in a theatre, " says Sir George, pattingthe little hot, fat hand that is lying on his arm, with a strangesensation of pleasure in the touch of it. 

"No windows?" with big eyes opened wide. 

"Not one. "

"Then why have we windows?" asks Tommy, with an involuntary glance roundhim. "Why are there windows anywhere? It's ever so much nicer withoutthem. Why can't we have lamps always, like the theatre people?"

"Why, indeed?" says Mr. Browne, sympathetically. "Sir George, I hope youwill take your grandson's advice to heart, and block up all these absurdwindows, and let a proper ray of light descend upon us from the honestburner. Who cares for strikes? Not I!"

"Well, Tommy, we'll think about it, " says Sir George. "And now go on. You saw----"

"Bluebeard!" says Tommy, almost roaring in the excitement of hisdelight. "A big Bluebeard, and he was just like the pictures of him athome, with his toes curled up and a red towel round his head and a bluenight-gown and a smiter in his hand. "

"A cimeter, Tommy?" suggests his mother, gently. 

"Eh?" says Tommy. "Well, it's all the same, " says he, after a pause, replete with deep research and with a truly noble impartiality. 

"It is, indeed!" says Mr. Browne, open encouragement in his eye. "And soyou saw Mr. Bluebeard! And did he see you?"

"Oh! he saw me!" cries Mabel, in a little whimpering' tone. "He lookedstraight into the little house where we were, and I saw his eye--hishorrid eye!" shaking her small head vigorously--"and it ran right intomine, and he began to walk up to me, and I----"

She stops, her pretty red lips quivering, her blue eyes full of tears. 

"Oh, Mabel was so frightened!" says Tommy, the Bold. "She stuck her noseinto nurse's fur cape and roared!"

"I didn't!" says Mabel promptly. 

"You did!" says Tommy, indignant at being contradicted, "and she said itwould never be worth a farthing ever after, and----Well, any way, youknow, Mabel, you didn't like the heads. "

"Oh, no; I didn't--I hated them! They were all hanging to one side; andthere was nasty blood, and they looked as if they was going to waggle, "concludes Mabel, with a terrified sob, burying her own head in hermother's lap. 

"Oh! she is too young, " says Barbara, nervously clasping her littlewoman close to her in a quiet, undemonstrative way, but so as to makethe child herself feel the protection of her arms. 

"Too young for so dismal a sight, " says Dysart, stooping over andpatting Mabel's sunny curls with a kindly touch. He is very fond ofchildren, as are all men, good and bad. 

"I should not have let her go, " says Mrs. Monkton, with self-reproach. "Such exhibitions are painful for young minds, however harmless. "

"When she is older----" begins Dysart, still caressing the little head. 

"Yes, yes--she is too young--far too young, " says Mrs. Monkton, givingthe child a second imperceptible hug. 

"One is never too young to learn the miseries of the world, " says MissL'Estrange, in her most terrible tone. "Why should a child be pamperedand petted, and shielded from all thoughts of harm and wrong, as thoughthey never existed? It is false treatment. It is a wilful deceiving ofthe growing mind. One day they must wake to all the horrors of theworld. They should therefore be prepared for it, steadily, sternly, unyieldingly!"

"What a grand--what a strong nature!" says Mr. Browne, uplifting hishands in admiration. "You would, then, advocate the cause of thepantomime?" says he, knowing well that the very name of theatre stinksin the nostrils of Miss L'Estrange. 

"Far be it from me!" says she, with a violent shake of her head. "Mayall such disreputable performances come to a bad end, and a speedy one, is my devout prayer. But, " with a vicious glance at Barbara, "I wouldcondemn the parents who would bring their children up in a darkignorance of the woes and vices of the world in which they must passtheir lives. I think, as Mabel has been permitted to look at thepernicious exhibition of this afternoon, she should also be encouragedto look with calmness upon it, if only to teach her what to expect fromlife. "

"Good heavens!" says Mr. Browne, in a voice of horror. "Is that what shehas to expect? Rows of decapitated heads! Have you had privateinformation, Miss L'Estrange? Is a rehearsal of the French Revolution tobe performed in London? Do you really believe the poor child is doomedto behold your head carried past the windows on a pike? Was theremeaning in the artless prattle of our Thomas just now when he condemnedwindows as a social nuisance, or----"

"I suppose you think you are amusing!" interrupts the spinster, malignantly. It is plain that she objects to the idea of her head beingon a pike. "At all events, if you must jest on serious subjects, Idesire you, Richard, to leave me out of your silly maunderings. "

"Your will is my law, " says Dicky, rising. "I leave you!"

He makes a tragic, retreat, and finding an empty chair near Monktontakes possession of it. 

"I must protest against your opinion, " says Dysart, addressing MissL'Estrange with a smile. "Children should be regarded as somethingbetter than mere lumps of clay to be experimentalized upon!"

"Oh, yes, " says Barbara, regarding the spinster gently but withill-concealed aversion. "You cannot expect any one to agree with youthere. I, for one, could not. "

"I don't know that I ever asked you to, " says Miss L'Estrange with suchopen impertinence that Barbara flushes up to the roots of her hair. 

Silence falls on the room, except for a light conversation being carriedon between Dicky and Monkton, both of whom have heard nothing. LadyMonkton looks uncomfortable. Sir George hastens to the rescue. 

"Surely you haven't told us everything, Tommy?" says he giving hisgrandson a pull toward him. "Besides Mr. Bluebeard, what else wasthere?"

"Lots of things, " says Tommy, vaguely, coming back from an eagerattention to Miss L'Estrange's evil suggestion to a fresh remembrance ofhis past delights. "There was a band and it shouted. Nurse said it tookthe roof off her head, but I looked, and her bonnet didn't stir. Andthere was the harlequin, he was beautiful. He shined like anything. Hewas all over scales, like a trout. "

"A queer fish, " says his grandfather. 

"He jumped about and beat things with a little stick he had. And hedanced, and there was a window and he sprang right through it, and hecame up again and wasn't a bit hurt, not a bit. Oh! he was lovely, grandpapa, and so was his concubine----"

"His what?" says Sir George. 

"His concubine. His sweetheart. That was her name, " says Tommyconfidently. 

There is a ghastly silence. Lady Monkton's pale old cheeks colorfaintly. Miss L'Estrange glares. As for Barbara, she feels the world hasat last come to an end. They will be angry with the boy. Her mission toLondon will have failed--that vague hope of a reconciliation through thechildren that she had yet scarcely allowed to herself. 

Need it be said that Mr. Browne has succumbed to secret but disgracefulmirth. A good three-quarters of a full-sized handkerchief is already inhis mouth--a little more of the cambric and "death through suffocation"will adorn the columns of the _Times_ in the morning. Sir George, too, what is the matter with him? He is speechless--from indignation one musthope. 

"What ails you, grandpa?" demands Tommy, after a full minute's strictexamination of him. 

"Oh, nothing, nothing, " says Sir George, choking; "it is only--that I'mglad you have so thoroughly enjoyed yourself and your harlequin, and--ha, ha, ha, your Columbine. Columbine, now mind. And here's thisfor you, Tommy, because you are such a good boy. "

He opens the little grandson's hand and presses into the pink palm of ita sovereign. 

"Thank you, " says Tommy, in the polite regulation tone he has beentaught, without a glance at his gift--a touch of etiquette he has beentaught, too. Then the curious eyes of childhood wander to the palm, and, seeing the unexpected pretty gold thing lying there, he colors up to thetips of his ears with surprise and pleasure. Then sudden compunctionseizes on the kindly little heart. The world is strange to him. He knowsbut one or two here and there. His father is poor. A sovereign--that is, a gold piece--would be rare with him, why not rare with another? Thoughfilled with admiration and gratitude for the giver of so big a gift, thechild's heart commands him not to accept it. 

"Oh, it is too much, " says he, throwing his arms round Sir George's neckand trying to press the sovereign back into his hand. "A shilling I'dlike, but that's such a lot of shillings, and maybe you'd be wantingit. " This is all whispered in the softest, tenderest way. 

"No, no, my boy, " says Sir George, whispering back, and glad that hemust whisper. His voice, even so, sounds a little queer to himself. Howoften he might have gladdened this child with a present, a small one, and until now----"Keep it, " says he; he has passed his hand round thelittle head and is pressing it against his breast. 

"May I? Really?" says Tommy, emancipating his head with a little jerk, and looking at Sir George with searching eyes. 

"You may indeed!"

"God bless you!" says Tommy, solemnly. 

It is a startling remark to Sir George, but not so to Tommy. It isexactly what nurse had said to her daughter the day before she leftIreland with Tommy and Mabel in charge, when her daughter had broughther the half of her wages. Therefore it must be correct. To supplementthis blessing Tommy flings his arms around Sir George's neck and giveshim a resounding kiss. Nurse had done that, too, to her daughter. 

"God bless you too, my dear, " says Sir George, if not quite as solemnly, with considerably more tenderness. Tommy's mother, catching the wordsand the tone, cheers up. All is not lost yet! The situation is saved. Tommy has won the day. The inconsequent Tommy of all people! Insult toherself she had endured, but to have the children disliked would havebeen more than she could bear; bur Tommy, apparently, is notdisliked--by the old man at all events. That fact will be sweet toFreddy. After all, who could resist Tommy? Tears rise to the mother'seyes. Darling boy! Where is his like upon the whole wide earth? Nowhere. 

She is disturbed in her reverie by the fact that the originator of it isrunning toward her with one little closed fist outstretched. How heruns! His fat calves come twinkling across the carpet. 

"See, mammy, what I've got. Grandpa gave it to me. Isn't he nice? NowI'll buy a watch like pappy's. "

"You have made him very happy, " says Barbara, smiling at Sir George overher boy's head. She rises as she speaks, and goes to where Lady Monktonis sitting to bid her good-bye. 

"I hope you will come soon again, " says Lady Monkton, not cordially, butas if compelled to it; "and I hope, too, " pausing as if to gatherherself together, "that when you do come you will bring your sister withyou. It will give me--us--pleasure to see her. " There is such a dearthof pleasure in the tone of the invitation that Barbara feels her wrathrising within her. 

"I thank you, " she manages to say very calmly, not committing herself, either way, and presently finds herself in the street with her husbandand her children. They had declined Lady Monkton's offer of the broughamto take them home. 

"It was a bad time, " says Monkton while waiting at a crossing for a cabto come to them. "But you must try and not mind them. If the fact that Iam always with you counts for anything, it may help you to endure it. "

"What help could be like it?" says she, tightening her hand on his arm. 

"That old woman, my aunt. She offended you, but you must remember thatshe offends everybody. You thought her abominable?"

"Oh no. I only thought her vulgar, " says Mrs. Monkton. It is the onerevenge she permits herself. Monkton breaks into an irresistible laugh. 

"It isn't perfect; it couldn't be unless she heard you, " says he. Thecab has come up now, and he puts in the children and then his wife, finally himself. 

"Tommy crowns all!" says he with a retrospective smile. 

"Eh?" says Tommy, who has the ears of a Midas. 

"Your father says you are a social success, and so does your mother, "says Barbara, smiling at the child's puzzled face, and then giving him aloving little embrace. 

CHAPTER XXXV. 

 "Why should two hearts in one breast lie And yet not lodge together? Oh, love! where is thy sympathy If thus our breasts you sever?"

"Well, did you like the gallery?" asks Mrs. Monkton, throwing aside herbook to greet Joyce as she returns from Doré's. It is next day, andBarbara had let the girl go to see the pictures without telling her ofher meeting with Felix the evening before; she had been afraid to sayanything about him lest that guilty secret of hers might transpire--thatdeliberate betrayal of Joyce's intended visit to Bond street on themorrow. If Joyce had heard that, she would, in all probability, havedeferred her going there for ever--and--it was such a chance. Mrs. Monkton, who, in her time, had said so many hard words about matchmakers, as most women have, and who would have scorned to be classedwith them, had promoted and desired this meeting of Felix and Joyce withall the energy and enthusiasm of which she was capable But that Joyceshould suspect her of the truth is a fear that terrifies her. 

"Very much. So did Tommy. He is very graphic in his remarks, " saysJoyce, sinking listlessly into a chair, and taking off her hat. Shelooks vexed and preoccupied. "I think he gave several very originalideas on the subjects of the pictures to those around. They seemedimpressed. You know how far above the foolish feeling, _mauvaise honte_, he is; his voice 'like a silver clarion rung. ' Excelsior was outdone. Everybody turned and looked at him with----"

"I hope he wasn't noisy, " says Mrs. Monkton, nervously. 

"With admiration, I was going to say, but you wouldn't let me finish mysentence. Oh, yes, he was quite a success. One old gentleman wanted toknow if he would accept the part of art critic on his paper. It was veryexciting. " She leans back in her chair, the troubled look on her facegrowing intensified. She seems glad to be silent, and with downcast eyesplays with the gloves lying in her lap. 

"Something has happened, Joyce, " says her sister, going over to her. 

"Something is happening always, " returned Joyce, with a rather impatientsmile. 

"Yes, but to you just now. "

"You are sure to make me tell you sooner or later, " says Miss Kavanagh, "and even if I didn't, Tommy would. I met Mr. Dysart at that galleryto-day. "

"Felix?" says Mrs. Monkton, feeling herself an abominable hypocrite; yetafraid to confess the truth. Something in the girl's whole attitudeforbids a confession, at this moment at all events. 

"Yes. "

"Well?"

"Well?"

"He was glad to see you, darling?" very tenderly. 

"Was he? I don't know. He looked very ill. He said he had had a badcough. He is coming to see you. "

"You were kind to him, Joyce?"

"I didn't personally insult him, if you mean that. "

"Oh, no, I don't mean that, you know what I mean. He was ill, unhappy;you did not make him more unhappy?"

"It is always for him!" cries the girl, with jealous anger. "Is therenever to be a thought for me? Am I nothing to you? Am I never unhappy?Why don't you ask if he was kind to me?"

"Was he ever unkind?"

"Well, you can forget! He said dreadful things to me--dreadful. I am notlikely to forget them if you are. After all, they did not hurt you. "

"Joyce!"

"Yes, I know--I know everything you would say. I am ungrateful, abominable, but----He was unkind to me! He said what no girl would everforgive, and yet you have not one angry word for him. "

"Never mind all that, " says Mrs. Monkton, soothingly. "Tell me what youdid to-day--what you said. "

"As little as possible, " defiantly. "I tell you I don't want ever to seehim again, or hear of him; I think I hate him. And he looked dying. " Shestops here, as if finding a difficulty about saying another word. Shecoughs nervously; then, recovering herself, and as if determined toassert herself anew and show how real is the coldness that she hasdeclared--"Yes, dying, I think, " she says, stubbornly. 

"Oh, I don't think he looked as bad as that!" says Barbara, hastily, unthinkingly filled with grief, not only at this summary dismissal ofpoor Felix from our earthly sphere, but for her sister's unhappiness, which is as plain to her as though no little comedy had been performedfor the concealment of it. 

"You don't!" repeats Joyce, lifting her head and directing a piercingglance at her. "You! What do you know about him?"

"Why--you just said----" stammers Mrs. Monkton, and then breaks downignominiously. 

"You knew he was in town, " says Joyce, advancing to her, and lookingdown on her with clasped-hands and a pale face. "Barbara, speak. Youknew he was here, and never told me; you, " with a sudden, fresh burst ofinspiration, "sent him to that place to-day to meet me. "

"Oh, no, dearest. No, indeed. He himself can tell you. It was only thathe----"

"Asked where I was going to, at such and such an hour, and you toldhim. " She is still standing over poor Mrs. Monkton in an attitude thatmight almost be termed menacing. 

"I didn't. I assure you, Joyce, you are taking it all quite wrongly. Itwas only----"

"Oh! only--only, " says the girl, contemptuously. "Do you think I can'tread between the lines? I am sure you believe you are sticking to thehonest truth, Barbara, but still----Well, " bitterly, "I don't think heprofited much by the information you gave him. Your deception has givenhim small satisfaction. "

"I don't think you should speak to me like that, " says Mrs. Monkton, ina voice that trembles perceptibly. 

"I don't care what I say, " cries Joyce, with a sudden burst of passion. "You betray me; he betrays me; all the world seem arrayed against me. And what have I done to anybody?" She throws out her hands protestingly. 

"Joyce, darling, if you would only listen. "

"Listen! I am always listening, it seems to me. To him, to you, to everyone. I am tired of being silent; I must speak now. I trusted you, Barbara, and you have been bad to me. Do you want to force him to makelove to me, that you tell him on the very first opportunity where tofind me, and in a place where I am without you, or any one to----"

"Will you try to understand?" says Mrs. Monkton, with a light stamp ofher foot, her patience going as her grief increases. "He cross-examinedme as to where you were, and would be, and I--I told him. I wasn't goingto make a mystery of it, or you, was I? I told him that you were goingto the Doré Gallery to-day with Tommy. How could I know he would gothere to meet you? He never said he was going. You are unjust, Joyce, both to him and to me. "

"Do you mean to tell me that for all that you didn't know he would be atthat place to-day?" turning flashing eyes upon her sister. 

"How could I know? Unless a person says a thing right out, how is one tobe sure what he is going to do?"

"Oh! that is unlike you. It is unworthy of you, " says Joyce, turningfrom her scornfully. "You did know. And it is not, " turning back againand confronting the now thoroughly frightened Barbara with a glance fullof pathos, "it is not that--your insincerity that hurt me so much, itis----"

"I didn't mean to be insincere; you are very cruel--you do not measureyour words. "

"You will tell me next that you meant it all for the best, " with abitter smile. "That is the usual formula, isn't it? Well, never mind;perhaps you did. What I object to is you didn't tell me. That I was keptdesignedly in the dark both by him and you. Am I, " with sudden fire, "achild or a fool, that you should seek to guide me so blindly? Well, "drawing a long breath, "I won't keep you in the dark. When I left thegallery, and your protégé, I met--Mr. Beauclerk!"

Mrs. Monkton, stunned by this intelligence, remains silent for a fullminute. It is death to her hopes. If she has met that man again, it isimpossible to know how things have gone. His fatal influence--herunfortunate infatuation for him--all will be ruinous to poor Felix'shopes. 

"You spoke to him?" asks she at last, in an emotionless tone. 

"Yes. "

"Was Felix with you?"

"When?"

"When you met that odious man?"

"Mr. Beauclerk? No; I dismissed Mr. Dysart as soon as ever I could. "

"No doubt. And Mr. Beauclerk, did you dismiss him as promptly. "

"Certainly not. There was no occasion. "

"No inclination, either. You were kind to him at all events. It is onlyto the man who is honest and sincere that you are deliberately uncivil. "

"I hope I was uncivil to neither of them. "

"There is no use giving yourself that air with me, Joyce. You are angrywith me; but why? Only because I am anxious for your happiness. Oh! thathateful man, how I detest him! He has made you unhappy once--he willcertainly make you unhappy again. "

"I don't think so, " says Joyce, taking up her hat and furs with theevident intention of leaving the room, and thus putting an end to thediscussion. 

"You will never think so until it is too late. You haven't the strengthof mind to throw him over, once and for all, and give your thoughts toone who is really worthy of you. On the contrary, you spend your timecomparing him favorably with the good and faithful Felix. "

"You should put that down. It will do for his tombstone, " says MissKavanagh, with a rather uncertain little laugh. 

"At all events, it would not do for Mr. Beauclerk's tombstone--though Iwish it would--and that I could put it there at once. "

"I shall tell Freddy to read the commandments to you, " says Joyce, witha dreary attempt at mirth--"you have forgotten your duty to yourneighbor. "

"It is all true, however. You can't deny it, Joyce. You aredeliberately--willfully--throwing away the good for the bad. I can'tbear to see it. I can't look on in silence and see you thus miserablydestroying your life. How can you be so blind, darling?" appealing toher with hands, and voice, and eyes. "Such determined folly would bestrange in any one; stranger far in a girl like you, whose sense hasalways been above suspicion. "

"Did it ever occur to you, " asks Joyce, in a slightly bantering tone, that but ill conceals the nervousness that is consuming her, "that youmight be taking a wrong view of the situation? That I was not so blindafter all. That I--What was it you said? that I spent my nights and dayscomparing the merits of Mr. Beauclerk with those of your friend, FelixDysart--to your friend's discomfiture? Now, suppose that I did thuswaste my time, and gave my veto in favor of Mr. Dysart? How would it bethen? It might be so, you know, for all that he, or you, or any onecould say. "

"It is not so light a matter that you should trifle with it, " says Mrs. Monkton, with a faint suspicion of severity in her soft voice. 

"No, of course not. You are right. " Miss Kavanagh moves towards thedoor. "After all, Barbara, " looking back at her, "that applies to mostthings in this sad old world. What matter under heaven can we poormortals dare to trifle with? Not one, I think. All bear within them theseeds of grief or joy. Sacred seeds, both carrying in their bosoms thegerms of eternity. Even when this life is gone from us we still faceweal or woe. "

"Still--we need not make our own woe, " says Barbara, who is a sturdyenemy to all pessimistic thoughts. "Wait a moment, Joyce. " She hurriesafter her and lays her hand on the girl's shoulder. "Will you come withme next Wednesday to see Lady Monkton?"

"Lady Monkton! Why I thought----"

"Yes, I know. I would not take you there before, because she had notexpressly asked to see you. But to-day she made a--she sent you a formalmessage--at all events she said she hoped I would bring you when I cameagain. "

"Is that all of it?" asks Joyce, gazing at her sister with a curioussmile, that is troubled, but has still some growing sense of amusementin it. "What an involved statement! Surely you have forgotten something. That Mr. Dysart was standing near you, for example, and will probablyfind that it is absolutely imperative that he should call on LadyMonkton next Wednesday, too. Don't set your heart on that, Barbara. Ithink, after my interview with him to-day, he will not want to see LadyMonkton next Wednesday. "

"I know nothing about whether he is to be there or not, " says Barbarasteadily. "But as Sir George likes to see the children very often, Ithought of taking them there on that day. It is Lady Monkton's day. AndDicky Browne, at all events, will be there, and I dare say a good manyof your old friends. Do say you will come. "

"I hate old friends!" says the girl fractiously. "I don't believe I haveany. I don't believe anybody has. I----"

She pauses as the door is thrown open, and Tommy comes prancing into theroom accompanied by his father. 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

 "Children know very little; but their capacity of comprehension is great. "

"I've just been interviewing Tommy on the subject of the pictures, " saysMr. Monkton. "So far as I can make out he disapproves of Doré. "

"Oh! Tommy! and all such beautiful pictures out of the Bible, " says hismother. 

"I did like them, " says Tommy. "Only some of them were queer. I wantedto know about them, but nobody would tell me--and----"

"Why, Tommy, I explained them all to you, " says Joyce, reproachfully. 

"You did in the first two little rooms and in the big room afterward, where the velvet seats were. They, " looking at his father and raisinghis voice to an indignant note, "wouldn't let me run round on the top ofthem!"

"Good heavens!" says Mr. Monkton. "Can that be true? Truly this countryis going to the dogs. "

"Where do the dogs live?" asks Tommy, "What dogs? Why does the countrywant to go to them?"

"It doesn't want to go, " explains his father. "But it will have to go, and the dogs will punish them for not letting you reduce its velvetseats to powder. Never mind, go on with your story; so that unnaturalaunt of yours wouldn't tell you about the pictures, eh?"

"She did in the beginning, and when we got into the big room too, alittle while. She told me about the great large one at the end, 'Christand the Historian, ' though I couldn't see the Historian anywhere, and----"

"She herself must be a most successful one, " says Mr. Monkton, sottovoce. 

"And then we came to the Innocents, and I perfectly hated that, " saysTommy. "'Twas frightful! Everybody was as large as that, " stretching outhis arms and puffing out his cheeks, "and the babies were all so fat andso horrid. And then Felix came, and Joyce had to talk to him, so Ididn't know any more. "

"I think you forget, " says Joyce. "There was that picture with lions init. Mr. Dysart himself explained that to you. "

"Oh, that one!" says Tommy, as if dimly remembering, "the circus one!The one with the round house. I didn't like that either. "

"It is rather ghastly for a child, " says his mother. 

"That's not the one with the gas, " puts in Tommy. "The one with the gasis just close to it, and has got Pilate's wife in it. She's very nice. "

"But why didn't you like the other?" asks his father. "I think it one ofthe best there. "

"Well, I don't, " says Tommy, evidently grieved at having to differ fromhis father; but filled with a virtuous determination to stick to thetruth through thick and thin. 

"No?"

"'Tis unfair, " says Tommy. 

"That has been allowed for centuries, " says his father. 

"Then why don't they change it?"

"Change what?" asks Mr. Monkton, feeling a little puzzled. "How can onechange now the detestable cruelties--or the abominable habits of thedark ages?"

"But why were they dark?" asks Tommy. "Mammy says they had gas then. "

"I didn't mean that, I----" his mother is beginning, but Monkton stopsher with a despairing gesture. 

"Don't, " says he. "It would take a good hour by the slowest clock. Lethim believe there was electric light then if he chooses. "

"Well, but why can't they change it?" persists Tommy, who is evidentlyfull of the picture in question. 

"I have told you. "

"But the painter man could change it. "

"I am afraid not, Tommy. He is dead. "

"Why didn't he do it before he died then? Why didn't somebody show himwhat to do?"

"I don't fancy he wanted any hints. And besides, he had to be true tohis ideal. It was a terrible time. They did really throw the Christiansto the lions, you know. "

"Of course I know that, " says Tommy with a superior air. "But why didn'tthey cast another one?"

"Eh?" says Mr. Monkton. 

"That's why it's unfair!" says Tommy. "There is one poor lion there, andhe hasn't got any Christian! Why didn't Mr. Dory give him one?"

Tableau!

"Barbara!" says Mr. Monkton faintly, after a long pause. "Is there anybrandy in the house?"

But Barbara is looking horrified. 

"It is shocking, " she says. "Why should he take such a twisted view ofit. He has always been a kind-hearted child; and now----"

"Well. He has been kind-hearted to the lions, " says Mr. Monkton. "No onecan deny that. "

"Oh! if you persist in encouraging him. Freddy!" says his wife withtears in her eyes. 

"Believe me, Barbara, " breaks in Joyce at this moment, "it is a mistaketo be soft-hearted in this world. " There is something bright butuncomfortable in the steady gaze she directs at her sister. "One shouldbe hard, if one means to live comfortably. "

"Will you take me soon again to see pictures?" asks Tommy, running toJoyce and scrambling upon the seat she is occupying. "Do!"

"But if you dislike them so much. "

"Only some. And other places may be funnier. What day will you take me?"

"I don't think I shall again make an arrangement beforehand, " saysJoyce, rising, and placing Tommy on the ground very gently. "Somemorning just before we start, you and I, we will make our plans. "

She does not look at Barbara this time, but her tone is eloquent. 

Barbara looks at her, however, with eyes full of reproach. 

CHAPTER XXXVII. 

 "Love is its own great loveliness always, And takes new beauties from the touch of time; Its bough owns no December and no May, But bears its blossoms into winter's clime. "

 "I have often thought what a melancholy world this would be without children. "

"Oh, Felix--is it you!" says Mrs. Monkton in a dismayed tone. Her hansomis at the door and, arrayed in her best bib and tucker, she is hurryingthrough the hall when Dysart, who has just come, presents himself. Hewas just coming in, in fact, as she was going out. 

"Don't mind me, " says he; "there is always to-morrow. "

"Oh, yes, --but----"

"And Miss Kavanagh?"

"It is to recover her I am going out this afternoon. " It is the nextday, so soon after her rupture with Joyce, that she is afraid to evenhint at further complications. A strong desire to let him know that hemight wait and try his fortune once again on her return with Joyce isoppressing her mind, but she puts it firmly behind her, or thinks shedoes. "She is lunching at the Brabazons', " she says; "old friends ofours. I promised to lunch there, too, so as to be able to bring Joycehome again. "

"She will be back, then. "

"In an hour and a half at latest, " says Mrs. Monkton, who after all isnot strong enough to be quite genuine to her better judgments. "But, "with a start and a fresh determination to be cruel in the cause ofright, "that would be much too long for you to wait for us. "

"I shouldn't think it long, " says he. 

Mrs. Monkton smiles suddenly at him. How charming--how satisfactory heis. Could any lover be more devoted!

"Well, it would be for all that, " says she. "But"--hesitating in a lastvain effort to dismiss, and then losing herself--, "suppose you do notabandon your visit altogether; that you go away, now, and get your lunchat your club--I feel, " contritely, "how inhospitable I am--and then comeback again here about four o'clock. She--I--will have returned by thattime. "

"An excellent plan, " says he, his face lighting up. Then it cloudsagain. "If she knows I am to be here?"

"Ah! that is a difficulty, " says Mrs. Monkton, her own pretty faceshowing signs of distress. "But anyhow, risk it. "

"I would rather she knew, however, " says he steadily. The idea ofentrapping her into a meeting with him is abhorrent to him. He had hadenough of that at the Doré Gallery; though he had been innocent of anyintentional deception there. 

"I will tell her then, " says Mrs. Monkton; "and in the meantime go andget your----"

At this moment the door on the right is thrown open, and Tommy, with awarhoop, descends upon them, followed by Mabel. 

"Oh! it's Felix!" cries he joyfully. "Will you stay with us, Felix?We've no one to have dinner with us to-day. Because mammy is going away, and Joyce is gone, and pappy is nowhere; and nurse isn't a bit ofgood--she only says, 'Take care you don't choke yourselves, medearies!'" He imitates nurse to the life. "And dinner will be here in aminute. Mary says she's just going to bring it upstairs. "

"Oh, do--do stay with us, " supplements little Mabel, thrusting her smallhand imploringly into his. It is plain that he is in high favor with thechildren, however out of it with a certain other member of thefamily--and feeling grateful to them, Dysart hesitates to say the "No"that is on his lips. How hard it is to refuse the entreaties of theselittle clinging fingers--these eager, lovely, upturned faces!

"If I may----?" says he at last, addressing Mrs. Monkton, and therebygiving in. 

"Oh! as for that! You know you may, " says she. "But you will perfectlyhate it. It is too bad to allow you to accept their invitation. You willbe bored to death, and you will detest the boiled mutton. There is onlythat and--rice, I think. I won't even be sure of the rice. It may betapioca--and that is worse still. "

"It's rice, " says Tommy, who is great friends with the cook, and knowstill her secrets. 

"That decides the question, " says Felix gravely. "Every one knows that Iadore rice. It is my one weakness. "

At this, Mrs. Monkton gives way to an irrepressible laugh, and he, catching the meaning of it, laughs, too. 

"You are wrong, however, " says he; "that other is my one strength. Icould not live without it. Well, Tommy, I accept your invitation. Ishall stay and lunch--dine with you. " In truth, it seems sweet in hiseyes to remain in the house that she (Joyce) occupies; it will be easierto wait, to hope for her return there than elsewhere. 

"Your blood be on your own head, " says Barbara, solemnly. "If, however, it goes too far, I warn you there are remedies. When it occurs to youthat life is no longer worth living, go to the library; you will findthere a revolver. It is three hundred years old, I'm told, and it ishung very high on the wall to keep it out of Freddy's reach. Blow yourbrains out with it--if you can. "

"You're awfully good, awfully thoughtful, " says Mr. Dysart, "but I don'tthink, when the final catastrophe arrives, it will be suicide. If I mustmurder somebody, it will certainly not be myself; it will be either thechildren or the mutton. "

Mrs. Monkton laughs, then turns a serious eye on Tommy. 

"Now, Tommy, " says she, addressing him with a gravity that should haveoverwhelmed him, "I am going away from you for an hour or so, and Mr. Dysart has kindly accepted your invitation to lunch with him. I dohope, " with increasing impressiveness, "you will be good. "

"I hope so, too, " returns Tommy, genially. 

There is an astonished pause, confined to the elders only, and then, Mr. Dysart, unable to restrain himself any longer, bursts but laughing. 

"Could anything be more candid?" says he; "more full of trust inhimself, and yet with a certain modesty withal! There! you can go, Mrs. Monkton, with a clear conscience. I am not afraid to give myself up tothe open-handed dealing of your son. " Then his tone changes--he followsher quickly as she turns from him to the children to bid them good-bye. 

"Miss Kavanagh, " says he, "is she well--happy?"

"She is well, " says Barbara, stopping to look back at him with her handon Mabel's shoulder--there is reservation in her answer. 

"Had she any idea that I would call to-day?" This question is absolutelyforced from him. 

"How should she? Even I--did I know it? Certainly I thought you wouldcome some day, and soon, and she may have thought so, too, but--youshould have told me. You called too soon. Impatience is a vice, " saysMrs. Monkton, shaking her head in a very kindly fashion, however. 

"I suppose when she knows--when, " with a rather sad smile, "you tellher--I am to be here on her return this afternoon she will not come withyou. "

"Oh, yes, she will. I think so--I am sure of it. But you mustunderstand, Felix, that she is very peculiar, difficult is what theycall it now-a-days. And, " pausing and glancing at him, "she is angry, too, about something that happened before you left last autumn. I hardlyknow what; I have imagined only, and, " rapidly, "don't let us go intoit, but you will know that there was something. "

"Something, yes, " says he. 

"Well, a trifle, probably. I have said she is difficult. But you failedsomewhere, and she is slow to pardon--where----"

"Where! What does that mean?" demands the young man, a great spring ofhope taking life within his eyes. 

"Ah, that hardly matters. But she is not forgiving. She is the verydearest girl I know, but that is one of her faults. "

"She has no faults, " says he, doggedly. And then: "Well, she knows I amto be here this afternoon?"

"Yes. I told her. "

"I am glad of that. If she returns with you from the Brabazons, " with aquick but heavy sigh, "there will be no hope in that. "

"Don't be too hard, " says Mrs. Monkton, who in truth is feeling a littlefrightened. To come back without Joyce, and encounter an irate youngman, with Freddy goodness knows where--"She may have other engagements, "she says. She waves him an airy adieu as she makes this cruelsuggestion, and with a kiss more hurried than usual to the children, anda good deal of nervousness in her whole manner, runs down the steps toher hansom and disappears. 

Felix, thus abandoned, yields himself to the enemy. He gives his righthand to Freddy and his left to Mabel, and lets them lead him captiveinto the dining-room. 

"I expect dinner is cold, " says Tommy cheerfully, seating himselfwithout more ado, and watching the nurse, who is always in attendance atthis meal, as she raises the cover from the boiled leg of mutton. 

"Oh! no, not yet, " says Mr. Dysart, quite as cheerfully, raising thecarving knife and fork. 

Something, however, ominous in the silence, that has fallen on bothchildren makes itself felt, and without being able exactly to realize ithe suspends operation for a moment to look at them. 

He finds four eyes staring in his direction with astonishment, generously mingled with pious horror shining in their clear depths. 

"Eh?" says he, involuntarily. 

"Aren't you going to say it?" asks Mabel, in a severe tone. 

"Say what?" says he. 

"Grace, " returns Tommy with distinct disapprobation. 

"Oh--er--yes, of course. How could I have forgotten it?" says Dysartspasmodically, laying down the carvers at once, and preparing todistinguish himself. He succeeds admirably. 

The children are leaning on the table cloth in devout expectation, thathas something, however, sinister about it. Nurse is looking on, alsoexpectant. Mr. Dysart makes a wild struggle with his memory, but all tono effect. The beginning of various prayers come with malignantreadiness to his mind, the ends of several psalms, the middles of averse or two, but the graces shamelessly desert him in his hour of need. 

Good gracious! What is the usual one, the one they use at home--the--er?He becomes miserably conscious that Tommy's left eye is cocked sideways, and is regarding him with fatal understanding. In a state of desperationhe bends forward as low as he well can, wondering vaguely where on earthis his hat, and mumbles something into his plate, that might be a bit ofa prayer, but certainly it is not a grace. Perhaps it is a last cry forhelp. 

"What's that?" demands Tommy promptly. 

"I didn't hear one word of it, " says Mabel with indignation. 

Mr. Dysart is too stricken to be able to frame a reply. 

"I don't believe you know one, " continues Tommy, still fixing him withan uncompromising eye. "I don't believe you were saying anything. Doyou, nurse?"

"Oh, fie, now, Master Tommy, and I heard your ma telling you you were tobe good. "

"Well, so I am good. 'Tis he isn't good. He won't say his prayers. Doyou know one?" turning again to Dysart, who is covered with confusion. What the deuce did he stay here for? Why didn't he go to his club? Hecould have been back in plenty of time. If that confounded grinningwoman of a nurse would only go away, it wouldn't be so bad; but----

"Never mind, " says Mabel, with calm resignation. "I'll say one for you. "

"No, you shan't, " cries Tommy; "it's my turn. "

"No, it isn't. "

"It is, Mabel. You said it yesterday. And you know you said 'relieve'instead of 'received, ' and mother laughed, and----"

"I don't care. It is Mr. Dysart's turn to-day, and he'll give his to me;won't you, Mr. Dysart?"

"You're a greedy thing, " cries Tommy, wrathfully, "and you shan't sayit. I'll tell Mr. Dysart what you did this morning if you do. "

"I don't care, " with disgraceful callousness. "I will say it. "

"Then, I'll say it, too, " says Tommy, with sudden inspiration born of adetermination to die rather than give in, and instantly four fat handsare joined in pairs, and two seraphic countenances are upraised, and twoshrill voices at screaming-pitch are giving thanks for the boiledmutton, at a racing speed, that censorious people might probably connectwith a desire on the part of each to be first in at the finish. 

Manfully they fight it out to the bitter end, without a break or acomma, and with defiant eyes glaring at each other across the table. There is a good deal of the grace; it is quite a long one when usuallysaid, and yet very little grace in it to-day, when all is told. 

"You may go now, nurse, " says Mabel, presently, when the mutton had beenremoved and nurse had placed the rice and jam on the table. "Mr. Dysartwill attend to us. " It is impossible to describe the grown-up air withwhich this command is given. It is so like Mrs. Monkton's own voice andmanner that Felix, with a start, turns his eyes on the author of it, andnurse, with an ill-suppressed smile, leaves the room. 

"That's what mammy always says when-there's only her and me and Tommy, "explains Mabel, confidentially. Then. "You, " with a doubtful glance, "you will attend to us, won't you?"

"I'll do my best, " says Felix, in a depressed tone, whose spirits aregrowing low. After all, there was safety in nurse!

"I think I'll come up and sit nearer to you, " says Tommy, affably. 

He gets down from his chair and pushes it, creaking hideously, up to Mr. Dysart's elbow--right under it, in fact. 

"So will I, " says Mabel, fired with joy at the prospect of getting awayfrom her proper place, and eating her rice in a forbidden spot. 

"But, " begins Felix, vaguely, "do you think your mother would----"

"We always do it when we are alone with mammy, " says Tommy. 

"She says it keeps us warm to get under her wing when the weather iscold, " says Mabel, lifting a lovely little face to his and bringing herchair down on the top of his toe. "She says it keeps her warm, too. Areyou warm now?" anxiously. 

"Yes, yes--burning!" says Mr. Dysart, whose toe is not unconscious of acorn. 

"Ah! I knew you'd like it, " says. Tommy. "Now go on; give us ourrice--a little rice and a lot of jam. "

"Is that what your mother does, too?" asks Mr. Dysart, meanly it must beconfessed, but his toe is very bad still. The silence that follows hisquestion and the look of the two downcast little faces is, however, punishment enough. 

"Well, so be it, " says he. "But even if we do finish the jam--I'mawfully fond of it myself--we must promise faithfully not to bedisagreeable about it; not to be ill, that is----"

"Ill! We're never ill, " says Tommy, valiantly, whereupon they make anend of the jam in no time. 

CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

 "'Tis said the rose is Love's own flower, Its blush so bright--its thorns so many. "

There is no mistake in the joy with which Felix parts from hiscompanions after luncheon. He breathes afresh as he sees them tearing upthe staircase to get ready for their afternoon walk, nurse puffing andpanting behind them. 

The drawing-room seems a bower of repose after the turmoil of the latefeast, and besides, it cannot be long now before she--they--return. Thatis if they--she--return at all! He has, indeed, ample time given him toimagine this last horrible possibility as not only a probability, but acertainty, before the sound of coming footsteps up the stairs and thefrou-frou of pretty frocks tells him his doubts were harmless. Involuntarily he rises from his chair and straightens himself, out ofthe rather forlorn position into which he has fallen, and fixes his eyesimmovably upon the door. Are there two of them?

That is beyond doubt. It is only mad people who chatter to themselves, and certainly Mrs. Monkton is not mad. 

Barbara has indeed raised her voice a little more than ordinary, and hasaddressed Joyce by her name on her hurried way up the staircase andacross the cushioned recess outside the door. Now she throws open thedoor and enters, radiant, if a little nervous. 

"Here we are, " she says, very pleasantly, and with all the put-on mannerof one who has made up her mind to be extremely joyous under distinctdifficulties. "You are still here, then, and alone. They didn't murderyou. Joyce and I had our misgivings all along. Ah, I forgot, you haven'tseen Joyce until now. "

"How d'ye do?" says Miss Kavanagh, holding out her hand to him, with acalm as perfect as her smile. 

"I do hope they were good, " goes on Mrs. Monkton, her nervousness ratherincreasing. 

"You know I have always said they were the best children in the world. "

"Ah! said, said, " repeats Mrs. Monkton, who now seems grateful for thechance of saying anything. What is the meaning of Joyce's suddenamiability--and is it amiability, or----

"It is true one can say almost anything, " says Joyce, quite pleasantly. She nods her head prettily at Dysart. "There is no law to prevent them. Barbara thinks you are not sincere. She is not fair to you. You alwaysdo mean what you say, don't you?"

But for the smile that accompanies these words Dysart would have felthis doom sealed. But could she mean a stab so cruel, so direct, andstill look kind?

"Oh! he is always sincere, " says Barbara, quickly; "only people saythings about one's children, you know, that----" She stops. 

"They are the dearest children. You are a bad mother; you wrong them, "says Joyce, laughing lightly, plainly at the idea of Barbara's affectionfor her children being impugned. "She told me, " turning her lovely eyesfull on Dysart, with no special expression in them whatever, "that Ishould find only your remains after spending an hour with them. " Hersmile was brilliant. 

"She was wrong, you see, I am still here, " says Felix, hardly knowingwhat he says in his desire to read her face, which is strictlyimpassive. 

"Yes, still here, " says Miss Kavanagh, smiling, always, and apparentlymeaning nothing at all; yet to Felix, watching her, there seems to besomething treacherous in her manner. 

"Still here?" Had she hoped he would be gone? Was that the cause of herdelay? Had she purposely put off coming home to give him time to growtired and go away? And yet she is looking at him with a smile!

"I am afraid you had a bad luncheon and a bad time generally, " says Mrs. Monkton, quickly, who seemed hurried in every way. "But we came home assoon as ever we could. Didn't we, Joyce?" Her appeal to her sister issuggestive of fear as to the answer, but she need not have been nervousabout that. 

"We flew!" declares Miss Kavanagh, with delightful zeal. "We thought weshould never get here soon enough. Didn't we, Barbara?" There is thevery barest, faintest imitation of her sister's voice in this lastquestion; a subtle touch of mockery, so slight, so evanescent as toleave one doubtful as to its ever having existed. 

"Yes, yes, indeed, " says Barbara, coloring. 

"We flew so fast indeed that I am sure you are thoroughly fatigued, "says Miss Kavanagh, addressing her. "Why don't you run away now, andtake off your bonnet and lay down for an hour or so?"

"But, " begins Barbara, and then stops short. What does it all mean? thisnew departure of her sister's puzzles her. To so deliberately ask for a_tête-a-tête_ with Felix! To what end? The girl's manner, so bright, filled with such a glittering geniality--so unlike the usuallistlessness that has characterized it for so long--both confuses andalarms her. Why is she so amiable now? There has been a littledifficulty about getting her back at all, quite enough to make Mrs. Monkton shiver for Dysart's reception by her, and here, now, half anhour later, she is beaming upon him and being more than ordinarilycivil. What is she going to do?

"Oh! no 'buts, '" says Joyce gaily. "You know you said your head wasaching, and Mr. Dysart will excuse you. He will not be so badly off evenwithout you. He will have me!" She turns a full glance on Felix as shesays this, and looks at him with lustrous eyes and white teeth showingthrough her parted lips. The _soupçon_ of mockery in her whole air, ofwhich all through he has been faintly but uncomfortably aware, hasdeepened. "I shall take care he is not dull. "

"But, " says Barbara, again, rather helplessly. 

"No, no. You must rest yourself. Remember we are going to that 'athome, ' at the Thesigers' to-night, and I would not miss it for anything. Don't dwell with such sad looks on Mr. Dysart, I have promised to lookafter him. You will let me take care of you for a little while, Mr. Dysart, will you not?" turning another brilliant smile upon Felix, whoresponds to it very gravely. 

He is regarding her with a searching air. How is it with her? Some oldwords recur to him:

 "There is treachery, O Ahaziah!"

Why does she look at him like that? He mistrusts her present attitude. Even that aggressive mood of hers at the Doré gallery on that last daywhen they met was preferable to this agreeable but detestableindifference. 

"It is always a pleasure to be with you, " says he steadily, perhaps alittle doggedly. 

"There! you see!" says Joyce, with a pretty little nod at her sister. 

"Well, I shall take half an hour's rest, " says Mrs. Monkton, reluctantly, who is, in truth, feeling as fresh as a daisy, but who isafraid to stay. "But I shall be back for tea. " She gives a little kindlyglance to Felix, and, with a heart filled with forebodings, leaves theroom. 

"What a glorious day it has been!" says Joyce, continuing theconversation with Dysart in that new manner of hers, quite as ifBarbara's going was a matter of small importance, and the fact that shehas left them for the first time for all these months alone together ofless importance still. 

She is standing on the hearthrug, and is slowly taking the pins out ofher bonnet. She seems utterly unconcerned. He might be the verieststranger, or else the oldest, the most uninteresting friend in theworld. 

She has taken out all the pins now, and has thrown her bonnet on to thelounge nearest to her, and is standing before the glass in theovermantel patting and pushing into order the soft locks that lie uponher forehead. 

CHAPTER XXXIX. 

 "Ah, were she pitiful as she is fair. " "Life's a varied, bright illusion, Joy and sorrow--light and shade. "

"It was almost warm, " says she, turning round to him. She seems to betalking all the time, so vivid is her face, so intense her vitality. "Iwas so glad to see the Brabazons again. You know them, don't you? Kitlooked perfect. So lovely, so good in every way--voice, face, manners. Ifelt I envied her. It would be delightful to feel that every one must beadmiring one, as she does. " She glances at him, and he leans a littletoward her. "No, no, not a compliment, please. I know I am as muchbehind Kit as the moon is behind the sun. "

"I wasn't going to pay you a compliment, " says he, slowly. 

"No?" she laughs. It was unlike her to have made that remark, and justas unlike her to have taken his rather discourteous reply sogood-naturedly. 

"It was a charming visit, " she goes on, not in haste, but idly as itwere, and as if words are easy to her. "I quite enjoyed it. Barbaradidn't. I think she wanted to get home--she is always thinking of thebabies--or----Well, I did. I am not ungrateful. I take the goods thegods provide, and find honest pleasure in them. I do not think, indeed, I laughed so much for quite a century as to-day with Kit. "

"She is sympathetic, " says Felix, with the smallest thought of theperson in question in his mind. 

"More than that, surely. Though that is a hymn of praise in itself. After all it is a relief to meet Irish people when one has spent a weekor two in stolid England. You agree with me?"

"I am English, " returns he. 

"Oh! Of course! How rude of me! I didn't mean it, however. I hadentirely forgotten, our acquaintance having been confined entirely toIrish soil until this luckless moment. You do forgive me?"

She is leaning a little forward and looking at him with a carelessexpression. 

"No, " returns he briefly. 

"Well, you should, " says she, taking no notice of his cold rejoinder, and treating it, indeed, as if it is of no moment. If there was a deepermeaning in his refusal to grant her absolution she declines toacknowledge it. "Still, even that _bêtise_ of mine need not prevent youfrom seeing some truth in my argument. We have our charms, we Irish, eh?"

"Your charm?"

"Well, mine, if you like, as a type, and"--recklessly and with a shrugof her shoulders--"if you wish to be personal. "

She has gone a little too far. 

"I think I have acknowledged that, " says he, coldly. He rises abruptlyand goes over to where she is standing on the hearthrug--shading herface from the fire with a huge Japanese fan. "Have I ever denied yourcharm?" His tone has been growing in intensity, and now becomes stern. "Why do you talk to me like this? What is the meaning of it all--youraltered manner--everything? Why did you grant me this interview?"

"Perhaps because"--still with that radiant smile, bright and cold asearly frost--"like that little soapy boy, I thought you would 'not behappy till you got it. '"

She laughs lightly. The laugh is the outcome of the smile, and its closeimitation. It is perfectly successful, but on the surface only. There isno heart in it. 

"You think I arranged it?"

"Oh, no; how could I? You have just said I arranged it. " She shuts upher fan with a little click. "You want to say something, don't you?"says she, "well, say it!"

"You give me permission, then?" asks he, gravely, despair knocking athis heart. 

"Why not--would I have you unhappy always?" Her tone is jestingthroughout. 

"You think, " taking the hand that holds the fan and restraining itsmotion for a moment, "that if I do speak I shall be happier?"

"Ah! that is beyond me, " says she. "And yet--yes; to get a thing over isto get rid of fatigue. I have argued it all out for myself, and havecome to the conclusion----"

"For yourself!"

"Well, for you too, " a little impatiently. "After all, it is you whowant to speak. Silence, to me, is golden. But it occurred to me in thesilent watches of the night, " with another, now rather forced, littlelaugh, "that if you once said to me all you had to say, you would becontented, and go away and not trouble me any more. "

"I can do that now, without saying anything, " says he slowly. He hasdropped her hand; he is evidently deeply wounded. 

"Can you?"

Her eyes are resting relentlessly on his. Is there magic in them? Hermouth has taken a strange expression. 

"I might have known how it would be, " says Dysart, throwing up his head. "You will not forgive! It was but a moment--a few words, idle, hardly-considered, and----"

"Oh, yes, considered, " says she slowly. 

"They were unmeant!" persists he, fiercely. "I defy you to thinkotherwise. One great mistake--a second's madness--and you have ordainedthat it shall wreck my whole life! You!--That evening in the library atthe court. I had not thought of----"

"Ah!" she interrupts him, even more by her gesture--which betrays thefirst touch of passion she has shown--than by her voice, that is stillmocking. "I knew you would have to say it!"

"You know me, indeed!" says he, with an enforced calmness that leaveshim very white. "My whole heart and soul lies bare to you, to ruin it asyou will. It is the merest waste of time, I know; but still I have feltall along that I must tell you again that I love you, though I fullyunderstand I shall receive nothing in return but scorn and contempt. Still, to be able even to say it is a relief to me. "

"And what is it to me?" asks the girl, as pale now as he is. "Is it arelief--a comfort to me to have to listen to you?"

She clenches her hands involuntarily. The fan falls with a little crashto the ground. 

"No. " He is silent a moment, "No--it is unfair--unjust! You shall not bemade uncomfortable again. It is the last time.... I shall not troubleyou again in this way. I don't say we shall never meet again. You"--pausing and looking at her--"you do not desire that?"

"Oh, no, " coldly, politely. 

"If you do, say so at once, " with a rather peremptory ring in his tone. 

"I should, " calmly. 

"I am glad of that. As my cousin is a great friend of mine, and as Ishall get a fortnight's leave soon, I shall probably run over toIreland, and spend it with her. After all"--bitterly--"why should Isuppose it would be disagreeable to you?"

"It was quite a natural idea, " says she, immovably. 

"However, " says he, steadily, "you need not be afraid that, even if wedo meet, I shall ever annoy you in this way again----"

"Oh, I am never afraid, " says she, with that terrible smile that seemsto freeze him. 

"Well, good-bye, " holding out his hand. He is quite as composed as sheis now, and is even able to return her smile in kind. 

"So soon? But Barbara will be down to tea in a few minutes. You willsurely wait for her?"

"I think not. "

"But really do! I am going to see after the children, and give them somechocolate I bought for them. "

"It will probably make them ill, " says he, smiling still. "No, thankyou. I must go now, indeed. You will make my excuses to Mrs. Monkton, please. Good-bye. "

"Good-bye, " says she, laying her hand in his for a second. She has grownsuddenly very cold, shivering: it seems almost as if an icy blast fromsome open portal has been blown in upon her. He is still looking at her. There is something wild--strange--in his expression. 

"You cannot realize it, but I can, " says he, unsteadily. "It is good-byeforever, so far as life for me is concerned. "

He has turned away from her. He is gone. The sharp closing of the doorwakens her to the fact that she is alone. Mechanically, quite calmly, she looks around the empty room. There is a little Persian chair coverover there all awry. She rearranges it with a critical eye to its properappearance, and afterward pushes a small chair into its place. She patsa cushion or two, and, finally taking up her bonnet and the pins she hadlaid upon the chimney-piece, goes up to her own room. 

Once there----

With a rush the whole thing comes back to her. The entire meaning ofit--what she has done. That word--forever. The bonnet has fallen fromher fingers. Sinking upon her knees beside the bed, she buries her faceout of sight. Presently her slender frame is torn by those cruel, yetmerciful sobs!

CHAPTER XL. 

 "The sense of death is most in apprehension. "

 "Thus grief still treads upon the heels of pleasure. "

It is destined to be a day of grief! Monkton who had been out all themorning, having gone to see the old people, a usual habit of his, hadnot returned to dinner--a very unusual habit with him. It had occurred, however, once or twice, that he had stayed to dine with them on suchoccasions, as when Sir George had had a troublesome letter from hiselder son, and had looked to the younger to give him some comfort--someof his time to help him to bear it, by talking it all over. Barbara, therefore, while dressing for Mrs. Thesiger's "At Home, " had scarcelyfelt anxiety, and, indeed, it is only now when she has come down to thedrawing-room to find Joyce awaiting her, also in gala garb, so far as agown goes, that a suspicion of coming trouble takes possession of her. 

"He is late, isn't he?" she says, looking at Joyce with somethingnervous in her expression. "What can have kept him? I know he wanted tomeet the General, and now----What can it be?"

"His mother, probably, " says Joyce, indifferently. "From yourdescription of her, I should say she must be a most thoroughlyuncomfortable old person. "

"Yes. Not pleasant, certainly. A little of her, as George Ingram used tosay, goes a long way. But still----And these Thesiger people are friendsof his, and----"

"You are working yourself up into a thorough belief in the sensationalstreet accident, " says Joyce, who has seated herself well out of theglare of the chandelier. "You want to be tragic. It is a mistake, believe me. "

Something in the bitterness of the girl's tone strikes on her sister'sear. Joyce had not come down to dinner, had pleaded a headache as anexcuse for her non-appearance, and Mrs. Monkton and Tommy (she could notbear to dine alone) had devoured that meal _à deux_. Tommy had certainlybeen anything but dull company. 

"Has anything happened, Joyce?" asks her sister quickly. She has had hersuspicions, of course, but they were of the vaguest order. 

Joyce laughs. 

"I told you your nerves were out of order, " says she. "What shouldhappen? Are you still dwelling on the running over business? I assureyou you wrong Freddy. He can take care of himself at a crossing as wellas another man, and better. Even a hansom, I am convinced, could do noharm to Freddy. "

"I wasn't thinking of him, " says Barbara, a little reproachfully, perhaps. "I----"

"No. Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself! Here he is, " cries shesuddenly, springing to her feet as the sound of Monkton's footstepsascending the stairs can now be distinctly heard. "I hope you willexplain yourself to him. " She laughs again, and disappears through thedoorway that leads to the second hall outside, as Monkton enters. 

"How late you are, Freddy, " says his wife, the reproach in her voiceheightened because of the anxiety she had been enduring. "I thought youwould never----What is it? What has happened? Freddy! there is badnews. "

"Yes, very bad, " says Monkton, sinking into a chair. 

"Your brother----" breathlessly. Of late, she has always known thattrouble is to be expected from him. 

"He is dead, " says Monkton in a low tone. 

Barbara, flinging her opera cloak aside, comes quickly to him. She leansover him and slips her arms round his neck. 

"Dead!" says she in an awestruck tone. 

"Yes. Killed himself! Shot himself! the telegram came this morning whenI was with them. I could not come home sooner; it was impossible toleave them. "

"Oh, Freddy, I am sorry you left them even now; a line to me would havedone. Oh, what a horrible thing, and to die like that. "

"Yes. " He presses one of her hands, and then, rising, begins to movehurriedly up and down the room. "It was misfortune upon misfortune, " hesays presently. "When I went over there this morning they had justreceived a letter filled with----"

"From him!"

"Yes. That is what seemed to make it so much worse later on. Life in themorning, death in the afternoon!" His voice grows choked. "And such aletter as it was, filled with nothing but a most scandalous account ofhis----Oh!"----he breaks off suddenly as if shocked. "Oh, he is dead, poor fellow. "

"Don't take it like that, " says Barbara, following him and clinging tohim. "You know you could not be unkind. There were debts then?"

"Debts! It is difficult to explain just now, my head is aching so; andthose poor old people? Well, it means ruin for them, Barbara. Of coursehis debts must be paid, his honor kept intact, for the sake of the oldname, but--they will let all the houses, the two in town, this one, andtheir own, and--and the old place down in Warwickshire, the home, allmust go out of their hands. "

"Oh, Freddy, surely--surely there must be some way----"

"Not one. I spoke about breaking the entail. You know I--his death, poorfellow. I----"

"Yes, yes, dear. "

"But they wouldn't hear of it. My mother was very angry, even in hergrief, when I proposed it. They hope that by strict retrenchment, theproperty will be itself again; and they spoke about Tommy. They said itwould be unjust to him----"

"And to you, " quickly. She would not have him ignored any longer. 

"Oh, as for me, I'm not a boy, you know. Tommy is safe to inherit aslife goes. "

"Well, so are you, " said she, with a sharp pang at her heart. 

"Yes, of course. I am only making out a case. I think it was kind ofthem to remember Tommy's claim in the midst of their own grief. "

"It was, indeed, " says she remorsefully. "Oh, it was. But if they giveup everything where will they go?"

"They talk of taking a cottage--a small house somewhere. They want togive up everything to pay his infamous----There!" sharply, "I amforgetting again! But to see them makes one forget everything else. " Hebegins his walk up and down the room again, as if inaction is impossibleto him. "My mother, who has been accustomed to a certain luxury all herlife, to be now, at the very close of it, condemned to----It would breakyour heart to see her. And she will let nothing be said of him. "

"Oh, no. "

"Still, there should be justice. I can't help feeling that. Herblameless life, and his----and she is the one to suffer. "

"It is so often so, " says his wife in a low tone. "It is an old story, dearest, but I know that when the old stories come home to usindividually they always sound so terribly new. But what do they mean bya small house?" asks she presently in a distressed tone. 

"Well, I suppose a small house, " said he, with just a passing gleam ofhis old jesting manner. "You know my mother cannot bear the country, soI think the cottage idea will fall through. "

"Freddy, " says his wife suddenly. "She can't go into a small house, aLondon small house. It is out of the question. Could they not come andlive with us?"

She is suggesting a martyrdom for herself, yet she does itunflinchingly. 

"What! My aunt and all?" asks he, regarding her earnestly. 

"Oh, of course, of course, poor old thing, " says she, unable this time, however, to hide the quaver that desolates her voice. 

"No, " says her husband with a suspicion of vehemence. He takes hersuddenly in his arms and kisses her. "Because two or three people areunhappy is no reason why a fourth should be made so, and I don't wantyour life spoiled, so far as I can prevent it. I suppose you haveguessed that I must go over to Nice--where he is--my father could notpossibly go alone in his present state. "

"When, must you go?"

"To-morrow. As for you----"

"If we could go home, " says she uncertainly. 

"That is what I would suggest, but how will you manage without me? Thechildren are so troublesome when taken out of their usual beat, andtheir nurse--I often wonder which would require the most looking after, they or she? It occurred to me to ask Dysart to see you across. "

"He is so kind, such a friend, " says Mrs. Monkton. "But----"

She might have said more, but at this instant Joyce appears in thedoorway. 

"We shall be late, " cries she, "and Freddy not even dressed, why----Oh, has anything really happened?"

"Yes, yes, " says Barbara hurriedly--a few words explains all. "We mustgo home to-morrow, you see; and Freddy thinks that Felix would lookafter us until we reached Kensington or North Wall. "

"Felix--Mr. Dysart?" The girl's face had grown pale during the recitalof the suicide, but now it looks ghastly. "Why should he come?" criesshe in a ringing tone, that has actual fear in it. "Do you suppose thatwe two cannot manage the children between us? Oh, nonsense, Barbara; whyTommy is as sensible as he can be, and if nurse does prove incapable, and a prey to seasickness, well--I can take baby, and you can look afterMabel. It will be all right! We are not going to America, really. Freddy, please say you will not trouble Mr. Dysart about this matter. "

"Yes, I really think we shall not require him, " says Barbara. Somethingin the glittering brightness of her sister's eye warns her to give in atonce, and indeed she has been unconsciously a little half-hearted abouthaving Felix or any stranger as a travelling companion. "There, runaway, Joyce, and go to your bed, darling; you look very tired. I muststill arrange some few things with Freddy. "

"What is the matter with her?" asks Monkton, when Joyce has gone away. "She looks as if she had been crying, and her manner is so excitable. "

"She has been strange all day, almost repellant. Felix called--and--Idon't know what happened; she insisted upon my leaving her alone withhim; but I am afraid there was a scene of some sort. I know she had beencrying, because her eyes were so red, but she would say nothing, and Iwas afraid to ask her. "

"Better not. I hope she is not still thinking of that fellow Beauclerk. However----" he stops short and sighs heavily. 

"You must not think of her now, " says Barbara quickly; "your own troubleis enough for you. Were your brother's affairs so very bad that theynecessitate the giving up of everything?"

"It has been going on for years. My father has had to economize, to cutdown everything. You know the old place was let to a Mr. --Mr. --I quiteforget the name now, " pressing his hand to his brow; "a Manchester man, at all events, but we always hoped my father would have been able totake it back from him next year, but now----"

"But you say they think in time that the property will----"

"They think so. I don't. But it would be a pity to undeceive them. I amafraid, Barbara, " with a sad look at her, "you made a bad match. Evenwhen the chance comes in your way to rise out of poverty, it proves athoroughly useless one. "

"It isn't like you to talk like that, " says she quickly. "There, you areoverwrought, and no wonder, too. Come upstairs and let us see what youwill want for your journey. " Her tone had grown purposely brisk; surely, on an occasion such as this she is a wife, a companion in a thousand. "There must be many things to be considered, both for you and for me. And the thing is, to take nothing unnecessary. Those foreign places, Ihear, are so----"

"It hardly matters what I take, " says he wearily. 

"Well, it matters what I take, " says she briskly. "Come and give me ahelp, Freddy. You know how I hate to have servants standing over me. Other people stand over their servants, but they are poor rich people. Ilike to see how the clothes are packed. " She is speaking not quitetruthfully. Few people like to be spared trouble so much as she does, but it seems good in her eyes now to rouse him from the melancholy thatis fast growing on him. "Come, " she says, tucking her arm into his. 

CHAPTER XLI. 

 "It is not to-morrow; ah, were it to-day! There are two that I know that would be gay. Good-by! Good-by! Good-by! Ah I parting wounds so bitterly!"

It is six weeks later, "spring has come up this way, " and all the earthis glad with a fresh birth. 

 "Tantarara! the joyous Book of Spring Lies open, writ in blossoms; not a bird Of evil augury is seen or heard! Come now, like Pan's old crew we'll dance and sing, Or Oberon's, for hill and valley ring To March's bugle horn--earth's blood is stirred. "

March has indeed come; boisterous, wild, terrible, in many ways, butlovely in others. There is a freshness in the air that rouses gladthoughts within the breast, vague thoughts, sweet, as undefinable, andthat yet mean life. The whole land seems to have sprung up from a longslumber, and to be looking with wide happy eyes upon the fresh marvelsNature is preparing for it. Rather naked she stands as yet, rubbing hersleepy lids, having just cast from her her coat of snow, and feelingsomewhat bare in the frail garment of bursting leaves and timid grassgrowths, that as yet is all she can find wherein to hide her charms; buthalf clothed as she is, she is still beautiful. 

Everything seems full of eager triumph. Hills, trees, valleys, lawns, and bursting streams, all are overflowing with a wild enjoyment. All thedull, dingy drapery in which winter had shrouded them has now been castaside, and the resplendent furniture with which each spring delights todeck her home stands revealed. 

All these past dead months her house has lain desolate, enfolded indeath's cerements, but now uprising in her vigorous youth, she flingsaside the dull coverings, and lets the sweet, brilliant hues that liebeneath, shine forth in all their beauty to meet the eye of day. 

Earth and sky are in bridal array, and from the rich recesses of thewoods, and from each shrub and branch the soft glad pæans of the matingbirds sound like a wedding chant. 

Monkton had come back from that sad journey to Nice some weeks ago. Hehad had very little to tell on his return, and that of the saddest. Ithad all been only too true about those iniquitous debts, and the oldpeople were in great distress. The two town houses should be let atonce, and the old place in Warwickshire--the home, as he calledit--well! there was no hope now that it would ever be redeemed from thehands of the Manchester people who held it; and Sir George had been sosure that this spring he would have been in a position to get back hisown, and have the old place once more in his possession. It was all verysad. 

"There is no hope now. He will have to let the place to Barton for thenext ten years, " said Monkton to his wife when he got home. Barton wasthe Manchester man. "He is still holding off about doing it, but heknows it must be done, and at all events the reality won't be a bitworse than the thinking about it. Poor old Governor! You wouldn't knowhim, Barbara. He has gone to skin and bone, and such a frightened sortof look in his eyes. "

"Oh! poor, poor old man!" cried Barbara, who could forget everything inthe way of past unkindness where her sympathies were enlisted. 

Toward the end of February the guests had begun to arrive at the Court. Lady Baltimore had returned there during January with her little son, but Baltimore had not put in an appearance for some weeks later. A goodmany new people unknown to the Monktons had arrived there with otherswhom they did know, and after awhile Dicky Browne had come and MissMaliphant and the Brabazons and some others with whom Joyce was onfriendly terms, but even though Lady Baltimore had made rather a pointof the girls being with her, Joyce had gone to her but sparingly, andalways in fear and trembling. It was so impossible to know who might nothave arrived last night, or was going to arrive this night!

Besides, Barbara and Freddy were so saddened, so upset by the late deathand its consequences, that it seemed unkind even to pretend to enjoyoneself. Joyce grasped at this excuse to say "no" very often to LadyBaltimore's kindly longings to have her with her. That, up to this, neither Dysart nor Beauclerk had come to the Court, had been a comfortto her; but that they might come at any moment kept her watchful anduneasy. Indeed, only yesterday she had heard from Lady Baltimore thatboth were expected during the ensuing week. 

That news leaves her rather unstrung and nervous to-day. After luncheon, having successfully eluded Tommy, the lynx-eyed, she decides upon goingfor a long walk, with a view to working off the depression to which shehas become prey. This is how she happens to be out of the way when theletter comes for Barbara that changes altogether the tenor of theirlives. 

The afternoon post brings it. The delicious spring day has worn itselfalmost to a close when Monkton, entering his wife's room, where she isbusy at a sewing machine altering a frock for Mabel, drops a letter overher shoulder into her lap. 

"What a queer looking letter, " says she, staring in amazement at the bigofficial blue envelope. 

"Ah--ha, I thought it would make you shiver, " says he, lounging over tothe fire, and nestling his back comfortably against the mantle-piece. "What have you been up to I should like to know. No wonder you areturning a lively purple. "

"But what can it be?" says she. 

"That's just it, " says he teazingly. "I hope they aren't going to arrestyou, that's all. Five years' penal servitude is not a thing to hankerafter. "

Mrs. Monkton, however, is not listening to this tirade. She has brokenopen the envelope and is now scanning hurriedly the contents of theimportant-looking document within. There is a pause--a lengthened one. Presently Barbara rises from her seat, mechanically, as it were, alwayswith her eyes fixed on the letter in her hand. She has grown a littlepale--a little puzzled frown is contracting her forehead. 

"Freddy!" says she in a rather strange tone. 

"What?" says he quickly. "No more bad news I hope. "

"Oh, no! Oh, yes! I can't quite make it out--but--I'm afraid my pooruncle is dead. "

"Your uncle?"

"Yes, yes. My father's brother. I think I told you about him. He wentabroad years ago, and we--Joyce and I, believed him dead a long timeago, long before I married you even--but now----Come here and read it. It is worded so oddly that it puzzles me. "

"Let me see it, " says Monkton. 

He sinks into an easy-chair, and drags her down on to his knee, thebetter to see over her shoulder. Thus satisfactorily arranged, he beginsto read rapidly the letter she holds up before his eyes. 

"Yes, dead indeed, " says he sotto voce. "Go on, turn over; you mustn'tfret about that, you know. Barbara--er--er--" reading. "What's this? ByJove!"

"What?" says his wife anxiously. "What is the meaning of this horridletter, Freddy?"

"There are a few people who might not call it horrid, " says Monkton, placing his arm round her and rising from the chair. He is looking verygrave. "Even though it brings you news of your poor uncle's death, stillit brings you too the information that you are heiress to about aquarter of a million!"

"What!" says Barbara faintly. And then, "Oh no. Oh! nonsense! there mustbe some mistake!"

"Well, it sounds like it at all events. 'Sad occurrence, 'h'm--h'm----" reading. "'Co-heiresses. Very considerable fortune. '" Helooks to the signature of the letter. "Hodgson & Fair. Very respectablefirm! My father has had dealings with them. They say your uncle died inSydney, and has left behind him an immense sum of money. Half a million, in fact, to which you and Joyce are co-heiresses. "

"There must be a mistake, " repeats Barbara, in a low tone. "It seems toolike a fairy tale. "

"It does. And yet, lawyers like Hodgson & Fair are not likely to be ledinto a cul-de-sac. If----" he pauses, and looks earnestly at his wife. "If it does prove true, Barbara, you will be a very rich woman. "

"And you will be rich with me, " she says, quickly, in an agitated tone. "But, but----"

"Yes; it does seem difficult to believe, " interrupts he, slowly. "What aletter!" His eyes fall on it again, and she, drawing close to him, readsit once more, carefully. 

"I think there is truth in it, " says she, at last. "It sounds more likebeing all right, more reasonable, when read a second time. Freddy----"

She steps a little bit away from him, and rests her beautiful eyes fullon his. 

"Have you thought, " says she, slowly, "that if there is truth in thisstory, how much we shall be able to do for your father and mother!"

Monkton starts as if stung. For them. To do anything for them. For thetwo who had so wantonly offended and insulted her during all her marriedlife: Is her first thought to be for them?

"Yes, yes, " says she, eagerly. "We shall be able to help them out of alltheir difficulties. Oh! I didn't say much to you, but in their grief, their troubles have gone to my very heart. I couldn't bear to think oftheir being obliged to give up their houses, their comforts, and intheir old age, too! Now we shall be able to smooth matters for them!"

CHAPTER XLII. 

 "It's we two, it's we two, it's we two for aye, All the world and we two, and Heaven be our stay, Like a laverock in the lift, sing, O bonny bride! All the world was Adam once, with Eve by his side. "

The light in her eyes is angelic. She has laid her hands upon both herhusband's arms, as if expecting him to take her into them, as he alwaysdoes only too gladly on the smallest provocation. Just now, however, hefails her, for the moment only, however. 

"Barbara, " says he, in a choked voice: he holds her from him, examiningher face critically. His thoughts are painful, yet proud--proud beyondtelling. His examination does not last long: there is nothing but goodto be read in that fair, sweet, lovable face. He gathers her to him witha force that is almost hurtful. 

"Are you a woman at all, or just an angel?" says he, with a deep sigh. 

"What is it, Freddy?"

"After all they have done to you. Their insults, coldness, abominableconduct, to think that your first thought should be for them. Why, lookhere, Barbara, " vehemently, "they are not worthy that you should----"

"Tut!" interrupts she, lightly, yet with a little sob in her throat. Hispraise is so sweet to her. "You overrate me. Is it for them I would doit or for you? There, take all the thought for yourself. And, besides, are not you and I one, and shall not your people be my people? Come, ifyou think of it, there is no such great merit after all. "

"You forget----"

"No; not a word against them. I won't listen, " thrusting her fingersinto her ears. "It is all over and done with long ago. And it is ourturn now, and let us do things decently and in order, and create noheart-burnings. "

"But when I think----"

"If thinking makes you look like that, don't think. "

"But I must. I must remember how they scorned and slighted you. It neverseems to have come home to me so vividly as now--now when you seem tohave forgotten it. Oh, Barbara!" He presses back her head and looks longand tenderly into her eyes. "I was not mistaken, indeed, when I gave youmy heart. Surely you are one among ten thousand. "

"Silly boy, " says she, with a little tremulous laugh, glad to her verysoul's centre, however, because of his words. "What is there to praiseme for? Have I not warned you that I am purely selfish? What is there Iwould not do for very love of you? Come, Freddy, " shaking herself loosefrom him, and laughing now with honest delight. "Let us be reasonable. Oh! poor old uncle, it seems hateful to rejoice thus over his death, buthis memory is really only a shadow after all, and I suppose he meant tomake us happy by his gift, eh, Freddy?"

"Yes, how well he remembered during all these years. He could haveformed no other ties. "

"None, naturally. " Short pause. "There is that black mare of MikeDonovan's, Freddy, that you so fancied. You can buy it now. "

Monkton laughs involuntarily. Something of the child has always lingeredabout Barbara. 

"And I should like to get a black velvet gown, " says she, her facebrightening, "and to buy Joyce a----Oh! but Joyce will be rich herself. "

"Yes. I'm really afraid you will be done out of the joy of overloadingJoyce with gifts. She'll be able to give you something. That will be achange, at all events. As for the velvet gown, if this, " touching theletter, "bears any meaning, I should think you need not confine yourselfto one velvet gown. "

"And there's Tommy, " says she quickly, her thoughts running so fast thatshe scarcely hears him. "You have always said you wanted to put him inthe army. Now you can do it. "

"Yes, " says Monkton, with sudden interest. "I should like that. Butyou--you shrank from the thought, didn't you?"

"Well, he might have to go to India, " says she, nervously. 

"And what of that?"

"Oh, nothing--that is, nothing really--only there are lions and tigersthere, Freddy; aren't there, now?"

"One or two, " says Mr. Monkton, "if we are to believe travelers' tales. But they are all proverbially false. I don't believe in lions at allmyself. I'm sure they are myths. Well, let him go into the navy, then. Lions and tigers don't as a rule inhabit the great deep. "

"Oh, no; but sharks do, " says she, with a visible shudder. "No, no, onthe whole I had rather trust him to the beasts of the field. He couldrun away from them, but you can't run in the sea. "

"True, " says Mr. Monkton, with exemplary gravity. "I couldn't, at allevents. "

 * * * * *

Monkton had to run across to London about the extraordinary legacy leftto his wife and Joyce. But further investigation proved the story true. The money was, indeed, there, and they were the only heirs. From beingdistinctly poor they rose to the height of a very respectable income, and Monkton being in town, where the old Monktons still were, also wascommanded by his wife to go to them and pay off their largestliabilities--debts contracted by the dead son, and to so arrange thatthey should not be at the necessity of leaving themselves houseless. 

The Manchester people who had taken the old place in Warwickshire werenow informed that they could not have it beyond the term agreed on; butabout this the old people had something to say, too. They would not takeback the family place. They had but one son now, and the sooner he wentto live there the better. Lady Monkton, completely, broken down andmelted by Barbara's generosity, went so far as to send her a longletter, telling her it would be the dearest wish of her and Sir George'shearts that she should preside as mistress over the beautiful oldhomestead, and that it would give them great happiness to imagine, thechildren--the grandchildren--running riot through the big wainscotedrooms. Barbara was not to wait for her--Lady Monkton's--death to take upher position as head of the house. She was to go to Warwickshire atonce, the moment those detestable Manchester people were out of it; andLady Monkton, if Barbara would be so good as to make her welcome, wouldlike to come to her for three months every year, to see the children, and her son, and her daughter! The last was the crowning touch. For therest, Barbara was not to hesitate about accepting the Warwickshireplace, as Lady Monkton and Sir George were devoted to town life, andnever felt quite well when away from smoky London. 

This last was true. As a fact, the old people were thoroughly imbuedwith the desire for the turmoil of city life, and the three months ofcountry Lady Monkton had stipulated for were quite as much as theydesired of rustic felicity. 

Barbara accepted the gift of the old home. Eventually, of course, itwould be hers, but she knew the old people meant the present giving ofit as a sort of return for her liberality--for the generosity that hadenabled them to once more lift their heads among their equals. 

 * * * * *

The great news meanwhile had spread like wildfire through the Irishcountry where the Frederic Monktons lived. Lady Baltimore wasunfeignedly glad about it, and came down at once to embrace Barbara, andsay all sorts of delightful things about it. The excitement of the wholeaffair seemed to dissipate all the sadness and depression that hadfollowed on the death of the elder son, and nothing now was talked ofbut the great good luck that had fallen into the paths of Barbara andJoyce. The poor old uncle had been considered dead for so many yearspreviously, and was indeed such a dim memory to his nieces, that itwould have been the purest affectation to pretend to feel any deep grieffor his demise. 

Perhaps what grieved Barbara most of all, though she said very littleabout it, was the idea of having to leave the old house in which theywere now living. It did not not cheer her to think of the place inWarwickshire, which, of course, was beautiful, and full ofpossibilities. 

This foolish old Irish home--rich in discomforts--was home. It seemedhard to abandon it. It was not a palatial mansion, certainly; it waseven dismal in many ways, but it contained more love in its little spacethan many a noble mansion could boast. It seemed cruel--ungrateful--tocast it behind her, once it was possible to mount a few steps on therungs of the worldly ladder. 

How happy they had all been here together, in this foolish old house, that every severe storm seemed to threaten with final dissolution. Itgave her many a secret pang to think that she must part from it for everbefore another year should dawn. 

CHAPTER XLIII. 

 "Looks the heart alone discover, If the tongue its thoughts can tell, 'Tis in vain you play the lover, You have never felt the spell. "

Joyce, who had been dreading, with a silent but terrible fear, her firstmeeting with Dysart, had found it no such great matter after all whenthey were at last face to face. Dysart had met her as coolly, withapparently as little concern as though no former passages had ever takenplace between them. 

His manner was perfectly calm, and as devoid of feeling as any one coulddesire, and it was open to her comprehension that he avoided herwhenever he possibly could. She told herself this was all she could, ordid, desire; yet, nevertheless, she writhed beneath the certainty of it. 

Beauclerk had not arrived until a week later than Dysart; until, indeed, the news of the marvelous fortune that had come to her was wellauthenticated, and then had been all that could possibly be expected ofhim. His manner was perfect. He sat still And gazed with delightfullyfriendly eyes into Miss Maliphant's pleased countenance, and anonskipped across room or lawn to whisper beautiful nothings to MissKavanagh. The latter's change of fortune did not, apparently, seem toaffect him in the least. After all, even now she was not as good a_parti_ as Miss Maliphant, where money was concerned, but then therewere other things. Whatever his outward manner might lead one tosuspect, beyond doubt he thought a great deal at this time, and finallycame to a conclusion. 

Joyce's fortune had helped her in many ways. It had helped many of thepoor around her, too; but it did even more than that. It helped Mr. Beauclerk to make up his mind with regard to his matrimonial prospects. 

Sitting in his chambers in town with Lady Baltimore's letter before himthat told him of the change in Joyce's fortune--of the fortune that hadchanged her, in fact, from a pretty penniless girl to a pretty rich one, he told himself that, after all, she had certainly been the girl for himsince the commencement of their acquaintance. 

She was charming--not a whit more now than then. He would not belie hisown taste so far as so admit that she was more desirable in any way now, in her prosperity, than when first he saw her, and paid her the immensecompliment of admiring her. 

He permitted himself to grow a little enthusiastic, however, to say outloud to himself, as it were, all that he had hardly allowed himself tothink up to this. She was, beyond question, the most charming girl inthe world! Such grace--such finish! A girl worthy of the love of thebest of men--presumably himself!

He had always loved her--always! He had never felt so sure of thatdelightful fact as now. He had had a kind of knowledge, even when afraidto give ear to it, that she was the wife best suited to him to be foundanywhere. She understood him! They were thoroughly _en rapport_ witheach other. Their marriage would be a success in the deepest, sincerestmeaning of that word. 

He leant luxuriously among the cushions of his chair, lit a fragrantcigarette, and ran his mind backward over many things. Well! Perhaps so!But yet if he had refrained from proposing to her until now--now whenfate smiles upon her--it was simply because he dreaded dragging her intoa marriage where she could not have had all those little best things oflife that so peerless a creature had every right to demand. 

Yes! it was for her sake alone he had hesitated. He feels sure of thatnow. He has thoroughly persuaded himself the purity of the motives thatkept him tongue tied when honor called aloud to him for speech. He feelshimself so exalted that he metaphorically pats himself upon the back andtells himself he is a righteous being--a very Brutus where honor isconcerned; any other man might have hurried that exquisite creature intoa squalid marriage for the mere sake of gratifying an overpoweringaffection, but he had been above all that! He had considered her! Theman's duty is ever to protect the woman! He had protected her--even fromherself; for that she would have been only too willing to link her sweetfate with his at any price-was patent to all the world. Few people havefelt as virtuous as Mr. Beauclerk as he comes to the end of this threadof his imaginings. 

Well! he will make it up to her! He smiles benignly through the smokethat rises round his nose. She shall never have reason to remember thathe had not fallen on his knees to her--as a less considerate man mighthave done--when he was without the means to make her life as bright asit should be. 

The most eager of lovers must live, and eating is the first move towardthat conclusion. Yet if he had given way to selfish desires they wouldscarcely, he and she, have had sufficient bread (of any delectable kind)to fill their mouths. But now all would be different. She, clever girl!had supplied the blank; she had squared the difficulty. Having providedthe wherewithal to keep body and soul together in a nice, respectable, fashionable, modern sort of way, her constancy shall certainly berewarded. He will go straight down to the Court, and declare to her thesentiments that have been warming his breast (silently!) all these pastmonths. What a dear girl she is, and so fond of him! That in itself isan extra charm in her very delightful character. And those fortunatethousands! Quite a quarter of a million, isn't it? Well, of course, nouse saying they won't come in handy--no use being hypocritical overit--horrid thing a hypocrite!--well, those thousands naturally havetheir charm, too. 

He rose, flung his cigarette aside (it was finished as far as carefulenjoyment would permit), and rang for his servant to pack hisportmanteaux. He was going to the Court by the morning train. 

 * * * * *

Now that he is here, however, he restrains the ardor, that no doubt isconsuming him, with altogether admirable patience, and waits for thechance that may permit him to lay his valuable affections at Joyce'sfeet. A dinner to be followed by an impromptu dance at the Courtsuggests itself as a very fitting opportunity. He grasps it. Yes, to-morrow evening will be an excellent and artistic opening for a thingof this sort. All through luncheon, even while conversing with Joyce andMiss Maliphant on various outside topics, his versatile mind isarranging a picturesque spot in the garden enclosures wherein to makeJoyce a happy woman!

Lady Swansdown, glancing across the table at him, laughs lightly. Alwaysdisliking him, she has still been able to read him very clearly, and hisdetermination to now propose to Joyce amuses her nearly as much as itannoys her. Frivolous to the last degree as she is, an honest regard forJoyce has taken hold within her breast. Lord Baltimore, too, isdisturbed by his brother's present. 

CHAPTER XLIV. 

 "Love took up the harp of life and smote on all the chords with might; Smote the chord of self, that, trembling, passed in music out of sight. "

Lady Swansdown is startled into a remembrance of the present by theentrance of somebody. After all Dicky, the troublesome, was right--thisis no spot in which to sleep or dream. Turning her head with an indolentimpatience to see who has come to disturb her, she meets LadyBaltimore's clear eyes. 

Some sharp pang of remorse, of fear, perhaps, compels her to spring toher feet, and gaze at her hostess with an expression that is almostdefiant. Dicky's words had so far taken effect that she now dreads andhates to meet the woman who once had been her stanch friend. 

Lady Baltimore, unable to ignore the look in her rival's eyes, stilladvances toward her with unfaltering step. Perhaps a touch of disdain, of contempt, is perceptible in her own gaze, because Lady Swansdown, paling, moves toward her. She seems to have lost all self-control--sheis trembling violently. It is a crisis. 

"What is it?" says Lady Swansdown, harshly. "Why do you look at me likethat? Has it come to a close between us, Isabel? Oh! ifso"--vehemently--"it is better so. "

"I don't think I understand you, " says Lady Baltimore, who has grownvery white. Her tone is haughty; she has drawn back a little as if toescape from contact with the other. 

"Ah! That is so like you, " says Lady Swansdown with a rather fiercelittle laugh. "You pretend, pretend, pretend, from morning till night. You intrench yourself behind your pride, and----"

"You know what you are doing, Beatrice, " says Lady Baltimore, ignoringthis outburst completely, and speaking in a calm, level tone, yet with aface like marble. 

"Yes, and you know, too, " says Lady Swansdown. Then, with anoverwhelming vehemence: "Why don't you do something? Why don't youassert yourself?"

"I shall never assert myself, " says Lady Baltimore slowly. 

"You mean that whatever comes you will not interfere. "

"That, exactly!" turning her eyes full on to the other's face with aterrible disdain. "I shall never interfere in this--or any other of hisflirtations. "

It is a sharp stab! Lady Swansdown winces visibly. 

"What a woman you are!" cries she. "Have you ever thought of it, Isabel?You are unjust to him--unfair. You"--passionately--"treat him as thoughhe were the dust beneath your feet, and yet you expect him to remainimmaculate, for your sake--pure as any acolyte--a thing of ice----"

"No, " coldly. "You mistake me. I know too much of him to expectperfection--nay, common decency from him. But you--it was you whom Ihoped to find immaculate. "

"You expected too much, then. One iceberg in your midst is enough, andthat you have kindly suggested in your own person. Put me out of thediscussion altogether. "

"Ah I You have made that impossible! I cannot do that. I have known youtoo long, I have liked you too well. I have, " with a swift, but terribleglance at her, "loved you!"

"Isabel!"

"No, no! Not a word. It is too late now. "

"True, " says Lady. Swansdown, bringing back the arms she had extendedand letting them fall into a sudden, dull vehemence to her sides. Heragitation is uncontrolled. "That was so long ago that, no doubt, youhave forgotten all about it. You, " bitterly, "have forgotten a gooddeal. "

"And you, " says Lady Baltimore, very calmly, "what have you notforgotten--your self-respect, " deliberately, "among other things. "

"Take care; take care!" says Lady Swansdown in a low tone. She hasturned furiously upon her. 

"Why should I take care?" She throws up her small bead scornfully. "HaveI said one word too much?"?

"Too much indeed, " says Lady Swansdown distinctly, but faintly. Sheturns her head, but not her eyes in Isabel's direction. "I'm afraid youwill have to endure for one day longer, " she says in a low voice; "afterthat you shall bid me a farewell that shall last forever!"

"You have come to a wise decision, " says Lady Baltimore, immovably. 

There is something so contemptuous in her whole bearing that it maddensthe other. 

"How dare you speak to me like that, " cries she with sudden violence notto be repressed. "You of all others! Do you think you are not in faultat all--that you stand blameless before the world?"

The blood has flamed into her pale cheeks, her eyes are on fire. Sheadvances toward Lady Baltimore with such a passion of angry despair inlook and tone, that involuntarily the latter retreats before her. 

"Who shall blame me?" demands Lady Baltimore haughtily. 

"I--I for one! Icicle that you are, how can you know what love means?You have no heart to feel, no longing to forgive. And what has he doneto you? Nothing--nothing that any other woman would not gladly condone. "

"You are a partisan, " says Lady Baltimore coldly. "You would plead hiscause, and to me! You are violent, but that does not put you in theright. What do you know of Baltimore that I do not know? By what rightdo you defend him?"

"There is such a thing as friendship!"

"Is there?" says the other with deep meaning. "Is there, Beatrice? Oh!think--think!" A little bitter smile curls the corners of her lips. "That you should advocate the cause of friendship to me, " says she, herwords falling with cruel scorn one by one slowly from her lips. 

"You think me false, " says Lady Swansdown. She is terribly agitated. "There was an old friendship between us--I know that--I feel it. Youthink me altogether false to it?"

"I think of you as little as I can help, " says Isabel, contemptuously. "Why should I waste a thought on you?"

"True! Why indeed! One so capable of controlling her emotions as you areneed never give way to superfluous or useless thoughts. Still, give oneto Baltimore. It is our last conversation together, therefore bear withme--hear me. All his sins lie in the past. He----"

"You must be mad to talk to me like this, " interrupts Isabel, flushingcrimson. "Has he asked you to intercede for him? Could even he go so faras that? Is it a last insult? What are you to him that you thus adopthis cause. Answer me!" cries she imperiously; all her coldness, herstern determination to suppress herself, seems broken up. 

"Nothing!" returns Lady Swansdown, becoming calmer as she notes theother's growing vehemence. "I never shall be anything. I have but oneexcuse for my interference"--She pauses. 

"And that!"

"I love him!" steadily, but faintly. Her eyes have sought the ground. 

"Ah!" says Lady Baltimore. 

"It is true"--slowly. "It is equally true--that he--does not love me. Let me then speak. All his sins, believe me, lie behind him. That woman, that friend of yours who told you of his renewed acquaintance withMadame Istray, lied to you! There was no truth in what she said!"

"I can quite understand your not wishing to believe in that story, " saysLady Baltimore with an undisguised sneer. 

"Like all good women, you can take pleasure in inflicting a wound, " saysLady Swansdown, controlling herself admirably. "But do not let yourdetestation of me blind you to the fact that my words contain truth. Ifyou will listen I can----"

"Not a word, " says Lady Baltimore, making a movement with her hands asif to efface the other. "I will have none of your confidences. "

"It seems to me"--quickly--"you are determined not to believe. "

"You are at liberty to think as you will. "

"The time may come, " says Lady Swansdown, "when you will regret you didnot listen to me to-day. "

"Is that a threat?"

"No; but I am going. There will be no further opportunity for you tohear me. "

"You must pardon me if I say that I am glad of that, " says LadyBaltimore, her lips very white. "I Could have borne little more. Do whatyou will--go where you will--with whom you will" (with deliberateinsult), "but at least spare me a repetition of such a scene as this. "

She turns, and with an indescribably haughty gesture leaves the room. 

CHAPTER XLV. 

 "The name of the slough was Despond. "

Dancing is going on in the small drawing-room. A few night broughams arestill arriving, and young girls, accompanied by their brothers only, aremaking the room look lovely. It is quite an impromptu affair, quiteinformal. Dicky Browne, altogether in his element, is flitting fromflower to flower, saying beautiful nothings to any of the girls who arekind enough or silly enough to waste a moment on so irreclaimable abutterfly. 

He is not so entirely engrossed by his pleasing occupations, however, asto be lost to the more serious matters that are going on around him. Heis specially struck by the fact that Lady Swansdown, who had been incharming spirits all through the afternoon, and afterward at dinner, isnow dancing a great deal with Beauclerk, of all people, and makingherself apparently very delightful to him. His own personal belief up tothis had been that she detested Beauclerk, and now to see her smilingupon him and favoring him with waltz after waltz upsets Dicky's power ofpenetration to an almost fatal extent. 

"I wonder what the deuce she's up to now, " says he to himself, leaningagainst the wall behind him, and giving voice unconsciously to thethoughts within him. 

"Eh?" says somebody at his ear. 

He looks round hastily to find Miss Maliphant has come to anchor on hisleft, and that her eyes, too, are directed on Beauclerk, who with LadySwansdown is standing at the lower end of the room. 

"Eh, to you, " says he brilliantly. 

"I always rather fancied that Mr. Beauclerk and Lady Swansdown wereantipathetic, " says Miss Maliphant in her usual heavy, downright way. 

"There was room for it, " says Mr. Browne gloomily. 

"For it?"

"Your fancy. "

"Yes, so I think. Lady Swansdown has always seemed to me to berather--raiher--eh?"

"Decidedly so, " agrees Mr. Browne. "And as for Beauclerk, he is quitetoo dreadfully 'rather, ' don't you think?"

"I don't know, I'm sure. He has often seemed to me a little light, butonly on the surface. "

"You've read him, " says Mr. Browne with a confidential nod. "Light onthe surface, but deep, deep as a draw well?"

"I don't think I mean what you do, " says Miss Maliphant quickly. "However, we are not discussing Mr. Beauclerk, beyond the fact that wewonder to see him so genial with Lady Swansdown. They used to bethoroughly antagonistic, and now--why they seem quite good friends, don't they? Quite thick, eh?" with her usual graceful phraseology. 

"Thick as thieves in Vallambrosa, " says Mr. Browne with increasinggloom. Miss Maliphant turns to regard him doubtfully. 

"Leaves?" suggests she. 

"Thieves, " persists he immovably. 

"Oh! Ah! It's a joke perhaps, " says she, the doubt growing. Mr. Brownefixes a stern eye upon her. 

"Is thy servant a dog?" says he, and stalks indignantly away, leavingMiss Maliphant in the throes of uncertainty. 

"Yet I'm sure it wasn't the right word, " says she to herself with awonderful frown of perplexity. "However, I may be wrong. I often am. And, after all, Spain we're told is full of 'em. "

Whether "thieves" or "leaves" she doesn't explain, and presently hermind wanders entirely away from Mr. Browne's maundering to the subjectthat so much more nearly interests her. Beauclerk has not been quite soempressé in his manner to her to-night--not so altogether delightful. Hehas, indeed, it seems to her, shirked her society a good deal, and hasnot been so assiduous about the scribbling of his name upon her card asusual. And then this sudden friendship with Lady Swansdown--what does hemean by that? What does she mean?

If she had only known. If the answer to her latter question had beengiven to her, her mind would have grown easier, and the idea of LadySwansdown in the form of a rival would have been laid at rest forever. 

As a fact, Lady Swansdown hardly understands herself to-night. Thatscene with her hostess has upset her mentally and bodily, and created inher a wild desire to get away from herself and from Baltimore at anycost. Some idle freak has induced her to use Beauclerk (who isdetestable to her) as a safeguard from both, and he, unsettled in hisown mind, and eager to come to conclusions with Joyce and her fortune, has lent himself to the wiles of his whilom foe, and is permitinghimself to be charmed by her fascinating, if vagrant, mood. 

Perhaps in all her life Lady Swansdown has never looked so lovely asto-night. Excitement and mental disturbance have lent a dangerousbrilliancy to her eyes, a touch of color to her cheek. There issomething electric about her that touches those who gaze, on her, andwarns herself that a crisis is at hand. 

Up to this she has been able to elude all Baltimore's attempts atconversation--has refused all his demands for a dance, yet this sameknowledge that the night will not go by without a denouement of somekind between her and him is terribly present to her. To-night! The lastnight she will ever see him, in all human probability! The exaltationthat enables her to endure this thought is fraught with such agony that, brave and determined as she is, it is almost too much for her. 

Yet she--Isabel--she should learn that that old friendship between themwas no fable. To-night it would bear fruit. False, she believedher--well, she should see. 

In a way, she clung to Beauclerk as a means of escapingBaltimore--throwing out a thousand wiles to charm him to her side, andsucceeding. Three times she had given a smiling "No" to Lord Baltimore'sdemand for a dance, and, regardless of opinion, had flung herself into awild and open flirtation with Beauclerk. 

But it is growing toward midnight, and her strength is failing her. These people, will they never go, will she never be able to seek her ownroom, and solitude, and despair without calling down comment on herhead, and giving Isabel--that cold woman--the chance of sneering at herweakness?

A sudden sense of the uselessness of it all has taken possession of her;her heart sinks. It is at this moment that Baltimore once more comes upto her. 

"This dance?" says he. "It is half way through. You are not engaged, Isuppose, as you are sitting down? May I have what remains of it?"

She makes a little gesture of acquiescence, and, rising, places her handupon his arm. 

CHAPTER XLVI. 

 "O life! thou art a galling load Along a rough, a weary road, To wretches such as I. "

The crisis has come, she tells herself, with a rather grim smile. Well, better have it and get it over. 

That there had been a violent scene between Baltimore and his wife afterdinner had somehow become known to her, and the marks of it stillbetrayed themselves in the former's frowning brow and sombre eyes. 

It had been more of a scene than usual. Lady Baltimore, generally socalm, had for once lost herself, and given way to a passion ofindignation that had shaken her to her very heart's core. Though soapparently unmoved and almost insolent in her demeanor toward LadySwansdown during their interview, she had been, nevertheless, cruellywounded by it, and could not forgive Baltimore in that he had been itscause. 

As for him, he could not forgive her all she had said and looked. With aheart on fire he had sought Lady Swansdown, the one woman whom he knewunderstood and believed in him. It was a perilous moment, and Beatriceknew it. She knew, too, that angry despair was driving him into herarms, not honest affection. She was strong enough to face this andrefused to deceive herself about it. 

"I didn't think you and Beauclerk had anything in common, " saysBaltimore, seating himself beside her on the low lounge that is halfhidden from the public gaze by the Indian curtains that fall at eachside of it. He had made no pretence of finishing the dance. He had ledthe way and she had suffered herself to be led into the small anteroomthat, half smothered in early spring flowers, lay off the dancing room. 

"Ah! you see you have yet much to learn about me, " says she, with anattempt at gayety--that fails, however. 

"About you? No!" says he, almost defiantly. "Don't tell me I havedeceived myself about you, Beatrice; you are all I have left to fallback upon now. " His tone is reckless to the last degree. 

"A forlorn pis-aller, " she says, steadily, with a forced smile. "What isit, Cyril?" looking at him with sudden intentness. "Something hashappened. What?"

"The old story, " returns he, "and I am sick of it. I have thrown up myhand. I would have been faithful to her, Beatrice. I swear that, but shedoes not care for my devotion. And as for me, now----" He throws out hisarms as if tired to death, and draws in his breath heavily. 

"Now?" says she, leaning forward. 

"Am I worth your acceptance?" says he, turning sharply to her. "I hardlydare to think it, and yet you have been kind to me, and your own lot isnot altogether a happy one, and----"

He pauses. 

"Do you hesitate?" asks she very bitterly, although her pale lips aresmiling. 

"Will you risk it all?" says he, sadly. "Will you come away with me? Ifeel I have no friend on earth but you. Will you take pity on me? Ishall not stay here, whatever happens; I have striven against fate toolong--it has overcome me. Another land--a different life--completeforgetfulness----"

"Do you know what you are saying?" asks Lady Swansdown, who has growndeadly white. 

"Yes; I have thought it all out. It is for you now to decide. I havesometimes thought I was not entirely indifferent to you, and at allevents we are friends in the best sense of the term. If you were a happymarried woman, Beatrice, I should not speak to you like this, but as itis--in another land--if you will come with me--we----"

"Think, think!" says she, putting up her hand to stay him from furtherspeech. "All this is said in a moment of angry excitement. You havecalled me your friend--and truly. I am so far in touch with you that Ican see you are very unhappy. You have had--forgive me if I probeyou--but you have had some--some words with your wife?"

"Final words! I hope--I think. "

"I do not, however. All this will blow over, and--come Cyril, face it!Are you really prepared to deliberately break the last link that holdsyou to her?"

"There is no link. She has cut herself adrift long since. She will beglad to be rid of me. "

"And you--will you be glad to be rid of her?"

"It will be better, " says he, shortly. 

"And--the boy!"

"Don't let us go into it, " says he, a little wildly. 

"Oh! but we must--we must, " says she. "The boy--you will----?"

"I shall leave him to her. It is all she has. I am nothing to her. Icannot leave her desolate. "

"How you consider her!" says she, in a choking voice. She could haveburst into tears! "What a heart! and that woman to treat himso--whilst--oh! it is hard--hard!"

"I tell you, " says she presently, "that you have not gone into thisthing. To-morrow you will regret all that you have now said. "

"If you refuse me--yes. It lies in your hands now. Are you going torefuse me?"

"Give me a moment, " says she faintly. She has risen to her feet, and isso standing that he cannot watch her. Her whole soul is convulsed. Shallshe? Shall she not? The scales are trembling. 

That woman's face! How it rises before her now, pale, cold, contemptuous. With what an insolent air she had almost ordered her fromher sight. And yet--and yet----

She can remember that disdainful face, kind and tender and loving! Aface she had once delighted to dwell upon! And Isabel had been very goodto her once--when others had not been kind, and when Swansdown, hernatural protector, had been scandalously untrue to his trust. Isabel hadloved her then; and now, how was she about to requite her? Was she tolet her know her to be false--not only in thought but in reality! Couldshe live and see that pale face in imagination filled with scorn for thedesecrated friendship that once had been a real bond between them?

Oh! A groan that is almost a sob breaks from her. The scale has gonedown to one side. It is all over, hope and love and joy. Isabel has won. 

She has been leaning against the arm of the lounge, now she once moresinks back upon the seat as though standing is impossible to her. 

"Well?" says Baltimore, laying his hand gently upon hers. His touchseems to burn her, she flings his hand from her and shrinks back. 

"You have decided, " says he quickly. "You will not come with me?"

"Oh! no, no, no!" cries she. "It is impossible!" A little curious laughbreaks from her that is cruelly akin to a cry. "There is too much toremember, " says she, suddenly. 

"You think you would be wronging her, " says Baltimore, reading hercorrectly. "I have told you you are at fault there. She would bless thechance that swept me out of her life. And as for me, I should have noregrets. You need not fear that. "

"Ah, that is what I do fear, " says she in a low tone. 

"Well, you have decided, " says he, after a pause. "After all why shouldI feel either disappointment or surprise? What is there about me thatshould tempt any woman to cast in her lot with mine?"

"Much!" says Lady Swansdown, deliberately. "But the one great essentialis wanting--you have no love to give. It is all given. " She leans towardhim and regards him earnestly. "Do you really think you are in love withme? Shall I tell you who you are in love with?" She lets her soft cheekfall into her hand and looks up at him from under her long lashes. 

"You can tell me what you will, " says he, a little impatiently. 

"Listen, then, " says she, with a rather broken attempt at gayety, "youare in love with that good, charming, irritating, impossible, but mostlovable person in the world--your own wife!"

"Pshaw!" says Baltimore, with an irritated gesture. "We will not discussher, if you please. "

"As you will. To discuss her or leave her name out of it altogether willnot, however, alter matters. "

"You have quite made up your mind, " says he, presently, looking at hersearchingly. "You will let me go alone into evil?"

"You will not go, " returns she, trying to speak with conviction, butlooking very anxious. 

"I certainly shall. There is nothing else left for me to do. Life hereis intolerable. "

"There is one thing, " says she, her voice trembling. "You might make itup with her. "

"Do you think I haven't tried, " says he, with a harsh laugh "I'm tiredof making advances. I have done all that man can do. No, I shall not tryagain. My one regret in leaving England will be that I shall not see youagain!"

"Don't!" says she, hoarsely. 

"I believe on my soul, " says he, hurriedly, "that you do care for me. That it is only because of her that you will not listen to me. "

"You are right!" (in a low tone)--"I--" Her voice fails her, she pressesher hands together. "I confess, " says she, with terrible abandonment, "that I might have listened to you--had I not liked her so well. "

"Better than me, apparently, " says he, bitterly. "She has had the bestof it all through. "

"There we are quits, then, " says she, quite as bitterly. "Because youlike her better than me. "

"If so--do you think I would speak to you as I have spoken?"

"Yes. I think that. A man is always more or less of a baby. Years ofdiscretion he seldom reaches. You are angry with your wife, and would berevenged upon her, and your way to revenge yourself is to make a secondwoman hate you. "

"A second?"

"I should probably hate you in six months, " says she, with a touch ofpassion. "I am not sure that I do not hate you now. "

Her nerve is fast failing her. If she had a doubt about it before, thecertainty now that Baltimore's feeling for her is merely friendship--thedesire of a lonely man for some sympathetic companion--anything butlove, has entered into her and crushed her. He would devote the rest ofhis life to her. She is sure of that--but always it would be a lifefilled with an unavailing regret. A horror of the whole situation hasseized upon her. She will never be any more to him than a pleasantmemory, while he to her must be an ever-growing pain. Oh! to be able towrench herself free, to be able to forget him to blot him out of hermind forever. 

"A second woman!" repeats he, as if struck by this thought to theexclusion of all others. 

"Yes!"

"You think, then, " gazing at her, "that she--hates me?"

Lady Swansdown breaks into a low but mirthless laugh. The most poignantanguish rings through it. 

"She! she!" cries she, as if unable to control herself, and then stopssuddenly placing her hand to her forehead. "Oh, no, she doesn't hateyou, " she says. "But how you betray yourself! Do you wonder I laugh? Didever any man so give himself away? You have been declaring to me formonths that she hates you, yet when I put it into words, or you think Ido, it seems as though some fresh new evil had befallen you. Ah! give upthis role of Don Juan, Baltimore. It doesn't suit you. "

"I have had no desire to play the part, " says he, with a frown. 

"No? And yet you ask a woman for whom you scarcely bear a passingaffection to run away with you, to defy public opinion for your sake, and so forth. You should advise her to count the world well lost forlove--such love as yours! You pour every bit of the old rubbish intoone's ears, and yet--" She stops abruptly. A very storm of anger andgrief and despair is shaking her to her heart's core. 

"Well?" says he, still frowning. 

"What have you to offer me in exchange for all you ask me to give? Aheart filled with thoughts of another! No more!----"

"If you persist in thinking----"

"Why should I not think it? When I tell you there is danger of my hatingyou, as your wife might--perhaps--hate you--your first thought is forher! 'You think then that she hates me'?" (She imitates the anxiety ofhis tone with angry truthfulness. ) "Not one word of horror at thethought that I might hate you six months hence. "

"Perhaps I did not believe you would, " says he, with some embarrassment. 

"Ah! That is so like a man! You think, don't you, that you were made tobe loved? There, go! Leave me!"

He would have spoken to her again, but she rejects the idea with suchbitterness that he is necessarily silent. She has covered her face withher hands. Presently she is alone. 

CHAPTER XLVII. 

 "But there are griefs, ay, griefs as deep; The friendship turned to hate. And deeper still, and deeper still Repentance come too late, too late!"

Joyce, on the whole, had not enjoyed last night's dance at the Court. Barbara had been there, and she had gone home with her and Monkton afterit, and on waking this morning a sense of unreality, of dissatisfaction, is all that comes to her. No pleasant flavor is on her mental palate;there is only a vague feeling of failure and a dislike to looking intothings--to analyze matters as they stand. 

Yet where the failure came in she would have found it difficult toexplain even to herself. Everybody, so far as she was concerned, hadbehaved perfectly; that is, as she, if she had been compelled to say itout loud, would have desired them to behave. Mr. Beauclerk had beenpolite enough; not too polite; and Lady Baltimore had made a great dealof her, and Barbara had said she looked lovely, and Freddy had saidsomething, oh! absurd of course, and not worth repeating, but stillflattering; and those men from the barracks at Clonbree had been aperfect nuisance, they were so pressing with their horrid attentions, and so eager to get a dance. And Mr. Dysart----

Well? That fault could not be laid to his charge, therefore, of course, he was all that could be desired. He was circumspect to the last degree. He had not been pressing with his attentions; he had, indeed, been sokind and nice that he had only asked her for one dance, and during theshort quarter of an hour that that took to get through he had been soadmirably conducted as to restrain his conversation to the mostcommonplace, and had not suggested that the conservatory was a capitalplace to get cool in between the dances. 

The comb she was doing her hair with at the time caught in her hair asshe came to this point, and she flung it angrily from her, and assuredherself that the tears that had suddenly come into her eyes arose fromthe pain that that hateful instrument of torture had caused her. 

Yes, Felix had taken the right course; he had at least learned that shecould never be anything to him--could never--forgive him. It showedgreat dignity in him, great strength of mind. She had told him, at leastgiven him to understand when in London, that he should forget her, and--he had forgotten. He had obeyed her. The comb must have hurt heragain, and worse this time, because now the tears are running down hercheeks. How horrible it is to be unforgiving! People who don't forgivenever go to heaven. There seems to be some sort of vicious consolationin this thought. 

In truth, Dysart's behavior to her since his return has been all she hadled him to understand it ought to be. He it so changed toward her inevery way that sometimes she has wondered if he has forgotten all thestrange, unhappy past, and is now entirely emancipated from the tortureof love unrequited that once had been his. 

It is a train of thought she has up to this shrank from pursuing, yetwhich, she being strong in certain ways, should have been pursued by herto the bitter end. One small fact, however, had rendered her doubtful. She could not fail to notice that whenever he and she are together inthe morning room, ballroom, or at luncheon or dinner, or breakfast, though he will not approach or voluntarily address her unless she firstmakes an advance toward him, a rare occurrence; still, if she raises hereyes to his, anywhere, at any moment, it is to find his on her!

And what sad eyes! Searching, longing, despairing, angry, but alwaysfull of an indescribable tenderness. 

Last night she had specially noticed this--but then last night he hadspecially held aloof from her. No, no! It was no use dwelling upon it. He would not forgive. That chapter in her life was closed. To attempt toopen it again would be to court defeat. 

Joyce, however, had not been the only one to whom last night had been adisappointment. Beauclerk's determination to propose to her--to put hisfortune to the touch and to gain hers--failed. Either the fates wereagainst him, or else she herself was in a willful mood. She had refusedto leave the dancing room with him on any pretext whatever, unless togain the coolness of the crowded hall outside, or the still moreinhabited supper room. 

He was not dismayed, however, and there was no need to do thingsprecipitately. There was plenty of time. There could be no doubt aboutthe fact that she preferred him to any of the other men of heracquaintance; he had discovered that she had refused Dysart not onlyonce, but twice. This he had drawn out of Isabel by a mild andapparently meaningless but nevertheless incessant and abstrusecross-examination. Naturally! He could see at once the reason for that. No girl who had been once honored by his attentions could possibly giveher heart to another. No girl ever yet refused an honest offer unlessher mind was filled with the image of another fellow. Mr. Beauclerkfound no difficulty about placing "the other fellow" in this case. Norman Beauclerk was his name! What woman in her senses would preferthat tiresome Dysart with his "downright honesty" business so gloomilydeveloped, to him, Beauclerk? Answer? Not one. 

Well, she shall be rewarded now, dear little girl! He will make herhappy for life by laying his name and prospective fortune at her feet. To-day he will end his happy bachelor state and sacrifice himself on thealtar of love. 

Thus resolved, he walks up through the lands of the Court, through thevalley filled with opening fronds of ferns, and through the spinneybeyond that again, until he comes to where the Monktons live. The houseseems very silent. Knocking at the door, the maid comes to tell him thatMr. And Mrs. Monkton and the children are out, but that Miss Kavanagh iswithin. 

Happy circumstance! Surely the fates favor him. They always have, by theby--sure sign that he is deserving of good luck. 

Thanks. Miss Kavanagh, then. His compliments, and hopes that she is nottoo fatigued to receive him. 

The maid, having shown him into the drawing-room, retires with themessage, and presently the sound of little high-heeled shoes crossingthe hall tells him that Joyce is approaching. His heart beats high--notimmoderately high. To be uncertain is to be none the less unnerved--butthere is no uncertainty about his wooing. Still it pleases him to knowthat in spite of her fatigue she could not bring herself to deny herselfto him. 

"Ah! How good of you!" says he as she enters, meeting her with bothhands outstretched. "I feared the visit was too early! A very _bêtise_on my part--but you are the soul of kindness always. "

"Early!" says Joyce, with a little laugh. "Why you might have found mechasing the children round the garden three hours ago. Providentially, "giving him one hand, the ordinary one, and ignoring his other, "theirfather and mother were bound to go to Tisdown this morning or I shouldhave been dead long before this. "

"Ah!" says Beauclerk. And then with increasing tenderness. "So glad theywere removed; it would have been too much for you, wouldn't it?"

"Yes--I dare say--on the whole, I believe I don't mind them, " says MissKavanagh. "Well--and what about last night? It was delightful, wasn'tit?" Secretly she sighs heavily, as she makes this most untruthfulassertion. 

"Ah! Was it?" asks he. "I did not find it so. How could I when you wereso unkind to me?"

"I! Oh, no. Oh, surely not!" says she anxiously. There is no touch ofthe coquetry that might be about this answer had it been given to a manbetter liked. A slow soft color has crept into her cheeks, born of theknowledge that she had got out of several dances with him. But he, seeing it, gives it another, a more flattering meaning to his own selflove. 

"Can you deny it?" asks he, changing his seat so as to get nearer toher. "Joyce!" He leans toward her. "May I speak at last? Last night Iwas foiled in my purpose. It is difficult to say all that is in one'sheart at a public affair of that kind, but now--now----"

Miss Kavanagh has sprung to her feet. 

"No! Don't, don't!" she says earnestly. "I tell you--I beg you--I warnyou----" She pauses, as if not knowing what else to say, and raises herpretty hands as if to enforce her words. 

"Shy, delightfully shy!" says Beauclerk to himself. He goes quickly upto her with all the noble air of the conqueror, and seizing one of hertrembling hands holds it in his own. 

"Hear me!" he says with an amused toleration for her girlish _mauvaisehonte_. "It is only such a little thing I have to say to you, but yet itmeans a great deal to me--and to you, I hope. I love you, Joyce. I havecome here to-day to ask you to be my wife. "

"I told you not to speak, " says she. She has grown very white now. "Iwarned you! It is no use--no use, indeed. "

"I have startled you, " says Beauclerk, still disbelieving, yet somehowloosening the clasp on her hand. "You did not expect, perhaps, that Ishould have spoken to-day, and yet----"

"No. It was not that, " says Miss Kavanagh, slowly. "I knew you wouldspeak--I thought last night would have been the time, but I managed toavoid it then, and now----"

"Well?"

"I thought it better to get it over, " says she, gently. She stops as ifstruck by something, and heavy tears rush to her eyes. Ah! she had toldanother very much the same as that. But she had not meant it then--andyet had been believed--and now, when she does mean it, she is notbelieved. Oh! if the cases might be reversed!

Beauclerk, however, mistakes the cause of the tears. 

"It--get what over?" demands he, smiling. 

"This misunderstanding. "

"Ah, yes--that! I am afraid, "--he leans more closely toward her, --"Ihave often been afraid that you have not quite read me as I ought to beread. "

"Oh, I have read you, " says she, with a little gesture of her head, halfconfused, half mournful. 

"But not rightly, perhaps. There have been moments when I fear you mayhave misjudged me----"

"Not one, " says she quickly. "Mr. Beauclerk, if I might implore you notto say another word----"

"Only one more, " pleads he, coming up smiling as usual. "Just one, Joyce--let me say my last word; it may make all the difference in theworld between you and me now. I love you--nay, hear me!"

She has risen, and he, rising too, takes possession of both her hands. "I have come here to-day to ask you to be my wife; you know thatalready--but you do not know how I have worshiped you all these drearymonths, and how I have kept silent--for your sake. "

"And for 'my sake' why do you speak now?" asks she. She has withdrawnher hands from his. "What have you to offer me now that you had not ayear ago?"

After all, it is a great thing to be an accomplished liar. It sticks toBeauclerk now. 

"Why! Haven't you heard?" asks he, lifting astonished brows. 

"I have heard nothing!"

"Not of my coming appointment? At least"--modestly--"of my chance ofit?"

"No. Nothing, nothing. And even if I had, it would make no difference. Ibeg you to understand once for all, Mr. Beauclerk, that I cannot listento you. "

"Not now, perhaps. I have been very sudden----"

"No, never, never. "

"Are you telling me that you refuse me?" asks he, looking at her with arather strange expression in his eyes. 

"I am sorry you put it that way, " returns she, faintly. 

"I don't believe you know what you are doing, " cries he, losing hisself-control for once in his life. "You will regret this. For a momentof spite, of ill-temper, you----"

"Why should I be ill-tempered about anything that concerns you and me?"says she, very gently still. She has grown even whiter, however, and haslifted her head so that her large eyes are directed straight to his. Something in the calm severity of her look chills him. 

"Ah! you know best!" says he, viciously. The game is up--is thoroughlyplayed out. This he acknowledges to himself, and the knowledge does nothelp to sweeten his temper. It helps him, however, to direct a lastshaft at her. Taking up his hat, he makes a movement to depart, and thenlooks back at her. His overweening vanity is still alive. 

"When you do regret it, " says he--"and I believe that will be soon--itwill be too late. You had the goodness to give me a warning a fewminutes ago--I give you one now. "

"I shall not regret it, " says she, coolly. 

"Not even when Dysart has sailed for India, and then 'the girl he leftbehind him' is disconsolate?" asks he, with an insolent laugh. "Ha! thattouches you!"

It had touched her. She looks like a living thing stricken suddenly intomarble, as she stands gazing back at him, with her hands tightlyclenched before her. India! To India! And she had never heard. 

Extreme anger, however, fights with her grief, and, overcoming it, enables her to answer her adversary. 

"I think you, too, will feel regret, " says she, gravely, "when you lookback upon your conduct to me to-day. "

There is such gentleness, such dignity, in her rebuke, and her beautifulface is so full of a mute reproach, that all the good there is inBeauclerk rises to the surface. He flings his hat upon a table near, andhimself at her feet. 

"Forgive me!" cries he, in a stifled tone. "Have mercy on me, Joyce!--Ilove you--I swear it! Do not cast me adrift! All I have said or done Iregret now! You said I should regret, and I do. "

Something in his abasement disgusts the girl, instead of creating pityin her breast. She shakes herself free of him by a sharp and horrifiedmovement. 

"You must go home, " she says calmly, yet with a frowning brow, "and youmust not come here again. I told, you it was all useless, but you wouldnot listen. No, no; not a word!" He has risen to his feet, and wouldhave advanced toward her, but she waves him from her with a sort oftroubled hatred in her face. 

"You mean----" begins he, hoarsely. 

"One thing--one thing only, " feverishly--"that I hope I shall never seeyou again!"

CHAPTER XLVIII. 

 "When a man hath once forfeited the reputation of his sincerity he is set fast, and nothing will then serve his turn, neither truth nor falsehood. "

When he is gone Joyce draws a deep breath. For a moment it seems to herthat it is all over--a disagreeable task performed, and then suddenly areaction sets in. The scene gone through has tried her more than sheknows, and without warning now she finds she is crying bitterly. 

How horrible it all had been. How detestable he had looked--not so muchwhen offering her his hand (as for his heart--pah!) as when he had givenway to his weak exhibition of feeling and had knelt at her feet, throwing himself on her mercy. She placed her hands over her eyes whenshe thought of that. Oh! she wished he hadn't done it!

She is still crying softly--not now for Beauclerk's behavior, but forcertain past beliefs--when a knock at the door warns her that anothervisitor is coming. She has not had time or sufficient presence of mindto tell a servant that she is not at home, when Miss Maliphant isushered in by the parlor maid. 

"I thought I'd come down and have a chat with you about last night, " shebegins in her usual loud tones, and with an assumption of easiness thatis belied by the keen and searching glance she directs at Joyce. 

"I'm so glad, " says Joyce, telling her little lie as bravely as she can, while trying to conceal her red eyelids from Miss Maliphant's astutegaze by pretending to rearrange a cushion that has fallen from one ofthe lounges. 

"Are you?" says her visitor, drily. "Seems to me I've come at the wrongmoment. Shall I go away?"

"Go! No, " says Joyce, reddening, and frowning a little. "Why shouldyou?"

"Well, you've been crying, " says Miss Maliphant, in her terriblydownright way. "I hate people when I've been crying; but then it makesme a fright, and it only makes you a little less pretty. I suppose Imustn't ask what it is all about?"

"If you did I don't believe I could tell you, " says Joyce, laughingrather unsteadily. "I was merely thinking, and it is the simplest thingin the world to feel silly now and then. "

"Thinking? Of Mr. Beauclerk?" asks Miss Maliphant, promptly, and withoutthe slightest idea of hesitation. "I saw him leaving this as I came bythe upper road! Was it he who made you cry?"

"Certainly not, " says Joyce, indignantly. 

"It looks like it, however, " says the other, her masculine voice growingeven sterner. "What was he saying to you?"

"I really do think----" Joyce is beginning, coldly, when Miss Maliphantstops her by an imperative gesture. 

"Oh, I know. I know all about that, " says she, contemptuously. "Oneshouldn't ask questions about other people's affairs; I've learned mymanners, though I seldom make any use of my knowledge, I admit. Afterall, I see no reason why I shouldn't ask you that question. I want toknow, and there is no one to tell me but you. Was he proposing to you, eh?"

"Why should you think that?" says Joyce, subdued by the masterful mannerof the other, and by something honest and above board about her that isher chief characteristic. There is no suspicion, either, about her ofher questions being prompted by mere idle curiosity. She has said shewanted to know, and there was meaning in her tone. 

"Why shouldn't I?" says she now. "He came down here early thisafternoon. He goes away in haste--and I find you in tears. Everythingpoints one way. "

"I don't see why it should point in that direction. "

"Come, be open with me, " says the heiress, brusquely, in an abruptfashion that still fails to offend. "Did he propose to you?"

Joyce hesitates. She raises her head and looks at Miss Maliphantearnestly. What a good face she has, if plain. Too good to be madeunhappy. After all, why not tell her the truth? It would be a warning. It was impossible to be blind to the fact that Miss Maliphant had beenglad to receive the dishonest attentions paid to her every now and thenby Beauclerk. Those attentions would probably be increased now, andwould end but one way. He would get Miss Maliphant's money, andshe--that good, kind-hearted girl--what would she get? It seems cruel tobe silent, and yet to speak is difficult. Would it be fair or honorableto divulge his secret?

Would it be fair or honorable to let her imagine what is not true? Hehad been false to her--Joyce (she could not blind herself to theknowledge that with all his affected desire for her he would never havemade her an offer of his hand but for her having come in for thatmoney)--he would therefore be false to Miss Maliphant; he would marryher undoubtedly, but as a husband he would break her heart. Is she, forthe sake of a word or two, to see her fall a prey to a mere passionlessfortune-hunter? A thousand times no! Better inflict a little pain nowrather than let this girl endure endless pain in the future. 

With a shrinking at her heart, born of the fear that the word will bevery bitter to her guest, she says, "Yes;" very distinctly. 

"Ha!" says Miss Maliphant, and that is all. Joyce, regarding heranxiously, is as relieved as astonished to see no trace of grief orchagrin upon her face. There is no change at all, indeed, except shelooks deeply reflective. Her mind seems to be traveling backward, picking up loose threads of memory, no doubt, and joining them together. A sense of intense comfort fills Joyce's soul. After all; the wound hadnot gone deep; she had been right to speak. 

"He is not worth thinking about, " says she, tremulously, _apropos_ ofnothing, as it seems. 

"No?" says Miss Maliphant; "then what were you crying about?"

"I hardly know. I felt nervous--and once I did like him--not verymuch--but still I liked him--and he was a disappointment. "

"Tell you what, " says Miss Maliphant, "you've hit upon a big truth. Heis not worth thinking about. Once, perhaps, I, too, liked him, and I wasan idiot for my pains; but I shan't like him again in a hurry. I expectI've got to let him know that, one way or another. And as for you----"

"I tell you I never liked him much, " says Joyce, with a touch ofdispleasure. "He was handsome, suave, agreeable--but----"

"He was, and is, a hypocrite!" interrupts Miss Maliphant, with trulybeautiful conciseness. She has never learned to mince matters. "And, when all is told, perhaps nothing better than a fool! You are well outof it, in my opinion. "

"I don't think I had much to do with it, " says Joyce, unable to refrainfrom a smile. "I fancy my poor uncle was responsible for the honor doneme to-day. " Then a sort of vague feeling that she is being ungenerousdistresses her. "Perhaps, after all, I misjudge him too far, " she says. 

"Could you?" with a bitter little laugh. 

"I don't know, " doubtfully. "One often forms an opinion of a person, and, though the groundwork of it may be just, still one is too inclinedto build upon it and to rear stories upon it that get a little beyondthe actual truth when the structure is completed. "

"Oh! I think it is he who tells all the stories, " said Miss Maliphant, who is singularly dull in little unnecessary ways, and has failed tofollow Joyce in her upstairs flight. "In my opinion he's a liar; I wasgoing to say '_pur et simple_, ' but he is neither pure nor simple. "

"A liar!" says Joyce, as if shocked. Some old thought recurs to her. Sheturns quickly to Miss Maliphant. The thought grows into words almostbefore she is aware of it. "Have you a cousin in India?" asks she. 

"In India?" Miss Maliphant regards her with some surprise. Why thissudden absurd question in an interesting conversation about that"Judas"? I regret to say this is what Miss Maliphant has now decidedupon naming Mr. Beauclerk when talking to herself. 

"Yes, India. "

"Not one. Plenty in Manchester and Birmingham, but not one in India. "

Joyce leans back in her chair, and a strange laugh breaks from her. Shegets up suddenly and goes to the other and leans over her, as though thebetter to see her. 

"Oh, think--think, " says she. "Not a cousin you loved? Dearly loved? Acousin for whom you were breaking your heart, who was not as steady ashe ought to be, but who----"

"You must be going out of your mind, " says Miss Maliphant, drawing backfrom her. "If you saw my Birmingham cousins, or even the Manchesterones, you wouldn't ask that question twice. They think of nothing butmoney, money, money, from morning till night, and are essentiallyshoppy. I don't mind saying it, you know. It is as good to give up, andacknowledge things--and certainly they----"

"Never mind them. It is the Indian cousin in whom I am interested, " saysJoyce, impatiently. "You are sure, sure that you haven't one out there?One whom Mr. Beauclerk knew about? And who was in love with you, and youwith him. The cousin he told me of----"

"Mr. Beauclerk?"

"Yes--yes. The night of the ball at the Court, last autumn. I saw youwith Mr. Beauclerk in the garden then, and he told me afterward you hadbeen confiding in him about your cousin. The one in India. That you weregoing to be married to him. Oh! there must be truth--some truth in it. Do try to think!"

"If, " says Miss Maliphant, slowly, "I were to think until I was black inthe face, as black as any Indian of 'em all, I couldn't even by sosevere a process conjure up a cousin in Hindostan! And so he told youthat?"

"Yes, " says Joyce faintly. She feels almost physically ill. 

"He's positively unique, " says Miss Maliphant, after a slight pause. "Itold you just now that he was a liar, but I didn't throw sufficiententhusiasm into the assertion. He is a liar of distinction very farabove his fellows! I suppose it would be superfluous now to ask if thatnight you speak of you were engaged to Mr. Dysart?"

"Oh, no, " says Joyce quickly, as if struck. "There never has been, therenever will be aught of that sort between me and Mr. Dysart Surely--Mr. Beauclerk did not----"

"Oh, yes, he did. He assured me--not in so many words (let me beperfectly just to him)--but he positively gave me to understand that youwere going to marry Felix Dysart. There! Don't mind that, " seeing thegirl's pained face. "He was bound to say something, you know. Though itmust be confessed the Indian cousin story was the more ingenious. Whydidn't you tell me of that before?"

"Because he told it to me in the strictest confidence. "

"Of course. Bound you on your honor not to speak of it, lest my feelingsshould be hurt. Really, do you know, I think he was almost clever enoughto make one sorry he didn't succeed. Well, good-by. " She rises abruptly, and, taking Joyce's hand, looks at her for a moment. "Felix Dysart has agood heart, " says she, suddenly. As suddenly she kisses Joyce, and, crossing the room with a quick stride, leaves it. 

CHAPTER XLIX. 

 "Shall we not laugh, shall we not weep?"

It is quite four o'clock, and therefore two hours later. Barbara hasreturned, and has learned the secret of Joyce's pale looks and sad eyes, and is now standing on the hearthrug looking as one might who has beensuddenly wakened from a dream that had seemed only too real. 

"And you mean to say--you really mean, Joyce, that you refused him?"

"Yes. I actually had that much common-sense, " with a laugh that hassomething of bitterness in it. 

"But I thought--I was sure----"

"I know you thought he was my ideal of all things admirable. And youthought wrong. "

"But if not he----"

"Barbara!" says Joyce sharply. "Was it not enough that you should havemade one mistake? Must you insist on making another?"

"Well, never mind, " says Mrs. Monkton hastily. "I'm glad I made thatone, at all events; and I'm only sorry you have felt it your duty tomake your pretty eyes wet about it Good gracious!" looking put of thewindow, "who is coming now? Dicky Browne and Mr. Courtenay and thosedetestable Blakes. Tommy, " turning sharply to her first-born. "If youand Mabel stay here you must be good. Do you hear now, good! You are notto ask a single question or touch a thing in the room, and you are tokeep Mabel quiet. I am not going to have Mrs. Blake go home and say youare the worst behaved children she ever met in her life. You will stay, Joyce?" anxiously to her sister. 

"Oh, I suppose so. I couldn't leave you to endure their tender merciesalone. "

"That's a darling girl! You know I never can get on with that odiouswoman. Ah! how d'ye do, Mrs. Blake? How sweet of you to come after lastnight's fatigue. "

"Well, I think a drive a capital thing after being up all night, " saysthe new-comer, a fat, little, ill-natured woman, nestling herself intothe cosiest chair in the room. "I hadn't quite meant to come here, but Imet Mr. Browne and Mr. Courtenay, so I thought we might as well joinforces, and storm you in good earnest. Mr. Browne has just been tellingme that Lady Swansdown left the Court this morning. Got a telegram, shesaid, summoning her to Gloucestershire. Never do believe in these suddentelegrams myself. Stayed rather long in that anteroom with LordBaltimore last night. "

"Didn't know she had been in any anteroom, " says Mrs. Monkton, coldly. "I daresay her mother-in-law is ill again. She has always been attentiveto her. "

"Not on terms with her son, you know; so Lady Swansdown hopes, by theattention you speak of, to come in for the old lady's private fortune. Very considerable fortune, I've heard. "

"Who told you?" asks Mr. Browne, with a cruelly lively curiosity. "LadySwansdown?"

"Oh, dear no!"

Pause! Dicky still looking expectant and Mrs. Blake uncomfortable. Sheis racking her brain to try and find some person who might have toldher, but her brain fails her. 

The pause threatens to be ghastly, when Tommy comes to the rescue. 

He had been told off as we know to keep Mabel in a proper frame of mind, but being in a militant mood has resented the task appointed him. He hasindeed so far given in to the powers that be that he has consented toaccept a picture book, and to show it to Mabel, who is looking at itwith him, lost in admiration of his remarkable powers of description. Each picture indeed, is graphically explained by Tommy at the top of hislungs, and in extreme bad humor. 

He is lying on the rug, on his fat stomach, and is becoming quite amartinet. 

"Look at this!" he is saying now. "Look! do you hear, or I won't stayand keep you good any longer. Here's a picture about a boat that's goingto be drowned down in the sea in one minnit. The name on it is"--readinglaboriously--"'All hands to the pump. ' And" with considerable viciousenjoyment--"it isn't a bit of good for them, either. Here"--pointing tothe picture again with a stout forefinger--"here they're 'all-handsing'at the pump. See?"

"No, I don't, and I don't want to, " says Mabel, whimpering and hidingher eyes. "Oh, I don't like it; it's a horrid picture! What's that mandoing there in the corner?" peeping through her fingers at a dead man inthe foreground. "He is dead! I know he is!"

"Of course he is, " says Tommy. "And"--valiantly--"I don't care a bit, Idon't. "

"Oh, but I do, " says Mabel. "And there's a lot of water, isn't there?"

"There always is in the sea, " says Tommy. 

"They'll all be drowned, I know they will, " says Mabel, pushing away thebook. "Oh, I hate 'handsing'; turn over, Tommy, do! It's a nasty cruel, wicked picture!"

"Tommy, don't frighten Mabel, " says his mother anxiously. 

"I'm not frightening her. I'm only keeping her quiet, " says Tommydefiantly. 

"Hah-hah!" says Mr. Courtenay vacuously. 

"How wonderfully unpleasant children can make themselves, " says Mrs. Blake, making herself 'wonderfully unpleasant' on the spot. "Your littleboy so reminds me of my Reginald. He pulls his sister's hair merely forthe fun of hearing her squeal!"

"Tommy does not pull Mabel's hair, " says Barbara a little stiffly. "Tommy, come here to Mr. Browne; he wants to speak to you. "

"I want to know if you would like a cat?" says Mr. Browne, drawing Tommyto him. 

"I don't want a cat like our cat, " says Tommy, promptly. "Ours is sosmall, and her tail is too thin. Lady Baltimore has a nice cat, with atail like mamma's furry for her neck. "

"Well, that's the very sort of a cat I can get you if you wish. "

"But is the cat as big as her tail?" asks Tommy, still careful not tocommit himself. 

"Well, perhaps not quite, " says Mr. Browne gravely. "Must it be quite asbig?"

"I hate small cats, " says Tommy. "I want a big one! I want--" pausing tofind a suitable simile, and happily remembering the kennel outside--"aregular setter of a cat!"

"Ah, " says Mr. Browne, "I expect I shall have to telegraph to India fora tiger for you. "

"A real live tiger?" asks Tommy, with distended eyes and a flutter ofwild joy at his heart, the keener that some fear is mingled with it. "Atiger that eats people up?"

"A man-eater, " says Mr. Browne, solemnly. "It would be the nearestapproach I know to the animal you have described. As you won't have thecat that Lady Baltimore will give you, you must only try to put up withmine. "

"Poor Lady Baltimore!" lisps Mrs. Blake. "What a great deal she has toendure. "

"Oh, she's all right to-day, " returns Mr. Browne, cheerfully. "Toothacheany amount better this morning. "

Mrs. Blake laughs in a little mincing way. 

"How droll you are, " says she. "Ah! if it were only toothache that wasthe matter But--" silence very effective, and a profound sigh. 

"Toothache's good enough for me, " says Dicky. "I should never dream ofasking for more. " He glances here at Joyce, and continues sotto voce, "You look as if you had it. "

"No, " returns she innocently. "Mine is neuralgia. A rather worse thing, after all. "

"Yes. You can get the tooth out, " says he. 

"Have you heard, " asks Mrs. Blake, "that Mr. Beauclerk is going to marrythat hideous Miss Maliphant. Horrid Manchester person, don't you know!Can't think what Lady Baltimore sees in her"--with a giggle--"her wantof beauty. Got rather too much of pretty women I should say. "

"I'm really afraid, " says Dicky, "that somebody has been hoaxing youthis time, Mrs. Blake;" genially. "I happen to know for a fact that MissMaliphant is not going to marry Beauclerk. "

"Indeed!" snappishly. "Ah, well really he is to be congratulated, Ithink. Perhaps, " with a sharp glance at Joyce, "I mistook the name ofthe young lady; I certainly heard he was going to be married. "

"So am I, "' says Mr. Browne, "some time or other; we are all going toget married one day or another. One day, indeed, is as good as another. You have set us such a capital example that we're safe to follow it. "

Mr. And Mrs. Blake being a notoriously unhappy couple, the latter growsrather red here; and Joyce gives Dicky a reproachful glance, which hereturns with one of the wildest bewilderment. What can she mean?

"Mr. Dysart will be a distinct loss when he goes to India, " continuesMrs. Blake quickly. "Won't be back for years, I hear, and leaving sosoon, too. A disappointment, I'm told! Some obdurate fair one! Sort ofchest affection, don't you know, ha-ha! India's place for that sort ofthing. Knock it out of him in no time. Thought he looked rather down inthe mouth last night. Not up to much lately, it has struck me. Seen muchof him this time, Miss Kavanagh?"

"Yes. A good deal, " says Joyce, who has, however, paled perceptibly. 

"Thought him rather gone to seed, eh? Rather the worse for wear. "

"I think him always very agreeable, " says Joyce, icily. 

A second most uncomfortable silence ensues. Barbara tries to get up aconversation with Mr. Courtenay, but that person, never brilliant at anytime, seems now stricken with dumbness. Into this awkward abyss Mabelplunges this time. Evidently she has been dwelling secretly on Tommy'scomments on their own cat, and is therefore full of thought about thatinteresting animal. 

"Our cat is going to have chickens!" says she, with all the air of onewho is imparting exciting intelligence. 

This astounding piece of natural history is received with variedemotions by the listeners. Mr. Browne, however, is unfeignedly charmedwith it, and grows as enthusiastic about it as even Mabel can desire. 

"You don't say so! When? Where?" demands he with breathless eagerness. 

"Don't know, " says Mabel seriously. "Last time 'twas in nurse's bestbonnet; but, " raising her sweet face to his, "she says she'll be blowedif she has them there this time!"

"Mabel!" cries her mother, crimson with mortification. 

"Yes?" asked Mabel, sweetly. 

But it is too much for every one. Even Mrs. Blake gives way for once tohonest mirth, and under cover of the laughter rises and takes herdeparture, rather glad of the excuse to get away. She carries off Mr. Courtenay. 

Dicky having lingered a little while to see that Mabel isn't scolded, goes too; and Barbara, with a sense of relief, turns to Joyce. 

"You look so awful tired, " says she. "Why don't you go and lie down?"

"I thought, on the contrary, I should like to go out for a walk, " saysJoyce indifferently. "I confess my head is aching horribly. And thatwoman only made me worse. "

"What a woman! I wonder she told so many lies. I wonder if----"

"If Mr. Dysart is going to India, " supplies Joyce calmly. "Very likely. Why not. Most men in the army go to India. "

"True, " say Mrs. Monkton with a sigh. Then in a low tone: "I shall besorry for him. "

"Why? If he goes"--coldly--"it is by his own desire. I see nothing to besorry about. "

"Oh, I do, " says Barbara. And then, "Well, go out, dearest. The air willdo you good. "

CHAPTER L. 

 "'Tis with our judgment as our watches, none Go just alike, yet each believes his own. "

Lord Baltimore had not spoken in a mere fit or pique when he told LadySwansdown of his fixed intention of putting a term to his present life. His last interview with his wife had quite decided him to throw upeverything and seek forgetfulness in travel. Inclination had pointedtoward such countries as Africa, or the northern parts of America, as, being a keen sportsman, he believed there he might find an occupationthat would distract his mind from the thoughts that now jarred upon himincessantly. 

His asking Lady Swansdown to accompany him therefore had been a suddendetermination. To go on a lengthened shooting expedition by one's selfis one thing, to go with a woman delicately nurtured is another. Ofcourse, had she agreed to his proposal, all his plans must necessarilyhave been altered, and perhaps his second feeling, after her refusal togo with him, was one of unmistakable relief. His proposal to her atleast had been born of pique!

The next morning found him, however, still strong in his desire forchange. The desire was even so far stronger that he now burned to put itinto execution; to get away to some fresh sphere of action, anddeliberately set himself to obliterate from his memory all past ties andrecollections. 

There was, too, perhaps a touch of revenge that bordered upon pleasureas he thought of what his wife would say when she heard of his decision. She who shrank so delicately from gossip of all kinds could not fail tobe distressed by news that must inevitably leave her and her privateaffairs open to public criticism. Though everybody was perpetuallyguessing about her domestic relations with her husband, no one as amatter of fact knew (except, indeed, two) quite the real truth aboutthem. This would effectually open the eyes of society, and proclaim toeverybody that, though she had refused to demand a separation, still shehad been obliged to accept it. This would touch her. If in no other waycould he get at her proud spirit, here now he would triumph. She hadbeen anxious to get rid of him in a respectable way, of course, butdeath as usual had declined to step in when most wanted, and now, well!She must accept her release, in however disreputable a guise it comes. 

It is just at the moment when Mrs. Blake is holding forth on LadyBaltimore's affairs to Mrs. Monkton that Baltimore enters the smallerdrawing-room, where he knows he will be sure to meet his wife at thishour. 

It is far in the afternoon, still the spring sunshine is streamingthrough the windows. Lady Baltimore, in a heavy tea gown of pale greenplush, is sitting by the fire reading a book, her little son upon thehearth rug beside her. The place is strewn with bricks, and the boy, ashis father enters, looks up at him and calls to him eagerly to come andhelp him. At the sound of the child's quick, glad voice a pang contractsBaltimore's heart. The child----He had forgotten him. 

"I can't make this castle, " says Bertie, "and mother isn't a bit ofgood. Hers always fall down; come you and make me one. "

"Not now, " says Baltimore. "Not to-day. Run away to your nurse. I wantto speak to your mother. "

There is something abrupt and jerky in his manner--something strained, and with sufficient temper in it to make the child cease from entreaty. The very pain Baltimore, is feeling has made his manner harsher to thechild. Yet, as the latter passes him obediently, he seizes the smallfigure in his arms and presses him convulsively to his breast. Then, putting him down, he points silently but peremptorily to the door. 

"Well?" says Lady Baltimore. She has risen, startled by his abruptentrance, his tone, and more than all, by that last brief but passionateburst of affection toward the child. "You, wish to speak to me--again?"

"There won't be many more opportunities, " says he, grimly. "You maysafely give me a few moments to-day. I bring you good news. I am goingabroad. At once. Forever. "

In spite of the self-control she has taught herself, Lady Baltimore'sself-possession gives way. Her brain seems to reel. Instinctively shegrasps hold of the back of a tall _prie-dieu_ next to her. 

"Hah! I thought so--I have touched her at last, through her pride, "thinks Baltimore, watching her with a savage satisfaction, which, however, hurts him horribly. And after all he was wrong, too. He hadtouched her, indeed; but it was her heart, not her pride, he hadwounded. 

"Abroad?" echoes she, faintly. 

"Yes; why not? I am sick of this sort of life. I have decided onflinging it up. "

"Since when have you come to this decision?" asks she presently, havingconquered her sudden weakness by a supreme effort. 

"If you want day and date I'm afraid I shan't be able to supply you. Ithas been growing upon me for some time--the idea of it, I mean--and lastnight you brought it to perfection. "

"I?"

"Have you already forgotten all the complimentary speeches you made me?They"--with a sardonic smile--"are so sweet to me that I shall keep themripe in my memory until death overtakes me--and after it, I think! Youtold me, among many other wifely things--if my mind does not deceiveme--that you wished me well out of your life, and Lady Swansdown withme. "

"That is a direct and most malicious misapplication of my words, " saysshe, emphatically. 

"Is it? I confess that was my reading of them. I accepted that version, and thinking to do you a good turn, and relieve you of both your _bêtesnoire_ at once, I proposed to Lady Swansdown last night that she shouldaccompany me upon my endless travels. "

There is a long, long pause, during which Lady Baltimore's face seems tohave grown into marble. She takes a step forward now. Through the sternpallor of her skin her large eyes seem to gleam like fire. 

"How dare you!" she says in a voice very low but so intense that itrings through the room. "How dare you tell me of this! Are you lost toall shame? You and she to go--to go away together! It is only what Ihave been anticipating for months. I could see how it was with you. Butthat you should have the insolence to stand before me--" she growsalmost magnificent in her wrath--"and declare your infamy aloud! Such athought was beyond me. There was a time when I would have thought itbeyond you!"

"Was there?" says he. He laughs aloud. 

"There, there, there!" says she, with a rather wild sort of sigh. "Whyshould I waste a single emotion upon you. Let me take you calmly, casually. Come--come now. " It is the saddest thing in the world to seehow she treads down the passionate, most natural uprisings within heragainst the injustice of life: "Make me at least _au courant_ with yourmovements, you and she will go--where?"

"To the devil, you thought, didn't you?" says he. "Well, you will bedisappointed as far as she is concerned. I maybe going. It appears shedoesn't think it worth while to accompany me there or anywhere else. "

"You mean that she refused to go with you?"

"In the very baldest language, I assure you. It left nothing to bedesired, believe me, in the matter of lucidity. 'No, ' she would not gowith me. You see there is not only one, but two women in the world whoregard me as being utterly without charm. "

"I commiserate you!" says she, with a bitter sneer. "If, after all yourattention to her, your friend has proved faithless, I----"

"Don't waste your pity, " says he, interrupting her rather rudely. "Onthe whole, the decision of my 'friend, ' as you call her, was rather arelief to me than otherwise. I felt it my duty to deprive you of hersociety"--with an unpleasant laugh--"and so I asked her to come with me. When she declined to accompany me she left me free to devote myself tosport. "

"Ah! you refuse to be corrupted?" says she, contemptuously. 

"Think what you will, " says he, restraining himself with determination. "It doesn't matter in the least to me now. Your opinion I considerworthless, because prejudiced--as worthless as you consider me. I camehere simply to tell you of my determination to go abroad. "

"You have told me of that already. Lady Swansdown having failed you, mayI ask"--with studied contempt--"who you are going to take with you now?"

"What do you mean?" says he, wheeling round to her. "What do you mean bythat? By heavens!" laying his hands upon her shoulders, and looking withfierce eyes into her pale face. "A man might well kill you!"

"And why?" demands she, undauntedly. "You would have taken her--you haveconfessed so much--you had the coarse courage to put it into words. Ifnot her, why"--with a shrug--"then another!"

"There! think as you will, " says he, releasing her roughly. "Nothing Icould say would convince or move you. And yet, I know it is no use, butI am determined I will leave nothing unsaid. I will give you noloop-hole. I asked her to go with me in a moment of irritation, ofloneliness, if you will; it is hard for a man to be forever outside thepale of affection, and I thought--well, it is no matter what I thought. I was wrong it seems. As for caring for her, I care so little that I nowfeel actually glad she had the sense to refuse my senseless proposal. She would have bored me, I think, and I should undoubtedly have boredher. The proposition was made to her in a moment of folly. "

"Oh, folly?" says she with a curious laugh. 

"Well, give it any other name you like. And after all, " in a low tone, "you are right. It was not the word. If I had said despair I should havebeen nearer the mark. "

"There might even be another word, " said she slowly. 

"Even if there were, " says he, "the occasion for it is of your making. You have thrown me; you must be prepared, therefore, to accept theconsequences. "

"You have prepared me for anything, " says she calmly, but with bittermeaning. 

"See here, " says he furiously. "There may still be one thing left foryou which I have not prepared. You have just asked me who I am going totake with me when I leave this place forever. Shall I answer you?"

Something in his manner terrifies her; she feels her face blanching. Words are denied her, but she makes a faint movement to assent with herhand. What is he going to say!

"What if I should decide, then, on taking my son with me?" says heviolently. "Who is there to prevent me? Not you, or another. Thus Icould cut all ties and put you out of my life at once and forever!"

He had certainly not calculated on the force of his words or his manner. It had been a mere angry suggestion. There was no crudity in Baltimore'snature. He had never once permitted himself to dwell upon thepossibility of separating the boy from his mother. Such terrible revengeas that was beyond him, his whole nature would have revolted against it. He had spoken with passion, urged by her contempt into a desire to showher where his power lay, without any intention of actually using it. Hemeant perhaps to weaken her intolerable defiance, and show her where ahole in her armor lay. He was not prepared for the effect of his words. 

An ashen shade has overspread her face; her expression has becomeghostly. As though her limbs have suddenly given way under her, shefalls against the mantel-piece and clings to it with trembling fingers. Her eyes, wild and anguished, seek his. 

"The child!" gasps she in a voice of mortal terror. "The child! Not thechild! Oh! Baltimore, you have taken all from me except that. Leave memy child!"

"Good heavens! Don't look at me like that, " exclaims he, inexpressiblyshocked--this sudden and complete abandonment of herself to her fear hashorrified him. "I never meant it. I but suggested a possibility. Thechild shall stay with you. Do you hear me, Isabel! The child is yours!When I go, I go alone!"

There is a moment's silence, and then she bursts into tears. It is asharp reaction, and it shakes her bodily and mentally. A wild return ofher love for him--that first, sweet, and only love of her life, returnsto her, born of intense gratitude. But sadly, slowly, it dies awayagain. It seems to her too late to dream of that again. Yet perhaps hertears have as much to do with that lost love as with her gratitude. 

Slowly her color returns. She checks her sobs. She raises her head andlooks at him still with her handkerchief pressed to her tremulous lips. 

"It is a promise, " says she. 

"Yes. A promise. "

"You will not change again--" nervously. "You----"

"Ah! doubt to the last, " says he. "It is a promise from me to you, andof course the word of such a reprobate as you consider me can scarcelybe of any avail. "

"But you could not break this promise?" says she in a low voice, andwith a long, long sigh. 

"What trust you place in me!" said he, with an open sneer--"Well, so beit. I give you home and child. You give me----Not worth while going intothe magnificence of your gifts, is it?"

"I gave you once a whole heart--an unbroken faith, " says she. 

"And took them back again! Child's play!" says he. "Child's promises. Well, if you will have it so, you have got a promise from me now, and Ithink you might say 'thank you' for it as the children do. "

"I do thank you!" says she vehemently. "Does not my whole manner speakfor me?" Once again her eyes filled with tears. 

"So much love for the child, " cries he in a stinging tone, "and not onethought for the father. Truly your professions of love were light asthistledown. There! you are not worth a thought yourself. Expend anyaffection you have upon your son, and forget me as soon as ever you can. It will not take you long, once I am out of your sight!"

He strides towards the door, and then looks back at her. 

"You understand about my going?" he says; "that it is decided, I mean?"

"As you will, " says she, her glance on the ground. There is such a totallack of emotion in her whole air that it might suggest itself to anacute student of human nature that she is doing her very utmost tosuppress even the smallest sign of it. But, alas! Baltimore is not thatstudent. 

"Be just:" says he sternly. "It is as you will--not as I. It is you whoare driving me into exile. "

He has turned his back, and has his hand on the handle of the door inthe act of opening it. At this instant she makes a move toward him, holding out her hands, but as suddenly suppresses herself. When he turnsagain to say a last word she is standing where he last saw her, pale andimpassive as a statue. 

"There will be some matters to arrange, " says he, "before my going. Ihave telegraphed to Hansard" (his lawyer), "he will be down in themorning. There will be a few papers for you to sign to-morrow----"

"Papers?"

"My will and your maintenance whilst I am away; and matters that willconcern the child's future. "

"His future. That means----"

"That in all probability when I have started I shall never see his faceagain--or yours. "

He opens the door abruptly, and is gone. 

CHAPTER LI. 

 "While bloomed the magic flowers we scarcely knew The gold was there. But now their petals strew Life's pathway. " "And yet the flowers were fair, Fed by youth's dew and love's enchanted air. "

The cool evening air breathing on Joyce's flushed cheeks calms her asshe sets out for the walk that Barbara had encouraged her to take. 

It is an evening of great beauty. Earth, sea, and sky seem blended inone great soft mist, that rising from the ocean down below floats up toheaven, its heart a pale, vague pink. 

The day is almost done, and already shadows are growing around trees andcorners. There is something mystical and strange in the deep murmursthat come from the nestling woods, the sweet wild coo of the pigeons, the chirping of innumerable songsters, and now and then the dull hootingof some blinking owl. Through all, the sad tolling of a chapel bellaway, away in the distance, where the tiny village hangs over the browof the rocks that gird the sea. 

 "While yet the woods were hardly more than brown, Filled with the stillness of the dying day, The folds and farms, and faint-green pastures lay, And bells chimed softly from the gray-walled town; The dark fields with the corn and poppies sown, The dull, delicious, dreamy forest way, The hope of April for the soul of May-- On all of these night's wide, soft wings swept down. "

Well, it isn't night yet, however. She can see to tread her way alongthe short young grasses down to a favorite nook of hers, where musicalsounds of running streams may be heard, and the rustling of growingleaves make songs above one's head. Here and there she goes throughbrambly ways, where amorous arms from blackberry bushes strive to catchand hold her, and where star-eyed daisies and buttercups and delicatefaint-hearted primroses peep out to laugh at her discomfiture. 

But she escapes from all their snares and goes on her way, her heart sofull of troublous fancies that their many wiles gain from her not somuch as one passing thought. 

The pretty, lovely May is just bursting into bloom; its pink blossomshere and its white blossoms there mingle gloriously, and the perfume ofit fills the silent air. 

Joyce picks a branch or two as she goes on her way, and thrusts theminto the bosom of her gown. 

And now she has reached the outskirts of the wood, where the river runs, crossed by a rustic bridge, on which she has ever loved to rest anddream, leaning rounded arms upon the wooden railings and seeing strangebut sweet things in the bright, hurrying water beneath her eyes. 

She has gained the bridge now, and leaning languidly upon its frailramparts lets her gaze wander a-field. The little stream, full ofconversation as ever, flows on unnoticed by her. Its charms seem dead. That belonged to the old life--the life she will never know again. Itseems to her quite a long time since she felt young. And yet only a fewshort months have flown since she was young as the best of them--wheneven Tommy did not seem altogether despicable as a companion, and shehad often been guilty of finding pleasure in running a race with him, and of covering him not only with confusion, but with armfuls of scentedhay, when at last she had gained the victory over him, and had turnedfrom the appointed goal to overwhelm the enemy with merry sarcasms. 

Oh, yes, that was all over. All done! An end must come to everything, and to her light-heartedness an end had come very soon. Too soon, shewas inclined to believe, in an excess of self, until she remembered thatlife was always to be taken seriously, and that she had deliberatelytrifled with it, seeking only the very heart of it--the gaiety, thecarelessness, the ease. 

Well, her punishment has come! She has learned that life is a failureafter all. It takes some people a lifetime to discover that great fact;it has taken her quite a short time. Nothing is of much consequence. Andyet----

She sighs and looks round her. Her eyes fall upon a distant bank ofcloud overhanging a pretty farmstead, and throwing into bold relief thericks of hay that stand at the western side of it. A huge, black crowstanding on the top of this is napping his wings and calling loudly tohis mate. Presently he spreads his wings, and, with a creaking of themlike the noise of a sail in a light wind, disappears over her head. Shehas followed his movements with a sort of lazy curiosity, and now sheknows that he will return in an hour or so with thousands of hisbrethren, darkening the heavens as they pass to their night lodgings inthe tall elm trees. 

It is good to be a bird. No care, no trouble. No pain! A short life anda merry one. Better than a long life and a sorry one. Yes, the world isall sorry. 

She turns her eyes impatiently away from the fast vanishing crow; andnow they fall upon a perfect wilderness of daffodils that are growingupon the edge of the bank a little way down. How beautiful they are. Their soft, delicate heads nod lazily this way and that way. They seemthe very embodiment of graceful drowsiness. Some lines lately read recurto her, and awake within her memory;

 "I wandered lonely as a cloud, That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A crowd of golden daffodils Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. "

They seem so full of lazy joy, or unutterable rapture, that they belieher belief in the falseness of all things. There must surely be somegood in a world that grows such charming things--things almost sentient. And the trees swaying about her head, and dropping their branches intothe stream, is there no delight to be got out of them? The tenderness ofthis soft, sweet mood, in which perpetual twilight reigns, enters intoher, and soothes the sad demon that is torturing her breast. Tears riseto her eyes; she leans still further over the parapet, and drawing thepink and white hawthorn blossoms from her bosom, drops them one by oneinto the hasty little river, and lets it bear them away upon its bosomto tiny bays unknown. Tears follow them, falling from her drooping lids. Can neither daffodils, nor birds, nor trees, give her some little oftheir joy to chase the sorrow from her heart?

Her soul seems to fling itself outward in an appeal to nature; andnature, that kind mother of us all, responds to the unspoken cry. 

A step upon the bridge behind her! She starts into a more uprightposition and looks round her without much interest. 

A dark figure is advancing toward her. Through the growing twilight itseems abnormally large and black, and Joyce stares at it anxiously. NotFreddy--not one of the laborers--they would be all clad in flanneljackets of a light color. 

"Oh, is it you?" says Dysart, coming closer to her. He had, however, known it was she from the first moment his eyes rested upon her. Nomist, no twilight could have deceived him, for--

 Lovers' eyes are sharp to see And lovers' ears in hearing. "

"Yes, " says she, advancing a little toward him and giving him her hand. A cold little hand, and reluctant. 

"I was coming down to Mrs. Monkton with a message--a letter--from LadyBaltimore. "

"This is a very long way round from the Court, isn't it?" says she. 

"Yes. But I like this calm little corner. I have come often to itlately. "

Miss Kavanagh lets her eyes wander to the stream down below. To thislittle spot of all places! Her favorite nook! Had he hoped to meet herthere? Oh, no; impossible! And besides she had given it up for a long, long time until this evening. It seems weeks to her now since last shewas here. 

"You will find Barbara at home, " says she gently. 

"I don't suppose it is of very much consequence, " says he, alluding tothe message. He is looking at her, though her averted face leaves himlittle to study. 

"You are cold, " says he abruptly. 

"Am I?" turning to him with a little smile. "I don't feel cold. I feeldull, perhaps, but nothing else. "

And in truth if she had used the word "unhappy" instead of "dull" shewould have been nearer the mark. The coming of Dysart thus suddenly intothe midst of her mournful reverie has but served to accentuate thereality of it. A terrible sense of loneliness is oppressing her. Allthings have their place in this world, yet where is hers? Of whataccount is she to anyone? Barbara loves, her; yes, but not so well asFreddy and the children! Oh, to be first with someone!

 "I find no spring, while spring is well-nigh blown; I find no nest, while nests are in the grove; Woe's me for mine own heart that dwells alone-- My heart that breaketh for a little love. "

Christina Rosetti's mournful words seem to suit her. Involuntarily shelifts her heavy eyes, tired of the day's weeping, and looks at Dysart. 

"You have been crying, " says he abruptly. 

CHAPTER LII. 

 "My love has sworn with sealing kiss With me to live--to die; I have at last my nameless bliss-- As I love, loved am I. "

There is a pause: it threatens to be an everlasting one, as MissKavanagh plainly doesn't know what to say. He can see this; what hecannot see is that she is afraid of her own voice. Those troublesometears that all day have been so close to her seem closer than ever now. 

"Beauclerk came down to see you to-day, " says he presently. This remarkis so unexpected that it steadies her. 

"Yes, " she says, calmly enough, but without raising the tell-tale eyes. 

"You expected him?"

"No. " Monosyllables alone seem possible to her. So great is her fearthat she will give way and finally disgrace herself, that she forgets toresent the magisterial tone be has adopted. 

"He asked you to marry him, however?" There is something almostthreatening in his tone now, as if he is defying her to deny hisassertion. It overwhelms her. 

"Yes, " she says again, and for the first time is struck by the wretchedmeagreness of her replies. 

"Well?" says Dysart, roughly. But this time not even the desolatemonosyllable rewards the keenness of his examination. 

"Well?" says he again, going closer to her and resting his hand on thewooden rail against which she, too, was leaning. He is So close to hernow that it is impossible to escape his scrutiny. "What am I tounderstand by that? Tell me how you have decided. " Getting no answer tothis either, he says, impatiently, "Tell me, Joyce. "

"I refused him, " says she at last in a low tone, and in a dull sort ofway, as if the matter is one of indifference to her. 

"Ah!" He draws a long breath. "It is true?" he says, laying his hand onhers as it lies on the top of the woodwork. 

"Quite true. "

"And yet--you have been crying?"

"You can see that, " says she, petulantly. "You have taken pains to seeand to tell me of it. Do you think it is a pleasant thing to be told?Most people, " glancing angrily toward him--"everyone, I think--makes ita point now-a-days not to see when one has been making a fool ofoneself; but you seem to take a delight in torturing me. "

"Did it, " says he bitterly, ignoring--perhaps not even hearing--heroutburst. "Did it cost you so much to refuse him?"

"It cost me nothing!" with a sudden effort, and a flash from herbeautiful eyes. 

"Nothing?"

"I have said so! Nothing at all. It was mere nervousness, andbecause--it reminded me of other things. "

"Did he see you cry?" asks Dysart, tightening unconsciously his graspupon her hand. 

"No. He was gone a long time, quite a long time, before it occurred tome that I should like to cry. I, " with a frugal smile, "indulged myselfvery freely then, as you have seen. "

Dysart draws a long breath of relief. It would have been intolerable tohim that Beauclerk should have known of her tears. He would not haveunderstood them. He would have taken possession of them, as it were. They would have merely helped to pamper his self-conceit and smooth downhis ruffled pride. He would inevitably have placed such and such aconstruction on them, one entirely to his own glorification. 

"I shall leave you now with a lighter heart, " says Felix presently--"nowthat I know you are not going to marry that fellow. "

"You are going, then?" says she, sharply, checking the monotonous littletattoo she has been playing on the bridge rail, as though suddenlysmitten into stone. She had heard he was going, she had been told of itby several people, but somehow she had never believed it. It had never, come home to her until now. 

"Yes. We are under orders for India. We sail in about a month. I shallhave to leave here almost immediately. "

"So soon?" says she, vaguely. She has begun that absurd tattoo again, but bridge, and restless little fingers, and sky and earth, and allthings seem blotted out. He is going, really going, and for ever! Howfar is India away?

"It is always rather hurried at last. For my part I am glad I am going. "

"Yes?"

"Mrs. Monkton will--at least I am sure she will--let me have a line nowand then to let me know how you--how you are all getting on. I was goingto ask her about it this evening. You think she will be good enough?"

"Barbara is always kind. "

"I suppose"--he hesitates, and then goes on with an effort--"I supposeit would be too much to ask of you----"

"What?"

"That you would sometimes write me a letter--however short. "

"I am a bad correspondent, " says she, feeling as if she were choking. 

"Ah! I see. I should not have asked, of course. Yes, you are right. Itwas absurd my hoping for it. "

"When people choose to go away so far as that----" she is compellingherself to speak, but her voice sounds to herself a long way off. 

"They must hope to be forgotten. 'Out of sight out of mind, ' I know. Itis such an old proverb. Well----You are cold, " says he suddenly, notingthe pallor of the girl's face. "Whatever you were before, you arecertainly chilled to the bone now. You look it. Come, this is no time ofyear to be lingering out of doors without a coat or hat. "

"I have this shawl, " says she, pointing to the soft white, fleecy thingthat covers her. 

"I distrust it. Come. "

"No, " says she, faintly. "Go on; you give your message to Barbara. Asfor me, I shall be happier here. "

"Where I am not, " says he, with a bitter laugh. "I suppose I ought to beaccustomed to that thought now, but such is my conceit that it seemsever a fresh shock to me. Well, for all that, " persuadingly, "come in. The evening is very cold. I shan't like to go away, leaving you behindme suffering from a bad cough or something of that kind. We have beenfriends, Joyce, " with a rather sorry smile. "For the sake of the oldfriendship, don't send me adrift with such an anxiety upon my mind. "

"Would you really care?" says she. 

"Ah! That is the humor of it, " says he. "In spite of all I should stillreally care. Come. " He makes an effort to unclasp the small, prettyfingers that are grasping the rails so rigidly. At first they seem toresist his gentle pressure, and then they give way to him. She turnssuddenly. 

"Felix, "--her voice is somewhat strained, somewhat harsh, not at all herown voice, --"do you still love me?"

"You know that, " returns he, sadly. If he has felt any surprise at thequestion he has not shown it. 

"No, no, " says she, feverishly. "That you like me, that you are fond ofme, perhaps, I can still believe. But is it the same with you that itused to be? Do you, " with a little sob, "love me as well now as in thoseold days? Just the same! Not, " going nearer to him, and laying her handupon his breast, and raising agonized eyes of inquiry to his--"not onebit less?"

"I love you a thousand times more, " says he, very quietly, but with suchintensity that it enters into her very soul. "Why?" He has laid his ownhand over the small nervous one lying on his breast, and his face hasgrown very white. 

"Because I love you too!"

She stops short here, and begins to tremble violently. With a littleshamed, heartbroken gesture she tears her hand out of his and covers herface from his sight. 

"Say that again!" says he, hoarsely. He waits a moment, but when no wordcomes from her he deliberately drags away the sheltering hands andcompels her to look at him. 

"Say it!" says he, in a tone that is now almost a command. 

"Oh! it is true--true!" cries she, vehemently. "I love you; I have lovedyou a long time, I think, but I didn't know it. Oh, Felix! Dear, dearFelix, forgive me!"

"Forgive you!" says he, brokenly. 

"Ah! yes. And don't leave me. If you go away from me I shall die. Therehas been so much of it--a little more--and----" She breaks down. 

"My beloved!" says he in a faint, quick way. He is holding her to himnow with all his might. She can feel the quick pulsations of his heart. Suddenly she slips her soft arms around his neck, and now with her headpressed against his shoulder, bursts into a storm of tears. It is a lastshower. 

They are both silent for a long time, and then he, raising one of herhands, presses the palm against his lips. Looking up at him, she smiles, uncertainly but happily, a very rainbow of a smile, born of sunshine, and, raindrops gone, it seems to beautify her lips. But Felix, whileacknowledging its charm, cannot smile back at her. It is all toostrange, too new. He is afraid to believe. As yet there is somethingterrible to him in this happiness that has fallen into his life. 

"You mean it?" he asks, bending over her. "If to-morrow I were to wakeand find all this an idle dream, how would it be with me then? Say youmean it!"

"Am I not here?" says she, tremulously, making a slight but eloquentpressure on one of the arms that are round her. He bends his face tohers, and as he feels that first glad eager kiss returned--he knows!

CHAPTER LIII. 

 "True love's the gift which God has given To man alone beneath the heaven:

 It is the secret sympathy, The silver link, the silken tie, Which heart to heart and mind to mind In body and in soul can bind. "

Of course Barbara is delighted. She proves charming as a confidante. Nothing can exceed the depth of her sympathy. 

When Joyce and Felix came in together in the darkening twilight, entering the house in a burglarious fashion through the dining-roomwindow, it so happens that Barbara is there, and is at once struck by asense of guilt that seems to surround and envelop them. They had not, indeed, anticipated meeting Barbara in that room of all others, and arerather taken aback when they come face to face with her. 

"I assure you we have not come after the spoons, " says Felix, in awould-be careless tone that could not have deceived an infant, and witha laugh, so frightfully careless that it would have terrified the lifeout of you. 

"You certainly don't look like it, " says Mrs. Monkton, whose heart hasbegun to beat high with hope. She hardly knows whether it is better tofall upon their necks forthwith and declare she knows all about it, orelse to pretend ignorance. She decides upon the latter as being theeasier; after all they mightn't like the neck process. Most people havea fancy for telling their own tales, to have them told for one isannoying. "You haven't the requisite murderous expression, " she says, unable to resist a touch of satire. "You look rather frightened you two. What have you been doing?" She is too good natured not to give them anopening for their confession. 

"Not much, and yet a great deal, " says Felix. He has advanced a little, while Joyce, on the contrary, has meanly receded farther into thebackground. She has rather the appearance, indeed, of one who, if thewall could have been induced to give way, would gladly have followed itinto the garden. The wall, however, declines to budge. "As forburglary, " goes on Felix, trying to be gay, and succeeding villainously. "You must exonerate your sister at all events. But I--I confess I havestolen something belonging to you. "

"Oh, no; not stolen, " says Joyce, in a rather faint tone. "Barbara, Iknow what you will think, but----"

"I know what I do think!" cries Barbara, joyously. "Oh, is it, can it betrue?"

It never occurs to her that Felix now is not altogether a brilliantmatch for a sister with a fortune--she remembers only in that lovelymind of hers that he had loved Joyce when she was without a penny, andthat he is now what he had always seemed to her, the one man that couldmake Joyce happy. 

"Yes; it is true!" says Dysart. He has given up that unsuccessful gayetynow and has grown very grave; there is even a slight tremble in hisvoice. He comes up to Mrs. Monkton and takes both her hands. "She hasgiven herself to me. You are really glad! You are not angry about it? Iknow I am not good enough for her, but----"

Here Joyce gives way to a little outburst of mirth that is rathertremulous, and coming away from the unfriendly wall, that has not beenof the least use to her, brings herself somewhat shamefacedly into theonly light the room receives through the western window. The twilight atall events is kind to her. It is difficult to see her face. 

"I really can't stay here, " says she, "and listen to my own praisesbeing sung. And besides, " turning to Felix a lovely but embarrassedface, "Barbara will not regard it as you do; she will, on the contrary, say you are a great deal too good for me, and that I ought to bepilloried for all the trouble I have given through not being able tomake up my own mind for so long a time. "

"Indeed, I shall say nothing but that you are the dearest girl in theworld, and that I'm delighted things have turned out so well. I alwayssaid it would be like this, " cries Barbara exultantly, who certainlynever had said it, and had always indeed been distinctly doubtful aboutit. 

"Is Mr. Monkton in?" says Felix, in a way that leads Monkton's wife toimagine that if she should chance to say he was out, the news would behailed with rapture. 

"Oh, never mind him, " says she, beaming upon the happy but awkwardcouple before her. "I'll tell him all about it. He will be just as gladas I am. There, go away you two; you will find the small parlor empty, and I dare say you have a great deal to say to each other still. Ofcourse you will dine with us, Felix, and give Freddy an opportunity ofsaying something ridiculous to you. "

"Thank you, " says Dysart warmly. "I suppose I can write a line to mycousin explaining matters. "

"Of course. Joyce, take some writing things into the small parlor, andcall for a lamp as you go. "

She is smiling at Joyce as she speaks, and now, going up to her, kissesher impulsively. Joyce returns the caress with fervor. It is naturalthat she should never have felt the sweetness, the content of Barbara soentirely as she does now, when her heart is open and full of ecstasy, and when sympathy seems so necessary. Darling Barbara! But then she mustlove Felix now just as much as she loves her. She rather electrifiesBarbara and Felix by saying anxiously to the former:

"Kiss Felix, too. "

It is impossible not to laugh. Mrs. Monkton gives way to immediate andunrestrained mirth, and Dysart follows suit. 

"It is a command, " says he, and Barbara thereupon kisses himaffectionately. 

"Well, now I have got a brother at last, " says she. It is indeed herfirst knowledge of one, for that poor suicide in Nice had never beenanything to her--or to any one else in the world for the matter ofthat--except a great trouble. "There, go, " says she. "I think I hearFreddy coming. "

They fly. They both feel that further explanations are beyond them justas present; and as for Barbara, she is quite determined that no one butshe shall let Freddy into the all-important secret. She is now fullyconvinced in her own mind that she had always had special prescience ofthis affair, and the devouring desire we all have to say "I told you how'twould be" to our unfortunate fellow-travellers through this vale oftears, whether the cause for the hateful reminder be for weal or woe, isstrong upon her now. 

She goes to the window, and seeing Monkton some way off, flings up thesash and waves to him in a frenzied fashion to come to her at once. There is something that almost approaches tragedy in her air andgesture. Monkton hastens to obey. 

"Now, what--what--what do you think has happened?" cries she, when hehas vaulted the window sill and is standing beside her, somewhatbreathless and distinctly uneasy. Nothing short of an accident to thechildren could, in his opinion, have warranted so vehement a call. YetBarbara, as he examines her features carefully, seems all joyousexcitement. After a short contemplation of her beaming face he tellhimself that he was an ass to give up that pilgrimage of his to thelower field, where he had been going to inspect a new-born calf. 

"The skys are all right, " says he, with an upward glance at them throughthe window. "And--you hadn't another uncle, had you?"

"Oh, Freddy, " says she, very justly disgusted. 

"Well, my good child, what then? I'm all curiosity. "

"Guess, " says she, too happy to be able to give him the round scoldinghe deserves. 

"Oh! if it's a riddle, " says he, "you might remember I am only a littleone, and unequal to the great things of life. "

"Ah! but, Freddy, I've something delicious to tell you. There sit downthere, you look quite queer, while I----"

"No wonder I do, " says he, at last rather wrathfully. "To judge by yourwild gesticulations at the window just now, any one might have imaginedthat the house was on fire and a hostile race tearing en masse into theback yard. And now--why, it appears you are quite pleased aboutsomething or other. Really such disappointments are enough to age anyman--or make him look 'queer, ' that was the word you used, I think?"

"Listen, " says she, seating herself beside him, and flipping her armaround his neck. "Joyce is going to marry Felix--after all. There!"Still with her arm holding him, she leans back a little to mark theeffect of this astonishing disclosure. 

CHAPTER LIV. 

 "Well said; that was laid on with a trowel. "

 "Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than any man in all Venice. "

"After all, indeed; you may well say that, " says Mr. Monkton, withindignation. "If those two idiots meant matrimony all along, why onearth didn't they do it all before. See what a lot of time they've lost, and what a disgraceful amount of trouble they have given all round. "

"Yes, yes, of course. But then you see, Freddy, it takes some time tomake up one's mind about such an important matter as that. "

"It didn't take you long, " says Mr. Monkton most unwisely. 

"It took me a great deal longer than it took you, " replies his wife withdignity. "You have always said that it was the very first day you eversaw me--and I'm sure it took me quite a week!"

This lucid speech she delivers with some severity. 

"More shame for you, " says Monkton promptly. 

"Well, never mind, " says she, too happy and too engrossed with her newsto enjoy even a skirmish with her husband. "Isn't it all charming, Freddy?"

"It has certainly turned out very well, all things considered. "

"I think it is the happiest thing. And when two people who love eachother are quite young----"

"Really, my dear, you are too flattering, " says Monkton. "Consideringthe gray hairs that are beginning to make themselves so unpleasantly athome in my head, I, at all events, can hardly lay claim to extremeyouth. "

"Good gracious! I'm not talking of us; I'm talking of them, " cries she, giving him a shake. "Wake up, Freddy. Bring your mind to bear upon thisbig news of mine, and you will see how enchanting it is. Don't you thinkFelix has behaved beautifully--so faithful, so constant, and againstsuch terrible odds? You know Joyce is a little difficult sometimes. Nowhasn't he been perfect all through?"

"He is a genuine hero of romance, " says Mr. Monkton with conviction. "None of your cheap articles--a regular bonafide thirteenth centuryknight. The country ought to contribute its stray half-pennies and buyhim a pedestal and put him on the top of it, whether he likes it or not. Once there Simon Stylites would be forgotten in half an hour. Was thereever before heard of such an heroic case! Did ever yet living man havethe prowess to propose to the girl he loved! It is an entirely newdeparture, and should be noticed. It is quite unique!"

"Don't be horrid, " says his wife. "You know exactly what I mean--that itis a delightful ending to what promised to be a miserable muddle. And heis so charming; isn't he, now, Freddy?"

"Is he?" asks Mr. Monkton, regarding her with a thoughtful eye. 

"You can see for yourself. He is so satisfactory. I always said he wasthe very husband for Joyce. He is so kind, so earnest, so sweet in everyway. "

"Nearly as sweet as I am, eh?" There is stern inquiry now in his regard. 

"Pouf! I know what you are, of course. Who would, if I didn't? Butreally, Freddy, don't you think he will make her an ideal husband? Soopen. So frank. So free from everything--everything--oh, well, everything--you know!"

"I don't, " says Monkton, uncompromisingly. 

"Well--everything hateful, I mean. Oh! she is a lucky girl!"

"Nearly as lucky as her sister, " says Monkton, growing momentarily morestern in his determination to uphold his own cause. 

"Don't be absurd. I declare, " with a little burst of amusement, "whenhe--they--told me about it, I never felt so happy in my life. "

"Except when you married me. " He throws quite a tragical expression intohis face, that is, however, lost upon her. 

"Of course, with her present fortune, she might have made what the worldwould call a more distinguished match. But his family areunexceptionable, and he has some money--not much, I know, but still, some. And even if he hadn't she has now enough for both. Afterall"--with noble disregard of the necessaries of life--"what is money?"

"Dross--mere dross!" says Mr. Monkton. 

"And he is just the sort of man not to give a thought to it. "

"He couldn't, my dear. Heroes of romance are quite above all that sortof thing. "

"Well, he is, certainly, " says Mrs. Monkton, a little offended. "You maygo on pretending as much as you like, Freddy, but I know you think abouthim just as I do. He is exactly the sort of charming character to makeJoyce happy. "

"Nearly as happy as I have made you!" says her husband, severely. 

"Dear me, Freddy--I really do wish you would try and forget yourself forone moment!"

"I might be able to do that, my dear, if I were quite sure that you werenot forgetting me, too. "

"Oh, as to that! I declare you are a perfect baby! You love teasing. Well--there then!" The "there" represents a kiss, and Mr. Monkton, having graciously accepted this tribute to his charms, condescends tocome down from his mental elevation and discuss the new engagement withconsiderable affability. Once, indeed, there is a dangerous lapse backinto his old style, but this time there seems to be occasion for it. 

"When they stood there stammering and stuttering, Freddy, and looking soawfully silly, I declare I was so glad about it that I actually kissedhim!'"

"What!" says Mr. Monkton. "And you have lived to tell the tale! Youhave, therefore; lived too long. Perfidious woman, prepare for death. "

"I declare I think you'd have done it, " says Barbara, eloquently. Whereupon, having reconsidered her speech, they both give way to mirth. 

"I'll try it when I see him, " says Monkton. "Even a hero of romancecouldn't object to a chaste salute from me. "

"He is coming to dinner. I hope when you do see him. Freddy, "--anxiouslythis--"you will be very sober about it. "

"Barbara! You know I never get--er--that is--not before dinner at allevents. "

"Well, but promise me now, you will be very serious about it. They aretaking it seriously, and they won't like it if you persist in treatingit as a jest. "

"I'll be a perfect judge. "

"I know what that means"--indignantly--"that you are going to be asfrivolous as possible. "

"My dear girl! If the bench could only hear you. Well, there then! Yes, really! I'll be everything of the most desirable. A regular funeralmute. And, " seeing she is still offended, "I am glad about it, Barbara. Honestly I think him as good a fellow as I know--and Joyce another. "

Having convinced her of his good faith in the matter, and argued withher on every single point, and so far perjured himself as to rememberperfectly and accurately the very day and hour on which, three monthsago, she had said that she knew Joyce preferred Felix to Beauclerk, heis forgiven, and presently allowed to depart in peace with another"there, " even warmer than the first. 

But it is unquestionable that she keeps a severe eye on him all throughdinner, and so forbids any trifling with the sacred topic. "It wouldhave put the poor things out so!" She had said to herself; and, indeed, it must be confessed that the lovers are very shy and uncomfortable, andthat conversation drifts a good deal, and is only carried on irregularlyby fits and starts. But later, when Felix has unburdened his mind toMonkton during the quarter of an hour over their wine--when Barbara hasbeen compelled, in fear and trembling, to leave Freddy to his owndevices--things grow more genial, and the extreme happiness that dwellsin the lovers' hearts is given full play. There is even a delightfulhalf hour granted them upon the balcony, Barbara having--like the goodangel she is--declared that the night is almost warm enough for June. 

CHAPTER LV. 

 "Great discontents there are, and many murmurs. "

 "There is a kind of mournful eloquence In thy dumb grief. "

Lady Baltimore, too, had been very pleased by the news when Felix toldher next morning of his good luck. In all her own great unhappiness shehad still a kindly word and thought for her cousin and his fiancée. 

"One of the nicest girls, " she says, pressing his hands warmly. "I oftenthink, indeed, the nicest girl I know. You are fortunate, Felix, but"--very kindly--"she is fortunate, too. "

"Oh, no, the luck is all on my side, " says he. 

"It will be a blow to Norman, " she says, presently. 

"I think not, " with an irrepressible touch of scorn. "There is MissMaliphant. "

"You mean that he can decline upon her. Of course I can quite understandthat you do not like him, " says she with a quick sigh. "But, believe me, any heart he has was really given to Joyce. Well, he must devote himselfto ambition now. "

"Miss Maliphant can help him to that. "

"No, no. That is all knocked on the head. It appears--this is in strictconfidence, Felix--but it appears he asked her to marry him lastevening, and she refused. "

Felix turns to her as if to give utterance to some vehement words, andthen checks himself. After all, why add to her unhappiness? Why tell herof that cur's baseness? Her own brother, too! It would be but anothergrief to her. 

To think he should have gone from her to Miss Maliphant! What a pitifulcreature! Beneath contempt! Well, if his pride survives those twodownfalls--both in one day--it must be made of leather. It does Felixgood to think of how Miss Maliphant must have worded her refusal. She isnot famous for grace of speech. He must have had a real bad time of it. Of course, Joyce had told him of her interview with the sturdy heiress. 

"Ah, she refused?" says he hardly knowing what to say. 

"Yes; and not very graciously, I'm afraid. He gave me the mere fact ofthe refusal--no more, and only that because he had to give a reason forhis abrupt departure. You know he is going this evening?"

"No, I did not know it. Of course, under the circumstances----"

"Yes, he could hardly stay here. Margaret came to me and said she wouldgo, but I would not allow that. After all, every woman has a right torefuse or accept as she will. "

"True. " His heart gives an exultant leap as he remembers how his lovehad willed. 

"I only wish she had not hurt him in the refusal. But I could see he waswounded. He was not in his usual careless spirits. He struck me as beinga little--well, you know, a little----" She hesitates. 

"Out of temper, " suggests Felix involuntarily. 

"Well, yes. Disappointment takes that course with some people. Afterall, it might have been worse if he had set his heart on Joyce and beenrefused. "

"Much worse, " says Felix, his eyes on the ground. 

"She would have been a severe loss. "

"Severe, indeed. " By this time Felix is beginning to feel like anadvanced hypocrite. 

"As for Margaret Maliphant, I am afraid he was more concerned about theloss of her bonds and scrips than of herself. It is a terrible world, Felix, when all is told, " says she, suddenly crossing her beautiful longwhite hands over her knees, and leaning toward him. There is a touch ofmisery so sharp in her voice that he starts as he looks at her. It is amomentary fit of emotion, however, and passes before he dare comment onit. With a heart nigh to breaking she still retains her composure andtalks calmly to Felix, and lets him talk to her, as though the fact thatshe is soon to lose forever the man who once had gained her heart--thatfatal "once" that means for always, in spite of everything that has comeand gone--is as little or nothing to her. Seeing her sitting there, strangely pale indeed, but so collected, it would be impossible to guessat the tempest of passion and grief and terror that reigns within herbreast. Women are not so strong to bear as men, and therefore in theworld's storms suffer most. 

"It is a lovely world, " says he smiling, thinking of Joyce, and then, remembering her sad lot, his smile fades. "One might make--perhaps--abad world--better, " he says, stammering. 

"Ah! teach me how, " says she with a melancholy glance. 

"There is such a thing as forgiveness. Forgive him!" blurts he out in afrightened sort of way. He is horrified, at himself--at his owntemerity--a second later, and rises to his feet as if to meet theindignation he has certainly courted. But to his surprise no suchindignation betrays itself. 

"Is that your advice?" says she, still with the thin white hands claspedover the knee, and the earnest gaze on him. "Well, well, well!"

Her eyes droop. She seems to be thinking, and he, gazing at her, refrains from speech with his heart sad with pity. Presently she liftsher head and looks at him. 

"There! Go back to your love, " she says with a glance that thrills him. "Tell her from me that if you had the whole world to choose from, Ishould still select her as your wife. I like her; I love her! There, go!" She seems to grow all at once very tired. Are those tears that arerising in her eyes? She holds out to him her hand. 

Felix, taking it, holds it closely for a moment, and presently, as ifmoved to do it, he stoops and presses a warm kiss upon it. 

She is so unhappy, and so kind, and so true. God deliver her out of hersorrow!

CHAPTER LVI. 

 "I would that I were low laid in my grave. "

She is still sitting silent, lost in thought, after Felix's departure, when the door opens once again to admit her husband. His hands are fullof papers. 

"Are you at liberty?" says he. "Have you a moment? These, " pointing tothe papers, "want signing. Can you give your attention to them now?"

"What are they?" asks she, rising. 

"Mere law papers. You need not look so terrified. " His tone is bitter. "There are certain matters that must be arranged before mydeparture--matters that concern your welfare and the boy's. Here, "laying the papers upon the davenport and spreading them out. "You signyour name here. "

"But, " recoiling, "what is it? What does it all mean?"

"It is not your death warrant, I assure you, " says he, with a sneer. "Come, sign!" Seeing her still hesitate, he turns upon her savagely. Whoshall say what hidden storms of grief and regret lie within that burstof anger?

"Do you want your son to live and die a poor man?" says he. "Come! thereis yourself to be considered, too! Once I am out of your way, you willbe able to begin life again with a light heart; and this, " tapping thepaper heavily, "will enable you to do it. I make over to you and the boyeverything--at least, as nearly everything as will enable me to live. "

"It should be the other way, " says she. "Take everything, and leave usenough on which to live. "

"Why?" says he, facing round, something in her voice that resemblesremorse striking him. 

"We--shall have each other, " says she, faintly. 

"Having happily got rid of such useless lumber as the father andhusband. Well, you will be the happier so, " rejoins he with a laugh thathurts him more than it hurts her, though she cannot know that. "'Two iscompany, ' you know, according to the good old proverb, 'three trumpery. 'You and he will get on very well without me, no doubt. "

"It is your arrangement, " says she. 

"If that thought is a salve to your conscience, pray think so, " rejoinshe. "It isn't worth an argument. We are only wasting time. " He hands herthe pen; she takes it mechanically, but makes no use of it. 

"You will at least tell me where you are going?" says she. 

"Certainly I should, if I only knew myself. To America first, but thatis a big direction, and I am afraid the tenderest love letter would notreach me through it. When your friends ask you, say I have gone to theNorth Pole; it is as likely a destination as another. "

"But not to know!" says she, lifting her dark eyes to his--dark eyesthat seem to glow like fire in her white face. "That would be terrible. It is unfair. You should think--think--" Her voice grows husky anduncertain. She stops abruptly. 

"Don't be uneasy about that, " says he. "I shall take care that my death, when it occurs, is made known to you as soon as possible. Your mindshall be relieved on that score with as little delay as I can manage. The welcome news shall be conveyed to you by a swift messenger. "

She flings the pen upon the writing table, and turns away. 

"Insult me to the last if you will!" she says; "but consider your son. He loves you. He will desire news of you from time to time. It isimpossible that you can put him out of your life as you have put me. "

"It appears you can be unjust to the last, " says he, flinging her ownaccusation back at her. "Have I put you out of my life?"

"Ah! was I ever in it?" says she. "But--you will write?"

"No. Not a line. Once for all I break with you. Should my death occuryou will hear of it. And I have arranged so, that now and after thatevent you and the boy will have your positions clearly defined. That isall you can possibly require of me. Even if you marry again yourjointure will be secured to you. "

"Baltimore!" exclaims she, turning upon him passionately. She seems tostruggle with herself for words. "Has marriage proved so sweet a thing?"cries she presently, "that I should care to try it again? There! Go! Ishall sign none of these things. " She makes a disdainful gesture towardsthe loose papers lying on the table, and moves angrily away. 

"You have your son to consider. "

"Your son will inherit the title and the property without those papers. "

"There are complications, however, that perhaps you do not understand. "

"Let them lie there. I shall sign nothing. "

"In that case you will probably find yourself immersed in troubles ofthe meaner kinds after my departure. The child cannot inherit untilafter my death and----"

"I don't care, " says she, sullenly. "Go, if you will. I refuse tobenefit by it. "

"What a stubborn woman you are, " cries he, in great wrath. "You have foryears declined to acknowledge me as your husband. You have by yourmanner almost commanded my absence from your side; yet now when I bringyou the joyful news that in a short time you will actually be rid of me, you throw a thousand difficulties in my path. Is it that you desire tokeep me near you for the purposes of torture? It is too late for that. You have gone a trifle too far. The hope you have so clearly expressedin many ways that time would take me out of your path is at last aboutto be fulfilled. "

"I have had no such hope. "

"No! You can look me in the face and say that! Saintly lips never lie, however, do they? Well, I'm sick of this life; you are not. I have bornea good deal from you, as I told you before. I'll bear no more. I givein. Fate has been too strong for me. "

"You have created your own fate. "

"You are my fate! You are inexorable! There is no reason why I shouldstay. "

Here the sound of running, childish, pattering footsteps can be heardoutside the door, and a merry little shout of laughter. The door issuddenly burst open in rather unconventional style, and Bertie rushesinto the room, a fox terrier at his heels. The dog is evidently quite asmuch up to the game as the boy, and both race tempestuously up the roomand precipitate themselves against Lady Baltimore's skirts. Round andround her the chase continues, until the boy, bursting away from hismother, dashes toward his father, the terrier after him. 

There isn't so much scope for talent in a pair of trousers as in a massof dainty petticoats, and presently Bertie grows tired, flings himselfdown upon the ground, and lets the dog tumble over him there. The joustis virtually at an end. 

Lady Baltimore, who has stood immoveable during the attack upon her, always with that cold, white, beautiful look upon her face, now pointsto the stricken child lying panting, laughing, and playing with the dogat his father's feet. 

"There is a reason!" says she, almost inaudibly. 

Baltimore shakes his head. "I have thought all that out. It is notenough, " says he. 

"Bertie!" says his mother, turning to the child. "Do you know this, thatyour father is going to leave you?"

"Going?" says the boy vaguely, forgetting the dog for a moment andglancing upward. "Where?"

"Away. Forever. "

"Where?" says the boy again. He rises to his feet now, and looksanxiously at his father; then he smiles and flings himself into hisarms. "Oh, no!" says he, in a little soft, happy, sure sort of a way. 

"Forever! Forever!" repeals Isabel in a curious monotone. 

"Take me up, " says the child, tugging at his father's arms. "What doesmamma mean? Where are you going?"

"To America, to shoot bears, " returns Baltimore with an embarrassedlaugh. How near to tears it is. 

"Real live bears?"

"Yes. "

"Take me with you"? says the child, excitedly. 

"And leave mamma?"

"Oh, she'll come, too, " says Bertie, confidently. "She'll come where Igo. " Where he would go--the child! But would she go where the fatherwent? Baltimore's brow darkens. 

"I am afraid it is out of the question, " he says, putting Bertie backagain upon the carpet where the fox terrier is barking furiously andjumping up and down in a frenzied fashion as if desirous of devouringthe child's legs. "The bears might eat you. When you are big andstrong----"

"You will come back for me?" cries Bertie, eagerly. 

"Perhaps. "

"He will not, " breaks in Lady Baltimore violently. "He will come back nomore. When he goes you will never see him again. He has said so. He isgoing forever!" These last two terrible words seem to have sunk intoher soul. She cannot cease from repeating them. 

"Let the boy alone, " says Baltimore angrily. 

The child is looking from one parent to the other. He seems puzzled, expectant, but scarcely unhappy. Childhood can grasp a great deal, butnot all. The more unhappy the childhood, the more it can understand ofthe sudden and larger ways of life. But children delicately brought upand clothed in love from their cradle find it hard to realize that anend to their happiness can ever come. 

"Tell me, papa!" says he at last in a vague, sweet little way. 

"What is there to tell?" replies his father with a most meagre laugh, "except that I saw Beecher bringing in some fresh oranges half an hourago. Perhaps he hasn't eaten them all yet. If you were to ask him forone----"

"I'll find him, " cries Bertie brightly, forgetting everything but thepresent moment. "Come, Trixy, come, " to his dog, "you shall have some, too. "

"You see there' won't be much trouble with him, " says Baltimore, whenthe boy has run out of the room in pursuit of oranges. "It will take hima day, perhaps, and after that he will be quite your own. If you won'tsign these papers to-day you will perhaps to-morrow. I had better go andtell Hansard that you would like to have a little time to look themover. "

He walks quickly down the room, opens the door, and closes it after him. 

CHAPTER LVII. 

 "This is that happy morn-- That day, long-wished day Of all my life so dark (If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn And fates my hopes betray) Which, purely white, deserves An everlasting diamond should it mark. "

He has not, however, gone three yards down the corridor when the door isagain opened, and Lady Baltimore's voice calls after him:

"Baltimore!" Her tone is sharp, high-agonized--the tone of one strung tothe highest pitch of despair. It startles him. He turns to look at her. She is standing, framed in by the doorway, and one hand is grasping thewoodwork with a hold so firm that the knuckles are showing white. Withthe other hand she beckons him to approach her. He obeys her. He is evenso frightened at the strange gray look in her face that he draws herbodily into the room again, shutting the door with a pressure of thehand he can best spare. 

"What is it?" says he, looking down at her. 

She has managed to so far overcome the faintness that has beenthreatening her as to shake him off and stand free, leaning against achair behind her. 

"Don't go, " says she, hoarsely. 

It is impossible to misunderstand her meaning. It has nothing whateverto do with his interview with the lawyer waiting so patiently downbelow, but with that final wandering of his into regions unknown. She isas white as death. 

"How is this, Isabel?" asks he. He is as white as she is now. "Do youknow what you are saying? This is a moment of excitement; you do notcomprehend what your words mean. "

"Stay! Stay for his sake. "

"Is that all?" says he, his eyes searching hers. 

"For mine, then. "

The words seem to scorch her. She covers her face with her hands andstands before him, stricken dumb, miserable--confessed. 

"For yours!"

He goes closer to her, and ventures to take her hand. It is cold--coldas death. His is burning. 

"You have given a reason for my staying, indeed, " says he. "But what isthe meaning of it?"

"This!" cried she, throwing up her head, and showing him her shamed andgrief-stricken face. "I am a coward! In spite of everything I would nothave you go--so far!"

"I see. I understand, " he sighs, heavily. "And yet that story was a foullie! It is all that stands between us, Isabel. Is it not so? But youwill not believe. "

There, is a long silence, during which neither of them stirs. They seemwrapt in thought--in silence--he still holding her hand. 

"If it was a lie, " says she at last, breaking the quiet around them byan effort, "would you so far forgive my distrust of you as to be holdingmy hand like this?"

"Yes. What is there I would not forgive you?" says he. "And it was alie!"

"Cyril, " cries she in great agitation, "take care! It is a last moment!Do you dare to tell me that still? Supposing your story to be true, andmine--that woman's--false, how would it be between us then?"

"As it was in the first good old time when we were married. "

"You, could forgive the wrong I have done you all these years, supposing----"

"Everything--all. "

"Ah!" This sound seems crushed out of her. She steps backward, and a drysob breaks from her. 

"What is it?" asks he, quickly. 

"Oh, that I could--that I dared--believe, " says she. 

"You would have proofs, " says he, coldly, resigning her hand. "My wordis not enough. You might love me did I prove worthy; your love is notstrong enough to endure the pang of distrust. Was ever real love so poora thing as that? However, you shall have them. "

"What?" asks she, raising her head. 

"The proofs you desire, " responds he, icily. "That woman--yourfriend--the immaculate one--died the the day before yesterday. What? Younever heard? And you and she----"

"She was nothing to me, " says Lady Baltimore. "Nothing since. "

"The day she reviled me! And yet"--with a most joyless laugh--"for thesake of a woman you cared so little about, that even her death has notcaused you a pang, you severed the tie that should have been the closestto you on earth? Well, she is dead. 'Heaven rest her sowl!' as thepeasants say. She wrote me a letter on her bed of death. "

"Yes?" Eagerly. 

"You still doubt?" says he, with a stern glance at her. "So be it; youshall see the letter, though how will that satisfy you? For you canalways gratify your desire for suspicion by regarding it as a forgery. The woman herself is dead, so, of course, there is no one to contradict. Do think this all out, " says he, with a contemptuous laugh, "before youcommit yourself to a fresh belief in me. You see I give you everychance. To such a veritable 'Thomas' in petticoats every road should belaid open. Now"--tauntingly--"will you wait here whilst I bring theproof?"

He is gazing at her in a heartbroken sort of way. Is it the end? Is itall really over? There had been a faint flicker of the dying candle--atiny glare--and now for all time is it to be darkness?

As for her. Ever since he had let her hand go, she had stood with benthead looking at it. He had taken it, he had let it go; there seemed tobe a promise of heaven--was it a false one?

She is silent, and Baltimore, who had hoped for one word of trust, ofbelief, makes a gesture of despair. 

"I will bring you the letter, " he says, moving toward the door. When hedoes bring it--when she had read it and satisfied herself of the loyaltyso long doubted, where, he asks himself, will they two be then? Furtherapart than ever? He has forgiven a great deal--much more than this--andyet, strange human nature, he knows if he once leaves the room and herpresence now, he will never return again. The letter she will see--buthim--never!

The door is open. He has almost crossed the threshold. Once again hervoice recalls him, once again he looks back, she is holding out her armsto him. 

"Cyril! Cyril!" she cried. "I believe you. "

She staggers toward him. Mercifully the fountain of her tears breaksloose, she flings herself into his willing arms, and sobs out a wholeworld of grief upon his bosom. 

It is a cruel moment, yet one fraught with joy as keen as the sorrow--afire of anguish out of which both emerge purified, calmed--gladdened. 

CHAPTER LVIII. 

 "Lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of the birds has come. "

The vague suspicion of rain that had filled their thoughts at breakfasthas proved idle. The sun is shining forth again with redoubled vigor, asif laughing their silly doubts to scorn. Never was there so fair a day. One can almost see the plants growing in the garden, and from everybough the nesting birds are singing loud songs of joy. 

The meadows are showing a lovely green, and in the glades and uplandsthe

 "Daffodils That come before the swallow dares, "

are uprearing their lovely heads. The air is full of sweet scents andsounds, and Joyce, jumping down from the drawing-room window, that liesclose to the ground, looks gladly round her. Perhaps it is not so muchthe beauty of the scene as the warmth of happiness in her own heart thatbrings the smile to her lips and eyes. 

He will be here to-day! Involuntarily she raises one hand and looks atthe ring that encircles her engaged finger. A charming ring of pearlsand sapphires. It evidently brings her happy thoughts, as, after gazingat it for a moment or two, she stoops and presses her lips eagerly toit. It is his first gift (though not his last), and therefore the mostprecious. What girl does not like receiving a present from her lover?The least mercenary woman on earth must feel a glow at her heart and afonder recognition of her sweetheart's worth when he lays alove-offering at her feet. 

Joyce, after her one act of devotion to her sweetheart, runs down thegarden path and toward the summer house. She is not expecting Dysartuntil the day has well grown into its afternoon; but, book in hand, shehas escaped from all possible visitors to spend a quiet hour in the oldearwiggy shanty at the end of the garden, sure of finding herself safethere from interruptions. 

The sequel proves the futility of all human belief. 

Inside the summer house; book in hand likewise, sits Mr. Browne, apicture of studious virtue. 

Miss Kavanagh, seeing him, stops dead short, so great is her surprise, and Mr. Browne, raising his eyes, as if with difficulty, from the bookon his knee, surveys her with a calmly judicial eye. 

"Not here. Not here, my child, " quotes he, incorrectly. "You had bettertry next door. "

"Try for what?" demands she, indignantly. 

"For whom? You mean----"

"No, I don't, " with increasing anger. 

"Jocelyne!" says Mr. Browne, severely. "When one forsakes the path oftruth it is only to tread in----"

"Nonsense!" says Miss Kavanagh, irreverently. 

"As you will!" says he, meekly. "But I assure you he is not here. "

"I could have told you that, " says she, coloring, however, very warmly. "I must say, Dicky, you are the most ingeniously stupid person I evermet in my life. "

"To shine in even the smallest line in life is to achieve something, "says Mr. Browne, complacently. "And so you knew he wouldn't be here justnow?"

This is uttered in an insinuating tone. Miss Kavanagh feels she has madea false move. To give Dicky an inch is, indeed, to give him an ell. 

"He? Who?" says she, weakly. 

"Don't descend to dissimulation, Jocelyne, " advises he, severely. "It'sthe surest road to ruin, if one is to believe the good old copy books. By he--you see I scorn subterfuge--I mean Dysart, the person to whom ina mistaken moment you have affianced yourself, as though I--I were notready at any time to espouse you. "

"I'm not going to be espoused, " says Miss Kavanagh, half laughing. 

"No? I quite understood----"

"I won't have that word, " petulantly. "It sounds like something out ofthe dark ages. "

"So does he, " says Mr. Browne. "'Felix, ' you know. So Latin! Quite likeone of the old monks. I shouldn't wonder if he turned out a----"

"I wish you wouldn't tease me, Dicky, " says she. "You think you areamusing, you know, but I think you are one of the rudest people I evermet. I wish you would let me alone. "

"Ah! Why didn't you leave me alone?" says he, with a sigh that wouldhave set a furnace ablaze. "However!" with a noble determination toovercome his grief. "Let the past lie. You want to go and meet Dysart, isn't that it? And I'll go and meet him with you. Could self-sacrificefurther go? 'Jim along Josy, ' no doubt he is at the upper gate by thistime, flying on the wings of love. "

"He is not, " says Joyce; "and I wish once for all, Dicky, that youwouldn't call me 'Josy. ' 'Jocelyne' is bad enough, but 'Josy!' And I'mnot going to 'jim' anywhere, and certainly"--with strongdetermination--"not with you. " She looks at him with sudden curiosity. "What brought you here to-day?" asks she, most inhospitably it must beconfessed. 

"What brings me here every day? To see the unkindest girl in the world. "

"She doesn't live here, " says Miss Kavanagh. "Dicky"--changing her tonesuddenly and looking at him with earnest eyes. "What is this I hearabout Lady Baltimore and her husband? Be sensible now, do, and tell me. "

"They're going abroad together--with Bertie. They've made it up, " sayshe, growing as sensible as even she can desire. "It is such a completemake up all round that they didn't even ask me to go with them. However, I'm determined to join them at Nice on their return from Egypt. Too muchbilling and cooing is bad for people. "

"I'm so glad, " says Joyce, her eyes filling with tears. "They are twosuch dear people, and if it hadn't been for Lady--By the by, where isLady Swansdown?"

"Russia, I think. "

"Well, I liked her, too, " says Joyce, with a sigh; "but she wasn't goodfor Baltimore, was she?"

"Not very!" says Mr. Browne, dryly. "I should say, on the whole, thatshe disagreed with him. Tonics are sometimes dangerous. "

"I'm so delighted, " says Joyce, still thinking of Lady Baltimore. "Well, " smiling at him, "why don't you go in and see Barbara?"

"I have seen her, talked with her a long while, and bid her adieu. I wason my way back to the Court, having failed in my hope of seeing you, when I found this delightful nest of earwigs, and thought I'd stay andconfabulate with them a while in default of better companions. "

"Poor Dicky!" says she. "Come with me, then, and I'll talk to you forhalf an hour. "

"Too late!" says he, looking at his watch. "There is only one thing leftme now to, say to you, and that is, 'Good-by. '"

"Why this mad haste?"

"Ah, ha! I Can have my little secrets, too, " says he. "A whisper in yourear, " leaning toward her. 

"No, thank you, " says she, waving him off with determination. "Iremember your last whisper. There! if you can't stay, Dicky, good byindeed. I'm going for a walk. "

She turns away resolutely, leaving Mr. Browne to sink back upon the seatand continue his reading, or else to go and meet that secret he spokeof. 

"I say, " calls he, running after her. "You may as well see me as far asthe gate, any way. " It is evident the book at least has lost its charms. Miss Kavanagh not being stony hearted so far gives in as to walk withhim to a side gate, and having finally bidden him adieu, goes back tothe summer house he has quitted, and, opening her book, prepares toenjoy herself. 

Vain preparation! It is plain that the fates are against her to-day. Sheis no sooner seated, with her book of poetry open on her knee, than alittle flying form turns the corner and Tommy precipitates himself uponher. 

"What are you doing?" asks he. 

CHAPTER LIX. 

 "Lips are so like flowers I might snatch at those Redder than the rose leaves, Sweeter than the rose. "

 "Love is a great master. "

"I am reading, " says she. "Can't you see that?"

"Read to me, then, " says Tommy, scrambling up on the bench beside herand snuggling himself under her arm. "I love to hear people. "

"Well, not this, at all events, " says Miss Kavanagh, placing the daintycopy of "The Muses of Mayfair, " she has been reading on the rustic tablein front of her. 

"Why not that one? What is it?" asks Tommy, staring at the book. 

"Nothing you would like. Horrid stuff. Only poetry. "

"What's poetry?"

"Oh, nonsense, Tommy, you know very well what poetry is. Your hymns arepoetry. " This she considers will put an end to all desire for the bookin question. It is a clever and skilful move, but it fails signally. There is silence for a moment while Tommy cogitates, and then----

"Are those hymns?" demands he, pointing at the discarded volume. 

"N-o, not exactly. " This is scarcely disingenuous, and Miss Kavanagh hasthe grace to blush a little. She is the further discomposed in that shebecomes aware presently that Tommy sees through her perfectly. 

"Well, what are they?" asks he. 

"Oh--er--well--just poetry, you know. "

"I don't, " says Tommy, flatly, who is nothing if not painfully truthful. "Let me hear them. " He pauses here and regards her with a searching eye. "They"--with careful forethought--"they aren't lessons, are they?"

"No; they are not lessons, " says his aunt, laughing. "But you won't likethem for all that. If you are athirst for literature, get me one of yourown books, and I will read 'Jack the Giant Killer' to you. "

"I'm sick of him, " says Tommy, most ungratefully. That tremendous herohaving filled up many an idle hour of his during his short lifetime. "No, " nestling closer to her. "Go on with your poetry one!"

"You would hate it. It is worse than 'Jack, '" says she. 

"Let me hear it, " says Tommy, persistently. 

"Well, " says Miss Kavanagh, with a sigh, "if you will have it, at least, don't interrupt. " She has tried very hard to get rid of him, but, havingfailed in so signal a fashion, she gives herself up with an admirableresignation to the inevitable. 

"What would I do that for?" asks Tommy, rather indignantly. 

"I don't know, I'm sure. But I thought I'd warn you, " says she, wiselyprecautious. "Now, sit down there, " pointing to the seat beside her;"and when you feel you have had enough of it, say so at once. "

"That would be interrupting, " says Tommy, the Conscientious. 

"Well, I give you leave to interrupt so far, " says Joyce, glad to leavehim a loop-hole that may insure his departure before Felix comes. "Butno further--mind that. "

"Oh, I'm minding!" says Tommy, impatiently. "Go on. Why don't youbegin?"

Miss Kavanagh, taking up her book once more, opens it at random. All itscontents are sweetmeats of the prettiest, so she is not driven to achoice. She commences to read in a firm, soft voice:--

 "The wind and the beam loved the rose, And the roses loved one: For who recks the----"

"What's that?" says Tommy. 

"What's what?"

"You aren't reading it right, are you?"

"Certainly I am. Why?"

"I don't believe a beam of wood could love anything, " says Tommy; "it'stoo heavy. "

"It doesn't mean a beam of wood. "

"Doesn't it?" staring up into her face. "What's it mean, then--'The beamthat is in thine own eye?'"

He is now examining her own eye with great interest. As usual, Tommy isstrong in Bible lore. 

"I have no beam in my eye, I hope, " says Joyce, laughing; "and, at allevents, it doesn't mean that either. The poet who wrote this meant asunbeam. "

"Well, why couldn't he say so?" says Tommy, gruffly. 

"I really think you had better bring me one of your own books, " saysJoyce. "I told you this would----"

"No, " obstinately, "I like this. It sounds so nice and smoothly. Go on, "says Tommy, giving her a nudge. 

Joyce, with a sigh, reopens the volume, and gives herself up for lost. To argue with Tommy is always to know fatigue, and nothing else. Onenever gains anything by it. 

"Well, do be quiet now, and listen, " says she, protesting faintly. 

"I'm listening like anything, " says Tommy. And, indeed, now at last itseems as if he were. 

So silent does he grow as his aunt reads on that you might have heard amouse squeak. But for the low, soft tones of Joyce no smallest soundbreaks the sweet silence of the day. Miss Kavanagh is beginning to feeldistinctly flattered. If one can captivate the flitting fancies of achild by one's eloquent rendering of charming verse, what may one notaspire to? There must be something in her style if it can reduce a boyof seven to such a state of ecstatic attention, considering the subjectis hardly such a one as would suit his tender years. 

But Tommy was always thoughtful beyond his age. A dear, clever littlefellow! So appreciative! Far, far beyond the average! He----

The mild sweetness of the spring evening and her own thoughts are brokenin upon at this instant by the "dear, clever little fellow. "

"He has just got to your waist now, " says he, with an air of wild ifsubdued excitement. 

"He! Who! What!" shrieks Joyce, springing to her feet. A longacquaintance with Tommy has taught her to dread the worst. 

"Oh, there! Of course you've knocked him down, and I did want to see howhigh he would go. I was tickling his tail to make him hurry up, " saysTommy, in an aggrieved tone. "I can't see him anywhere now, " peeringabout on the ground at her feet. 

"Oh! What was it, Tommy? Do speak!" cries Joyce, in a frenzy of fear anddisgust. 

"'Twas an earwig!" says Tommy, lifting a seraphic face to hers. "Andsuch a big one! He was racing up your dress most beautifully, and nowyou've upset him. Poor thing--I don't believe he'll ever find his wayback to you again. "

"I should hope not, indeed!" says Miss Kavanagh, hastily. 

"He began at the very end of your frock, " goes on Tommy, still searchingdiligently on the ground, as if to find the earwig, with a view torestoring it to its lost hunting ground; "and it wriggled up so nicely. I don't know where he is now"--sorrowfully--"unless, " with a suddenbrightening of his expressive face, "he is up your petticoats. "

"Tommy! What a horrid, bad boy you are!" cries poor Joyce, wildly. Shegives a frantic shake to the petticoats in question. "Find him at once, sir! He must be somewhere down there. I shan't have an instant's peaceuntil I know where he is. "

"I can't see him anywhere, " says Tommy. "Maybe you'll feel himpresently, and then we'll know. He isn't on your leg now, is he?"

"Oh! don't!" cries Joyce, who looks as if she is going, to cry. Shegives herself another vigorous shake, and stands away from the spotwhere Tommy evidently thinks the noxious beast in question may be, withher petticoats held carefully up in both hands. "Oh, Tommy, darling! Dofind him. He can't be up my petticoats, can he?"

"He can. There's, nothing they can't do, " says Tommy, who is plainlyrevelling in the storm he has raised. Her open fright is beer andskittles to him. "Why did you stir? He was as good as gold, until then;and there wasn't anything to be afraid of. I was watching him. When hegot to your ear I'd have told you. I wouldn't like him to make you deaf, but I wanted to see if he would go to your ear. But you spoiled all myfun, and now--where is he now?" asks Tommy, with an awful suggestion inhis tone. 

"On the grass, perhaps, " says Joyce, miserably, looking round hereverywhere, and even on her shoulder. "I don't feel him anywhere. "

"Sometimes they stay quite a long time, and then they crawl!" saysTommy, the most horrible anticipation in his tone. 

"Really, Tommy, " cries his aunt, indignantly, "I do think you are themost abominable boy I ever met in my life. There, go away! I certainlyshan't read another line to you--either now--or--ever!"

"What is the matter?" asks a voice at this moment, that sounds close toher elbow. She turns round with a start. 

"It is you, Felix!" says she, coloring warmly. "Oh--oh, it's nothing. Only Tommy. And he said I had an earwig on me. And I was just a littleunnerved, you know. "

"And no wonder, " says her lover, with delightful sympathy. "I can't bearthat sort of wild animal myself. Tommy, you ought to be ashamed ofyourself. When you saw him why didn't you rise up and slay the destroyerof your aunt's peace? There; run away into the hall. You will find onone of the tables a box of chocolate. I told Mabel it was there; perhapsshe----"

Like an arrow from the bow, Tommy departs. 

"He has evidently his doubts of Mabel, " says Joyce, laughing rathernervously. She is still a little shy with Felix. "He doesn't trust her. "

"No. " He has seated himself and now draws her down beside him. "You werereading?" he says. 

"Yes. "

"To Tommy?"

"Yes, " laughing more naturally this time. 

"Tommy is a more learned person than one would have supposed. Is thisthe sort of thing he likes?" pointing to Nydia's exquisite song. 

"I am afraid not, though he would insist upon my reading it. The earwigwas evidently far more engrossing as a subject than either the wind orthe rose. "

"And yet--" he has his arm round her now, and is reading the poem overher shoulder. 

"You are my Rose, " says he, softly. "And you--do you love but one?"

She makes a little mute gesture that might signify anything or nothingto the uninitiated, but to him is instinct with a most happy meaning. 

"Am I that one, darling?"

She makes the same little silent movement again, but this time she addsto it by casting a swift glance upward at him from under her loweredlids. 

"Make me sure of it, " entreated he almost in a whisper. He leans overher, lower, lower still. With a little tremulous laugh, dangerously akinto tears, she raises her soft palm to his cheek and tries to presshim--from her. But he holds her fast. 

"Make me sure!" he says again. There is a last faint hesitation on herpart, and then--their lips meet. 

"I have doubted always--always a little--ever since that night down bythe river, " says he, "but now----"

"Oh, no! You must not doubt me again!" says she with tears in her eyes. 

THE END.