He knows she is crying; her tears move him strangely. They are in the shadow of Torc Mountain. He stops rowing for a moment, takes her hand, and lifts it to his lips.

"I will love you all my life," is his answer.

* * * * *

This is how two of the water-party were enjoying themselves. A quarter of a mile farther off, another interesting little scene was going on in another boat.

Trixy had been rattling on volubly. It was one of Trixy's fixed ideas that to entertain and fascinate anybody her tongue must go like a windmill. Sir Victor sat and listened rather absently, replied rather dreamily, and as if his mind were a hundred miles away. Miss Stuart took no notice, but kept on all the harder, endeavoring to be fascinating. But there is a limit even to the power of a woman's tongue. That limit was reached; there came a lull and a pause.

"The time I've lost in wooing," began the English girl in the third boat. The idea was suggestive; Trixy drew a deep breath, and made a fresh spurt—this time on the subject of the late Thomas Moore and his melodies. But the young baronet suddenly interposed.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Stuart," he began hastily, and in a somewhat nervous voice; "but there is a subject very near to my heart on which I should like to speak to you this evening."

Trix sat straight up in the stern of the boat, as if she had been galvanized. Her heart gave one great ecstatic thump. "Oh," thought Miss Stuart, "he's going to pop!" I grieve to relate it, but that was the identical way the young lady thought it. "He's going to pop, as sure as I live!"

There was a pause—unspeakably painful to Miss Stuart. "Yes, Sir Victor," she faltered in her most dulcet and encouraging accents.

"I had made up my mind not to speak of it at all," went on Sir Victor, looking embarrassed and rather at a loss for words, "until we reached England. I don't wish to be premature. I—I dread a refusal so unspeakably, that I almost fear to speak at all."

What was Miss Stuart to say to this? What could any well-trained young lady say?

"Good gracious me!" (this is what she thought,) "why don't he speak out, and not go beating about the bush in this ridiculous manner! What's he afraid of? Refusal, indeed! Stuff and nonsense!"

"It is only of late," pursued Sir Victor Catheron, "that I have quite realized my own feelings, and then when I saw the attention paid by another, and received with evident pleasure, it was my jealousy first taught me that I loved."

"He means Captain Hammond," thought Trixy; "he's jealous of him, as sure as a gun. How lucky we met him at Macroom."

"And yet," again resumed the baronet, with a faint smile, "I don't quite despair. I am sure, Miss Stuart, I have no real cause."

"No-o-o, I think not," faltered Miss Stuart.

"And when I address myself to your father and mother—as I shall very soon—you think, Miss Stuart, they will also favor my suit?"

"They favor his suit?" thought Trix, "good Heaven above! was ever earthly modesty like this young man's?" But aloud, still in the trembling tones befitting the occasion, "I—think so—I know so, Sir Victor. It will be only too much honor, I'm sure."

"And—oh, Miss Stuart—Beatrix—if you will allow me to call you so—you think that when I speak—when I ask—I will be accepted?"

"He's a fool!" thought Beatrix, with an inward burst. "A bashful, ridiculous fool! Why, in the name of all that's namby-pamby, doesn't he pop the question, like a man, and have done with it? Bashfulness is all very well—nobody likes a little of it better than I do; but there is no use running it into the ground."

"You are silent," pursued Sir Victor. "Miss Stuart, it is not possible that I am too late, that there is a previous engagement?"

Miss Stuart straightened herself up, lifted her head, and smiled. She smiled in a way that would have driven a lover straight out of his senses.

"Call me Beatrix, Sir Victor; I like it best from my friends—from—from you. No, there is no previous engagement, and" (archly, this) "I am quite sure Sir Victor Catheron need never fear a refusal."

"Thanks." And precisely as another young gentleman was doing in the shadow of the "Torc," Sir Victor did in the shadow of the "Eagle's Nest." He lifted his fair companion's hand to his lips, and kissed it.

After that of course there was silence. Trixy's heart was full of joy—pure, unadulterated joy, to bursting. Oh, to be out of this, and able to tell pa and ma, and Charley, and Edith, and everybody! Lady Catheron! "Beatrix—Lady Catheron!" No—I can't describe Trixy's feelings. There are some joys too intense and too sacred for the Queen's English. She shut her eyes and drifted along in that blessed little boat in a speechless, ecstatic trance.

An hour later, and, as the clocks of Killarney were striking ten, Sir Victor Catheron helped Miss Stuart out of the boat, and had led her up—still silently—to the hotel. At the entrance he paused, and said the only disagreeable thing he had uttered to-night. "One last favor, Beatrix," taking her hand and gazing at her tenderly, "I must ask. Let what has passed between us remain between us for a few days longer. I had rather you did not speak of it even to your parents. My aunt, who has been more than a mother to me, is ignorant still of my feelings—it is her right that I inform her first. Only a few days more, and then all the world may know."

"Very well, Sir Victor," Beatrix answered demurely; "as you please, of course. I shan't speak to pa or ma. Goodnight, Sir Victor, good night!"

May I tell it, Miss Stuart actually gave the baronet's hand a little squeeze? But were they not engaged lovers, or as good? and isn't it permitted engaged lovers to squeeze each other's right hands? So they parted. Sir Victor strolled away to smoke a cigar in the moonlight, and Miss Stuart, with a beatified face, swept upstairs, her high-heeled New York gaiters click-clicking over the ground. Lady Catheron, Lady Catheron! Oh, what would all Fifth Avenue say to this?

Sleep was out of the question—it was open to debate whether she would ever sleep again. She would go and see Edith. Yes, Edith and Charley had got home before her—she would go and see Edith.

She opened the door and went in with a swish of silk and patchouli. The candles were unlit. Miss Darrell, still wearing her hat and scarlet wrap, sat at the window contemplating the heavenly bodies.

"All in the dark, Dithy, and thinking by the 'sweet silver light of the moon?' O Edie! isn't it just the heavenliest night?"

"Is that what you came in to say, Miss Stuart?"

"Don't be impatient, there's a dear! I wanted to tell you how happy I am, and what a delicious—de-li-ci-ous," said Trix, dragging out the sweet syllables, "sail I've had. O Edie! how I've enjoyed myself! Did you?"

"Immensely!" Edith answered, with brief bitterness, and something in her tone made Trixy look at her more closely.

"Why, Edith, I do believe you've been crying!"

"Crying! Bosh! I never cry. I'm stupid—I'm sleepy—my head aches. Excuse me, Trix, but I'm going to bed."

"Wait just one moment. O Edith," with a great burst, "I can't keep it! I'll die if I don't tell somebody. O Edith, Edith! wish me joy, Sir Victor has proposed!"

"Trix!"

She could just say that one word—then she sat dumb.

"O yes, Edith—out in the boat to-night. O Edith! I'm so happy—I want to jump—I want to dance—I feel wild with delight! Just think of it—think of it! Trixy Stuart will be My Lady Catheron!"

She turned of a dead white from brow to chin. She sat speechless with the shock—looking at Trixy—unable to speak or move.

"He's most awfully and aggravatingly modest," pursued Beatrix. "Couldn't say plump, like a man and brother, 'Trixy Stuart, will you marry me?' but beat about the bush, and talked of being refused, and fearing a rival, and speaking to ma and pa and Lady Helena when we got to England. But perhaps that's the way the British aristocracy make love. He asked me if there was any previous engagement, and any fear of a refusal, and that rubbish. I don't see," exclaimed Trixy, growing suddenly aggrieved, "why he couldn't speak out like a hero, and be done with it? He's had encouragement enough, goodness knows!"

Something ludicrous in the last words struck Edith—she burst out laughing. But somehow the laugh sounded unnatural, and her lips felt stiff and strange.

"You're as hoarse as a raven and as pale as a ghost," said Trix. "That's what comes of sitting in draughts, and looking at the moonshine. I'm awfully happy, Edith; and when I'm Lady Catheron, you shall come and live with me always—always, you dear old darling, just like a sister. And some day you'll be my sister in reality, and Charley's wife."

She flung her arms around Edith's neck, and gave her a rapturous hug. Edith Darrell unclasped her arms and pushed her away.

"I'm tired, Trix; I'm cold." She shivered from head to foot. "I want to go to bed."

"But won't you say something, Dithy? Won't you wish me joy?"

"I—wish—you joy."

Her lips kept that strange feeling of stiffness—her face had lost every trace of color. Oh, to be alone and free from Trix!

"You say it as if you didn't mean it," said Trix indignantly, getting up and moving to the door. "You look half-frozen, and as white as a sheet. I should advise you to shut the window and go to bed."

She was gone. Edith drew a long breath—a long, tired, heavy sigh. So! that was over—and it was Trix, after all.

Trix, after all! How strangely it sounded—it stunned her. Trix, after all and she had made sure it was to be herself. He had looked at her, he had spoken to her, as he had never looked or spoken to Trix. His color had risen like a girl's at her coming—she had felt his heart bound as she leaned on his arm. And it was Trix, after all!

She laid her arm upon the window-sill, and her face down upon it, feeling sick—sick—that I should have to write it!—with anger and envy. She was Edith Darrell, the poor relation, still—and Trix was to be Lady Catheron.

"A pretty heroine!" cries some, "gentle reader," looking angrily up; "a nasty, envious, selfish creature. Not the sort, of a heroine we're used to." Ah! I know that—none better; but then pure and perfect beings, who are ready to resign their lovers and husbands to make other women happy, are to be found in—books, and nowhere else. And thinking it over and putting yourself in her place—honestly, now!—wouldn't you have been envious yourself?



CHAPTER IX.

ALAS FOR TRIX!

"And after to-night we will all have a rest, thank Heaven! and my pilgrimage will come to an end. A fortnight at Powyss Place before you go up to London, my dear Mrs. Stuart—not a day less."

Thus Lady Helena Powyss, eight days later, seated luxuriously in the first-class carriage, and flying along by express train between Dublin and Kingston, en route for Cheshire.

They had "done" the south of Ireland, finished the Lakes, spent a pleasant half-week in Dublin, and now, in the light of the May afternoon, were flying along to meet the channel boat.

Captain Hammond was of the party still, and included in the invitation to Powyss Place. He sat between Lady Helena and Sir Victor now—Miss Stuart, in charming travelling costume, in the sunny seat next the window. On the opposite seat, at the other extreme end, sat Edith Darrell, her eyes riveted upon the pages of a book.

Since that night in the boat Miss Stuart had quietly but resolutely taken entire possession of Sir Victor. He was hers—she had the right. If a gentleman is modest to a fault, mayn't a lady overstep, by an inch or two, the line that Mrs. Grundy draws, and meet him half way? There is an adage about helping a lame dog over a stile—that work of mercy is what Trixy was doing now.

Before she left her room on the ensuing morning following that never-to-be-forgotten night, Edith had entered and taken Trix in her arms and kissed her.

"I was stupid and out of sorts last night, Trixy," she had said. "If I seemed churlish, I ask your pardon, dear, with all my heart I was surprised—I don't mind owning that—and perhaps a little, just a little, envious. But all that is over now, and I do wish you joy and happiness from the bottom of my heart. You're the best and dearest girl in the world, and deserve your fairy fortune."

And she had meant it. Trix was one of the best and dearest girls in the world, and if Sir Victor preferred her to herself, what right had she to grudge her her luck. Against the baronet himself, she felt anger deep and strong still. How dared he seek her out as he had done, select her for his confidante, and look love in fifty different ways, when he meant to marry Trix? What a fool she might have made of herself had she been a whit less proud than she was. Since then she had avoided him; in no marked manner, perhaps, but she had avoided him. He should pour no more family confidences into her ear, that she resolved. He belonged to Trix—let him talk to Trix, then; she wanted no other girl's lover. If he felt this avoidance, he showed no sign. Perhaps he thought Miss Stuart had dropped some hint—girls, despite their promises, have been known to do such things—and this change was becoming maidenly reserve. Sir Victor liked maidenly reserve—none of your Desdemonas, who meet their Othellos half way, for him. Trixy's unremitting attentions were sisterly, of course. He felt grateful accordingly, and strove to repay her in kind. One other thing he observed, too, and with great complacency—the friendship between Miss Darrell and her Cousin Charley had come to an end. That is to say, they rather kept aloof from each other—beyond the most ordinary attention, Mr. Stuart seemed to have nothing whatever to say to his cousin. This was as it should be; certainly Beatrix must have dropped that very judicious hint. He was glad he had spoken to her.

They reached Kingston in the early twilight, and embarked. It was rough crossing, of course. Trix was seized with agonies of mal de mer once more. Edith waited upon her assiduously. Mrs. Stuart and Lady Helena had a stewardess apiece. Happily, if severe, it was short; before midnight they were at Holyhead, and on the train once more. Then off—flying through Wales—whirling by mountains—illuminated glass stations—the broad sea to their left, asleep under the stars, the spray at times almost in their faces. Past villages, ruins, castles, and cottages, and at two in the morning thundering into the big station at Chester.

Two carriages awaited them at the Chester station. Into one entered Mr. and Mrs. Stuart, Sir Victor, and Beatrix; into the other, Lady Helena, Edith, Charley, and Captain Hammond. They drove away through quiet, quaint Chester, "rare old city of Chester," with its wonderful walls, its curious old streets—looking like set scenes in a theatre to American eyes—glimpses of the peaceful Dee, glimpses of Curson Park, with its stately villas; away for miles over a country road, then Chesholm at three in the morning, silent and asleep. Presently an endless stretch of ivied wall appears in view, inclosing a primeval forest, it seems to Edith; and Lady Helena sits up and rubs her eyes, and says it is Catheron Royals. The girl leans forward and strains her eyes, but can make out nothing in the darkness save that long line of wall and waving trees. This is to be Trixy's home, she thinks—happy Trixy! Half an hour more of rapid driving, and they are at Powyss Place, and their journey is at an end.

They emerge from the chill darkness of dawning day into a blaze of light—into a vast and stately entrance-hall. A long file of servants are drawn up to receive them. And "Welcome to Powyss Place," Lady Helena says with kind courtesy "I can only wish your visit may be as pleasant to you as you made mine in New York."

Without changing their dresses, they are ushered into a lofty and handsome dining-room. More brilliant lights, more silent, respectful servants, a round table luxuriously spread. They sit down; forget they are tired and sleepy; eat, drink, and are merry; and it is five, and quite day, before they were shown up to their rooms. Then, hasty disrobing, hasty lying down, and all are at peace in the land of dreams.

Next day, somewhere about noon, Miss Stuart, clicking along in her narrow-soled, preposterously high-heeled boots, over a polished oaken corridor, as black as ebony, and several degrees more slippery than ice, lost her footing, as might be imagined, and came down, with an unearthly screech, on one ankle. Of course the ankle was sprained; of course every one flew to the rescue. Sir Victor was first on the field, and in Sir Victor's arms Miss Stuart was lifted, and borne back to her room. Luckily it was near, or even Sir Victor's chivalry and muscular development would not have been equal to it, for Trix was a "fine woman." The ankle was bathed and bandaged, the invalid's breakfast brought up—everything done for her comfort that it was possible to do; and in the midst of their fussing, having cried a great deal, Miss Stuart suddenly dropped off asleep. Edith came out of the room looking pale and tired. In the slippery passage she encountered Sir Victor waiting.

"I have waylaid you on purpose, Miss Darrell," he said, smiling, "lest you should meet with a mishap too. A carpet shall be placed here immediately. You look pale—are you ill?"

There was a solicitude in his face, a tremulous, suppressed tenderness in the commonplace question, a look in his eyes that had no business in the eyes of another young lady's betrothed. But Edith felt too fagged and spiritless just at present to notice.

"I feel well enough; nothing is ever the matter with me; but I am rather stupid. Stupidity," she said, with her old laugh, "is fast becoming my normal state."

"You will come with me for a walk, will you not?" he asked. "The park is very well worth seeing. To-morrow, Miss Stuart's sprain permitting, we will all visit Catheron Royals. Do come, Miss Darrell; it will do you a world of good."

She hesitated a moment, then went. What difference did it make? Trix wouldn't be jealous now. What difference did anything make, for that matter? She was dull and low-spirited; she needed a walk in the fine fresh air. So they went on that fateful walk, that walk that was to be like no other in all Edith Darrell's life.

It was a perfect May day, an English May day; the grass, green beyond all ordinary greenness, the fragrant hawthorn hedges scenting the air, the thrush and the linnet singing in the trees, cowslips and daisies dotting the sward. A fresh, cool breeze swept over the uplands, and brought a faint trace of life and color into Edith's dark pale cheeks.

"This is the Lime Walk—the prettiest at Powyss Place, to my mind." This was the young baronet's first commonplace remark. "If you will ascend the eminence yonder, Miss Darrell, I think I can point out Catheron Royals; that is, if you think it worth the trouble."

It was all the same to Edith—the Lime Walk, the eminence, or any other quarter of the park. She took Sir Victor's arm, as he seemed to expect it, and went with him slowly up the elevation. Pale, weary, listless, she might be, but how charmingly pretty she looked in the sparkling sunshine, the soft wind blowing back her loose brown hair, kindling into deeper light her velvety-brown eyes, bringing a sea-shell pink into each creamy cheek. Beautiful beyond all ordinary beauty of womanhood, it seemed to Sir Victor Catheron.

"It is a wonderfully pretty place," she said. "I should think you English people, whose ancestors, time out of mind, have lived and died here, would grow to love every ivy-clad stone, every brave old tree. If I were not Alexander I would be Diogenes—if I were not an American girl, I would be an English miss."

She laughed and looked up at him, her spirits rising in the sunshine and the free, fresh air. His eyes were fixed upon her face—passionate admiration, passionate love, written in them far too plainly for any girl on earth not to read. And yet—he had proposed to Trix.

"You would?" he eagerly exclaimed. "Miss Darrell, do I understand you to say you could live in England all your life—give up America and your friends, and pass your life here?"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"It would be no great sacrifice. Apart from my father, there isn't a soul in all wide America I care a farthing for, and your English homes are very charming."

The last barrier broke down. He had not meant to speak—he had meant to be very prudent and formal—to tell Lady Helena first, to refer the matter to Mr. Stuart next. Now all prudence and formality were swept away. Her hands were in his—he was speaking with his whole heart in every word.

"Then stay and share an English home—share mine Edith, I love you—I have loved you, I think, since I saw you first. Will you be my wife?"

Alas for Trix!—that was Edith's first thought. To burst out laughing—that was Edith's first impulse. Not in triumph or exultation—just at this moment she felt neither—but at the awful blunder Trix had made; for Trix had made a blunder, that was clear as day, else Sir Victor Catheron had never said those words.

"I meant to have spoken to Lady Helena and Mr. Stuart first," Sir Victor went on; "but that is all over now. I can't wait longer; I must take my sentence from your lips. I love you! What more can I say? You are the first my lips have ever said it to—the first my heart has ever felt it for. Edith, tell me, may I hope?"

She stood silent. They were on the summit of the hill. Away, far off, she could see the waving trees and tall chimneys of a stately mansion—Catheron Royals, no doubt. It looked a very grand and noble place; it might be her home for life—she who, in one sense, was homeless. A baronet stood beside her, offering her rank and wealth—she, penniless, pedigreeless Edith Darrell! All the dreams of life were being realized, and in this hour she felt neither triumph nor elation. She stood and listened, the sunlight on her gravely beautiful face, with vague wonder at herself for her apathy.

"Edith!" he cried out, "don't tell me I am too late—that some one has been before me and won your heart. I couldn't bear it! Your cousin assured me that when I spoke the answer would be favorable. I spoke to her that night in Killarney—I did not mention your name, but she understood me immediately. I told her I meant to speak as soon as we reached England. I asked her if she thought there was hope for me, and she—"

The passionate eagerness, the passionate love and fear within him checked his words suddenly. He stopped for a moment, and turned away.

"O Trixy! Trixy!" was Edith's thought; and ridiculous and out of place as the emotion was, her only desire still was an almost uncontrollable desire to laugh outright. What a horrible—what an unheard-of blunder the child had made!

She stood tracing figures on the grass with the point of her parasol, feeling strangely apathetic still. If her life had depended on it, she could hardly have accepted Sir Victor then. By and by she might feel half wild with exultation—not now.

He waited for the answer that did not come. Then he turned from her, pale with despair.

"I see how it is," he said, trying, not quite successfully, to steady his voice; "I am too late. You love your cousin, and are engaged to him. I feared it all along."

The brown starry eyes, lifted slowly from the grass and looked at him.

"My cousin? You mistake, Sir Victor; I am engaged to no one. I"—she set her lips suddenly and looked away at the trees and the turrets of Catheron Royals, shining in the brilliant sun—"I love no one."

"No one, Edith! Not even me?"

"Not even you, Sir Victor. How could I? Why should I? I never dreamed of this."

"Never dreamed of this!" he repeated, in amaze; "when you must have seen—must have known—"

She interrupted him, a faint smile curling her lips.

"I thought it was Trixy," she said.

"Miss Stuart! Then she has told you nothing of that night at Killarney—I really imagined she had. Miss Stuart has been my kind friend, my one confidante and sympathizer. No sister could be kinder in her encouragement and comfort than she."

"O poor Trix—a sister!" Edith thought, and in spite of every effort, the laugh she strove so hard to suppress dimpled the corners of her mouth. "Won't there be a scene when you hear all this!"

"For pity's sake, Edith, speak to me!" the young man exclaimed. "I love you—my life will be miserable without you. If you are free, why may I not hope? See! I don't even ask you to love me now. I will wait; I will be patient. My love is so great that it will win yours in return. O darling! say you will be my wife."

Her hands were in his. The fervor, the passion within him almost frightened her.

"Sir Victor, I—I hardly know what to say. I wonder that you care for me. I wonder you want to marry me. I am not your equal; I have neither rank, nor wealth, nor descent."

"You have the beauty and the grace of a goddess—the goodness of an angel; I ask nothing more. You are the mate of a prince; and I love you. Everything is said in that."

"Lady Helena will never consent"

"Lady Helena will consent to anything that will make me happy. The whole happiness or misery of my life lies in your hands. Don't say no, Edith—don't, for Heaven's sake. I could not bear it—I cannot lose you; I will not!" he cried, almost fiercely.

She smiled faintly again, and that lovely rose-pink blush of hers deepened in her cheeks. It was very nice indeed to be wooed in this fiery fashion.

"Fortes fortuna juvat," she said, laughing. "I learned enough Latin, you see, to know that fortune assists the brave. People who won't have 'no' for an answer must have 'yes,' of course."

"And it is 'yes!' Edith—"

"Be quiet, Sir Victor; it is not 'yes' just yet, neither is it 'no.' You must let me think all this over; my head is giddy with your vehemence. Give me—let me see—until to-morrow. I can't answer now."

"But, Edith—"

"That much is due to me," she interposed, proudly; "remember, I have not expected this. You have surprised me this morning more than I can say. I am proud and grateful for your preference and the honor you have done me, but—I am honest with you—I don't love you."

"But you love no one else. Tell me that again, Edith!"

She grew pale suddenly. Again she looked away from him over the sunlit slopes before her.

"I am a very selfish and heartless sort of girl, I am afraid," she answered. "I don't know that it is in me to love any one as I ought—certainly not as you love me. If you take me, you shall take me at my true value. I am not an angel—ah, no; the farthest in the world from it—the most selfish of the selfish. I like you very much; it is not hard to do that. To be your wife would be my highest honor, but still I must have time. Come to me to-morrow, Sir Victor, any time, and you shall have your answer. Don't say one word more until then. Now let us go back."

He bowed and offered his arm. She took it, and in profound silence they walked back. The one topic that filled him, heart and soul, strength and mind, was forbidden—it was simply impossible for him to speak of any other. For Edith, she walked calmly beside him—her mind a serene blank.

They reached Powyss Place—they entered the drawing-room. All were there—Trixy lying on a sofa, pale and interesting, Lady Helena beside her, Charley lounging in the recess of a sunny window. All eyes turned upon the newcomers, Trix's with suspicious jealousy. If Sir Victor were in love with herself, was not his fitting place by her side in this trying hour, instead of meandering about with Dithy? And what business had Dithy monopolizing another girl's lover?

"I think I shall ride ever to Drexel Court between this and dinner," Sir Victor said. "I promised Hampton—"

Lady Helena laughed and interrupted:

"And Lady Gwendoline is there—I understand. Go by all means, Victor, and give Gwendoline my love. We shall expect you back to dinner."

The young man colored like a girl. He glanced uneasily at Edith, but Miss Darrell had taken up a photograph book of literary celebrities, and was immersed therein.

Would she understand him, he wondered—would she know it was because he could not endure the suspense at home? How should he drag through all the long, heavy hours between this and to-morrow? And when to-morrow came, if her answer were no? He set his teeth at the thought—it could not be no—it should not! She loved no one else—she must learn to love him.

Captain Hammond and Charley betook themselves to the billiard room. Trixy turned her suspicious eyes upon her cousin.

"Where were you and Sir Victor all day, Edith?"

"I and Sir Victor have not been any where all day, Beatrix. During the last hour we have been walking in the grounds."

"What were you talking about?"

"Many things," Miss Darrell responded, promptly. "The beauty of the prospect—the comfort of English homes, and the weather, of course. If I understood short-hand, and had been aware of your anxiety on the subject, I might have taken notes of our conversation for your benefit."

"Did you talk of me?"

"I believe your name was mentioned."

"Dith!" in a whisper, and raising herself on her elbow, "did Sir Victor say any thing about—about—you know what"

"He did not say one word about being in love with you, or marrying you, if that is what you mean. Now please stop catechising, and let me look at the pictures."

Twilight fell—dinner hour came; with it Sir Victor. He looked pale, anxious, tired. He answered all his aunt's inquiries about the Drexel family in the briefest possible manner. His over-fond aunt looked at him a little uneasily—he was so unlike himself, and presently drew him aside, after dinner, and spoke.

"Victor what is the matter? Are you ill?"

"Ill? No. My dear aunt," smiling, "don't wear that alarmed face—there is nothing the matter with me."

"There is something the matter with you. You are pale, you are silent, you eat nothing. Victor, what is it?"

"I will tell you to-morrow," he answered. "Spare me until then. I am anxious, I admit, but not even to you can I tell why to-night. You shall know all about it to-morrow."

No glimmer of the truth dawned upon her as she left him. She wondered what it could be, but she would not press him further.

For Edith—she was in that mood of serene recklessness still. Of to-morrow she neither cared to think, nor tried to think. The tide of her life was at its flood; whither the stream might bear her after this night, just now, she neither knew nor cared. For the present she was free, to-morrow she might be a bondwoman. Her fetters would be of gold and roses; none the less though would they be fetters.

She played chess with Sir Victor—his hand trembled—hers was steady. Captain Hammond asked her for a Scotch song. She went to the piano and sang, never more clearly and sweetly in her life.

"Sing 'Charley he's my darling,'" suggested Trix, maliciously; "it's one of your favorites, I know."

Charley was reposing on a sofa near—the waxlights streaming over his handsome, placid face.

"Yes, sing it, Dithy," he said; "it's ages since you sang it for me now."

"And I may never sing it for you again," she answered, with a careless laugh; "one so soon grows tired of these old songs."

She sang it, her eyes alight, her cheeks flushing, thrilling spirit and life in the merry words. Sir Victor stood beside her, drinking in until he was intoxicated by the spell of her subtle witchery.

"And Charley he's my darling— My darling, my darling!"

Edith's contralto tones rang out. She had never looked so really beautiful, perhaps, before in her life—suppressed excitement lent her such sparkle and color. She finished her song and arose. And presently the evening was over, and it was half-past eleven, and one by one they were taking their candles, and straggling off to bed.

Edith Darrell did not go to bed. She put the lights away on the toilet-table in the dressing-room, wrapped something around her and sat down by the window to think it out.

Should she marry Sir Victor Catheron, or should she not?

She cared nothing for him—nothing whatever—very likely she never would. She loved Charley Stuart with all the power of her heart, and just at present it seemed to her she always must. That was how the problem stood.

If she married Sir Victor, rank and wealth beyond all her dreams would be hers, a life of luxury, all the joys and delights great wealth can bring. She liked pleasure, luxury, beauty, rank. For love—well, Sir Victor loved her, and for a woman it is always better, safer, to be loved than to love.

That was one phase of the case. Here was the other: She might go to Charley and say. "Look here—I care for you so much, that life without you, isn't worth the living. I will marry you, Charley, whenever you like." He would make her his wife. Alone in darkness, her heart thrilled as she thought of it—and the intensest joy of life would be hers for a while. For a while. They would be poor—his father would cast him off—he must, for the first time in his life, begin to work—the old story of pinching and poverty, of darning and mending, would commence over again for her, poor food, poor clothes, all the untold ugliness and misery of penury. Love is a very good and pleasant thing, but not when bought at the price of all the glory and pleasure of the world.

She turned from the life she pictured with a shudder of abhorrence. And Charley was not of the stuff the toilers of the earth are made. She would never spoil his life for him as well as her own—not if her heart broke in giving him up. But it would not break—who breaks her heart in these days? She would say "Yes" to-morrow to Sir Victor Catheron.

Then for a moment the thread of thought broke, and she sat looking blankly out at the soft spring night.

On the day she pledged herself to Sir Victor she must say good-by forever to Charley—so it began again. One house must not contain them both; her word, her plight must be kept bright and untarnished—Charley must go.

She tried to think what her life would be like without him. It seemed to her, she could think of no time, in which he had not belonged to her; all the years before that night in the snow were blank and void. And now, for all time, she must give him up.

She rose, feeling cold and cramped—she undressed with stiffened fingers, and went to bed. She would think no more, her head ached—she would sleep and forget.

She did sleep, deeply, dreamlessly. The sunlight was pouring into her room, flooding it with golden radiance, when she awoke.

She sprang up; her heart gave one bound of recollection and rapture. Sir Victor Catheron had asked her to be his wife.

Doubt was at an end—hesitation was at an end.

"Colors seen by candlelight Do not look the same by day."

Last night a hair might have turned the scale and made her say "No," reckless of consequences—to-day a thousand Charleys would not have influenced her. She would be Lady Catheron.

She sang as she dressed. Not the May sunshine itself was brighter than her face. She left her room, she walked down the corridor, down the stairs, and out upon the emerald green lawn.

A well-known figure, in a gray suit, stood a few yards off, pacing restlessly about and smoking. He flung away his cigar and hurried up to her. One glance at her smiling face, was enough, his own flushed deep with rapture.

"I have come for my answer," he cried. "O Edith, my darling, don't let it be 'No.'"

She laughed aloud at his vehemence—it was the sort of wooing she liked.

"I should like to please you, Sir Victor—what, then, shall it be?"

"Yes! a thousand times, yes! Edith, my love—my love—yes!"

She was smiling still—she looked him frankly in the eyes as no woman on earth, in such an hour, ever looked at the man she loved. She laid in his one slim, brown, ringless hand.

"Since you wish it so much, Sir Victor, let it be as you please. Yes!"



CHAPTER X.

HOW TRIX TOOK IT.

It was half-past twelve, by all the clocks and watches of Powyss Place. Miss Stuart sat alone, in the pleasant boudoir or sitting-room, assigned her, her foot on an ottoman, a novel in her hand, a frown on her brow, and most beautifully dressed. In solitary state, at half-past ten, she had breakfasted, waited upon by the trimmest of English handmaidens in smiles and lace cap. The breakfast had been removed for over an hour, and still Miss Stuart sat alone.

Her mamma had called to see her, so had Lady Helena, but they did not count. She wanted somebody else, and that somebody did not come. Her novel was interesting and new, but she could not read; her troubles were too many and great.

First, there was her ankle that pained her, and Trixy did not like pain. Secondly, it was quite impossible she could venture to stand upon it for the next three days, and who was to watch Sir Victor during those three days? Thirdly, next week Lady Helena gave a large party, and at that party it was morally and physically impossible she could play any other part than that of wall-flower; she who was one of the best waltzers, and loved waltzing better than any other girl in New York. Is it any wonder, then, that an absorbing novel failed to absorb her?

The door opened and Edith came in. At all times and in all array, Miss Darrell must of necessity look handsome. This morning in crisp muslin and rose-colored ribbons, a flush on her cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes, Miss Darrell was something more than handsome—she was beautiful. Something, that was more the memory of a smile, than a smile itself, lingered on her lips—she was so brightly pretty, so fresh, so fair, that it was a pleasure only to look at her.

"Good morning, Trixy," she said. "How is our poor dear ankle? It doesn't hurt much, I hope?"

She came up behind Miss Stuart's chair, put her arms around her neck, stooped down and kissed her forehead. The frown on Trixy's face deepened—it was the last straw that broke the camel's back, to see Edith Darrell looking so brightly handsome, privileged to go where she pleased, while she was chained to this horrid chair.

"It does hurt," Trixy responded crossly. "I wish I had never had an ankle, sooner than go spraining it this way. The idea of horrid floors, like black looking-glasses, and slipperier than a skating-rink. Edith, how long is it since you got up?"

"Now for it!" thought Edith, and the smile she strove to repress, dimpled her sunny face. Luckily, standing behind Trix's chair, Trix did not see it.

"How long? Oh, since nine o'clock. You know I'm not a very early riser."

"Did you go straight down to breakfast?"

"The breakfast hour was ten. It doesn't take me all that time to dress."

"Where did you go then?"

"I walked in the grounds."

"Edith!" with sudden sharpness, "did you see Sir Victor?"

"Yes, I saw Sir Victor."

"Where? In the grounds too?"

"In the grounds too—smoking a cigar."

"Edith!" the sharpness changing to suspicion and alarm. "You were with Sir Victor!"

"I was with Sir Victor. That is to say, Sir Victor was with me."

"Bother! What did you talk about? Did he ask after me?"

"Ye-e-es," Edith answered doubtfully—the fact being Sir Victor had utterly forgotten Miss Stuart's existence in the dizzy rapture of his acceptance—"he asked for you, of course."

"Was that all? He's a pretty attentive host, I don't think," cried Trixy, with bitterness, "having a young lady laid up by the le—the ankle in his house, and never so much as calling to see if she is dead or alive!"

"My dearest Trix," said Edith, struggling with a laugh, "gentlemen don't call upon young ladies in their chambers at break of day, even though they have a sprained ankle. It isn't de rigeur."

"De rigger be blowed! It isn't my chamber; it's my private parlor; and aristocratic as we have got lately, I don't think half-past twelve is the break of day. Edith, upon your word, did he say anything about—about—you know what?"

"Marrying you? No, Trixy, not a word."

She put her arms closer around poor Trixy's neck, and hid her face in Trixy's chestnut hair.

"Trix, pet, don't you think there may have been a little—just a little, misunderstanding that night at Killarney?"

"Misunderstanding! I don't understand you, Edith," Miss Stuart exclaimed, in increasing alarm. "For goodness' sake come round where I can see you, and don't stand there like a sort of 'Get thee behind me, Satan.' I like to look people in the face when I talk to them."

"In one moment, dear; please don't be cross. I have something that is not pleasant to say that you won't like. I am afraid to tell you. Trix, there was a misunderstanding that night."

"I don't see how; I don't believe there was. Edith Darrell, what do you mean? He asked me to marry him—at least he told me he was in love with me in a stupid, round-about way, and asked me if he might hope, and if there was any danger of a refusal, or a rival, when he spoke out, and that balderdash. He said he meant to speak to pa and ma, as plain as print. Now how could there be a misunderstanding in all that?"

"It was, as you say, awfully stupid of him, but these Englishmen have such different ways from what we are accustomed to. There was a misunderstanding, I repeat. He means to speak to your father and mother to-day, but—not about you."

"Edith!" Trix half sprung up, pale as death and with flashing eyes. "What do you mean? Speak out, I tell you!"

"O Trix." She twined her arms still closer around her neck, and laid her cheek coaxingly alongside of Miss Stuart's. "There has been a horrid mistake. All the time in that boat on Killarney lake he was talking of—me!"

"Of—you!" The two words drop from Trixy's ashen lips.

"Of me, dear, and he thinks at this moment that you understood him so. Trixy—don't be angry with me—how could I help it—he proposed to me yesterday afternoon."

"Proposed to you yesterday afternoon!" Trix repeats the words like one who has been stunned by a blow, in a dazed sort of tone. "And you—refused him, Edith?"

"Accepted him, Trixy. I said yes to Sir Victor Catheron this morning in the grounds."

Then there was a pause. The ticking of the little Swiss clock, the joyous warble of the thrushes, the soft rustle of the trees sounding preternaturally loud. Beatrix Stuart sat white to the lips, with anger, mortification, amaze, disappointment. Then she covered her face with her hands, and burst into a vehement flood of tears.

"Trix! dear Trix!" Edith exclaimed, shocked and pained; "good Heaven, don't cry! Trix, dearest, I never knew you were in love with him."

"In love with him!" cried Trix, looking up, her eyes flashing through her tears, "the odious little wishy-washy, drawling coxcomb! No, I'm not in love with him—not likely—but what business had he to go talking like that, and hemming and hawing, and hinting, and—oh!" cried Trix, with a sort of vicious screech, "I should like to tear his eyes out!"

"I dare say you would—the desire is both natural and proper," answered Edith, smothering a second desire to laugh; "but, under the circumstances, not admissible. It was a stupid proceeding, no doubt, his speaking to you at all, but you see the poor fellow thinks you understood him, and meant it for the best."

"Thought I understood him!" retorted Miss Stuart, with a vengeful glare. "Oh, shouldn't I like to make him understand me! The way he went on that night, kissing my hand, and calling me Beatrix, and talking of speaking to pa, and meaning you all the time, is enough—enough to drive a person stark, staring mad. All Englishmen are fools—there!" exclaimed Miss Stuart, sparks of fire drying up her tears, "and Sir Victor Catheron's the biggest fool of the lot!"

"What, Trix! for wanting to marry me?"

"Yes, for wanting to marry you. You, who don't care a bad cent for him!"

"How many bad cents did you care, Miss Stuart, when you were so willing to be his wife?"

"More than you, Miss Darrell, for at least I was not in love with any one else."

"And who may Miss Darrell be in love with, pray?"

"With Charley," answered Trix, her face still afire. "Deny it if you dare! In love with Charley, and he with you."

She was looking up at her rival, her angry gray eyes so like Charley's as she spoke, in everything but expression, that for an instant Edith was disconcerted. She could not meet them. For once in her life her own eyes fell.

"Are we going to quarrel, Trix? Is it worth while, for a man you have decided we neither of us care for—we who have been like sisters so long?"

"Like sisters!" Trix repeated bitterly. "Edith, I wonder if you are not scheming and deceitful!"

"Beatrix!"

"Oh, you needn't 'Beatrix' me! I mean it. I believe there has been double dealing in this. He paid attention to me before you ever came to New York. I believe if I hadn't been sea-sick he would have proposed to me on the ship. But I was sea-sick,—it's always my luck to be everything that's miserable,—and you were with him night and day."

"Night and day! Good gracious, Trixy, this is awful!"

"You know what I mean," pursued Trix loftily. "You got him in love with you. Then, all the way to Killarney you flirted with Charley—poor Charley—and made him jealous, and jealousy finished him. You're a very clever girl, Edith, and I wish you a great deal of joy."

"Thank you; you say it as if you did. I don't take the trouble to deny your charges; they're not worth it—they are false, and you know them to be so. I never sought out Sir Victor Catheron, either in New York, on board ship, or elsewhere. If he had been a prince, instead of a baronet, I would not have done it. I have borne a great deal, but even you may go too far, Trixy. Sir Victor has done me the honor of falling in love with me—for he does love me, and he has asked me to be his wife. I have accepted him, of course; it was quite impossible I could do otherwise. If, at Killarney, he was stupid, and you made a blunder, am I to be held accountable? He does not dream for a moment of the misunderstanding between you. He thinks he made his meaning as clear as day. And now I will leave you; if I stay longer we may quarrel, and I—I don't want to quarrel with you, Trixy."

Her voice broke suddenly. She turned to the door, and all the smallness of her own conduct dawned upon Trix. Her generous heart—it was generous in spite of all this—smote her with remorse.

"Oh, come back, Edith!" she said; "don't go. I won't quarrel with you. I'm a wretch. It's dreadfully mean and contemptible of me, to make such a howling about a man that does not care a straw for me. When I told you, you wished me joy. Just come back and give me time to catch my breath, and I'll wish you joy too. But it's so sudden, so unexpected. O Dithy, I thought you liked Charley all this while!"

How like Charley's the handsome dark gray eyes were! Edith Darrell could not meet them; she turned and looked out of the window.

"I like him, certainly; I would be very ungrateful if I did not. He is like a brother to me."

"A brother! Oh, bother," retorted Trix, with immeasurable scorn and dignity. "Edith, honor bright! Haven't you and Charley been in love with each other these two years?"

Edith laughed.

"A very leading question, and a very absurd one. I don't think it is in either your brother or me to be very deeply in love. He would find it feverish and fatiguing—you know how he objects to fatigue; and I—well, if love be anything like what one reads of in books, an all-absorbing, all consuming passion that won't let people eat or sleep, I have never felt it, and I don't want to. I think that sort of love went out of fashion with Amanda Fitzallen. You're a sentimental goose, Miss Stuart, and have taken Byron and Miss Landon in too large doses."

"But you like him," persisted his sister, "don't you, Dithy?"

"Like him—like him!" Her whole face lit up for a second with a light that made it lovely. "Well, yes, Trix, I don't mind owning that much—I do like Charley—like him so well that I won't marry and ruin him. For it means just that, Trixy—ruin. The day we become anything more than friends and cousins your father would disinherit him, and your father isn't the heavy father of the comedy, to rage through four acts, and come round in the fifth, with his fortune and blessing. Charley and I have common-sense, and we have shaken hands and agreed to be good friends and cousins, nothing more."

"What an admirable thing is common-sense! Does Sir Victor know about the hand-shaking and the cousinly agreement?"

"Don't be sarcastic, Beatrix; it isn't your forte! I have nothing to confess to Sir Victor when I am married to him; neither your brother nor any other man will hold the place in my heart (such as it is) that he will. Be very sure of that."

"Ah! such as it is," puts in Trix cynically; "and when, is it to be, Dithy—the wedding?"

"My dear Trix, I only said yes this morning. Gentlemen don't propose and fix the wedding-day all in a breath. It will be ages from now, no doubt. Of course Lady Helena will object."

"You don't mind that?"

"Not a whit. A grand-aunt is—a grand-aunt, nothing more. She is his only living relative, he is of age, able to speak and act for himself. The true love of any good man honors the woman who receives it. In that way Sir Victor Catheron honors me, and in no other. I have neither wealth nor lineage; in all other things, as God made us, I am his equal!"

She moved to the door, her dark eyes shining, her head erect, looking in her beauty and her pride a mate for a king.

"There is to be a driving-party to Eastlake Abbey, after luncheon," she said; "you are to be carried down to the barouche and ride with your father and mother, and Lady Helena—Charley and Captain Hammond for your cavaliers."

"And you?"

"Sir Victor drives me."

"Alone, of course?" Trixy says, with a last little bitter sneer.

"Alone, of course," Edith answers coldly. Then she opens the door and disappears.



CHAPTER XI.

HOW LADY HELENA TOOK IT.

But the driving-party did not come off. The ruins of Eastlake Abbey were unvisited that day, at least. For while Edith and Trixy's somewhat unpleasant interview was taking place in one part of the house, an equally unpleasant, and much more mysterious, interview was taking place in another, and on the same subject.

Lady Helena had left the guests for awhile and gone to her own rooms. The morning post had come in, bringing her several letters. One in particular she seized, and read with more eagerness than the others, dated London, beginning "My Dear Aunt," and signed "Inez." While she sat absorbed over it, in deep and painful thought evidently, there came a tap at the door; then it opened, and her nephew came in.

She crumpled her letter hurriedly in her hand, and put it out of sight. She looked up with a smile of welcome; he was the "apple of her eye," the darling of her life, the Benjamin of her childless old age—the fair-haired, pleasant-faced young baronet.

"Do I intrude?" he asked. "Are you busy? Are your letters very important this morning? If so—"

"Not important at all. Come in, Victor. I have been wishing to speak to you of the invitations for next week's ball. Is it concerning the driving-party this afternoon you want to speak?"

"No, my dear aunt; something very much pleasanter than all the driving-parties in the world; something much more important to me."

She looked at him more closely. His face was flushed, his eyes bright, a happy smile was on his lips. He had the look of a man to whom some great good fortune had suddenly come.

"Agreeably important, then, I am sure, judging by your looks. What a radiant face the lad has!"

"I have reason to look radiant. Congratulate me, Aunt Helena; I am the happiest man the wide earth holds."

"My dear Victor!"

"Cannot you guess?" he said, still smiling; "I always thought female relatives were particularly sharp-sighted in these matters. Must I really tell you? Have you no suspicions of my errand here?"

"I have not, indeed;" but she sat erect, and her fresh-colored, handsome old face grew pale. "Victor, what is it? Pray speak out."

"Very well. Congratulate me once more; I am going to be married."

He stopped short, for with a low cry that was like a cry of fear, Lady Helena rose up. If he had said "I am going to be hanged," the consternation of her face could not have been greater. She put out her hand as though to ward off a blow.

"No, no!" she said, in that frightened voice; "not married. For God's sake, Victor, don't say that!"

"Lady Helena!"

He sat looking at her, utterly confounded.

"It can't be true," she panted. "You don't mean that. You don't want to be married. You are too young—you are. I tell you I won't hear of it! What do boys like you want of wives!—only three-and-twenty!"

He laughed good-humoredly.

"My dear aunt, boys of three-and-twenty are tolerably well-grown; it isn't a bad age to marry. Why, according to Debrett, my father was only three-and-twenty when he brought home a wife and son to Catheron Royals."

She sat down suddenly, her head against the back of a chair, her face quite white.

"Aunt Helena," the young man said anxiously, approaching her, "I have startled you; I have been too sudden with this. You look quite faint; what shall I get you?"

He seized a carafe of water, but she waved it away.

"Wait," she said, with trembling lips; "wait. Give me time—let me think. It was sudden; I will be better in a moment."

He sat down feeling uncommonly uncomfortable. He was a practical sort of young man, with, a man's strong dislike of scenes of all kinds, and this interview didn't begin as promisingly as he had hoped.

She remained pale and silent for upward of five very long minutes; only once her lips whispered, as if unconsciously:

"The time has come—the time has come."

It was Sir Victor himself who broke the embarrassing pause.

"Aunt Helena," he said pettishly, for he was not accustomed to have his sovereign will disputed, "I don't understand this, and you will pardon me if I say I don't like it. It must have entered your mind that sooner or later I would fall in love and marry a wife, like other men. That time has come, as you say yourself. There is nothing I can see to be shocked at."

"But not so soon," she answered brokenly. "O Victor, not so soon."

"I don't consider twenty-three years too soon. I am old-fashioned, very likely, but I do believe in the almost obsolete doctrine of early marriage. I love her with all my heart." His kindling eyes and softened voice betrayed it. "Thank Heaven she has accepted me. Without her my life would not be worth the having."

"Who is she?" she asked, without looking up. "Lady Gwendoline, of course."

"Lady Gwendoline?" He smiled and lifted his eyebrows.

"No, my dear aunt; a very different person from Lady Gwendoline. Miss Darrell."

She sat erect and gazed at him—stunned.

"Miss Darrell! Edith Darrell—the American girl, the—Victor, if this is a jest—"

"Lady Helena, am I likely to jest on such a subject? It is the truth. This morning Miss Darrell—Edith—has made me the happiest man in England by promising to be my wife. Surely, aunt, you must have suspected—must have seen that I loved her."

"I have seen nothing," she answered blankly, looking straight before her—"nothing. I am only an old woman—I am growing blind and stupid, I suppose. I have seen nothing."

There was a pause. At no time was Sir Victor Catheron a fluent or ready speaker—just at present, perhaps, it was natural he should be rather at a loss for words. And her ladyship's manner was the reverse of reassuring.

"I have loved her from the first," he said, breaking once more the silence—"from the very first night of the party, without knowing it. In all the world, she is the only one I can ever marry. With her my life will be supremely happy, superbly blessed; without her—but no! I do not choose to think what my life would be like without her. You, who have been as a mother to me all my life, will not mar my perfect happiness on this day of days by saying you object."

"But I do object!" Lady Helena exclaimed, with sudden energy and anger. "More—I absolutely refuse. I say again, you are too young to want to marry at all. Why, even your favorite Shakespeare says: 'A young man married, is a man that's marred.' When you are thirty it will be quite time enough to talk of this. Go abroad again—see the world—go to the East, as you have often talked of doing—to Africa—anywhere! No man knows himself or his own heart at the ridiculous age of twenty-three!"

Sir Victor Catheron smiled, a very quiet and terribly obstinate smile.

"My extreme youth, then, is your only objection?"

"No, it is not—I have a hundred objections—it is objectionable from every point. I object to her most decidedly and absolutely. You shall not marry this American girl without family or station, and of whom you know absolutely nothing—with whom you have not been acquainted four weeks. Oh, it is absurd—it is ridiculous—it is the most preposterous folly I ever heard of in my life."

His smile left his face—a frown came instead. His lips set, he looked at her with a face of invincible determination.

"Is this all?" he demanded. "I will answer your objections when I have thoroughly heard them. I am my own master—but—that much is due to you."

"I tell you she is beneath you—beneath you!" Lady Helena said vehemently. "The Catherons have always married well—into ducal families. Your grandmother—my sister—was, as I am, the daughter of a marquis."

"And my mother was the daughter of a soap-boiler," he said with bitterness. "Don't let us forget that."

"Why do you speak to me of her? I can't bear it. You know I cannot. You do well to taunt me with the plebeian blood in your veins—you, of all men alive. Oh! why did you ever see this designing girl? Why did she ever come between us?"

She was working herself up to a pitch of passionate excitement, quite incomprehensible to her nephew, and as displeasing as it was incomprehensible.

"When you call her designing, Lady Helena," he said, in slow, angry tones, "you go a little too far. In no way has Miss Darrell tried to win me—'tis the one drawback to my perfect happiness now that she does not love me as I love her. She has told me so frankly and bravely. But it will come. I feel that such love as mine must win a return. For the rest, I deny that she is beneath me; in all things—beauty, intellect, goodness—she is my superior. She is the daughter of a scholar and a gentleman; her affection would honor the best man on earth. I deny that I am too young—I deny that she is my inferior—I deny even your right, Lady Helena, to speak disparagingly of her. And, in conclusion, I say, that it is my unalterable determination to marry Edith Darrell at the earliest possible hour that I can prevail upon her to fix our wedding-day."

She looked at him; the unalterable determination he spoke of was printed in every line of his set face.

"I might have known it," she said, with suppressed bitterness; "he is his father's son. The same obstinacy—the same refusal to listen to all warning. Sooner or later I knew it must come, but not so soon as this."

The tears coursed slowly over her cheeks, and moved him as nothing she ever could have said would have done.

"For Heaven's sake, aunt, don't cry," he said hurriedly. "You distress me—you make me feel like a brute, and I—really now, I don't think you ought to blame me in this way. Miss Darrell is not a Lady Gwendoline, certainly—she has neither rank nor wealth, but in my sight their absence is no objection whatever. And I love her; everything is said in that."

"You love her," she repeated mournfully. "O my poor boy, my poor boy!"

"I don't think I deserve pity," Sir Victor said, smiling again. "I don't feel as though I did. And now tell me the real reason of all this."

"The real reason?"

"Certainly; you don't suppose I do not see it is something besides those you have given. There is something else under all this. Now let us hear it, and have done with it."

He took both her hands in his and looked at her—a resolute smile on his fair blonde face.

"Troubles are like certain wild animals," he said; "look them straight in the eye and they turn and take to flight. Why should I not marry at twenty-three? If I were marrying any one else—Lady Gwendoline for instance—would my extreme juvenility still be an obstacle?"

"You had much better not marry at all."

"What! live a crusty old bachelor! Now, now, my good aunt, this is a little too much, and not at all what I expected from a lady of your excellent common-sense."

"There is nothing to make a jest of, Victor. It is better you should not marry—better the name of Catheron should die out and be blotted from the face of the earth."

"Lady Helena!"

"I know what I am saying, Victor. You would say it too, perhaps, if you knew all."

"You will tell me all. Oh yes, you will. You have said too much or too little, now. I must hear 'all,' then I shall judge for myself. I may be in love—still I am amenable to reason. If you can show me any just cause or impediment to my marriage—if you can convince me it will be wrong in the sight of Heaven or man, then, dearly as I love her, I will give her up. But your proof must be strong indeed."

She looked at him doubtfully—wistfully.

"Would you do this, Victor? Would you have strength to give up the girl you love? My boy, my son, I don't want to be hard on you. I want to see you happy, Heaven knows, and yet—"

"I will be happy—only tell me the truth and let me judge for myself."

He was smiling—he was incredulous. Lady Helena's mountain, seen by his eyes, no doubt, would turn out the veriest molehill.

"I don't know what to do," she answered, in agitated tones. "I promised her to tell you if this day ever came, and now it is here and I—oh!" she cried out passionately, "I can't tell you!"

He grew pale himself, with fear of he knew not what.

"You can, you will—you must!" he said resolutely. "I am not a child to be frightened of a bogy. What terrible secret is there hidden behind all this?"

"Terrible secret—yes, that is it. Terrible secret—you have said it!"

"Do you, by any chance, refer to my mother's death? Is it that you knew all these years her murderer and have kept it secret?"

There was no reply. She covered her face with her hands and turned away.

"Am I right?" he persisted.

She rose to her feet, goaded, it seemed, by his persistent questioning into a sort of frenzy.

"Let me alone, Victor Catheron," she cried. "I have kept my secret for twenty-three years—do you think you will wring it from me all in a moment now? What right have you to question me—to say I shall tell, or shall not? If you knew all you would know you have no rights whatever—none—no right to ask any woman to share, your life—no right, if it comes to that, even to the title you bear!"

He rose up too—white to the lips. Was Lady Helena going mad? Had the announcement of his marriage turned her brain? In that pause, before either could speak again, a knock that had been twice given unheard, was repeated a third time. It brought both back instantly from the tragic, to the decorum of every-day life. Lady Helena sat down; Sir Victor opened the door. It was a servant with a note on a salver.

"Well, sir," the baronet demanded abruptly. "What do you want?"

"It's her ladyship, Sir Victor. A lady to see your ladyship on very important business."

"I can see no one this morning," Lady Helena responded; "tell her so."

"My lady, excuse me; this lady said your ladyship would be sure to see her, if your ladyship would look at this note. It's the lady in mourning, my lady, who has been here to see your ladyship before. Which this is the note, my lady."

Lady Helena's face lit up eagerly now. She tore open the note at once.

"You may go, Nixon," she said. "Show the lady up immediately."

She ran over the few brief lines the note contained, with a look of unutterable relief. Like the letter, it was signed "Inez."

"Victor," she said, turning to her nephew and holding out her hand, "forgive me, if in my excitement and haste I have said what I should not. Give me a little time, and everything will be explained. The coming of In—this lady—is the most opportune thing in the world. You shall be told all soon."

"I am to understand then," Sir Victor said coldly, "that this stranger, this mysterious lady, is in your confidence; that she is to be received into mine—that she is to be consulted before you can tell me this secret which involves the happiness of my life?"

"Precisely! You look angry and incredulous, but later you will understand. She is one of our family—more at present I cannot say. Go, Victor; trust me, believe me, neither your honor nor your love shall suffer at our hands. Postpone the driving-party, or make my excuses; I shall not leave my rooms to-day. To-morrow, if it be possible, the truth shall be yours as well as mine."

He bowed coldly—annoyed, amazed, and went. What did all this mean? Up to the present, his life had flowed peacefully, almost sluggishly, without family secrets or mystifications of any kind. And now all at once here were secrets and mysteries cropping up. What was this wonderful secret—who was this mysterious lady? He must wait until to-morrow, it appeared, for the answer to both.

"One thing is fixed as fate," he said to himself as he left the room, "I won't give up Edith, for ten thousand family secrets—for all the mysterious ladies on earth! Whatever others may have done, I at least have done nothing to forfeit my darling's hand. The doctrine that would make us suffer for the sins of others, is a mistaken doctrine. Let to-morrow bring forth what it may, Edith Darrell shall be my wife."



CHAPTER XII.

ON ST. PARTRIDGE DAY.

As he descended the stairs he encountered Nixon and a veiled lady in black ascending. He looked at her keenly—she was tall and slender; beyond that, through the heavy crape veil, he could make out nothing. "Mysterious, certainly!" he thought. "I wonder who she is?" He bowed as he passed her; she bent her head in return; then he hastened to seek out Edith, and tell her an important visitor had arrived for Lady Helena, and that the excursion to Eastlake Abbey would be postponed. He was but a poor dissembler, and the girl's bright brown eyes were sharp. She smiled as she looked and listened.

"Did you know I could tell fortunes, Sir Victor? Hold out your hand and let me tell you the past. You have been upstairs with Lady Helena; you have told her that Edith Darrell has consented to be your wife. You have asked her sanction to the union, and have been naturally, indignantly, and peremptorily refused."

He smiled, but the conscious color rose.

"I always suspected you of being an enchantress—now I know it. Can you tell me the future as truthfully as the past?"

"In this instance I think so. 'You shall never marry a penniless nobody, sir.' (And it is exactly Lady Helena's voice that speaks.) 'Your family is not to be disgraced by a low marriage. This girl, who is but a sort of upper servant, hired and paid, in the family of these common rich American people, is no mate for a Catheron of Catheron. I refuse to listen to a word, sir—I insist upon this preposterous affair being given up.' You expostulate—in vain. And as constant dropping wears the most obstinate stone, so at last will her ladyship conquer. You will come to me one day and say: 'Look here, Miss Darrell, I'm awfully sorry, you know, but we've made a mistake—I've made a mistake. I return you your freedom—will you kindly give me back mine? And Miss Darrell will make Sir Victor Catheron her best curtsey and retire into the outer darkness from whence she came."

He laughed. Her imitation of his own slow, accented manner of speaking was so perfect. Only for an instant; then he was grave, almost reproachful.

"And you know me no better than this!" he said. "I take back my words; you are no seeress. I love my aunt very dearly, but not all the aunts on earth could part me from you. I would indeed be a dastard if a few words of objection would make me resign the girl I love."

"I don't know," Miss Darrell answered coolly; "it might be better for both of us. Oh, don't get angry, please—you know what I mean. I am a nobody, as your somebodies go on this side. My Grandfather Stuart was a peddler once, I believe; my Grandfather Darrell, a schoolmaster. Not a very distinguished descent. My father by education and refinement is a gentleman, but he keeps a boarding-house. And I am Miss Stuart's paid companion and poor relation. Be wise, Sir Victor, while there is time; be warned before it is too late. I promise not to be angry—to even admire your common-sense. Lady Helena has been as a mother to you; it isn't worth while offending her for me—I'm not worth it. There are dozens of girls in England, high-born, high-bred, and twice as handsome as I am, who will love you and marry you to-morrow. Sir Victor Catheron, let us shake hands and part."

She held it out to him with a smile, supremely careless and uplifted. He caught it passionately, his blue eyes afire, and covered it with kisses.

"Not for ten thousand worlds! O Edith, how lightly you talk of parting, of giving me up. Am I then so utterly indifferent to you? No; I will never resign you; to call you wife is the one hope of my life. My darling, if you knew how I love you, how empty and worthless the whole world seems without you! But one day you will, you must—one day you will be able no more to live without me than I without you. Don't talk like this any more, Edith; if you knew how it hurts me you would be more merciful, I am sure. Life can hold nothing half so bitter for me as the loss of you."

She listened in a sort of wonder at his impassioned earnestness, looking at him shyly, wistfully.

"You love me like this?" she said.

"A hundred times more than this. I would die for you, Edith. How empty and theatrical it sounds, but, Heaven knows, I would."

She passed her hand through his arm and clasped the other round it, her bright smile back.

"Don't die," she said, with that smile, and her own rare, lovely blush; "do better—live for me. Ah, Sir Victor, I don't think it will be such a very hard thing to learn to like you!"

"My darling! And you will talk no more of parting—no more of giving me up? You don't really wish it, Edith, do you?"

"Most certainly not. Would I have accepted you, if I did? I'll never give you up while you care for me like this. If we ever part, the parting shall be your doing, not mine."

"My doing—mine?" he laughed aloud in his incredulity and happiness. "The days of miracles are over, belle amie, but a summer breeze could more easily uproot these oaks than that. And lest you should think yourself fetterless and free, I will bind you at once." He drew from his pocket a tiny morocco box. "See this ring, Edith: it has been worn by women of our house for the past two centuries—the betrothal ring of the Catherons. Let me place it on your finger, never to be taken off until I bind you with a golden circlet stronger still."

Her dark eyes sparkled as she looked at it. It was a solitaire diamond of wonderful size and brilliance, like a great drop of limpid water, set in dull red gold.

"There is some queer old tradition extant about it," he said, "to the effect that the bride of a Catheron who does not wear it will lead a most unhappy life and die a most unhappy death. So, my dearest, you see how incumbent upon you it is for your own sake to wear it religiously."

He laughed, but she lifted to his, two deep, thoughtful, dark eyes.

"Did your mother wear it, Sir Victor?"

He started, the smile died from his face, his color faded.

"My mother?" he answered; "no. My father married her secretly and hastily after six weeks' courtship, and of course never thought of the ring. 'Lead an unhappy life, die an unhappy death,'" he said, repeating his own words; "she did both, and, to the best of my belief, she never wore it."

"An odd coincidence, at least," said Edith, her eyes fixed on the diamond blazing in the sunshine on her hand.

A priceless diamond on the hand of Edith Darrell, the brown hand that two months ago had swept, and dusted, and worked unwillingly in the shabby old house at home.

"Don't let us talk about my mother," Sir Victor said; "there is always something so terrible to me in the memory of her death. Your life will be very different from hers—my poor mother."

"I hope so," was the grave reply; "and in my case there will be no jealous rival, will there? Sir Victor, do you know I should like to visit Catheron Royals. If we have had love-making enough for one day, suppose we walk over?"

"I shall never have love-making enough," he laughed. "I shall bore you awfully sometimes, I have no doubt; but when the heart is full the lips must speak. And as to walking—it is a long walk—do you think you can?"

"As I am to become a naturalized Englishwoman, the sooner I take to English habits the better. I shall at least make the attempt."

"And we can drive back in time for dinner. I shall be delighted to show you the old place—your future home, where we are to spend together so many happy years."

They set off. It was a delightful walk, that sunny day, across fields, down fragrant green lanes, where the hedges in bloom made the air odorous, and the birds sang in the arching branches overhead. A long, lovely walk over that quiet high-road, where three-and-twenty years ago, another Sir Victor Catheron had ridden away forever from the wife he loved.

With the yellow splendor of the afternoon sunlight gilding it, its tall trees waving, its gray turrets and towers piercing the amber air, its ivied walls, and tall stacks of chimneys, Catheron Royals came in view at last. The fallow deer browsed undisturbed, gaudy peacocks strutted in the sun, a fawn lifted its shy wild eyes and fled away at their approach. Over all, solemn Sabbath stillness.

"Welcome to Catheron Royals—welcome as its mistress, my bride, my love," Sir Victor Catheron said.

She lifted her eyes—they were full of tears. How good he was—how tenderly he loved her, and what a happy, grateful girl she had reason to be. They entered the house, admitted by a very old woman, who bobbed a curtsey and looked at them with curious eyes. Two or three old retainers took care of the place and showed it to strangers.

Leaning on her lover's arm, Edith Darrell walked through scores of stately rooms, immense, chill halls, picture-galleries, drawing-rooms, and chambers. What a stupendous place it was—bigger and more imposing by far than Powyss Place, and over twice as old. She looked at the polished suits of armor, at battle-axes, antlers, pikes, halberds, until her eyes ached. She paced in awe and wonder down the vast portrait-gallery, where half a hundred dead and gone Catherons looked at her sombrely out of their heavy frames. And one day her picture—hers—would hang in solemn state here. The women who looked at her from these walls lay stark and stiff in the vaults beneath Chesholm Church, and sooner or later they would lay her stark and stiff with them, and put up a marble tablet recording her age and virtues. She shivered a little and drew a long breath of relief as they emerged into the bright outer day and fresh air once more.

"It's a wonderful place," she said; "a place to dream, of—a place such as I have only met before in English books. But there is one room among all these rooms which you have not shown me, and which I have a morbid craving to see. You will not be angry if I ask?"

"Angry with you?" Sir Victor lifted his eyebrows in laughing surprise. "Speak, Edith, though it were half my kingdom."

"It is—" a pause—"to see the room where your mother—Ah!" as he shrank a little, "I beg your pardon. I should not have asked."

"Yes, yes, you should. You shall visit at once. I am a coward about some things, I confess—this among others. Come."

They went. He took from a huge bunch he carried the key of that long-locked room. He flung it wide, and they stood together on the threshold.

It was all dark, the blinds closed, the curtains drawn, dark and deserted, as it had been since that fatal night. Nothing had been changed, absolutely nothing. There stood the baby bassinet, there the little table on which the knife had lain, there beneath the open window the chair in which Ethel, Lady Catheron, had slept her last long sleep. A hush that seemed like the hush of death lay over all.

Edith stood silent and grave—not speaking. She motioned him hastily to come away. He obeyed. Another moment, and they stood together under the blue bright sky.

"Oh!" Edith said, under her breath, "who did it?"

"Who indeed? And yet Lady Helena knows."

His face and tone were sombre. How dare they let her lie in her unavenged grave? A Catheron had done it beyond doubt, and to save the Catheron name and honor the murderer had been let go.

"Lady Helena knows!" repeated Edith; "it was that wicked brother and sister, then? How cruel—how cruel!"

"It was not the sister—I believe that. That it must have been the brother no doubt can exist."

"Is he living or dead?"

"Living, I believe. By Heaven! I have half a mind yet to hunt him down, and hand him over to the hangman for the deed he has done!"

"An ancient name and family honor are wonderful things on this side of the Atlantic, a couple of million dollars on ours. They can save the murderer from the gallows. We won't talk about it, Sir Victor—it makes you unhappy I see; only if ever I—if ever I," laughing and blushing a little, "come to be mistress of that big, romantic old house, I shall wall that room up. It will always be a haunted chamber—a Bluebeard closet for me."

"If ever you are mistress," he repeated. "Edith, my dearest, when will you be?"

"Who knows? Never, perhaps."

"Edith—again!"

"Well, who can tell. I may die—you may die—something may happen. I can't realize that I ever will be. I can't think of myself as Lady Catheron."

"Edith, I command you! Name the day."

"Now, my dear Sir Victor—"

"Dear Victor, without the prefix; let all formality end between us. Why need we wait? You are your own mistress, I my own master; I am desperately in love—I want to be married. I will be married. There is nothing to wait for—I won't wait. Edith shall it be—this is the last of May—shall it be the first week of July?"

"No, sir; it shall not, nor the first week of August. We don't do things in this desperate sort of hot haste."

"But why should we delay? What is there to delay for? I shall have a brain-fever if I am compelled to wait longer than August. Be reasonable, Edith; don't let it be later than August."

"Now, now, now, Sir Victor Catheron, August is not to be thought of. I shall not marry you for ages to come—not until Lady Helena Powyss gives her full and free consent."

"Lady Helena shall give her full and free consent in a week; she could not refuse me anything longer if she tried. Little tyrant! if you cared for me one straw, you would not object like this."

"Yes I would. Nobody marries in this impetuous fashion. I won't hear of August. Besides, there is my engagement with Mrs. Stuart. I have promised to talk French and German all through the Continent for them this summer."

"I will furnish Mrs. Stuart a substitute with every European language at her finger-ends. Seriously, Edith, you must consider that contract at an end—my promised wife can be no one's paid companion. Pardon me, but you must see this, Edith."

"I see it," she answered gravely. She had her own reasons for not wishing to accompany the Stuart family now. And after all, why should she insist on postponing the marriage?

"You are relenting—I see it in your face," he exclaimed imploringly. "Edith! Edith! shall it be the first week of September?"

She smiled and looked at him as she had done early this eventful morning, when she had said "Yes!"

"As brain-fever threatens if I refuse, I suppose you must have your way. But talk of the willfulness of women after this!"

"Then it shall be the first of September—St Partridge Day?"

"It shall be St. Partridge Day."



CHAPTER XIII.

HOW CHARLEY TOOK IT.

Meantime the long sunny hours, that passed so pleasantly for these plighted lovers, lagged drearily enough for one young lady at Powyss Place—Miss Beatrix Stuart.

She had sent for her mother and told her the news. Placid Aunt Chatty lifted her meek eyebrows and opened her dim eyes as she listened.

"Sir Victor Catheron going to marry our Edith! Dear me! I am sure I thought it was you, Trixy, all the time. And Edith will be a great lady after all. Dear me!"

That was all Mrs. Stuart had to say about it. She went back to her tatting with a serene quietude that exasperated her only daughter beyond bounds.

"I wonder if an earthquake would upset ma's equanimity!" thought Trix savagely. "Well, wait until Charley comes! We'll see how he takes it."

Misery loves company. If she was to suffer the pangs of disappointment herself, it would be some comfort to see Charley suffer also. And Trix was not a bad-hearted girl either, mind—it was simply human nature.

Charley and the captain had gone off exploring the wonders and antiquities of Chester. Edith and Sir Victor were nobody knew where. Lady Helena had a visitor, and was shut up with her. Trix had nothing but her novel, and what were all the novels in Mudie's library to her this bitter day?

The long, red spears of the sunset were piercing the green depths of fern and brake, when the two young men rode home. A servant waylaid Mr. Stuart and delivered his sister's message. She wanted to see him at once on important business.

"Important business!" murmured Charley, opening his eyes.

But he went promptly without waiting to change his dress.

"How do, Trix?" he said, sauntering in. "Captain Hammond's compliments, and how's the ankle?"

He threw himself—no, Charley never threw himself—he slowly extended his five-feet-eleven of manhood on a sofa, and awaited his sister's reply.

"Oh, the ankle's just the same—getting better, I suppose," Trix answered, rather crossly. "I didn't send for you to talk about my ankle. Much you, or Captain Hammond, or any one else cares whether I have an ankle at all or not."

"My dear Trix, a young lady's ankle is always a matter of profound interest and admiration to every well-regulated masculine mind."

"Bah! Charley, you'll never guess what I have to tell!"

"My child, I don't intend to try. I have been sight-seeing all the afternoon, interviewing cathedrals, and walls, and rows, and places, until I give you my word you might knock me down with a feather. If you have anything preying on your mind—and I see you have—out with it. Suspense is painful."

He closed his eyes, and calmly awaited the news. It came—like a bolt from a bow.

"Charley, Sir Victor Catheron has proposed to Edith, and Edith has accepted him!"

Charley opened his eyes, and fixed them upon her—not the faintest trace of surprise or any other earthly emotion upon his fatigued face.

"Ah—and that's your news! Poor child! After all your efforts, it's rather hard upon you. But if you expect me to be surprised, you do your only brother's penetration something less than justice. It has been an evident case of spoons—apparent to the dullest intellect from the first. I have long outlived the tender passion myself, but in others I always regard it with a fatherly—nay—let me say, even grandfatherly interest. And so they are going to 'live and love together through many changing years,' as the poet says. Bless you," said Charley, lifting his hand over an imaginary pair of lovers at his feet—"bless you, my children, and be happy!"

And this was all! And she had thought he was in love with Edith himself! This was all—closing his eyes again as though sinking sweetly to sleep. It was too much for Trix.

"O Charley!" she burst forth, "you are such a fool!"

Mr. Stuart rose to his feet.

"Overpowered by the involuntary homage of this assembly, I rise to—"

"You're an idiot—there!" went on Trix; "a lazy, stupid idiot! You're in love with Edith yourself, and you could have had her if you wished, for she likes you better than Sir Victor, and then Sir Victor might have proposed to me. But no—you must go dawdling about, prowling, and prancing, and let her slip through your fingers!"

"Prowling and prancing! Good Heaven, Trix! I ask you soberly, as man to man, did you ever see me prowl or prance in the whole course of my life?"

"Bah-h-h!" said Trix, with a perfect shake of scorn in the interjection. "I've no patience with you! Get out of my room—do!"

Mr. Stuart, senior, was the only one who did not take it quietly. His bile rose at once.

"Edith! Edith Darrell! Fred Darrell's penniless daughter! Beatrix Stuart, have you let this young baronet slip through your fingers in this ridiculous way after all?"

"I never let him slip—he never was in my fingers," retorted Trix, nearly crying. "It's just my usual luck. I don't want him—he's a stupid noodle—that's what he is. Edith's better-looking than I am. Any one can see that with half an eye, and when I was sick on that horrid ship, she had everything her own way. I did my best—yes I did, pa—and I think it's a little too hard to be scolded in this way, with my poor sprained ankle and everything!"

"Well, there, there, child!" exclaimed Mr. Stuart, testily, for he was fond of Trix; "don't cry. There's as good fish in the sea as ever were caught. As to being better-looking than you, I don't believe a word of it. I never liked your dark complected women myself. You're the biggest and the best-looking young woman of the two, by George!" (Mr. Stuart's grammar was hardly up to the standard.) "There's this young fellow, Hammond—his father's a lord—rich, too, if his grandfather did make it cotton-spinning. Now, why can't you set your cap for him? When the old rooster dies, this young chap will be a lord himself, and a lord's better than a baronet, by George! Come downstairs, Trixy, and put on your stunningest gown, and see if you can't hook the military swell."

Following these pious parental counsels, Miss Trix did assume her "stunningest" gown, and with the aid of her brother and a crutch, managed to reach the dining-room. There Lady Helena, pale and preoccupied, joined them. No allusion was made at dinner to the topic—a visible restraint was upon all.

"Old lady don't half like it," chuckled Stuart pere. "And no wonder, by George! If it was Charley I shouldn't like it myself. I must speak to Charley after dinner—there's this Lady Gwendoline. He's got to marry the upper-crust too. Lady Gwendoline Stuart wouldn't sound bad, by George! I'm glad there's to be a baronet in the family, even if it isn't Trixy. A cousin's daughter's better than nothing."

So in the first opportunity after dinner Mr. Stuart presented his congratulations as blandly as possible to the future Lady Catheron. In the next opportunity he attacked his son on the subject of Lady Gwendoline.

"Take example by your Cousin Edith, my boy," said Mr. Stuart in a large voice, standing with his hands under his coat-tails. "That girl's a credit to her father and family, by George! Look at the match she's making without a rap to bless herself with. Now you've a fortune in prospective, young man, that would buy and sell half a dozen of these beggarly lordlings. You've youth and good looks, and good manners, or if you haven't you ought to have, and I say you shall marry a title, by George! There's this Lady Gwendoline—she ain't rich, but she's an earl's daughter. Now what's to hinder your going for her?"

Charley looked up meekly from the depths of his chair.

"As you like it, governor. In all matters matrimonial I simply consider myself as non-existent. Only this, I will premise—I am ready to marry her, but not to court her. As you truthfully observe, I have youth, good looks, and good manners, but in all things appertaining to love and courtship, I'm as ignorant as the child unborn. Matrimony is an ill no man can hope to escape—love-making is. As a prince in my own right, I claim that the wooing shall be done by deputy. There is her most gracious majesty, she popped the question to the late lamented Prince Consort. Could Lady Gwendoline have any more illustrious example to follow? You settle the preliminaries. Let Lady Gwendoline do the proposing, and you may lead me any day you please as a lamb to the slaughter."

With this reply, Mr. Stuart, senior, was forced for the present to be content and go on his way. Trix, overhearing, looked up with interest:

"Would you marry her, Charley?"

"Certainly, Beatrix; haven't I said so? If a man must marry, as well a Lady Gwendoline as any one else. As Dundreary says, 'One woman is as good as another, and a good deal better.'"

"But you've never seen her."

"What difference does that make? I suppose the Prince of Wales never saw Alexandra until the matter was cut and dry. You see I love to quote lofty examples. Hammond has described her, and I should say from his description she is what Barry Cornwall would call 'a golden girl' in everything except fortune. Hammond speaks of her as though she were made of precious metals and gems. She has golden hair, alabaster brow, sapphire eyes, pearly teeth, and ruby nose. Or, stay—perhaps it was ruby lips and chiselled nose. Chiselled, sounds as though her olfactory organ was of marble or granite, doesn't it? And she's three-and-thirty years of age. I found that out for myself from the Peerage. It's rather an advantage, however, than otherwise, for a man's wife to be ten or twelve years the elder. You see she combines all the qualities of wife and mother in one."