"Well, she has been loved and sought in marriage for at least three years by Lord Roxmouth,"—said the Bishop.

"Has SHE been loved and sought, or her aunt's millions?" queried Walden—"That is the point at issue. But my dear Brent, do not let us waste time in talking over this little folly of mine—for I grant you it is folly. I'm not sorry you have found it out, for in any case I had meant to make a clean breast of it before we parted,"—he hesitated—then looked up frankly—"I would rather you spoke no more of it, Harry! I've made my confession. I admit I nearly struck Leveson for slandering an innocent and defenseless woman,—and I believe you'll forgive me for that. Next, I own that though I am getting into the sere and yellow leaf, I am still conscious of a heart,—and that I feel a regretful yearning at times for the joys I have missed out of my life—and you'll forgive me for that too,—I know you will! For the rest, draw a curtain over this little weakness of mine, will you? I don't want to speak of it—I want to fight it and conquer it."

The Bishop stretched out a hand and caught Walden's in a close grasp.

"Right!"—he said—"Do that, and you will do well! It is all a question of fighting and conquering, or—being conquered. But YOU will never give in, John! You are not the man to yield to the wiles of the devil. For there IS a devil!—I am sure of it!" And his dark eyes flashed with a sudden wild light. "A cozening, crafty, lurking devil, that sets temptation before us in such varied and pleasing forms that it is difficult—sometimes impossible—to tell which is right and which is wrong! Walden, we must escape from this devil—we must escape!"

He sprang up with an impulsive quickness which startled Walden, and began to pace up and down the room again.

"A mocking devil,"—he said—"a lying devil!—whispering from morning till evening, and from evening till morning, doubts of God! Doubts whether He, the Creator of worlds, really exists,-doubts as to whether He, or It, is not some huge blind, deaf Force, grinding its way on through limitless and eternal Production and Reproduction to one end,—Annihilation! Walden, you must now hear MY confession! These doubts are driving me mad! I cannot bear the thought of the whirl of countless universes, immeasurable solar systems, crammed with tortured life for which there seems to be no hope, no care, no rescue, no future! I am unable to preach or to FEEL comfort for the human race! The very tragedy of the Cross only brings me to one result—that Truth is always crucified. The world prefers Falsehood. So much so indeed that the Christian religion itself is little more than a super-structure of lies raised above the sepulchre of a murdered Truth. I told you in my letter I had serious thoughts of resigning my bishopric. So I have. My spirit turns to Rome!"

"Rome!" cried Walden—"What, YOU, Brent!—you think of going over to Rome? What strange fantasy has seized you?"

"Rome," said Brent, slowly, stopping in his restless walk—"is the Mother of Creeds—the antique Muse of the world's history! Filled with the blood of martyrs, hallowed by the memories of saints, she is, she must always be, supreme in matters of faith—or superstition!" And he smiled,—a wan and sorrowful smile—"Or even idolatry, if you will! Emotionalism,—sensationalism in religion— these the craving soul must have, and these Rome gives! We must believe,—mark you, Walden!—we must positively BELIEVE that the Creator of all Universes was moved to such wrath against the helpless human creature He had made, that he cursed that creature forever for merely eating, like a child, fruit which had been forbidden! And after that we must believe everything else that has since followed in the track of the Woman, the Serpent and the Tree. Now in the Church of England I find I cannot believe these things— in the Church of Rome I WILL believe, because I MUST! I will humble myself in dust and ashes, and accept all—all. Anything is better than Nothingness! I will be the lowest of lay brethren, and in solitude and silence, make atonement for my unbelief. It is the only way, Walden!—for me, it is the only way! To Her!" And he pointed up to the picture of the Virgin and Child—"To Her, my vows! As Woman, she will pity me—as Woman, she can be loved!"

Walden heard this wild speech without any word or gesture of interruption. Then, raising his eyes to the picture Brent thus apostrophised, he said, quietly—

"When did you have that painted, Brent?"

A sudden change came over the Bishop's features. He looked as though startled by some vague terror. Then he answered, slowly:

"Some years ago—in Florence. Why do you ask? It is a copy—-"

"Of HER likeness—yes!" said Walden, softly—"I saw that at once. You had it done, of course! She was beautiful and good—she died young. I know! But you have no right to turn your personal passion and grief into a form of worship, Harry!"

The Bishop gazed at him fixedly and solemnly.

"You do not know,"—he murmured—"You have not seen what I have seen! She has come to me lately—she, who died so long ago!—she has come to me night after night, and she has told me to pray for her— 'pray' she says—'pray that I may help to save your soul!' And I must surely do as she bids. I must get away from this place—away from this city of turmoil and wickedness, into some quieter comer of the world,—some monastic retreat where I may end my days in peace,- -I cannot fight my devils here—they are too strong for me!"

"They will be too strong for you anywhere, if you are a coward!"— said Walden, impetuously. "Brent, I thought you had gotten the victory over this old despair of yours long ago! I thought you had made the memory of the woman you loved a noble spur to noble actions! I never dreamed that it would be possible for you to brood silently on your sorrow till you made it a cause of protest against God's will! And worst and strangest of all is this frenzied idea of yours to fly to the Church of Rome for shelter from yourself and your secret misery, and there give yourself over to monasticism and a silent, idolatrous worship,—not of Mary, the Mother of Christ,— but of the mere picture of the woman you loved! And you would pray to THAT?—you would kneel before THAT?—you would pass long hours of fasting and vigil, gazing at that face, till, like the 'stigmata,' it is almost outlined in blood upon your heart? My dear Brent, is it possible your brain is so shaken and your soul so feeble that you must needs seek refuge in a kind of half-spiritual, half-sensuous passion, which is absolute rank blasphemy?"

At this the Bishop raised his head with an air of imperious authority.

"I cannot permit!—-" he said, in unsteady accents—"You have no right to speak to me in such a tone—it is not your place—-"

Then, suddenly, his voice broke, and throwing himself into his chair, he dropped his head forward on the desk and covered it with his hands in an attitude of the utmost abandonment and dejection. The moisture rose to Walden's eyes,—he knew the great tragedy of his friend's life—all comprised in one brief, romantic episode of the adoring love, and sudden loss of a beautiful woman drowned by accident in her own pleasure-boat on the very eve of her marriage with him,—and be knew that just as deep and ardent as the man's passion had been, so deep and ardent was his sorrow—a sorrow that could never be consoled. And John sat silent, deeply moved in himself, and ever and anon glancing upwards at the exquisite face of the painted Virgin above him,—the face of the dead girl whom her lover had thus sanctified. Presently Brent raised his head,—his face was white and worn—his eyes were wet.

"Forgive me, John!" he said—"I have been working hard of late, and my nerves are unstrung. And—I cannot, I cannot forget her! And what is more awful and terrible to me than anything is that I cannot forgive God!" He uttered these words in an awed whisper. "I cannot! I bear the Almighty a grudge for wrenching her life away from mine! Of what use was it to be so cruel? Of what purpose to kill one so young? If God is omnipotent, God could have saved her. But He let her die! I tell you, Walden, that ever since I have been Bishop of this diocese, I have tried to relieve sorrow and pain whenever I have met with it—I have striven to do my duty, hoping against hope that perhaps God would teach me—would explain the why and wherefore of so much needless agony to His creatures—and that by discovering reasons for the afflictions of others, I should learn to become reconciled to my own. But no!—nothing has been made clear! I have seen innocent women die in the tortures of the damned—while their drunken husbands have lived to carouse over their coffins. Children,—mere babes—are afflicted with diseases for which often no cause can be assigned and no cure discovered—while over the whole sweltering mass of human helplessness and ignorance, Death stalks triumphant,—and God, though called upon for rescue with prayers and tears, withdraws Himself in clouds of impenetrable silence. It is all hopeless, useless, irremediable! That is why my thoughts turn to Rome—I say, let me believe in SOMETHING, if it be only a fairy tale! Let me hear grand music mounting to heaven, even if human words cannot reach so high!—let me think that guardian angels exist, even if there is nothing in space save a blind Chance spawning life particles uselessly,—let my soul and senses feel the touch of something higher, vaster, purer and better than what the Church of England calls Christianity at this present day!"

"And that 'something higher, vaster, purer and better'—would you call it the Church of Rome?" asked Walden. "In suggestion,—in emotion and poetic inspiration, yes!"—said Brent—"In theory and in practice, no!"

There was a pause. Walden sat for a few moments absorbed in anxious thought. Then he looked up with a cheerful air.

"Harry," he said—"Will you do me a favour? Promise that you will postpone the idea of seceding, or as you put it, 'returning' to Rome, for six months. Will you? At the end of that time we'll discuss it again."

The Bishop looked uneasy.

"I would rather do what has to be done at once,"—he said.

"Then I must talk to you straightly,"—continued John, bracing himself up, and squaring his shoulders resolutely—"I must forget that you are my Bishop, and speak just as man to man. All the facts of the case can be summed up in one word—Selfishness! Pure Selfishness, Harry!—and I never thought I should have had to convict you of it!"

Brent drew himself slowly up in his chair.

"Selfishness!" he echoed, dreamily—"I can take anything from you, John!—I did at college,—but—selfishness—-"

"Selfishness!" repeated John, firmly—"You have had to suffer a grief—a great grief,—and because it was so sudden, so tragic and overwhelming, you draw a mourning veil of your own across the very face of God! You try to rule your diocese by the measure of your own rod of affliction. And, finding that nothing is clear to you, because of your own obstructive spirit, you would set up a fresh barrier between yourself and Eternal Wisdom, by deserting your post here, and separating yourself from all the world save the shadow of the woman you yourself loved! Harry, my dear old friend, unless I had heard this from your own lips, I should never have believed it of you!"

Brent sat heavily in his chair, sunk in a brooding melancholy.

"'The heart knoweth its own bitterness!'"—he murmured wearily— "Your reproaches are just,—I know I deserve them, but they do not rouse me. They do not stir one pulse in my soul! What have I learned of Eternal Wisdom?—what have I seen? Nothing but cruelty upon cruelty dealt out, not to the wicked, but to the innocent! And because I protest against this, you call my spirit an obstructive one—well!—it may be so! But, Walden, you have never loved!—you have never felt all your life rush like a river to the sea of passion!—not low, debasing passion, but passion born of vitality, ardour, truth, hope, sympathy!—such emotion as most surely palpitates through the whole body of the natural creation, else there would be naught created. God Himself—if there be a God—must be conscious of Love! Do we not say: 'God IS Love'?—and this too while we suffer beneath His heavy chastisements which are truely more like Hate! I repeat, Walden, you have never loved,—till now perhaps—and even now you are scarcely conscious of the hidden strength of your own feelings. But suppose—just for the sake of argument—suppose this 'little girl' as you call her, Maryllia Vancourt, were to die suddenly, would you not, as you express it, 'draw a mourning veil of your own across the face of God'?"

Walden started as though suddenly wounded. If Maryllia were to die!' He shuddered as the mere thought passed across his brain. 'If Maryllia were to die!' Why then—then the world would be a blank— there would be no more sunshine!—no roses!—no songs of birds!— nothing of fairness or pleasure left in life—not for him, whatever there might be for others. Was it possible that her existence meant so much to him? Yes, it meant so much!—it had come to mean so much! He felt his old friend's melancholy eyes upon him, and looking up met their searching scrutiny with a serious and open frankness.

"Honestly, I think I should die myself, or lose my senses!"—he said—"And honestly, I hardly realised this,—which is just as much selfishness on my part as any of which I hastily accused you,—till you put it to me. I will not profess to have a stoicism beyond mortal limits, Harry, nor should I expect such from you. But I WILL say, that despite our human weakness, we must have courage!—we are not men without it. And whether faith stands fast or falters, whether God seems far off or very near, we must face and fight our destiny—not run away from it! You want to run away,"—and he smiled gravely—"or rather, just in the present mood of yours you think of doing so—but I believe it is only a mood—and that you will not, after putting your hand to the plough, turn back because of the aridness or ungratefulness of the soil,—that would not be like you. If one must needs perish, it is better to perish at one's post of duty than desert over to the enemy."

"I am not sure that Rome is an enemy;"—said the Bishop, musingly.

To this Walden gave no reply, and the conversation fell into other channels. But, during the whole time of his visit, John was forced to realise, with much acute surprise and distress, that constant brooding on grief,—and excessive spiritual emotion of an exalted and sensuous kind, with much perplexed pondering on human evils for which there seemed no remedy, had produced a painful impression of life's despair and futility on Brent's mind,—an impression which it would be difficult to eradicate, and which would only be softened and possibly diminished by tenderly dealing with it as though it were an illness, and gradually bringing about restoration and recovery through the gentlest means. Though sometimes it was to be feared that all persuasion would be useless, and that the scandalous spectacle of an English Bishop seceding to the Church of Rome would be exhibited with an almost theatrical effect in his friend's case. For the ornate ritual which the Bishop maintained in his Cathedral services was almost worthy of a Mass at St. Peter's. The old, simple chaste English style of 'Morning Prayer' was exchanged for 'Matins,'—choristers perpetually chanted and sang,—crosses were carried to and fro,—banners waved—processions were held—and the 'Via Crucis' was performed by a select number of the clergy and congregation every Friday.

"I never have this sort of thing in my church,"—said Walden, bluntly, on one occasion—"My parishioners would not understand it."

"Why not teach them to understand it?" asked the Bishop, dreamily. They were standing together in the beautiful old Cathedral, now empty save for their presence, and Brent's eyes were fixed with a kind of sombre wistfulness on a great gold crucifix up on the altar.

"Teach them to understand it?" echoed Walden, with a touch of sorrow and indignation—"You are my Bishop, but if you commanded me to teach them these 'vain repetitions' prohibited by the Divine Master, I should disobey you!"

The Bishop flushed red.

"You disapprove?"

"I disapprove of everything that tends to put England back again into the old religious fetters which she so bravely broke and cast aside,"—said John, warmly—"I disapprove of all that even hints at the possibility of any part of the British Empire becoming the slave of Rome!"

Brent gave a weary gesture.

"In religious matters it is wiser to be under subjection than free,"—he said, with a sigh—"In a state of freedom we may think as we please—and freedom of thought breeds doubt,—whereas in a state of subjection we think as we MUST, and so we are gradually forced into an attitude of belief. The spread of atheism among the English is entirely due to the wild, liberty of opinion allowed tham by their forms of faith."

"I do not agree with you!"—declared Walden, firmly—"The spread of atheism is due, not to freedom of opinion, nor forms of faith, but simply to the laxity and weakness of the clergy."

The Bishop looked at him with a smile.

"You always speak straight out, John!" he said—"You always did! And strange to say, I like you all the better for it. I could, if I chose, both reprove and command you—but I will do neither. You must take your own way, as you always have done. But there is a flavour of Rome even in your little church of St. Rest,—your miracle shrine,—your unknown saint in the alabaster coffin. You and your parishioners kneel before that every Sunday."

"True—but we do not kneel to IT,—nor do we pray through It,"— replied Walden—"It stays in the chancel because it was found in the chancel. But it does not make a miracle shrine' as you say,—there is nothing miraculous about it."

"If it contains the body of a Saint,"—said the Bishop, slowly—"it MUST be miraculous! If, in the far-gone centuries, the prayers and tears of sorrowful human beings have bedewed that cold stone, some efficacy, some tenderness, some vitality, born of these prayers and tears, must yet remain! Walden, we preach the supernatural—do we not believe in it?"

"The Divine supernatural—yes!" answered Walden,—"But—-" The Bishop interrupted him by a gesture of his delicate hand.

"There are no 'buts' in the matter, John,"—he said, quietly—"What is supernatural is so by its own nature. The Divine is the Human, the Human is the Divine. In all and through all things the Spirit moves and makes its way. Our earth and ourselves are but particles of matter, worked by the spirit or essence of creative force. This spirit we can neither see nor touch, therefore we call it super- natural. But it permeates all things,—the stone as completely as the flower. It circulates through that alabaster sarcophagus in your church, as easily as through your own living veins. Hence, as I say, if the mortal remains of a saint are enshrined within that reliquary, the spirit or 'soul' enveloping it MAY work 'miracles,' for all we dare to know!" He paused, and looking kindly at Walden's grave and somewhat troubled face, added—"Some day, when we are in very desperate straits, John, we will am what your saint can do for us!"

He smiled. Walden returned the smile, but nevertheless was conscious of a sorrowful sense of regret at what he considered his friend's leaning toward superstitious observances and idolatrous ceremonies. At the same time he well knew that any violent opposition on the subject would be worse than useless in the Bishop's present mood. He therefore contented himself with, as he mentally said, 'putting in the thin end of the wedge'—and,—carefully steering clear of all controversial matters,—contrived in a great measure to reassert the old magnetic sway he had been wont to exercise over Brent's more pliable mind when at college—so that before they parted, he had obtained from him a solemn promise that there should be no 'secession' or even preparation for secession to Rome, till six months had elapsed.

"And if you would only put away that picture,"—said Walden, earnestly, pointing towards the 'Virgin and Child'—"Or rather, if you would have another one painted of the sweet woman you loved as she really was in life, it would be wiser and safer for your own peace."

The Bishop shook his head.

"The Virgin and Child are a symbol of all humanity,"—he said— "Mother and Son,—Present and Future! Woman holds the human race in her arms—at her breast!—without her, Chaos would come again! And for me, all Womanhood is personified in that one face!"

He raised his eyes to the picture with an almost devout passion—and then abruptly turned away. The conversation was not renewed again between them, but when Walden parted from his friend, he had the satisfaction of knowing that he left him in a brighter, more hopeful and healthful condition, cheered, soothed and invigorated by the exchange of that mutual confidence and close sympathy which had linked their two lives together in boyhood, and which held them still subtly and tenderly responsive to each other's most intimate emotions as men.



XXVIII

Arriving home at his own domain late on the Saturday night, Walden had no opportunity to learn anything of the incidents which had occurred during his brief absence. Letters were waiting for him, but he opened none, and shut himself up in his study at once to prepare his next day's sermon. He wrote on far into the night, long after all the servants of his household had retired to rest, and overslept himself the next morning in consequence, therefore his preparation for the eleven o'clock service were necessarily somewhat hurried, and he had not time to say more than a cheery 'Good-morning' even to Bainton, whom he passed on his way into the church, or to Adam Frost, though he fancied that both, men looked at him somewhat curiously, as with an air of mingled doubt and enquiry. Once within the sacred building he was conscious of an exceptionally crowded congregation. None that he could see were missing from their usual places. Maryllia certainly was not there,—but as she was admittedly not a church-goer, he did not expect her to be present. Badsworth Hall was entirely unrepresented, much to his relief; neither Sir Morton Pippitt nor Lord Roxmouth, nor Mr. Marius Longford were anywhere visible. Old Josey Letherbarrow sat in his usual corner,— everything was precisely the same as it was wont to be—and yet a sense of vague trouble oppressed him,—he saw, or thought he saw, an expression on some of the faces of his parishioners which was new to him, and he felt instinctively that some disturbing element had found its way into the peace of the village, though what the trouble could be, he was at a loss to imagine. He chose as his text: 'What went ye out for to see? A reed shaken with the wind?' and preached thereon with wonderful force, simplicity, eloquence and fervour— though all the time he spoke he wondered why his people stared at him so persistently, and why so many round eyes in so many round faces appeared to express such a lively, not to say questioning curiosity.

After service, however, the whole mystery was cleared up. Bainton, in his Sunday best, with hat in hand, presented himself at the garden gate on his master's return from the church to the rectory, and after a word or two was admitted into the study. Bainton, honest as the daylight, and sturdy in his principles as an oak in its fibres, had determined to have 'no humbuggin' wi' Passon.' And in a few words, spoken with a great deal of feeling and rough eloquence, he had told all,—how Miss Vancourt had gone away 'suddint-like' from the Manor,—and how it was said and reported all through the county and neighbourhood that she had gone because her engaged husband, Lord Roxmouth, had caught her 'makin' love' to a parson, that parson being no other than St. Rest's own beloved 'man o' God,' John Walden. And that Lord Roxmouth had at once gone after her, and that neither of the twain 'weren't never comin' back no more.' So said Bainton, twirling his cap round, and fixing his eyes sympathetically on his master's face,—eyes as faithful as those of the dog Nebbie, who clambered at his master's knee, equally gazing up at him with a fondness exceeding all speech.

John Walden sat, white and rigid, in his chair and heard the tale out to its end.

"Is that all?" he asked, when Bainton had concluded.

"That's all, an' ain't it enough, Passon?" queried Bainton in somewhat dismal accents. "Not that I takes in 'arf wot I hears, but from the fust I sez you should know every bit on it, an' if no one else 'ad the 'art or the pluck to tell ye straight out, I'd tell ye myself. For that old Miss Tabitha's got a tongue as long as a tailor's yard-measure wot allus measures a bit oif to 'is own good, an' Sir Morton Pippitt he do nothin' but run wild-like all over the place a-talkin' of it everywhere, an' old Putty Leveson, he's up at the 'All, day in, an' day out, tellin' 'ow you was goin' to hit 'im in the eye—hor-hor-hor!—an' why didn't ye do it, Passon?—'twould a' been a real Gospel mercy!—an' 'ow 'twas all about Miss Vancourt, till Mr. Hadderley 'e come up an throwed 'im over in the road on 'is back which makes me think all the better o' that young man, 'owsomever, I never took to 'im afore. But though he's all skin an' bone an' long 'air as red as a biled carrot, he's got a fist of 'is own, that's pretty plain, an' if he knocked down old Putty Leveson it shows 'e's got some sense in 'im as well as sperrit. For it's all over the place that there's trouble about Miss Vancourt, an' you may take my wurrd for it, Passon, they don't leave the poor little leddy alone, nor you neither, an' never takes into their minds as 'ow you're old enough to be 'er father. That Miss Tabitha don't spare no wurrds agin 'er—an' as ye know, Passon, she's a leddy wot's like curdled cream all gone wrong in a thunderstorm. Anyways, I thought it best to tell ye straight out an' no lyin' nor trickin'—an' if I've stepped over my dooty, I 'umbly axes pardin, but I means well, Passon,—I means well,—I do reely now!"

Walden looked up,—his eyes were glittering—his lips were pate and dry.

"I know-I know!"—he said, speaking with an effort—"You're an honest fellow, Bainton!—and—and—I thank you! Tou not only mean well—you have done well. But it's a lie, Bainton!—it's all a wicked, damnable lie!"

He sprang to his feet as he said this, the wrath in his eyes flashing a steel-like lightning.

"It's a lie!" he repeated—"Do you understand? A cruel, abominable lie!"

Bainton twirled his cap sympathetically.

"So it be, Passon,"—he murmured—"So it be—I know'd that all along! It's a lie set goin' by that fine gentleman rascal, Lord Roxmouth, wot can't get Miss Maryllia and 'er aunt's money nohow. Lor' bless ye, I sees that plain enough! But take it 'ow we will, a lie's a nasty sort o' burr to stick to a good name, 'speshully a name like yours, Passon,—an' when it comes to that I feel that moithered an' worrited-like not knowin' 'ow to pick the burr off again. An' Lord Roxmouth he be gone away or mebbe you could a' had it out wi' him—-"

"That will do, Bainton!"—said Walden, interrupting him by a gesture—"Say no more about it, please! I'm glad you've spoken,—I'm glad I know! But,—let it rest there! Never allude to it again!"

Bainton glanced up timorously at his master's pale set face.

"Ain't nothin' goin' to be done?" he faltered anxiously—"Nothin' to say as 'ow it's all a lie—-"

"Nothing on my part!"—said Walden, quickly and sternly, "The best answer to such low gossip and slander is silence. You understand?"

His look was a command, and Bainton felt it to be such. Shuffling about a little, he murmured something about the 'apples comin' on fine in the orchard'—as if Walden's three days' absence had somehow or other accelerated their ripening, and then slowly and reluctantly retired, deeply dejected in his own mind.

"For silence gives consent," he argued dolefully with himself— "That's copybook truth! Yet o' coorse 'tain't to be expected as Passon would send for the town-crier from Riversford to ring a bell through the village an' say as 'ow he 'adn't nothin' to dp with Miss Vancourt nor she with 'im. Onny the worst of it is that in this wurrld lies is allus taken for truth since the beginnin', when the Sarpint told the first big whopper in the Garden of Eden an' took in poor silly Eve. An' ye can't contradict a lie somehow without makin' it look more a truth than ever,—that's the way o' the thing. An' it do stick!—Passon himself 'ull find that out,—it do stick, it do reely now!"

Meantime, Walden, left alone, gave himself up to a tumult of misery and self-torture. His sensitive nature shrank from the breath of vulgar scandal like the fine frond of delicate foliage from the touch of a coarse finger. He had never before been associated with the faintest rumour of it,—his life had been too simple, too austere, and too far removed from all the trumpery shows and petty intrigues of society. He felt himself now in a manner debased by having had to listen with enforced patience to Bainton's rambling account of the gossip going on in the neighbourhood, and despite that worthy servitor's disquisition on the subject, he could not imagine how it had arisen, unless his quarrel with Putwood Leveson were the cause. It was all so sudden and unlooked for! Maryllia had gone away,—and that fact of itself was sufficient to make darkness out of sunshine. He could not quite realise it. And not only had she gone away, but some slanderous story had been concocted concerning her in connection with himself, which was being bandied about on all the tongues of the village and county. How it had arisen he could not understand. He was, of course, unaware of the part Lord Roxmouth had played in the matter, and in his ignorance of the true source of the mischief, tormented his mind with endless fancies and perplexities, all of which helped to increase his annoyance and agitation. Pacing restlessly up and down his study, his eyes presently fell on the little heap of letters which had accumulated on his table during his brief absence, all as yet unopened. Turning them over indifferently, he came suddenly on one small sealed note, inscribed as having been left 'by hand,' addressed to him in the bold frank writing to which he had once, not so very long ago, felt such an inexplicable aversion when Mrs. Spruce was the recipient of a first letter from the same source. Now he snatched the little missive up with a strangely impulsive ardour, and being quite alone, indulged himself in the pleasure of kissing the firm free pen- strokes with all the passion of a boy. Then opening it, he read:

"DEAR MR. WALDEN,—You will be surprised to find that I have gone away from the dear home I love so well, and I daresay you will think me very capricious. But please do not judge me hastily, or believe everything you may hear of me from others. I am very sorry to go away just now, but circumstances leave me no other choice. I should like to have bidden you good-bye, as I could perhaps have explained things to you better, but old Josey Letherbarrow tells me you have gone to see the Bishop on business, so I leave this note myself just to say that I hope you will think as kindly of me as you can now I am gone. Please go into the Manor gardens as often as you like, and let the sick and old people in the village have plenty of the flowers and fruit. By doing this you will please me very much. My agent, Mr. Stanways, will be quite at your service if you ever want his assistance. Perhaps I ought just to mention that Lord Roxmouth overheard our conversation in the picture-gallery that night of the dinner-party. He was very rude about it. I tell you this in case you should see him, but I do not think you will. Good-bye! Try to forget that I smoked that cigarette!—Your sincere friend," "MARYLLIA VANCOURT."

As he perused these lines, Walden alternately grew hot and cold—red and pale. All was clear to him now!-it was Lord Roxmouth who had played the spy and eavesdropper! He recalled every little detail of the scene in the picture-gallery and at once realised how much a treacherous as well as jealous and vindictive man could make of it. Maryllia's hand laid so coaxingly on his arm,—Maryllia's face so sweetly and pleadingly upturned,—Maryllia's half-tender tremulous voice with its 'Will you forgive me?'—and then—his own impetuous words!—the way he had caught her hand and kissed it!—why his very look must have betrayed him to the 'noble and honourable' detective, part of whose distinguished role it was to listen at doors and afterwards relate to an inquisitive and scandal-loving society all that he heard within. By degrees he grasped the whole situation. He realised that his name and honour lay at the mercy of this man Roxmouth, who under the circumstances of the constant check put upon his mercenary aims, would certainly spare no pains to injure both. And he felt sick at heart.

Locking Maryllia's note carefully in his desk, he stepped into his garden and walked up and down the lawn slowly with bent head, Nebbie trotting after him with a sympathetically disconsolate air. And gradually it dawned upon him that Maryllia had possibly—nay very probably—gone away for his sake,—to make things easier for him—to remove her presence altogether from his vicinity-and so render Roxmouth's tale-bearing, with its consequent malicious gossip, futile, till of itself it died away and was forgotten. As this idea crossed his mind and deepened into conviction, his eyes filled with a sudden smarting moisture.

"Poor child!" he said, half aloud—"Poor little lonely child!"

Then a fresh thought came to him,—one which made the blood run more quickly through his veins and caused his heart to pulsate with quite a foolish joy. If—if she had indeed gone away out of a sweet womanly wish to save him from what she imagined might cause him embarrassment or perplexity, then—then surely she cared! Yes—she must care for him greatly as a friend,—though only as a friend—to be willing to sacrifice the pleasure of passing all the summer in the old home to which she had so lately returned, merely to relieve him of any difficulty her near society might involve. If she cared! Was such a thing—could such a thing be possible? Tormented by many mingled feelings of tenderness, regret and pain, John pondered his own heart's problem anxiously, and tried to decide the best course to pursue,—the best for her—the best for himself. He was not long in coming to a decision, and once resolved, he was more at ease.

When he celebrated the evening service that Sunday the garrulous Bainton saw, much to his secret astonishment, that the effect of his morning's communication had apparently left no trace on his master's ordinary demeanour, except perhaps to add a little extra gravity to his fine strong features, and accentuate the reserve of his accustomed speech and manner. His habitual dignity was even greater than usual,—his composed mien and clear steadfastness of eye had lost nothing of their quelling and authoritative influence,—and so far as his own manner and actions showed, the absence or presence of Miss Vancourt was a matter to him of complete unconcern. His visit to his friend the Bishop had 'done 'im a power o' good'—said his parishioners, observing him respectfully, as, Sunday being over and the week begun, he went about among them on his accustomed round of duty, enquiring after the poultry and the cattle with all the zeal expected of him. The name of Miss Vancourt seldom passed his lips,— when other people spoke of her, either admiringly, questioningly or suggestively, he merely listened, offering no opinion. He denied himself to all 'county' visitors on plea of press of work,—he never once went to Abbot's Manor or entered the Manor grounds—and the only persons with whom he occasionally interchanged hospitalities were Julian Adderley and the local doctor, 'Jimmy' Eorsyth. Withdrawing himself in this fashion into closer seclusion than ever, his life became almost hermit-like, for except in regard to his daily parish work, he seldom or never went beyond the precincts of his own garden.

Days went on, weeks went on,—and soon, too soon, summer was over. The melancholy autumn shook down the once green leaves, all curled up in withering death-convulsions, from the branches of the trees now tossing in chill wind and weeping mists of rain. No news had been received by anyone in the village concerning Maryllia. The 'Sisters Gemini,' Lady Wicketts and Miss Fosby, had departed from Abbot's Manor when the time of their stay had concluded, and neither of the twain had given the slightest hint to any enquirer, as to the probable date of the return of the mistress of the domain. Sir Morton Pippitt at last got tired of talking scandal for which there seemed no visible or tangible foundation, and even his daughter Tabitha began to wonder whether after all there was not some exaggeration in the story Lord Roxmouth had given her to sow like rank seed upon the soil of daily circumstance? She never saw Walden by any chance,—on one occasion she ventured to call, but he was 'out' as usual. Neither could she persuade Julian Adderley to visit at Badsworth Hall. A veil of obscurity and silence was gradually but surely drawn between St. Rest and the outlying neighbourhood so far as its presiding ruler John Walden was concerned, while within the village his reticence and reserve were so strongly marked that even the most privileged person in the place, Josey Letherbarrow, awed at his calm, cold, almost stern aspect, hesitated to speak to him except on the most ordinary matters, for fear of incurring his displeasure.

Meanwhile the village sorely missed the bright face and sweet ways of 'th' owld Squire's gel'—and many of the inhabitants tried to get news of her through Mrs. Spruce, but all in vain. That good lady, generally so talkative, was for once in her life more than discreetly dumb. All that she would say was that she "didn't know nothink. Miss Maryllia 'ad gone abroad an' all 'er letters was sent to London solicitors. Any other address? No—no other address. The servants was to be kep' on—no one wasn't goin' to lose their places if they behaved theirselves, which please the Lord, they will do!"— she concluded, with much fervour. Bennett, the groom, was entrusted with the care of the mares Cleo and Daffodil, and might be seen exercising them every day on the open moors beyond the village, accompanied by the big dog Plato,—and so far as the general management of affairs was concerned, that was ably undertaken by the agent Stanways, who though civil and obliging to all the tenantry, had no news whatever to give respecting the absence or the probable return of the lady of the Manor. The Reverend Putwood Leveson occasionally careered through the village on his bicycle, accompanied by Oliver Leach who bestrode a similar machine, and both individuals made a point of grinning broadly as they passed the church and rectory of St. Rest, jerking their fingers and thumbs at both buildings with expressively suggestive contempt.

And by and by the people began to settle down, into the normal quietude which had been more or less their lot, before Maryllia, with her vivacious little musical protegee Cicely Bourne had awakened a new interest and animation in the midst of their small community,—and they began to resign themselves to the idea that her 'whim' for residing once more in the home of her childhood had passed, and that she would now, without doubt, marry the future Duke of Ormistoune, and pass away from the limited circle of St. Rest to those wider spheres of fashion, the splendours of which, mere country-folk are not expected to have more than the very faintest glimmering conception. Even in that independent corner of opinion, the tap-room of the 'Mother Huff,' her name was spoken with almost bated breath, though Mr. Netlips was not by any means loth to spare any flow of oratorical eloquence on the subject.

"I think, Mr. Buggins," he said one evening, addressing 'mine host' with due gravity—"I think you will recall to your organisation certain objective propositions I made with regard to Miss Vancourt, when that lady first entered into dominative residence at Abbot's Manor. Personally speaking, I have no discrepancies to suggest beyond the former utterance. Matters in which I have taken the customary mercantile interest have culminated with the lady to the satisfaction of all sides. Nothing has been left standing controversially on my books. Nevertheless it would be repudiative to say that I have sophisticated my previous opinion. I said then, and I confirm the observation, that a heathen cannot enjoy the prospective right of the commons."

"I s'pose,"—said Mr. Buggins, meditatively in reference to this outburst—"you means, Mr. Netlips, that Miss Vancourt is a kind of heathen?"

Mr. Netlips nodded severely.

"'Cos she don't go to church?" suggested Dan Ridley, who as usual was one of the tap-room talkers. Again Mr. Netlips nodded.

"Well," said Dan, "she came to church once an' brought her friends— -"

"Late,—very late,"—interposed Mr. Netlips, solemnly—"The tardiness of her entrance was marked by the strongest decorum. The strongest, the most open decorum! Deplorable decorum!"

"What's decorum?" enquired Mr. Buggins, anxiously.

Mr. Netlips waved one fat hand expressively.

"Decorum,"—he said—"is—well!—decorum."

Buggins scratched his head dubiously. Dan Ridley looked perplexed. There was a silence,—the men listening to the wailing of a rising wind that was beginning to sweep round the house and whistle down the big open chimney, accompanied by pattering drops of rain.

"Summer's sheer over,"—said a labourer, lifting his head from his tankard of ale—"Howsomever, we're all safe this winter in the worst o' weather. Rents are all down at 'arf what they was under Oliver Leach, thanks to the new lady, so whether she's a decorum or not don't matter to me. She's a right good sort—so here's to her!"

And he drained off his ale at one gulp with a relish, several men present following his example.

"Passon Walden,"—began Dan Ridley—"Passon Walden—-"

But here there was a sudden loud metallic crash. Buggins had overturned two empty pewter-mugs on his counter.

"No gossiping o' Passon Walden allowed 'ere,"—he said,—"Not while I'm master o' this public!"

"Leeze majestas,"—proclaimed Mr. Netlips, impressively—"You're right, Buggins—you're quite right! Leeze majestas would be entirely indigenous—entirely so!"

An awkward pause ensued. 'Leeze majestas' in all its dark incomprehensibility had fallen like a weight upon the tavern company, and effectually checked any further conversation. It was one of those successful efforts of Mr. Netlips, which, by its ponderous vagueness and inscrutability, produced an overwhelming effect. There was nothing to be said after it.

The gold and crimson glory of autumn slowly waned and died,—and the village began to look very lonely and dreary. Heavy rains fell and angry gales blew,—so that when dark November came glooming in, with lowering skies, there was scarcely so much as a leaf of russet or scarlet Virginian creeper clinging to roof or wall. The woods around Abbot's Manor were leafless except where the pines and winter laurel grew in thick clusters, and where several grand old hollies showed their scarlet berries ripening among the glossy green. The Manor itself however looked wide-awake and cheerful,—smoke poured up from the chimneys and glints of firelight sparkled through the windows,— all the shutters, which had been put up after the departure of the 'Sisters Gemini,' were taken down—blinds were raised and curtains drawn back,—and as soon as these signs and tokens were manifested, people were not slow in asking Mrs. Spruce whether Miss Vancourt was coming back for Christmas? But to all enquiries that estimable dame gave the same answer. She 'didn't know nothink.' The groom Bennett was equally reticent. He had received 'no orders.' Mr. Stanways, the agent, and his wife, both of whom had become very friendly with all the villagers, were cheerfully talkative on every subject but one,— that of Miss Vancourt and her movements. All they could or would say was that her return was 'quite uncertain.' Fires were lighted in the Manor—oh yes!—to keep the house well aired—and windows were opened for the same purpose,—but beyond that—'really," said Mr. Stanways, smiling pleasantly—'I can give no information!'

The days grew shorter, gloomier and colder,—and soon, when the chill nip of winter began to make itself felt in grim damp earnest, the whole county woke up from the pleasant indolence into which the long bright summer had steeped it, and responded animatedly to the one pulse of vitality which kept it going. The hunting season began. Old, otherwise dull men, started up into the semblance of youth again, and sprang to their saddles with almost as much rigour and alertness as boys,—and Reynard with his cubs ruled potently the hour. The first 'meet' of the year was held at Ittlethwaite Park,— and for days before it took place nothing else was talked of. Hunting was really the one occupation of the gentry of the district,—everything else distinctly 'bored' them. Many places in England are entirely under the complete dominion of this particular form of sport,—places, where, if you do not at least talk about hunting and nothing BUT hunting, you are set down as a fool. Politics, art, literature,—these matters brought into conversation merely excite a vacuous stare and yawn,—and you may consider yourself fortunate if, in alluding to such things at all, you are not considered as partially insane. To obtain an ordinary reputation for common-sense in an English hunting county, you must talk horse all day and play Bridge all night,—then and then only will you have earned admission into these 'exclusive' circles where the worth of a quadruped exceeds the brain of a man.

The morning of the meet dawned dully—yet now and then the sun shone fitfully through the clouds, lighting up with a cold sparkle the thick ivy, wet with the last night's rain, which clung to the walls of Walden's rectory. There was a chill wind, and the garden looked bleak and deserted, though it was kept severely tidy, Bainton never failing to see that all fallen leaves were swept up every afternoon and all weeds 'kep' under.' But there was no temptation to saunter down the paths or across the damp lawn in such weather, and Walden, seated by a blazing fire in his study, with Nebbie snoozing at his feet, was sufficiently comfortable to be glad that no 'parochial' duties called him forth just immediately from his warm snuggery. He had felt a little ailing of late—'the oncoming of age and infirmity,' he told himself, and he looked slightly more careworn. The strong restraint he had imposed upon himself since he knew the nature of the scandal started by Lord Roxmouth, and the loyal and strict silence he had maintained on the subject that was nearest and dearest to his own heart, had been very trying to him. There was no one to whom he could in any way unburden his mind. Even to his closest friend, Bishop Brent, he had merely written the briefest of letters, informing him that Miss Vancourt had left Abbot's Manor for a considerable time,—but no more than this. He longed passionately for news of Maryllia, but none came. The only person to whom he sometimes spoke of her, but always guardedly, was Julian Adderley. Julian had received one or two letters from Cicely Bourne,—but they were all about her musical studies, and never a word of Maryllia in them. And Julian was almost as anxious to know what had become of her as Walden himself, the more so as he heard constantly from Marius Longford, who never ceased urging him to try and discover her whereabouts. Which request proved that, for once. Lord Roxmouth had been foiled, and that even he with all his various social detectives at work, had lost all trace of her.

On this particular morning of the opening of the hunting season, Walden sat by the fire reading,—or trying to read. He was conscious of a great depression,—a 'fit of the blues,' which he attributed partly to the damp, lowering weather. Idly he turned over the leaves of a first edition of Tennyson's poems,—pausing here and there to glance at a favourite lyric or con over a well-remembered verse, when the echo of a silvery horn blown clear on the wintry silence startled him out of his semi-abstraction. Rising, he went instinctively to the window, though from that he could see nothing but his own garden, looking blank enough in its flowerless condition, the only bright speck in it being a robin sitting on a twig hard by, that ruffled its red breast prettily and blinked its trustful eye at him with a friendly air of sympathy and recognition. He listened attentively for a moment and heard the approaching trot and gallop of horses,—then suddenly recalling the fact that the hounds were to meet that day at Ittlethwaite Park, he took his hat and went out to see if any of the hunters were passing by.

A wavering mass of colour gleamed at the farther end of the village as he looked down the winding road;—scarlet coats, white vests and buckskin breeches showed bravely against the satiny brown and greys of a fine group of gaily prancing steeds that came following after the huntsmen, the hounds and the whippers-in, and a cheery murmur of pleasant voices, broken with an occasional musical ring of laughter, dispersed for a time the heaviness of the rainy air. Something unusually pleasant seemed to animate the faces of all who composed the hunting train as they came into view,—Miss Arabella Ittlethwaite, for example, portly of bulk though she was, sat in her saddle with an almost mirthful lightness, her good-natured fat face all smiles,—while her brother Bruce, laughing heartily over something which had evidently tickled his fancy, looked more like thirty than sixty, so admirably did his 'pink' become him, and so excellently well did he ride. Walden saluted them as they passed, and they gave him a pleasant 'good-day.' But,—what was that sudden flash of deep purple, which the fitful sun, peering sulkily through grey clouds, struck upon quickly with a slanting half-smile of radiance? What—and who was the woman riding lightly, with uplifted head like a queen, in the midst of the company, surrounded by all the younger men of the neighbourhood who, keeping their horses close on either side of her, appeared to be trying to outrival each other in eager attentions, in questions and answers, in greetings and hat- liftings, and general exchange of courtesies? Walden rubbed his eyes, and gazed and gazed,-anon his heart gave a wild leap, and he felt himself growing deadly pale. Had the portrait of 'Mary Elia Adelgisa de Vaignecourt' in Abbot's Manor come visibly to life?—or was it, could it be indeed,—Maryllia?

He would gladly have turned away, but some stronger force than his own held him fast where he stood, stricken with surprise, and a gladness that was almost fear. The swaying gleam of purple came nearer and nearer, and resolved itself at last into definite shape,- -Maryllia's face, Maryllia's eyes! Almost mechanically he half opened his gate as all the hunters went trotting by, and she alone reined in her mare 'Cleopatra' and spoke to him.

"How do you do, Mr. Walden!"

He looked up—and looking, smiled. What a child she was after all!— full of quaint vanities surely, and naive coquetry! For her riding- dress was the exact copy of that worn by her pictured ancestress "Mary Elia,'—even to the three-cornered hat and the tiny rose fastened in the bodice which was turned back with embroidered gold revers,—so that the 'lady in the vi'let velvet' appeared before him as it were, re-incarnated,—and the pouting lips, sweet eyes and radiant hair were all part of the witch-glamour and mystery! Mastering his thoughts with an effort, he raised his hat in his usual quietly courteous way.

"This is a great surprise, Miss Vancourt!" he said, lightly, though his voice trembled a little—"And a happy one! The villagers will be delighted to see you back again! When did you return?"

"Last night,"—she answered, fixing her frank gaze fully upon him and noting with a sharp little pang of compunction that he looked far from well—"I felt I MUST be here for the first meet of the season! I've been staying in an old convent on the Breton coast,— such a dear quaint place! And I think,"—here she nodded her pretty head wisely—"I THINK I've brought you enough stained glass to quite finish your rose-window! I've been busy collecting it ever since I left here. Gently, Cleo!—gently, my beauty!"—this, as her mare pawed the ground restlessly and sprang forward—"Come and see me to- morrow, Mr. Walden! I shall expect you!"

Waving her gloved hand she cantered off and rejoined the rest of the hunters going on ahead. Once she turned in her saddle and looked back,—and again waved her hand. The sun came out fully then, and sweeping aside the grey mists, ehed all its brightness on the graceful figure in the saddle, striking a reflex of rose from the soft violet riding-dress, and sparkling against the rippling twists of gold-brown, hair,—then,—as she disappeared between two rows of leafless trees,—withdrew itself again frowningly and shone no more that day.

Walden re-entered his house, hardly able to sustain the sudden joy that filled him. He felt himself trembling nervously, and was angry at his own weakness.

"I am more foolish than any love-sick boy!" he said to himself with inward remonstrance—"And God knows I am old enough to know better! But I cannot help being glad she has come home!—I cannot help it! For with her presence it seems to me that 'the winter is past, the rain is over and gone, the flowers appear on the earth, and the time of the singing of birds is come'! She is so full of life and brightness!-we shall know nothing of dull days or gloomy skies in St. Rest if she stays with us,—though perhaps for me it might be wiser and safer to choose the dull days and gloomy skies rather than tempt my soul with the magical light of an embodied spring in winter-time! But I shall be careful,—careful of myself and of her,- -I shall guard her name in every way, on my side—and if—if I love her, she shall never know it!"

He resumed his former seat by the study fire, and again took up his volume of Tennyson. And opening the book at hazard, his glance fell on that exquisite 'Fragment' which perhaps excels in its own way all the 'Idylls of the King'—

"As she fled fast thro' sun and shade, The happy winds upon her play'd, Blowing the ringlet from the braid: She look'd so lovely as she sway'd The rein with dainty finger-tips. A man had given all other bliss, And all his worldly worth for this, To waste his whole heart in one kiss Upon her perfect lips."

"Quite true!" he said, as he read the lines half aloud, a tender smile lighting up the gravity of his deep thoughtful eyes—"True to the life, so far as the Guinevere of to-day is concerned! But let the simile stop there, John, my boy! Don't carry it any further! Don't deceive yourself as to your own demerits! You are nothing but an old-fashioned country parson—a regular humdrum, middle-aged fogey!—that's what you are!—so, even though you HAVE fallen in love (which at your time of life is a folly you ought to be ashamed of), don't for Heaven's sake imagine yourself a Lancelot, John!—it won't do!"



XXIX

Over the moist ground, and under the bare branches that dripped slow tears of past rain, the brilliant hunting train swept onward, Maryllia riding in the midst, till they came out on a bare stretch of moorland covered with sparse patches of gorse and fir. Here they all paused, listening to the cry of the huntsman in the bottoms, and watching the hounds as they drew up wind.

The eyes of every man present wandered now and again to Maryllia in admiration,—none of them had ever seen her look so lovely, so bright, so entirely bewitching. She was always at her best in the saddle. When she had paid her first visit to America with her uncle and aunt as a girl of sixteen, she had been sent for the benefit of her health to stay with some people who owned a huge Californian 'ranch,' and there she learned to ride on horses that were scarcely broken in, and to gallop across miles and miles of prairie, bareheaded to the burning sun, and had, in such pastime, felt the glorious sense of that savage and splendid freedom which is the true heritage of every child of nature,—a heritage too often lost in the tangled ways of over-civilisation, and seldom or never regained. The dauntless spirit of joyous liberty was in her blood,—she loved the fresh air and vigorous exercise, and was a graceful, daring rider, never knowing what it was to feel a single pulse of fear. Just now she was radiantly happy. She was glad to be at home again,—and still more glad that her plans for eluding the pursuit of Lord Roxmouth had completely succeeded. He had been left absolutely in the dark as to her whereabouts. His letters to her had been returned unanswered, through her solicitors, who declined to make any statement with regard to her movements, and, growing weary at last of fruitless enquiry, he bad left England to winter in Egypt with a party of wealthy friends, her aunt, Mrs. Fred Vancourt, being among the number. She owed this pleasing news to Louis Gigue, who had assisted her in her flight from the persecution of her detested wooer. Gigue had, through his influence, managed to introduce her under an assumed name, as a friend of his own to certain poor nuns In a Brittany convent, who were only too willing to receive her as a paying guest for a couple of months, and to ask no questions concerning her. There she had stayed with exemplary patience and resignation,—lonely indeed, yet satisfied to have made good her escape for the time being, and, as she imagined, to have saved John Walden from any possibility of annoyance chancing to him through her, or by her means. She would not consent to have even Cicely with her, lest any accidental clue to her hiding-place might be found and followed.

As soon, however, as she heard that Roxmouth had actually left England, she made haste to return at once to the home she had now learned to love with a deep and clinging affection, and she had timed her reappearance purposely for the first meet of the hunting season. She would show herself, so she resolved, as a free and independent woman to all the county,—and if people had gossiped about her, or were prone to gossip, they would soon find out the error of their ways. Hence the 'creation' of the becoming violet velvet riding-dress, copied from the picture of her ancestress in Abbot's Manor gallery. She had determined to make an 'effective' entrance on the field,—to look as pretty and picturesque as she possibly could, and to show that she was herself and nobody else, bound to no authority save her own.

In this purely feminine ambition she certainly accomplished her end. She was the centre of attraction,—all the members of the Riversford Hunt dispersed round and about her in Hear or distant groups, discussed her in low tones, even while watching the working of the pack, and scanning every yard of open ground for the first sign of a fox. Gradually the crowd of horses and riders increased,—men from the county-town itself, farmers from the more outlying parts of the neighbourhood, and some of the Badsworth Hall tenantry, having arrived too late at Ittlethwaite Park for the actual meet, now came hurriedly galloping up, and among these last was Oliver Leach. It was the first time Maryllia had seen her dismissed agent since her rescue of the Five Sister beeches, and she had thought of him so little that she would not have recognised him now had not his horse, a vicious-looking restive creature, started plunging close to her own hunter 'Cleopatra,' and caused that spirited animal to rear almost upright on her haunches. In the act of reining the mare out of his way she looked at him, while he, in his turn stared full at her in evident astonishment. As he appeared gradually to recognise her identity, his face, always livid, grew more deeply sallow of hue, and an ugly grin made a gargoyle of his mouth and eyes. She, as soon as she recollected him, remembered at the same time the curse he had flung at her—'a May curse,' she thought to herself with a superstitious little shudder—'and a May curse always begins to work in November, so the gossips say!'

Moved by an instinctive distrust and dislike of the man, she turned her back upon, him, and patting Cleopatra's neck, cantered quickly ahead to join the rest of the field which was now moving towards another cover, while the hounds ran through some low thickets of brushwood and tangled bracken.

She was in a curious frame of mind, and found her own emotions difficult to analyse. The momentary glimpse she had just had of John Walden had filled her with a strangely tender compassion. Why did he look so worn and worried? Had he missed her? Had her two months and more of absence seemed as long to him as they had to her? She wondered! Anon, she asked herself why she wondered! What did it matter to her what he thought, or how he passed his days? Then a sudden rush of colour warmed her cheeks, and a light came into her eyes. It DID matter!—there was no getting away from it,—it did matter very much what he thought, and it had become of paramount importance to her to know how he passed his days!

Deep in her heart a secret sweet consciousness lay nestled,—a consciousness, subtly feminine, which told her that she was held in precious estimation by at least one man,—and that she had advanced towards her most cherished desire of love so far as to have become 'dear to someone else.' And that 'someone else'—who was he? Oh, well!—nobody in particular!—only a country clergyman,—a poor creature, so the world might say, to build romances upon! Yet she was building them fast. One after the other they shaped themselves like cloud-castles in the airy firmament of her dreams, and she permitted herself to dwell on the possible joys they suggested. Very simple joys too!—such as the completion of the rose-window in the church of St. Rest,—he would be pleased if that were done—yes!— she was sure he would be pleased!—and she had managed, during her sojourn in Brittany, to secure some of the loveliest old stained glass, dating from the twelfth century, which she meant to give him to-morrow when he came to see her. To-morrow! What a long time it seemed till then! And suppose he did not come? Well, then she would go and see him herself, and would tell him just why she had gone away from home, and why she had not written, to him or to anybody else in the neighbourhood,—and then—and then—-

Here she started at the sound of a sudden 'tally-ho!'—the hounds had rallied—a fox was 'drawn,'—the whole field was astir, and with a musical blast of the horn, the hunt swept on in a flash of scarlet and white, black, brown and grey, across the moor. Maryllia gave herself up to the excitement of the hour, and galloped along, her magnificent mare 'Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt' scenting sport in the wind and enjoying the wild freedom allowed her by a loose rein and the light weight she bore. On, on!—with the wet chill perfume of fallen leaves rising from the earth on which the eager hoofs of the horses trampled,—on, always on, in the track of stealthy Reynard, over dips and hollows in the ground and shallow pools fringed with gaunt sedges and twisted brambles,—on, still on, crossing and re- crossing lines of scent where the hounds appeared for the moment at a loss, till they dashed off again towards the farther woods. Putting her mare to a fence and clearing it easily, Maryllia crossed a meadow, which she knew to be the shortest way to the spot where she could just see the pack racing silently ahead,—and, coming out on one of the high-roads between St. Rest and Riversford, she drew rein for a moment. Several of the hunters had chosen the same short- cut, and came out of the meadow with her, calling a cheery word or two as they passed her and pressed on in the ardour of the chase.

Quickly resuming her gallop, and yielding to the exhilaration of the air and the pleasure of movement, she urged her mare to a pace which would have been deemed reckless by all save the most skilled and daring riders, unaware of the unpleasant fact that she was being closely followed by Oliver Leach. He rode about twenty paces behind her, every now and then gaining on her, and anon pulling back his horse in an apparent desire not to outstrip her. The rest of the hunting party were well ahead, and they had the road to themselves, with the exception of a fat man on a bicycle, who was careering along in front of them, looking something like a ton on wheels. Maryllia soon flew past this moving rotundity, and even if she had had time to look at it, she would not have known that it was the Reverend Putwood Leveson, as she had never seen that gentleman. Catching a glimpse of the hounds, now racing round the edge of a sloping hill, she galloped faster and faster,—while Oliver Leach, with an odd set expression in his face and eyes, and his hat well pulled down on his brows, followed her at an almost equally flying speed. A ploughed field lay between them, and the smooth dark slope of land edged with broken furze, where the pack could be plainly seen racing for blood. A moderately low, straggling hedge intervened. Such an obstacle was a mere trifle for 'Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt' to clear, and Maryllia put her to it with her usual ease and buoyancy. But now up came Oliver Leach on his ill-formed but powerful beast;—and just as the spirited mare, with her lightly poised rider on her back, leaped the hedge, he set his own animal at precisely the same place in deliberate defiance of all hunting rules, and springing at her like a treacherous enemy from behind, closed on her haunches, and pounded straight over her! Maryllia reeled in her saddle,—for one half second, her blue eyes wide with terror, turned themselves full upon her pursuer—she raised her hand appealingly—warningly—in vain! With a crash of breaking brushwood the mare went down under the plunging hoofs that came thudding so heavily upon her,—there was a quick shriek—a blur of violet and gold hurled to the ground—and then,—then Leach galloped on—alone! He dared not look back! His nerves throbbed—his heart beat high,— and his evil soul rejoiced in its wickedness as only the soul of a devil can.

"Verdict—accidental death!" he muttered, with a fierce laugh—"No doubt it will be thought singular that the daughter should have met the same end as her father! And nothing more will be said. But suppose she is not killed, since every cat has nine lives? No matter, she will be disfigured for life! That will suit me just as well!"

He laughed again, and passed on in the wake of the hunt which had now swept far ahead round the bend of the hill.

Meanwhile, 'Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt,' rendered stunned and dizzy by her fall, began to recover her equine senses. Sniffing the air and opening her wild bright eyes, she soon perceived her loved mistress lying flung about three yards distant from where she herself had rolled over and over on the thick wet clod of the field. With a supreme effort the gallant beast attempted to rise,—and presently, with much plunging and kicking, in which struggles however, she with an almost human intelligence pushed herself farther away from that prone figure on the ground, so that she might not injure it, she managed to stand upright, quivering in every strained, sore limb. Lifting her head, she whinnied with a melancholy long-drawn plaintiveness, and then with a slow, stiff hobble, moved cautiously closer to Maryllia's fallen body. There she paused and whinnied again, while the grey skies lowered and rain began to ooze from the spreading leaden weight of cloud.

And now assistance seemed near, for the Reverend Putwood Leveson, having had to lead his bicycle up a hill, and being overcome with a melting tallow of perspiration in the effort, hove in sight like an unwieldy porpoise bobbing up on dry land. Approaching the broken gap in the hedge, he quickly spied the mare, and realised the whole situation. Now was the chance for a minister of Christ to show his brave and gentle ministry! He had a flask of brandy in his pocket,— he never went anywhere without it. He felt it, where it was concealed, comfortably pressed against his heart,—then he peered blandly over the hedge at the helpless human creature lying there unconscious. He knew who it was,—who it must be,—for, as he had cycled through the village after the hunt had started, he had heard everyone talking of Miss Vancourt's unexpected return, and how she had been the 'queen' of the meet that morning. Besides, she had passed him on the road, riding at full gallop. He wiped his forehead now and smiled pleasantly.

"Queens are very soon discrowned!"—he said to himself—"And, fortunately, vacant thrones are soon filled! Now if that sneak Walden were here—-"

He paused considering. The remembrance of the indignity he had suffered at the hands of Julian Adderley was ever fresh with him,— an indignity brought about all through the very woman who was now perhaps dying before his eyes, if she was not already dead. Suddenly, pushing his way through the broken hedge, he approached 'Cleopatra' cautiously. The malignant idea entered his brain that if he could make the animal start and plunge, her hoofs would crush the body of her mistress more surely and completely. Detestable as the impulse was, it came quite naturally to him. He had helped to kill butterflies often—why not a woman? The murderous instinct was the same in both cases. He tried to snatch the mare's bridle-rein, but she jerked her head away from him, and stood like a rock. He could not move her an inch. Only her great soft eyes kindled with a warning fire as he hovered about her,—and a decided movement of one of her hind hoofs suggested that possibly he might have the worst of any attempt to play pranks with her. He paused a moment, considering.

"Oliver Leach came this way,"—he mused—"He passed me almost immediately after she did. Is this his work, I wonder?" Here he drew out his always greasy pocket-handkerchief and wiped his face with as much tender care as though it were a handsome one—"I shouldn't be surprised,"—he continued, in a mild sotto-voce—"I shouldn't be at all surprised if he had arranged this little business! Clever—very! Fatal accidents in the hunting-field are quite common. He knows that. So do I. But I shall find out,—yes!—I shall find out—-"

Here he almost jumped with an access of 'nerves'—for 'Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt' suddenly stretched out her long arched neck and whinnied with piteous, beseeching loudness. A pause of intense stillness followed the mare's weird cry,—a stillness broken only by the slow pattering of rain. Then from the near distance came the baying of hounds and a far echo of the hunting horn.

Seized by panic, the Reverend 'Putty' scrambled quickly out of the ploughed field, through the broken hedge and on to the high-road again, where taking himself to his bicycle again, he scurried away like a rat from falling timber. He had been on his way to Riversford when he had stopped to look at the little fallen heap of violet and gold,—guarded so faithfully by a four-footed beast twenty times more 'Christian' in natural feeling than his 'ordained' clerical self,—and he now resumed that journey. And though, as he neared the town, he met many persons of the neighbourhood on foot, in carts, and light-wheeled traps, he never once paused to give news of the accident, or so much as thought of sending means of assistance.

"I am not supposed to have seen anything,"—he said, with a fat smile—"and I am not supposed to know! I shall certainly not be asked to assist at the funeral service. Walden will attend to that!"

He cycled on rapidly, and arriving at Riversford went to tea with the brewer's wife, Mrs. Mordaunt Appleby, at Appleby Hall, and was quite fatherly and benevolent to her son, a lumpy child of ten, the future heir to all the malt, hops, barrels, vats, and poisonous chemicals comprising the Appleby estates in this world.

The afternoon closed in coldly and mournfully. A steady weeping drizzle of rain set in. Some of the hunters returned through St. Rest by twos and threes, looking in a woeful condition, bespattered up to their saddles with mud, and feeling, no doubt, more or less out of temper, as notwithstanding a troublesome and fatiguing run, the fox had escaped them after all. It was about five o'clock, when Walden, having passed a quiet day among his books, and having felt the sense of a greater peace and happiness at his heart than he had been conscious of since the May-day morning of the year, pushed aside his papers, rose from his chair, and, looking out at the dreary weather, wondered if the 'Guinevere' of the hunt had got safely home from her gallop across country.

"She will be wet through,"—he thought,—the tender smile that made his face so lovable playing softly round his lips—"But she will not mind that! She will laugh, and brush out her pretty hair all ruffled and wet with the rain,—her cheeks will be glowing with colour, and her lips will be as red as the cherries when they first begin to ripen,—her eyes will be bright with health and vitality,—and life- -young life—life full of joy and hope and brightness will radiate from her as the light radiates from the sun. And I shall bask in the luminance of her smile—I, cold and grey, like a burnt-out ember of perished possibilities,—I shall warm my chill soul at the sweet fire of her presence—I shall see her to-morrow!"

He went to the hearth and stirred the smouldering logs into a bright blaze. He was just about to ring for fresh fuel, when there came a sudden, alarmed knocking at the street door. Somewhat startled, he listened, his hand on the bell. He heard the light step of Hester the housemaid tripping along the passage quickly to answer the imperative summons,—there was a confused murmur of voices—and then a sudden cry of horror,—and a loud burst of sobbing.

"Whist—whist!—be quiet, be quiet!" said a hoarse trembling voice which it was difficult to recognise as Bainton's; "For the Lord's sake, don't make that noise, gel! Think o' Passon!—do'ee think o' Passon! We must break it to 'im gently like—-" But the hysterical sobbing broke out again and drowned all utterance.

And still Walden stood, listening. A curious rigidity affected his nerves. Something had happened—but what? His dry lips refused to frame the question. All at once, he roused himself. With a couple of strides across his little study he threw open the door and went out into the passage. There stood Hester with her apron thrown over her head, weeping convulsively—while Bainton, leaning against the ivied porch entrance to ths house, was trembling like a woman in an ague fit.

"What's the matter?" said Walden, in a voice of almost peremptory loudness,—a voice that sounded harsh and wild on his own ears— "What has happened?"

"Oh-oh—Oh-oh!" wailed Hester—"Oh, Mr. Walden, oh, sir, I can't tell you! I can't indeed!—it's about Miss Vancourt—oh—poor dear little lady!—oh-oh! I can't—I can't say it! I can't!"

"Don't ye try, my gel!"—said Bainton, gently—"You ain't fit for't,—don't ye try! Which I might a'known a woman's 'art couldn't abear it,—nor a man's neither!" Here he turned his pale face upon his master, and the slow tears began to trickle down his furrowed cheeks.

"Passon Walden,"—he began, in shaking accents—"Passon Walden, sir, I'm fair beside myself 'ow to tell ye—but you're a brave man wot knows the ways o' God an' 'ow mortal 'ard they seems to us all sometimes, poor an' rich alike, an' 'ow it do 'appen that the purttiest flowers is the quickest gone, an' the brightest wimin too, for that matter,—an'—an'—-" Here his rough halting voice broke into a hoarse sob—"Oh, Passon, it's a blow!—it's a mortal 'ard blow!—she was a dear, sweet lady an' a good one, say what they will, an' 'ow they will—an' she's gone, Passon!—we won't never see her no more!—she's gone!"

A swirling blackness came over Walden's eyes for a moment. He tried to realise what was being said, but could not grasp its meaning. Making a strong effort to control his nerves he spoke, slowly and with difficulty.

"Gone? I don't understand you,—I—-"

Here, as he stood at the open doorway, he saw in the gathering dusk of evening a small crowd of villagers moving slowly along the road. Some burden was being carried tenderly between them,—it was like a walking funeral. Someone was dead then? He puzzled himself as to who it could be? He was the parson of the parish,—he had received no intimation! And the hour was late,—they must put it off till to- morrow! Yes—till to-morrow, when he would see Maryllia! Startled by the sudden ghastly pallor of his master's face, Bainton ventured to lay a hand on his arm.

"She was found two hours ago,"—he said, in hushed tones—"Up on Farmer Thorpe's ploughed field—all crushed on the clods, an' no one nigh 'er 'cept the mare. An' the mare was as sensible as a 'uman, for she was a-whinnyin' loud like cryin' for 'elp—an' Dr. Forsyth 'e came by in his gig, drivin' 'ome from Riversford an' he 'ad his man with 'im, so 'tween them both, they got some 'elp an' brought 'er 'ome—but I'm feared it's too late!—I'm awesome feared it's too late!"

Walden looked straight down the road, watching the oncoming of the little crowd.

"I think I begin to know what you mean," he said, slowly. "There has been an accident to Miss Vancourt. She has been thrown—but she is not dead! Not dead. Of course not! She could not be!"

As he spoke, he pushed aside Bainton's appealing hand gently yet firmly and walked out bareheaded like a man in a dream to meet the little ghost-like procession that was now approaching him nearly. He felt himself trembling violently,—had he been called upon to meet his own instant destruction at that moment, he would have been far less unnerved. Low on the wet autumnal wind came the sound of men's murmuring voices, of women's suppressed sobbing;—in the semi- obscurity of fading light and deepening shadow he could discern and recognise the figure of his friend the local doctor, 'Jimmy' Forsyth, who was walking close beside a hastily improvised stretcher composed of the boughs of trees and covered with men's coats and driving-rugs,—and he could see the shadowy shape of 'Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt,' being led slowly on in the rear, her proud head drooping dejectedly, her easy stride changed to a melancholy limping movement,—her saddle empty. And, as he looked, some nerve seemed to tighten across his brows,—a burning ache and strain, as if a strong cord stretched to a tension of acutest agony tortured his brain,— and for a moment he lost all other consciousness but the awful sense of death,—death in the air,—death in the cold rain—death in the falling leaves—death in the deepening gloom of the night,—and death, palpable, fierce and cruel in the solemn gliding approach of that funeral group,—that hearse-like burden of the perished brightness, the joyous innocence, the sunny smile, the radiant hair, the sweet frank eyes—the all of beauty that was once Maryllia! Then, unaware of his own actions, he went forward giddily, blindly and unreasoningly—-till, coming face to face with the little moving group of awed and weeping people, all of whom halted abruptly at sight of him, he suddenly stretched forth his hands as though they held a book at arm's length, and his voice, tremulous, yet resonant, struck through the hush of sudden silence.

"I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord: he that believeth on Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in Me shall never die!"

A tragic pause ensued. Every face was turned upon him in tearful wonder. Dr. Forsyth came quickly up to him.

"Walden!" he said, in a low tone—"What is this? What are you saying? You are not yourself! Come home!"

But John stood rigidly inert. His tall slight figure, fully erect, looked almost spectral in the mists of the gathering night. He went on reciting solemnly,—

"I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that He shall stand at the latter day upon the earth. And though worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God: whom I shall see for myself, and mine eyes shall behold and not another!"

Here there was a general movement of consternation in the little crowd. Parson Walden was beginning to read the burial service! Then men whispered to one another,—and some of the women burst out crying bitterly. Dr. Forsyth became alarmed.

"John!" he said, imperatively—"Rouse yourself, man! You are ill—I see you are ill,—but I cannot attend to you now! Try not to delay me, for God's sake! Miss Vancourt is seriously injured—but I MAY save her life. She is not dead."

Something snapped like a broken harp-string behind Walden's temples,—the horrible tension was relieved.

"Not dead—not dead?" he muttered—"Not dead? Forsyth, are you sure?"

"Sure!"

His face changed and softened,—a sudden sweet moisture freshened his eyes.

"Thank God!" he murmured.

Then he looked about him like a man suddenly wakened from sleep. He was still unable quite to realise his surroundings or what he had done.

"Forgive me!" he said, pathetically—"I am afraid I have been a trouble to you! I've been studying too much this afternoon,—and— and—I don't know why I came out here just now—I'll—I'll go in. Will you let me know how—how—-"

Forsyth nodded comprehensively.

"You shall know everything—best or worst—to-morrow,"—he said— "But now go in and lie down, Walden! You want rest!"

At an imperative sign from him, Walden obediently turned away, not daring to look at the men that now passed him, carrying Maryllia's senseless form back to Abbot's Manor, the beloved home from which she had ridden forth so gaily that morning. He re-entered the still open doorway of his rectory, wholly unconscious that his parishioners, deeply affected by his strange and sudden mind- bewilderment, were now all as anxious about him as they were about Maryllia,—he was too dazed to see that the faithful Bainton still waited for him on his own threshold, or that his servant Hester was still crying as though her heart would break. He passed all and everyone—and went straight upstairs to his own bedroom, where he closed and locked the door. There, smiling down upon him was the portrait of his dead sister,—and there too, just above his bed was an engraving of the tragically sweet Head crowned with thorns, of Guido's 'Ecce Homo.' On this his gaze rested abstractedly. His temples ached and throbbed, and there was a dull cold heaviness at his heart. Keeping his eyes still on the pictured face of Christ, he dropped on his knees, clasped his hands, and tried to pray, but could not. How should he appeal to a God who was cruel enough to kill a bright creature like Maryllia in the very zenith and fair flowering-time of her womanhood!—an innocent happy soul that had no thought or wish to do anyone any harm! And then he remembered his own reproaches to his friend Bishop Brent whom he had accused of selfishness for allowing his life to be swayed by the memory of an inconsolable sorrow and loss. 'You draw a mourning veil of your own across the very face of God!' So he had said,—and was he not ready now to do the same? Suddenly, like the teasing refrain of a haunting melody, there came back to his mind the verse he had read that morning:

"As she fled fast thro' sun and shade, The happy winds upon her play'd, Blowing the ringlet from the braid: She look'd so lovely as she sway'd The rein with dainty finger-tips. A man had given all other bliss, And all his worldly wealth for this, To waste his whole heart in one kiss Upon her perfect lips."

Over and over these rhymes went, jingling their sweet concord in his brain,—till all at once the strong pressure upon his soul relaxed,- -a great sigh escaped his lips—and with the sigh came the sudden breaking of the wave of grief. A rush of scalding tears blinded his eyes—and with a hard sob of agony his head fell forward on his clasped hands.

"Spare me her life, O God!" he passionately prayed—"Oh God, oh God! Save Guinevere!"



XXX

And now a cloud of heavy sorrow and foreboding hung over the little village. All its inhabitants were oppressed by a dreary sense of helpless wretchedness and personal loss. Maryllia was not dead,—but it was to be feared that she was dying,—slowly, and by inches as it were, yet nevertheless surely. A great specialist had been summoned from London by Dr. Forsyth, and after long and earnest consultation, his verdict upon her case had been well-nigh hopeless. Thereupon Cicely Bourne was immediately sent for, and arrived from Paris in all haste, only to fall into a state of utter despair. For there seemed no possible chance of saving the dear and valuable life of her beloved friend and protectress to whom she owed all her happiness, all her future prospects. And thus confronted with a tragedy more dire and personal than any she had ever pictured in her wildest imaginative efforts, she sat by Maryllia's bedside, hour after hour, day after day, night after night, stunned by grief, watching, weeping, and waiting for the least glimmer of returning consciousness in that unconscious form which lay so terribly inert, like a figure of life-in-death before her, till she became the mere gaunt, little ghost of herself, her large melancholy dark eyes alone expressing the burning vital anguish of her soul. A telegram conveying the sad news of her niece's accident had been sent to Mrs. Fred Vancourt at the Gezireh Palace Hotel, Cairo, to which, with the happy vagueness which so often characterizes the ultra-fashionable woman, Mrs. Fred had replied direct to Maryllia herself thus:

"So glad to know where you really are at last, but sorry you have met with a spill. Hope you have a good doctor and nurses. Will write on return from expedition to Luxor. Lord Roxmouth much regrets to hear of accident and thinks it lucky you are back in your own home."

Of course this 'sympathetic' message was not read by its intended recipient at the time of its arrival. Maryllia lay blind, deaf and senseless to all that was going on around her, and for many days gave no sign of life whatever save a faint uneasy breathing and an occasional moan. Cicely was left alone to face all difficulties, to receive and answer all messages and to take upon herself for the time being the ostensible duties of the mistress of Abbot's Manor. She bent her energies to the task, though she felt that her heart must break in the effort,—and with tears blinding her eyes, she told poor Mrs. Spruce, who was quite stupefied by the sudden crash of misfortune that had fallen upon the household, that she meant to try and do her best to keep everything going on just as Maryllia would wish it kept, "till—till—she gets better,"—she faltered sobbingly—"and you will help me, dear Mrs. Spruce, won't you?"

Whereupon Mrs. Spruce took the poor child into her motherly arms, and they both cried and kissed each other, moved by the same common woe.

The Manor was soon besieged with callers. Everyone in the county flocked thither to leave cards, and express their sympathy for the unfortunate mischance that had overtaken the bright creature who had been the cynosure of all eyes for her beauty and grace on the morning of the first fox-hunt of the year. All the ill-natured gossip, all the slanderous tittle-tattle which had been started by Lord Roxmouth and fostered by Miss Tabitha Pippitt, ebbed and died away in the great wave of honest regret and kindly pity that pervaded the whole neighbourhood. Even Sir Morton Pippitt, smitten by compunction for certain selfish motives which had inspired him to serve Lord Roxmouth as a willing tool, was an indefatigable, almost daily enquirer as to Maryllia's condition, for though pompous, blusterous, and to a very great extent something of a snob, his nature was not altogether lacking in the milk of human kindness like that of his daughter Tabitha. She, still smarting under the jealous conviction that John Walden was secretly enamoured of the Lady of the Manor, had heard the strange story of his having so far forgotten his usual self as to wander out bareheaded in the evening air and recite the commencement of the burial service like a man distraught when Maryllia's crushed body had been brought home, and she thought of it often with an inward rage she could scarcely conceal. Almost,—such was her acrimony and vindictiveness—she wished Maryllia would die.