"What will you do with yourself, papa?" Dolly said to him the next morning.

"Do with myself?"

"What employment will you take in hand? One has to think of that, and to live accordingly. If you would like to turn farmer, we must live in the country."

"Certainly I shall not do that. I need not absolutely throw away what money I have saved."

"Or if you were fond of shooting or hunting?"

"You know very well I never shot a bird, and hardly ever crossed a horse in my life."

"But you are fond of gardening."

"Haven't I got garden enough here?"

"Quite enough, if you think so; but will there be occupation sufficient in that to find you employment for all your life?"

"I shall read."

"It seems to me," she said, "that reading becomes wearisome as an only pursuit, unless you've made yourself accustomed to it."

"Sha'n't I have as much employment as you?"

"A woman is so different! Darning will get through an unlimited number of hours. A new set of underclothing will occupy me for a fortnight. Turning the big girl's dresses over there into frocks for the little girls is sufficient to keep my mind in employment for a month. Then I have the maid-servants to look after, and to guard against their lovers. I have the dinners to provide, and to see that the cook does not give the fragments to the policeman. I have been brought up to do these things, and habit has made them usual occupations to me. I never envied you when you had to encounter all Mr. Scarborough's vagaries; but I knew that they sufficed to give you something to do."

"They have sufficed," said he, "to leave me without anything that I can do."

"You must not allow yourself to be so left. You must find out some employment." Then they sat silent for a time, while Mr. Grey occupied himself with some of the numerous papers which it would be necessary that he should hand over to Mr. Barry. "And now," said Dolly, "Mr. Carroll will have gone out, and I will go over to the Terrace. I have to see them every day, and Mr. Carroll has the decency to take himself off to some billiard-table so as to make room for me."

"What are they doing about that man?" said Mr. Grey.

"About the lover? Mr. Juniper has, I fancy, made himself extremely disagreeable, not satisfying himself with abusing you and me, but poor aunt as well, and all the girls. He has, I fancy, got some money of his own."

"He has had money paid to him by Captain Scarborough; but that I should fancy would rather make him in a good humor than the reverse."

"He is only in a good humor, I take it, when he has something to get. However, I must be off now, or the legitimate period of Uncle Carroll's absence will be over."

Mr. Grey, when he was left alone, at once gave up the manipulation of his papers, and, throwing himself back into his chair, began to think of that future life of which he had talked so easily to his daughter. What should he do with himself? He believed that he could manage with his books for two hours a day; but even of that he was not sure. He much doubted whether for many years past the time devoted to reading in his own house had amounted to one hour a day. He thought that he could employ himself in the garden for two hours; but that would fail him when there should be hail, or fierce sunshine, or frost, or snow, or rain. Eating and drinking would be much to him; but he could not but look forward to self-reproach if eating and drinking were to be the joy of his life. Then he thought of Dolly's life,—how much purer and better and nobler it had been than his own. She talked in a slighting, careless tone of her usual day's work, but how much of her time had been occupied in doing the tasks of others? He knew well that she disliked the Carrolls. She would speak of her own dislike of them as of her great sin, of which it was necessary that she should repent in sackcloth and ashes.

But yet how she worked for the family! turning old dresses into new frocks, as though the girls who had worn them, and the children who were to wear them, had been to her her dearest friends. Every day she went across to the house intent upon doing good offices; and this was the repentance in sackcloth and ashes which she exacted from herself. Could not he do as she did? He could not darn Minnie's and Brenda's stockings, but he might do something to make those children more worthy of their cousin's care. He could not associate with his brother-in-law, because he was sure that Mr. Carroll would not endure his society; but he might labor to do something for the reform even of this abominable man. Before Dolly had come back to him he had resolved that he could only redeem his life from the stagnation with which it was threatened by working for others, now that the work of his own life had come to a close. "Well, Dolly," he said, as soon as she had entered the room, "have you heard any thing more about Mr. Juniper?"

"Have you been here ever since, papa?"

"Yes, indeed; I used to sit at chambers for six or seven hours at a stretch, almost without getting out of my chair."

"And are you still employed about those awful papers?"

"I have not looked at them since you left the room."

"Then you must have been asleep."

"No, indeed; I have not been asleep. You left me too much to think of to enable me to sleep. What am I to do with myself besides eating and drinking, so that I shall not sleep always on this side of the grave?"

"There are twenty things, papa,—thirty, fifty, for a man so minded as you are." This she said trying to comfort him.

"I must endeavor to find one or two of the fifty." Then he went back to his papers, and really worked hard on that day.

On the following morning, early, he went across to Bolsover Terrace, to begin his task of reproving the Carroll family, without saying a word to Dolly indicative of his purpose.

He found that the task would be difficult, and as he went he considered within his mind how best it might be accomplished. He had put a prayer-book in his pocket, without giving it much thought; but before he knocked at the door he had assured himself that the prayer-book would not be of avail. He would not know how to begin to use it, and felt that it would be ridiculed. He must leave that to Dolly or to the clergyman. He could talk to the girls; but they would not care about the affairs of the firm; and, in truth, he did not know what they would care about. With Dolly he could hold sweet converse as long as she would remain with him. But he had been present at the bringing up of Dolly, and did think that gifts had been given to Dolly which had not fallen to the lot of the Carroll girls. "They all want to be married," he said to himself, "and that at any rate is a legitimate desire."

With this he knocked at the door, and when it was opened by Sophia, he found an old gentleman with black cotton gloves and a doubtful white cravat just preparing for his departure. There was Amelia, then giving him his hat, and looking as pure and proper as though she had never been winked at by Prince Chitakov. Then the mother came through from the parlor into the passage. "Oh, John! how very kind of you to come. Mr. Matterson, pray let me introduce you to my brother, Mr. Grey. John, this is the Rev. Mr. Matterson, a clergyman who is a very intimate friend of Amelia."

"Me, ma! Why me in particular?"

"Well, my dear, because it is so. I suppose it is so because Mr. Patterson likes you the best."

"Laws, ma; what nonsense!" Mr. Matterson appeared to be a very shy gentleman, and only anxious to escape from the hall-door. But Mr. Grey remembered that in former days, before the coming of Mr. Juniper upon the scene, he had heard of a clerical admirer. He had been told that the gentleman's name was Matterson, that he was not very young nor very rich, that he had five or six children, and that he could afford to marry if the wife could bring with her about one hundred pounds a year. He had not then thought much of Mr. Matterson, and no direct appeal had been made to him. After that Mr. Juniper had come forward, and then Mr. Juniper had been altogether abolished. But it occurred to Mr. Grey that Mr. Matterson was at any rate better than Mr. Juniper; that he was by profession a gentleman, and that there might be a beginning of those good deeds by which he was anxious to make the evening of his days bearable to himself.

"I am delighted to make Mr. Matterson's acquaintance," he said, as that old gentleman scrambled out of the door.

Then his sister took him by the arm and led him at once into the parlor. "You might as well come and hear what I have to say, Amelia." So the daughter followed them in. "He is the most praiseworthy gentleman you ever knew, John," began Mrs. Carroll.

"A clergyman, I think?"

"Oh yes; he is in orders,—in priest's orders," said Mrs. Carroll, meaning to make the most of Mr. Matterson. "He has a church over at Putney."

"I am glad of that," said Mr. Grey.

"Yes, indeed; though it isn't very good, because it's only a curate's one hundred and fifty pounds. Yes; he does have one hundred and fifty pounds, and something out of the surplice fees."

"Another one hundred pounds I believe it is," said Amelia.

"Not quite so much as that, my dear, but it is something."

"He is a widower with children, I believe?" said Mr. Grey.

"There are children—five of them; the prettiest little dears one ever saw. The eldest is just about thirteen." This was a fib, because Mrs. Carroll knew that the eldest boy was sixteen; but what did it signify? "Amelia is so warmly attached to them."

"It is a settled thing, then?"

"We hope so. It cannot be said to be quite settled, because there are always money difficulties. Poor Mr. Matterson must have some increase to his income before he can afford it."

"Ah, yes!"

"You did say something, uncle, about five hundred pounds," said Amelia.

"Four hundred and fifty, my dear," said Mr. Grey.

"Oh, I had forgotten. I did say that I hoped there would be five hundred."

"There shall be five hundred," said Mr. Grey, remembering that now had come the time for doing to one of the Carroll family the good things of which he had thought to himself. "As Mr. Matterson is a clergyman of whom I have heard nothing but good, it shall be five hundred." He had in truth heard nothing either good or bad respecting Mr. Matterson.

Then he asked Amelia to take a walk with him as he went home, reflecting that now had come the time in which a little wholesome conversation might have its effect. And an idea entered his head that in his old age an acquaintance with a neighboring clergyman might be salutary to himself. So Amelia got her bonnet and walked home with him.

"Is he an eloquent preacher, my dear?" But Amelia had never heard him preach. "I suppose there will be plenty for you to do in your new home."

"I don't mean to be put upon, if you mean that, uncle."

"But five children!"

"There is a servant who looks after them. Of course I shall have to see to Mr. Matterson's own things, but I have told him I cannot slave for them all. The three eldest have to be sent somewhere; that has been agreed upon. He has got an unmarried sister who can quite afford to do as much as that." Then she explained her reasons for the marriage. "Papa is getting quite unbearable, and Sophy spoils him in everything."

Poor Mr. Grey, when his niece turned and went back home, thought that, as far as the girl was concerned, or her future household, there would be very little room for employment for him. Mr. Matterson wanted an upper servant who instead of demanding wages, would bring a little money with her, and he could not but feel that the poor clergyman would find that he had taken into his house a bad and expensive upper servant.

"Never mind, papa," said Dolly, "we will go on and persevere, and if we intend to do good, good will come of it."



CHAPTER LXIII.

THE LAST OF AUGUSTUS SCARBOROUGH.

When old Mr. Scarborough was dead, and had been for a while buried, Augustus made his application in form to Messrs. Grey & Barry. He made it through his own attorney, and had now received Mr. Barry's answer through the same attorney. The nature of the application had been in this wise: that Mr. Augustus Scarborough had been put in to the position of the eldest son; that he did not himself in the least doubt that such was his true position; that close inquiry had been made at the time, and that the lawyers, including Mr. Grey and Mr. Barry had assented to the statements as then made by old Mr. Scarborough; that he himself had then gone to work to pay his brother's debts, for the honor of the family, and had paid them partly out of his own immediate pocket, and partly out of the estate, which was the same as his own property; that during his brother's "abeyance" he had assisted in his maintenance, and, on his brother's return, had taken him to his own home; that then his father had died, and that this incredible new story had been told. Mr. Augustus Scarborough was in no way desirous of animadverting on his father's memory, but was forced to repeat his belief that he was his father's eldest son, and was, in fact, at that moment the legitimate owner of Tretton, in accordance with the existing contract. He did not wish to dispute his father's will, though his father's mental and bodily condition at the time of the making of the will might, perhaps, enable him to do so with success. The will might be allowed to pass valid, but the rights of primogeniture must be held sacred.

Nevertheless, having his mother's memory in great honor, he felt himself ill inclined to drag the family history before the public. For his mother's sake he was open to a compromise. He would advise that the whole property,—that which would pass under the entail, and that which was intended to be left by will,—should be valued, and that the total should then be divided between them. If his brother chose to take the family mansion, it should be so. Augustus Scarborough had no desire to set himself over his brother. But if this offer were not accepted, he must at once go to law, and prove that their Nice marriage had been, in fact, the one marriage by which his father and mother had been joined together. There was another proviso added to this offer: as the valuation and division of the property must take time, an income at the rate of two hundred pounds a month should be allowed to Augustus till such time as it should be completed. Such was the offer which Augustus had authorized his attorney to make.

There was some delay in getting Mountjoy to consent to a reply. Before the offer had reached Mr. Barry he was already at Monte Carlo, with that ready money his father had left behind him. At every venture that he made,—at least at every loss which he incurred,—he told himself that it was altogether the doings of Florence Mountjoy. But he returned to England, and consented to a reply. He was the eldest son, and meant to support that position, both on his mother's behalf and on his own. As to his father's will, made in his favor, he felt sure that his brother would not have the hardihood to dispute it. A man's bodily sufferings were no impediment to his making a will; of mental incapacity he had never heard his father accused till the accusation had now been made by his own son. He was, however, well aware that it would not be preferred. As to what his brother had done for himself, it was hardly worth his while to answer such an allegation. His memory carried him but little farther back than the day on which his brother turned him out of his rooms.

There were, however, many reasons,—and this was put in at the suggestion of Mr. Barry,—why he would not wish that his brother should be left penniless. If his brother would be willing to withdraw altogether from any lawsuit, and would lend his co-operation to a speedy arrangement of the family matters, a thousand a year,—or twenty-five thousand pounds,—should be made over to him as a younger brother's portion. To this offer it would be necessary that a speedy reply should be given, and, under such circumstances, no temporary income need be supplied.

It was early in June when Augustus was sitting in his luxurious lodgings in Victoria Street, contemplating this reply. His own lawyer had advised him to accept the offer, but he had declared to himself a dozen times since his father's death that, in this matter of the property, he would "either make a spoon or spoil a horn." And the lawyer was no friend of his own,—was not a man who knew nothing of the facts of the case beyond what were told him, and nothing of the working of his client's mind. Augustus had looked to him only for the law in the matter, and the lawyer had declared the law to be against his client. "All that your father said about the Nice marriage will go for nothing. It will be shown that he had an object."

"But there certainly was such a marriage."

"No doubt there was some ceremony—performed with an object. A second marriage cannot invalidate the first, though it may itself be altogether invalidated. The Rummelsburg marriage is, and will be, an established fact, and of the Rummelsburg marriage your brother was no doubt the issue. Accept the offer of an income. Of course we can come to terms as to the amount; and from your brother's character it is probable enough that he may increase it." Such had been his lawyer's advice, and Augustus was sitting there in his lodging thinking of it.

He was not a happy man as he sat there. In the first first place he owed a little money, and the debt had come upon him chiefly from his lavish expenditure in maintaining Mountjoy and Mountjoy's servant upon their travels. At that time he had thought that by lavish expenditure he might make Tretton certainly his own. He had not known his brother's character, and had thought that by such means he could keep him down, with his head well under water. His brother might drink,—take to drinking regularly at Monte Carlo or some other place,—and might so die. Or he would surely gamble himself into farther and utter ruin. At any rate he would be well out of the way, and Augustus in his pride had been glad to feel that he had his brother well under his thumb. Then the debt had been paid with the object of saving the estate from litigation on the part of the creditors. That had been his one great mistake. And he had not known his father, or his father's guile, or his father's strength. Why had not his father died at once?—as all the world had assured him would be the case. Looking back he could remember that the idea of paying the creditors had at first come from his father, simply as a vague idea! Oh, what a crafty rascal his father had been! And then he had allowed himself, in his pride, to insult his father, and had spoken of his father's coming death as a thing that was desirable! From that moment his father had plotted his ruin. He could see it all now.

He was still minded to make the spoon; but he found that he should spoil the horn. Had there been any one to assist him he would still have persevered. He thought that he could have persevered with a lawyer who would really have taken up his case with interest. If Mountjoy could be made to drink—so as to die! He was still next in the entail; and he was his brother's heir should his brother die without a will. But so he would be if he took the twenty-five thousand pounds. But to accept so poor a modicum would go frightfully against the grain with him. He seemed to think that by taking the allowance he would bring back his brother to all the long-lived decencies of life. He would have to surrender altogether that feeling of conscious superiority which had been so much to him. "D——n the fellow!" he exclaimed to himself. "I should not wonder if he were in that fellow's pay." The first "fellow" here was the lawyer, and the second was his brother.

When he had sat there alone for half an hour he could not make up his mind. When all his debts were paid he would not have much above twenty-five thousand pounds. His father had absolutely extracted five thousand pounds from him toward paying his brother's debts! The money had been wanted immediately. Together with the sum coming from the new purchasers, father and son must each subscribe five thousand pounds to pay those Jews. So it had been represented to him, and he had borrowed the money to carry out his object. Had ever any one been so swindled, so cruelly treated! This might probably be explained, and the five thousand pounds might be added to the twenty-five thousand pounds. But the explanation would be necessary, and all his pride would rebel against it. On that night when by chance he had come across his brother, bleeding and still half drunk, as he was about to enter his lodging, how completely under his thumb he had been! And now he was offering him of his bounty this wretched pittance! Then with half-muttered curses he execrated the names of his father, his brother, of Grey, and of Barry, and of his own lawyer.

At that moment the door was opened and his bosom friend, Septimus Jones, entered the room. At any rate this friend was the nearest he had to his bosom. He was a man without friends in the true sense. There was no one who knew the innermost wishes of his heart, the secret desires of his soul. There are thus so many who can divulge to none those secret wishes! And how can such a one have a friend who can advise him as to what he shall do? Scarcely can the honest man have such a friend, because it is so difficult for him to find a man who will believe in him. Augustus had no desire for such a friend, but he did desire some one who would do his bidding as though he were such a friend. He wanted a friend who would listen to his words, and act as though they were the truth. Mr. Septimus Jones was the man he had chosen, but he did not in the least believe in Mr. Septimus Jones himself. "What does that man say?" asked Septimus Jones. The man was the lawyer of whom Augustus was now thinking, at this very moment, all manner of evil.

"D——n him!" said Augustus.

"With all my heart. But what does he say? As you are to pay him for what he says, it is worth while listening to it."

There was a tone in the voice of Septimus Jones which declared at once some diminution of his usual respect. So it sounded, at least, to Augustus. He was no longer the assured heir of Tretton, and in this way he was to be told of the failure of his golden hopes. It would be odd, he thought, if he could not still hold his dominion over Septimus Jones. "I am not at all sure that I shall listen to him or to you either."

"As for that, you can do as you like."

"Of course I can do as I like." Then he remembered that he must still use the man as a messenger, if in no other capacity. "Of course he wants to compromise it. A lawyer always proposes a compromise. He cannot be beat that way, and it is safe for him."

"You had agreed to that."

"But what are the terms to be?—that is the question. I made my offer:—half and half. Nothing fairer can be imagined,—unless, indeed, I choose to stand out for the whole property."

"But what does your brother say?"

He could not use his friend even as a messenger without telling him something of the truth. "When I think of it, of this injustice, I can hardly hold myself. He proposes to give me twenty-five thousand pounds."

"Twenty-five thousand pounds!—for everything?"

"Everything; yes. What the devil do you suppose I mean? Now just listen to me." Then he told his tale as he thought that it ought to be told. He recapitulated all the money he had spent on his brother's behalf, and all that he chose to say that he had spent. He painted in glowing colors the position in which he would have been put by the Nice marriage. He was both angry and pathetic about the creditors. And he tore his hair almost with vexation at the treatment to which he was subjected.

"I think I'd take the twenty-five thousand pounds," said Jones.

"Never! I'd rather starve first!"

"That's about what you'll have to do if all that you tell me is true." There was again that tone of disappearing subjection. "I'll be shot if I wouldn't take the money." Then there was a pause. "Couldn't you do that and go to law with him afterward? That was what your father would have done." Yes; but Augustus had to acknowledge that he was not as clever as his father.

At last he gave Jones a commission. Jones was to see his brother and to explain to him that, before any question could be raised as to the amount to be paid under the compromise, a sum of ten thousand pounds must be handed to Augustus to reimburse him for money out of pocket. Then Jones was to say, as out of his own head, that he thought that Augustus might probably accept fifty thousand pounds in lieu of twenty-five thousand pounds. That would still leave the bulk of the property to Mountjoy, although Mountjoy must be aware of the great difficulties which would be thrown in his way by his father's conduct. But Jones had to come back the next day with an intimation that Mountjoy had again gone abroad, leaving full authority with Mr. Barry.

Jones was sent to Mr. Barry, but without effect. Mr. Barry would discuss the matter with the lawyer, or, if Augustus was so pleased, with himself; but he was sure that no good would be done by any conversation with Mr. Jones. A month went on—two months went by—and nothing came of it. "It is no use your coming here, Mr. Scarborough," at last Mr. Barry said to him with but scant courtesy. "We are perfectly sure of our ground. There is not a penny due you;—not a penny. If you will sign certain documents, which I would advise you to do in the presence of your own lawyer, there will be twenty-five thousand pounds for you. You must excuse me if I say that I cannot see you again on the subject,—unless you accept your brother's liberality."

At this time, Augustus was very short of money and, as is always the case, those to whom he owed aught became pressing as his readiness to pay them gradually receded. But to be so spoken to by a lawyer,—he, Scarborough of Tretton, as he had all but been,—to be so addressed by a man whom he had regarded as old Grey's clerk, was bitter indeed. He had been so exalted by that Nice marriage, had been so lifted high in the world, that he was now absolutely prostrate. He quarrelled with his lawyer, and he quarrelled also with Septimus Jones. There was no one with whom he could discuss the matter, or rather no one who would discuss it with him on his terms. So at last he accepted the money, and went daily into the City in order that he might turn it into more. What became of him in the City it is hardly the province of this chronicle to tell.



CHAPTER LXIV.

THE LAST OF FLORENCE MOUNTJOY.

Now at last in this chapter has to be told the fate of Florence Mountjoy, as far as it can be told in these pages. It was, at any rate, her peculiarity to attach to herself, by bonds which could not easily be severed, those who had once thought that they might be able to win her love. An attempt has been made to show how firm and determined were the affections of Harry Annesley, and how absolutely he trusted in her word when once it had been given to him. He had seemed to think that when she had even nodded to him, in answer to his assertion that he desired her to be his wife, all his trouble as regarded her heart had been off his mind.

There might be infinite trouble as to time,—as to ten years, three years, or even one year; trouble in inducing her to promise that she would become his wife in opposition to her mother; but he had felt sure that she never would be the wife of any one else. How he had at last succeeded in mitigating the opposition of her mother, so as to make the three years, or even the one year, appear to himself an altogether impossible delay, the reader knows. How he at last contrived to have his own way altogether, so that, as Florence told him, she was merely a ball in his hand, the reader will have to know very shortly. But not a shade of doubt had ever clouded Harry's mind as to his eventual success since she had nodded to him at Mrs. Armitage's ball. Though this girl's love had been so grand a thing to have achieved, he was quite sure from that moment that it would be his forever.

With Mountjoy Scarborough there had never come such a moment, and never could; yet he had been very confident, so that he had lived on the assurance that such a moment would come. And the self-deportment natural to her had been such that he had shown his assurance. He never would have succeeded; but he should not the less love her sincerely. And when the time came for him to think what he should do with himself, those few days after his father's death, he turned to her as his one prospect of salvation. If his cousin Florence would be good to him all might yet be well. He had come by that time to lose his assurance. He had recognized Harry Annesley as his enemy, as has been told often enough in these pages. Harry was to him a hateful stumbling-block. And he had not been quite as sure of her fidelity to another as Harry had been sure of it to himself. Tretton might prevail. Trettons do so often prevail. And the girl's mother was all on his side. So he had gone to Cheltenham, true as the needle to the pole, to try his luck yet once again. He had gone to Cheltenham, and there he found Harry Annesley. All hopes for him were then over and he started at once for Monaco; or, as he himself told himself, for the devil.

Among the lovers of Florence some memory may attach itself to poor Hugh Anderson. He too had been absolutely true to Florence. From the hour in which he had first conceived the idea that she would make him happy as his wife, it had gone on growing upon him with all the weight of love, He did not quite understand why he should have loved her so dearly, but thus it was. Such a Mrs. Hugh Anderson, with a pair of horses on the boulevards, was to his imagination the most lovely sight which could be painted. Then Florence took the mode of disabusing him which has been told, and Hugh Anderson gave the required promise. Alas, in what an unfortunate moment had he done so! Such was his own thought. For though he was sure of his own attachment to her, he could not mount high enough to be as sure of her to somebody else. It was a "sort of thing a man oughtn't to have been asked to promise," he said to the third secretary. And having so determined, he made up his mind to follow her to England and to try his fortune once again.

Florence had just wished Harry good-bye for the day, or rather for the week. She cared for nothing now in the way of protestations of affection. "Come Harry—there now—don't be so unreasonable. Am not I just as impatient as you are? This day fortnight you will be back, and then—"

"Then there will be some peace, won't there? But mind you write every day." And so Harry was whisked away, as triumphant a man as ever left Cheltenham by the London train. On the following morning Hugh Anderson reached Cheltenham and appeared in Montpellier Place.

"My daughter is at home, certainly," said Mrs. Mountjoy. There was something in the tone which made the young man at once assure himself that he had better go back to Brussels. He had even been a favorite with Mrs. Mountjoy. In his days of love-making poor Mountjoy had been absent, declared no longer to have a chance of Tretton, and Harry had been—the very evil one himself. Mrs. Mountjoy had been assured by the Brussels Mountjoy that, with the view of getting well rid of the evil one, she had better take poor Anderson to her bosom. She had opened her bosom accordingly, but with very poor results. And now he had come to look after what result there might be. Mrs. Mountjoy felt that he had better go back to Brussels.

"Could I not see her?" asked Anderson.

"Well, yes; you could see her."

"Mrs. Mountjoy, I'll tell you everything, just as though you were my own mother. I have loved your daughter;—oh, I don't know how it is! If she'd be my wife for two years, I don't think I'd mind dying afterward."

"Oh, Mr. Anderson!"

"I wouldn't. I never heard of a case where a girl had got such a hold of a man as she has of me."

"You don't mean to say that she has behaved badly?"

"Oh no! She couldn't behave badly;—it isn't in her. But she can bowl a fellow over in the most—well, most desperate manner. As for me, I'm not worth my salt since I first saw her. When I go to ride with the governor I haven't a word to say to him," But this ended in Mrs. Mountjoy going and promising that she would send Florence down in her place. She knew that it would be in vain; but to a young man who had behaved so well as Mr. Anderson so much could not be refused. "Here I am again," he said, very much like Punch in the pantomime.

"Oh, Mr. Anderson! how do you do?"

A lover who is anxious to prevail with a lady should always hold up his head. Where is the writer of novels, or of human nature, who does not know as much as that? And yet the man who is in love, truly in love, never does hold up his head very high. It is the man who is not in love who does so. Nevertheless it does sometimes happen that the true lover obtains his reward. In this case it was not observed to be so. But now Mr. Anderson was sure of his fate, so that there was no encouragement to him to make any attempt at holding up his head. "I have come once more to see you," he said.

"I am sure it gives mamma so much pleasure."

"Mrs. Mountjoy is very kind. But it hasn't been for her. The truth is, I couldn't settle down in this world without having another interview."

"What am I to say, Mr. Anderson?"

"I'll just tell you how it all is. You know what my prospects are." She did not quite remember, but she bowed to him. "You must know, because I told you. There is nothing I kept concealed." Again she bowed. "There can be no possible family reason for my going to Kamtchatka."

"Kamtchatka!"

"Yes, indeed;—the F.O." (The F.O. always meant the Foreign Office.) "The F.O. wants a young man on whom it can thoroughly depend to go to Kamtchatka. The allowances are handsome enough, but the allowances are nothing to me."

"Why should you go?"

"It is for you to decide. Yes, you can detain me. If I go to that bleak and barren desert, it will merely be to court exile from that quarter of the globe in which you and I would have to live together and not separate. That I cannot stand. In Kamtchatka—Well, there is no knowing what may happen to me then."

"But I'm engaged to be married to Mr. Annesley."

"You told me something of that before."

"But it's all fixed. Mamma will tell you. It's to be this day fortnight. If you'd only stay and come as one of my friends."

Surely such a proposition as this is the unkindest that any young lady can make; but we believe that it is made not unfrequently. In the present case it received no reply.

Mr. Anderson took up his hat and rushed to the door. Then he returned for a moment. "God bless you, Miss Mountjoy!" he said. "In spite of the cruelty of that suggestion, I must bid God bless you." And then he was gone. About a week afterward M. Grascour appeared upon the scene with precisely the same intention. He, too, retained in his memory a most vivid recollection of the young lady and her charms. He had heard that Captain Scarborough had inherited Tretton, and had been informed that it was not probable that Miss Florence Mountjoy would marry her cousin. He was somewhat confused in his ideas, and thought, that were he now to re-appear on the scene there might still be a chance for him. There was no lover more unlike Mr. Anderson than M. Grascour. Not even for Florence Mountjoy, not even to own her, would he go to Kamtchatka; and were he not to see her he would simply go back to Brussels. And yet he loved her as well as he knew how to love any one, and, would she have become his wife, would have treated her admirably. He had looked at it all round, and could see no reason why he should not marry her. Like a persevering man, he persevered; but as he did so, no glimmering of an idea of Kamtchatka disturbed him.

But from this farther trouble Mrs. Mountjoy was able to save her daughter. M. Grascour made his way into Mrs. Mountjoy's presence, and there declared his purpose. He had been sent over on some question connected with the literature of commerce, and had ventured to take the opportunity of coming down to Cheltenham. He hoped that the truth of his affection would be evinced by the journey. Mrs. Mountjoy had observed, while he was making his little speech, how extremely well brushed was his hat. She had observed, also, that poor Mr. Anderson's hat was in such a condition as almost to make her try to smooth it down for him. "If you make objection to my hat, you should brush it yourself," she had heard Harry say to Florence, and Florence had taken the hat, and had brushed it with fond, lingering touches.

"M. Grascour, I can assure you that she is really engaged," Mrs. Mountjoy had said. M. Grascour bowed and sighed. "She is to be married this day week."

"Indeed!"

"To Mr. Harry Annesley."

"Oh-h-h! I remember the gentleman's name. I had thought—"

"Well, yes; there were objections, but they have luckily disappeared." Though Mrs. Mountjoy was only as yet happy in a melancholy manner, rejoicing with but bated joy at her girl's joys, she was too loyal to say a word now against Harry Annesley.

"I should not have troubled you, but—"

"I am sure of that, M. Grascour; and we are both of us grateful to you for your good opinion. I know very well how high is the honor which you are doing Florence, and she will quite understand it. But you see the thing is fixed; it's only a week." Florence was said, at the moment, to be not at home, though she was up-stairs, looking at four dozen new pocket-handkerchiefs which had just come from the pocket-handkerchief merchant, with the letters F.A. upon them. She had much more pleasure in looking at them than she would have had in listening to the congratulations of M. Grascour.

"He's a very good man, no doubt, mamma; a deal better, perhaps, than Harry." That, however, was not her true opinion. "But one can't marry all the good men."

There was almost more trouble taken down at Buston about Harry's marriage than his sister's, though Harry was to be married at Cheltenham; and only his father, and one of his sisters as a bride's maid, were to go down to assist upon the occasion. His father was to marry them. And his mother had at last consented to postpone the joy of seeing Florence till she was brought home from her travels, a bride three months old. Nevertheless, a great fuss was made, especially at Buston Hall. Mr. Prosper had become comparatively light in heart since the duty of providing a wife for Buston, and a future mother for Buston's heirs, had been taken off his shoulders and thrown upon those of his nephew. The more he looked back upon the days of his own courtship the more did his own deliverance appear to him to be almost a work of Heaven. Where would he have been had Miss Thoroughbung made good her footing in Buston Hall? He used to shut his eyes and gently raise his left hand toward the skies as he told himself that this evil thing had passed by him.

But it had passed by, and it was expected that there should be a lunch of some sort at Buston; and as, with all his diligent inquiry, he had heard nothing but good of Florence, she should be received with as hearty a welcome as he could give her. There was one point which troubled him more than all others. He was determined to refurnish the drawing-room and also the bedroom in which Florence was destined to sleep. He told his sister in the most solemn manner that he had at last made up his mind thoroughly. The thing should be done. She understood how great a thing it was for him to do. "The two centre rooms!" he said, with an almost tragic air. Then he sent for her the next day, and told her that, on farther considerations, he had determined to add in the dressing-room.

The whole parish felt the effect. It was not so much that the parish was struck by the expenditure proposed,—because the squire was known to be a man who had not for years spent all his income,—but that he had given way so far on behalf of a nephew whom he had lately been so anxious to disinherit. Rumor had already reached Buntingford of what the squire had intended to do on the receipt of his own wife,—rumors which had of course since faded away into nothing. It had been positively notified to Buntingford that there should be really a new carpet and new curtains in the drawing-room. Miss Thoroughbung had been known to have declared at the brewery that the whole thing should be done before she had been there twelve months.

"He shall go the whole hog," she had said. And there had been a little bet about it between her and her brother, who entertained an idea that Mr. Prosper was an obstinate man. And Joe had brought tidings of the bet to the parsonage, so that there had been much commotion on the subject. When the best room had been included, and then the dressing-room, even Matthew had been alarmed. "It'll come to as much as five hundred pounds!" he had whispered to Mrs. Annesley. Matthew seemed to think that it was quite time that there should be somebody to control his master. "Why, ma'am, it's only the other day, because I can remember it myself, when that loo-table came into the house new!" Matthew had been in the place over twenty years. When Mrs. Annesley reminded him that fashions were changed, and that other kinds of table were required, he only shook his head.

But there was a question more vital than that of expense. How was the new furniture to be chosen? The first idea was that Florence should be invited to spend a week at her future home, and go up and down to London with either Mrs. Annesley or her brother, and select the furniture herself. But there were reasons against this. Mr. Prosper would like to surprise her by the munificence of what he did. And the suggestion of one day was sure to wane before the stronger lights of the next. Mr. Prosper, though he intended to be munificent, was still a little afraid that it should be thrown away as a thing of course, or that it should appear to have been Harry's work. That would be manifestly unjust. "I think I had better do it myself," he said to his sister.

"Perhaps I could help you, Peter." He shuddered; but it was at the memory of the sound of the word "Peter," as it had been blurted out for his express annoyance by Miss Thoroughbung. "I wouldn't mind going up to London with you." He shook his head, demanding still more time for deliberation. Were he to accept his sister's offer he would be bound by his acceptance. "It's the last drawing-room carpet I shall ever buy," he said to himself, with true melancholy, as he walked back home across the park.

Then there had been the other grand question of the journey, or not, down to Cheltenham. In a good-natured way Harry had told him that the wedding would be no wedding without his presence. That had moved him considerably. It was very desirable that the wedding should be more than a merely legal wedding. The world ought to be made aware that the heir to Buston had been married in the presence of the Squire of Buston. But the journey was a tremendous difficulty. If he could have gone from Buston direct to Cheltenham it would have been comparatively easy. But he must pass through London, and to do this must travel the whole way between the Northern and Western railway-stations. And the trains would not fit. He studied his Bradshaw for an entire morning and found that they would not fit. "Where am I to spend the hour and a quarter?" he asked his sister, mournfully. "And there would be four journeys, going and coming,—four separate journeys!" And these would be irrespective of numerous carriages and cabs. It was absolutely impossible that he should be present in the flesh on that happy day at Cheltenham. He was left at home for three months,—July, August, and September,—in which to buy the furniture; which, however, was at last procured by Mr. Annesley.

The marriage, as far as the wedding was concerned, was not nearly as good fun as that of Joe and Molly. There was no Mr. Crabtree there, and no Miss Thoroughbung. And Mrs. Mountjoy, though she meant to do it all as well as it could be done, was still joyous only with bated joy. Some tinge of melancholy still clung to her. She had for so many years thought of her nephew as the husband destined for her girl, that she could not be as yet demonstrative in her appreciation of Harry Annesley. "I have no doubt we shall come to be true friends, Mr. Annesley," she had said to him.

"Don't call me Mr. Annesley."

"No, I won't, when you come back again and I am used to you. But at present there—there is a something—"

"A regret, perhaps?"

"Well, not quite a regret. I am an old-fashioned person, and I can't change my manners all at once. You know what it was that I used to hope."

"Oh yes. But Florence was very stupid, and would have a different opinion."

"Of course I am happy now. Her happiness is all the world to me. And things have undergone a change."

"That's true. Mr. Prosper has made over the marrying business to me, and I mean to go through it like a man. Only you must call me Harry." This she promised to do, and did, in the seclusion of her room, give him a kiss. But still her joy was not loud, and the hilarity of her guests was moderated. Mr. Armstrong did his best, and the bride's maid's dresses were pretty,—which is all that is required of a bride's maid. Then at last the father's carriage came, and they were carried away to Gloucester, where they were committed to the untender, commonplace, but much more comfortable mercies of the railway-carriage. There we will part with them, and encounter them again but for a few moments as, after a long day's ramble, they made their way back to a solitary but comfortable hotel among the Bernese Alps. Florence was on a pony, which Harry had insisted on hiring for her, though Florence had declared herself able to walk the whole way. It had been very hot, and she was probably glad of the pony. They both had alpenstocks in their hands, and on the pommel of her saddle hung the light jacket with which he had started, and which had not been so light but that he had been glad to ease himself of the weight. The guide was lagging behind, and they two were close together. "Well, old girl!" he said, "and now what do you think of it all?"

"I'm not so very much older than I was when you took me, pet."

"Oh, yes, you are. Half of your life has gone; you have settled down into the cares and duties of married life, none of which had been so much as thought of when I took you."

"Not thought of! They have been on my mind ever since that night at Mrs. Armitage's."

"Only in a romantic and therefore untrue sort of manner. Since that time you have always thought of me with a white choker and dress-boots."

"Don't flatter yourself; I never looked at your boots."

"You knew that they were the boots and the clothes of a man making love, didn't you? I don't care personally very much about my own boots: I never shall care about another pair; but I should care about them—any thing that might give me the slightest assistance."

"Nothing was wanted; it had all been done, Harry."

"My pet! But still a pair of high-lows heavy with nails would not have been efficacious then. I should think I love him, you might have said to yourself, but he is such an awkward fellow."

"It had gone much beyond that at Mrs. Armitage's."

"But now you have to take my high-lows as part of your duty."

"And you?"

"When a man loves a woman he falls in love with everything belonging to her. You don't wear high-lows. Everything you possess as specially your own has to administer to my sense of love and beauty."

"I wish—I wish it might be so."

"There is no danger about that at all. But I have to come before you on an occasion such as this as a kind of navvy,—and you must accept me." She glanced around furtively to see whether their guide was looking, but the guide had gone back out of sight. For, sitting on her pony, she had her arm around his neck and kissed him. "And then there is ever so much more," he continued. "I don't think I snore?"

"Indeed, no! There isn't a sound comes from you. I sometimes look to see if I think you are alive."

"But if I do, you'll have to put up with it. That would be one of your duties as a wife. You never could have thought of that when I had those dress-boots on."

"Of course I didn't. How can you talk such rubbish?"

"I don't know whether it is rubbish. Those are the kind of things that must fall upon a woman so heavily. Suppose I were to beat you?"

"Beat me!"

"Yes;—hit you over the head with this stick!"

"I am sure you would not do that."

"So am I. But suppose I were to? Your mother must be told of my leaving that poor man bloody and speechless. What if I were to carry out my usual habits as then shown? Take care, my darling, or that brute'll throw you!" This he said as the pony stumbled over a stone.

"Almost as unlikely as you are. One has to risk dangers in the world, but one makes the risk as little as possible. I know they won't give me a pony that will tumble down; and I know that I've told you to look to see that they don't. You chose the pony, but I had to choose you. I don't know very much about ponies, but I do know something about a lover, and I know that I have got one that will suit me."

THE END