"I'm bidding you a long farewell, My Mary kind and true, But I'll not forget you, darling, In the land I'm going to. They say there's bread and work for all, And the son shines always there, But I'll ne'er forget old Ireland, Be it fifty times as fair!"

Could anything be more painful—more disconcerting? As the last notes rang out she darted a quick glance at Rex, and to her horror saw the glimmer of tears in those "masterful" eyes, which had hitherto been so scornfully free from signs of weakness.

The next moment, before the choruses of "thank you's" had died away, Rex was on his feet, holding out his hand with an air of defiant indifference.

"I must go; it is getting late. Good-bye, Hilary. Good luck!"

"Oh, good-bye, Rex! I am so very, very sorry—"

"Good-bye, Lettice. You will be an old married woman when I see you again."

"Good-bye, dear, dear Rex. Take care of yourself. Co-come back soon!"

"Miss Briggs! Mr Barton! Thank you very much. Oh, yes, I shall get on all right! Good-bye, little Mouse—give me a kiss!"

"Good-bye, darling, darling Rex—and I've worked a book-marker for you with 'Forget-me-not' in red worsted. It's gone in the post to-day, and you will get it in the morning."

"Thank you, Mouse. I'll use it every day of my life. ... Good-bye, Norah—!"

"Good-bye, Rex!"

That was all. A short grasp of the hand, and he was gone. The door banged, footsteps went crunching down the gravel, and Norah stood like a statue of despair in the dim, flagged hall. For one moment only, then Lettice seized her by the arm, and dragged her hurriedly along the passage. Such a flushed, determined Lettice, with sparkling eyes, and quick, decisive tones!

"Norah! You can't let him go away like that. You can't! It's inhuman! The poor boy was crying when Mr Barton was singing. I saw the tears in his eyes. He went away because he could not bear to stay any longer. And you never said a word! Oh run, run!—go out of the side door, and cut across the shrubbery to meet him at the gate. Oh, Norah, quick! It is your last chance! Think! You may never see him again!"

The last words put an end to any hesitation which Norah may have felt. Lettice held the door open, and she rushed out into the drizzling rain, hatless, cloakless, as she was, forgetting everything but that awful suggestion that she might never see Rex again. Down the narrow path, where a few weeks before she and Rex had first discussed the journey to India; across the plot of grass where Geraldine had her garden, and there, at the opening into the carriage drive, stood Rex himself, staring before him with a strained, expectant glance, which gave way to a flash of joy as Norah's tall figure came in sight.

"I thought you would come! I thought you would not let me go away without a word!" he said, and Norah gave a little sob of emotion.

"What can I say? You know all I feel. I shall think of you all the time, and wish you good luck; and every night when I say my prayers—"

"I know! Thank you, Norah." Rex turned his head aside quickly, but Norah saw that he was trembling with emotion, and waited in awed suspense for his next words.

"Norah—it is a long time—three years—five years—I can't tell which it may be. I shall think of you all the time. There never will be anyone else for me; but it will be different with you. You will meet new friends up in London. There will be other fellows—better than I am—who will care for you too. Perhaps when I come back you may be married too!"

"No, Rex, don't be afraid. I am not like that. I never forget."

He gripped her hand, but made no answer, and they stood together in a silence which was sweet to both, despite the rain, the gloom, the coming separation. Norah was the first to find her voice.

"You will write home often; and we will send you all the news. The time will soon pass, and you will enjoy the life and the strange new country." She looked into his face with a flickering smile. ... "They say there's bread and work for all, and the sun shines always there..."

"But I'll not forget you, darling, be it fifty times as fair!" came the answer, in a strained, hoarse whisper. Poor, shy Rex! Even at the moment of parting it was agony to him to speak that word of endearment, and having said it, he was consumed with embarrassment. Norah was still tingling with delight, when her hand was seized in a painful grip, a gruff "Good-bye, Norah!" sounded in her ears, and she was left alone in the garden path.

She put up her hands to her face and sobbed in helpless misery.

"Oh, Rex, Rex! Five long, long years! Oh, God, be good to my boy—take care of him! Bring him back safe and well!"



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

A CONFESSION.

"And so you are engaged too, Norah!"

Half an hour had passed since Rex had left Cloudsdale, and Lettice and Norah wore seated in the bedroom which they shared together, Norah still trembling and tearful, Lettice full of wide-eyed interest.

"And so you are engaged too!"

"No, not engaged. There is nothing definite, but I know that he cares for me, and I have promised to wait—"

"It's the same thing, but—five years! It is a terribly long time! So much may happen before then. You may change your mind!"

"No! I can't explain, but I simply could not think of anyone else while Rex was alive. It would be all the same if it were fifteen years. You need not pity me, Lettice. I shall keep house for father after you and Hilary are married, and I shall be quite happy. I don't think anything could make me unhappy again, now that I know Rex cares for me, and that when he comes back—" Norah stopped short, and Lettice drew in her breath with a painful respiration.

"Oh, Norie, I envy you! I wish I felt like that. I could never, never marry Arthur if I had to go out to India, and leave you all behind. Even now— Norah! if I speak out to you, will you keep it to yourself? Will you promise faithfully not to repeat a word to father or Hilary, or anyone else? Will you? Answer, Norah, yes or no!"

"I—I—yes, I promise, Lettice, if you wish it, but wouldn't it be better—"

"No! no! I can speak to no one else, and not even to you unless you promise not to repeat a single word. Sometimes I am so miserable! I never intended to marry Arthur—never for a moment; but he was very nice to me—and I know you will be shocked, Norah, but I wanted him to go on being attentive, and sometimes I did pretend I liked him a little bit, when he seemed discouraged, or as if he were beginning to care less than he used. Then that day on the river he asked me to marry him, and I said No! I was horrified at the idea, and I tried to refuse him, I really did, but he looked so miserable—I couldn't bear to see him. I was quite happy for a little time after that, and when he was away I longed for him to come back; but since then father and Miss Carr have been so cross; there have been such worries with the house, and workmen, and dressmakers, that I have felt sometimes as if I would give the world to run away and hide, and never see any of them again!"

Norah sat motionless, gazing at her sister in horrified silence. Her heart beat in quick, painful throbs—even Rex himself was forgotten in the shock of hearing her worst fears confirmed in Lettice's own words. Unhappy! within three weeks of her marriage, with presents arriving by every post, the wedding breakfast ordered, the guests bidden to the church! It was some time before she could command her voice sufficiently to speak.

"But—Lettice! If you were happy at first, perhaps you are only miserable now because you are tired and overdone. I think even if I were going to marry Rex, I should feel sad the last few weeks when I thought of leaving father and the old home, and all the rest of you. It seems only natural. It would be rather heartless if one felt differently."

"Do you think so, Norah—do you?" queried Lettice eagerly. "Oh, I am so glad to hear you say that! I have said so to myself over and over again, but I thought I ought to be happy. I have been so wretched. That night when you thought I had toothache—"

"I know. But I was afraid it was that. But, Lettice, if you are not satisfied it is not too late even now. You could tell Mr Newcome."

But Lettice gave a shriek of dismay. "Oh, never, never! I daren't even think of it, Norah. The house is ready—all the furniture—my dresses— the wedding presents! I could never, never break it off. Poor Arthur would be broken-hearted, too, and his mother would be so angry; she would never let Madge speak to me again. Oh, no! I feel better already for talking to you. I get nervous, and imagine things that are not true. I shall be very happy—of course I shall be happy. Arthur is so kind—and the house is so pretty. Don't look so miserable, Norah dear; indeed, indeed, I shall be all right."

"I hope so; but, Lettice, do think well over it while there is time. It would be terrible to have to break off your engagement now; but, at the worst, all the gossip and upset would be over in two or three months, and if you married it would be for your whole life. Father would be angry, but I would help you. I would stay with you, Lettice, and help you every minute of the time."

"I know you would, I know you would." Lettice spoke in a quick, breathless whisper; her eyes were fixed as if she were a prisoner looking through the barred window and trying to summon up courage to escape—then a shudder shook the slight shoulders, and she jumped up, holding out her hands with a gesture of dismay.

"Oh no, no! Don't talk of anything so dreadful. Arthur is coming on Saturday, and I shall be quite happy. I am dull because I have not seen him for so long, but you will see how bright I am when he is here! I was very weak and foolish to speak as I did, but I can trust you, Norah. You have promised not to tell."

"Yes, I have promised." Poor Norah was only too willing to be convinced, and surely what Lettice said was reasonable enough. She would wait, at any rate, until Saturday before making any further attempt to persuade her sister to a step which must bring so much suffering and humiliation in its train.

Two days later the bridegroom arrived. Lettice went to the station to meet him. A very handsome couple they looked as they drove up to the door, Mr Newcome immaculate as ever despite the long, dusty journey, and so large and impressive, that Norah was quite embarrassed by the suggestion that she should address him as "Arthur." Lettice was all smiles and radiance, much delighted with a necklace of turquoise and diamonds which her lover had brought as his wedding present, and which she exhibited proudly to every member of the household.

Father, brothers and sisters were alike so relieved to see her happiness that they were prepared to welcome Arthur Newcome with open arms, and to acknowledge that their prejudices were unfounded. They listened with smiling faces to his tedious description of his journey north, of previous journeys, or journeys still to come; they tried to show an interest in the items of stale information which he offered in words of studied length and elegance, and with the air of imparting a startling novelty; but alas! it was all in vain. After three days' experience, the unanimous verdict proclaimed that such a well-behaved and withal tiresome and prosy young gentleman had never before worn frock coats, or walked about country lanes in a tall hat and immaculate kid gloves.

"He must be different with Lettice. She could never endure it if he bored her as much as he does us," reiterated Hilary firmly, upon which Raymond's eyes twinkled with mischievous intentions.

"Well—do you know, I should like to feel certain about that!" he said, and forthwith strolled out into the garden through the open doorway.

Lettice and Arthur Newcome were pacing their favourite walk, the narrow shrubbery path which encircled the lawn, and at intervals of every three or four minutes the two figures came into sight as the path opened to drive and tennis ground. Master Raymond strolled across to the first of these openings, leant nonchalantly against a tree, and waited the approach of footsteps. They came—a strong, steady crunching of the gravel, a pattering of quick, uneven little steps, and the sound of a deep bass voice struck on the ear.

"...And further on, in the transept aisle, I came upon a particularly heavy and unattractive cenotaph to the memory of—"

Raymond gasped, and rolled his eyes; then, as the footsteps died away, he sped lightly across the lawn, and ensconced himself at the next point of vantage. The boom of Mr Newcome's big voice came again to his ear. Poor little Lettice was evidently a good listener!

"...The epitaph is in the inflated style of the period—bombastic in character, and supposed to be written by—"

"Bombastic!" echoed Raymond in despair. "I know someone else to whom that epithet would apply uncommonly well. This is worse than I expected! I'll give him one more chance, and then—" But at the third hearing Mr Newcome was discoursing on "allegorical figures and pseudo- classic statues," whereupon Raymond dashed off into the house and horrified his sisters by an account of his experiences.

"What a shame to listen like that! Lettice would be furious if she knew."

"It was for her own good. Poor little soul! I'm sorry for her. What on earth made him choose tombstones as a topic of conversation."

"I know. He has been staying in Canterbury. Lettice told me that he had written to her about the Cathedral," said Norah dolefully. "I wonder if I ought to go and join them! She asked me, and pinched my arm to make me say yes, but I thought Arthur looked as if he didn't want me. Can't we make an excuse and call her in? She looks so tired."

"Well, they are the funniest pair of lovers I have ever seen!" said Raymond, nodding his head with a knowing look, as if he had had an extensive knowledge of engaged couples, whereas he had never been in the house with one before. And just at that moment in marched Lettice, her fair face disfigured by a weary, irritable expression.

"I think you are all very unkind! I asked you to come into the garden. It's very mean to leave me all alone, when I have only a f-f-fortnight more at home!" The last word in a burst of tears, and she ran hurriedly upstairs to her own room.

What was to be the end of it all? Her sisters stared at each other with wide, frightened eyes, too miserable and uneasy to speak.



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

BEFORE THE WEDDING.

A week before the wedding Miss Carr came down from London, and with her came also Mr Herbert Rayner, who had paid frequent visits to Westmoreland during the last few years, and was now regarded as a family friend who could not be spared on such an historical occasion. His lameness was not any better for the lapse of time, but Hilary's exhortations had taken effect, for he was much less sensitive about his inability to do as the other men did, while as for the rest, he had every reason to be cheerful nowadays, for his writings were so highly praised that Mr Bertrand affected jealousy, and declared that his own sun was eclipsed. There was a very warm friendship between the two men; both declared that they gained inspiration from the other, and Raymond dubbed them "The Mutual Admiration Society," because Mr Bertrand was wont to declare that Rayner was an infinitely finer writer than himself, while Mr Rayner in his turn despaired of accomplishing anything fit to compare with the work of his friend.

With Miss Carr arrived a cart-load of boxes containing bride and bridesmaids' dresses, feathers and furbelows of all descriptions, and a number of presents from acquaintances in London.

The other girls were full of excitement over the opening of these treasures, but Lettice herself was silent and indifferent, and hardly troubled herself to look at the beautiful gifts which were showered upon her. She excused herself on the plea of a chronic head-ache, and lay half the day on a sofa in the schoolroom, while Miss Briggs fed her with beef-tea, and fussed over her in kindly, motherly fashion. Everyone petted her and treated her with consideration, but no one said a word to suggest that she was unhappy in the thought of the coming marriage. It was too late for that; she had determined to keep to her engagement, and it was only natural to account for her indisposition on the ground of excitement and fatigue. Circumstances combined, moreover, to keep Lettice a good deal apart from the others during these last busy days. Miss Carr's maid was employed making the alterations which were requisite in the dresses from London, so that Lettice was continually being summoned to the sewing-room, and when she was not being "tried on" she had many letters to write acknowledging the gifts which arrived in such numbers.

Hilary was too busy to have any time for confidential talks, and when Norah had a moment's leisure, her thoughts were far away from Westmoreland, journeying over foreign lands with a certain tall young Englishman with grey eyes and a crop of close-cut, curly hair. Even Lettice herself was apt to be forgotten in this all-absorbing occupation!

The Newcome contingent, and those London friends who were to accompany them, were to come down on the day before the wedding, and to put up at an hotel in Windermere, and every day brought with it a host of preparations which kept the little mistress of the house busy from morning until night.

Hilary showed to advantage under these circumstances. Always brisk, alert and smiling, never worried or unduly anxious, she shared a good deal of Rex's boasted "gift of management," and contrived to keep the house comfortable for the visitors, despite the general disarrangement, and the everlasting arrival of packing-chests and boxes. Hampers of flowers, hampers of fruit, crates of china and glass, rolls of red baize, boxes containing wedding-cake, confectionery, dresses, presents— in they came, one after another, in an unending stream, until to get across from the front door into the dining-room was like running the blockade, and wisps of straw were scattered all over the house. Norah and Hilary swathed themselves in big white aprons and unpacked from morning till night: a more interesting task than it sounds, for the boxes were full of pleasant surprises, and Mr Rayner, Raymond, and their father played the part of "dress circle," and kept everyone laughing with their merry sallies. It was a cheery, bustling time, for everyone was in good spirits and prepared to enjoy the happy-go-lucky, picnic life. Lunch and dinner were movable feasts, held either in dining- or morning-room, or in the garden itself, as proved most convenient, and when afternoon tea was served three days before the wedding, the cups were scattered about on the top of packing-chests in the hall, the cake basket hung on the hat rail, and the teapot was thrust out of reach of harm beneath the oak bench. Lettice was lying down upstairs, but all the rest of the household were gathered together, the visitors provided with chairs in honour of their position, Norah seated on the stairs, Raymond straddle-leg over the banister, Mr Bertrand and Geraldine lowly on buffets, while Hilary was perched on the top of a huge packing chest, enveloped in a pink "pinafore," and looking all the prettier because her brown hair was ruffled a little out of its usual immaculate order.

"I wish we could have tea like this every day!" cried the Mouse, drawing a long breath of enjoyment. "May we have it like this every day, father, instead of properly in the drawing-room?"

"Ah, Mouse, I see you are a Bohemian at heart, for all your quiet ways! I agree with you, my dear, that it would be quite delightful, but the difficulty is that we could not persuade people to shower presents and hampers upon us in the ordinary course of events. It takes a wedding, or some celebration of the kind, to start such a flood of generosity."

"Well, may we have tea like this when Hilary is married?" insisted Geraldine, with a gravity which caused a hearty laugh.

"Ask Hilary, my dear!" said Mr Bertrand mischievously; and Hilary tossed her head and said that one wedding was enough at the time—she had no strength to think of two.

"Indeed, my dear, I wonder you are not laid up as it is," said Miss Carr kindly. "You are on your feet from morning till night, and everyone comes to you for directions; I am afraid you will break down when the excitement is over. There is generally a collapse on these occasions. Have you any idea what you are all going to do after the young couple have departed?"

"Get the house in order, and go to bed for a week," said Hilary brightly, flushing with pleasure at Miss Carr's words of praise, and at the murmur of assent which they had evoked from her companions; but it appeared that other people were more energetically inclined than herself, for both Miss Briggs and Raymond seized the opportunity to air secret plans of their own.

"I wanted to speak to you about that, Mr Bertrand! My sister in Scarborough is most anxious that I should pay her a visit, and take Geraldine with me, and I think the sea air would do us both good."

"And I should like to have some shooting with Ferrars in Scotland. He has asked me so often, and I could just fit it in this year."

Mr Bertrand looked at his two daughters—at Hilary, bright and natty, but with shadows under her eyes which spoke of the fatigue she would not acknowledge; then, with an anxious tenderness at Norah, whose unusual quietness for the last few days he understood better than she suspected.

"Really," he said, "if all the world is going off pleasuring, I don't see any reason why we should be left behind! What do you say, girls— shall we go off for a tour on our own account? I think we deserve a holiday after our hard work and a run on the Continent would do us all good. Helen, what do you say? Will you come and take care of the girls? Rayner, I can't tackle three ladies unassisted. You had better join us, and take care of me!"

"I should certainly not leave the girls to your tender mercies, you scatter-brained man," said Miss Carr, smiling, as though well pleased at the suggestion. "You might forget all about them, as as you did on another memorable occasion, and the consequences would be disastrous. Yes!—if you take plenty of time, and don't rush about from place to place, I should be glad of a change myself. This wedding—"

"It is too good of you to include me. Wouldn't I like it!" cried Mr Rayner, with a smile which made him look quite young and boyish. "September is lovely in Switzerland. The rush of tourists is over, and the autumn tints are wonderful. But we ought to get off as soon as possible. You will have to give up your week in bed, Miss Hilary!"

"I may as well give up bed altogether, I think, for I shall not sleep a wink for thinking of it. Oh, father dear, you are good! I drink to you!" And Hilary held up her teacup, bowing and smiling, and looking so bright and pretty that it was a pleasure to see her.

Well, it was a happy hour, and the memory of it remained all the more vividly because of the contrast which it afforded to the dark days which followed. At twelve o'clock the same evening, Mr Bertrand took up his candle and went the usual tour of inspection through the house. He peered into the drawing-room, fragrant with plants and cut blossoms, into the dining-room, where the village carpenters were already putting up the horse-shoe table; into the pantry, where the more valuable presents were locked away in the great iron safe. All was quiet and secure. He returned to his study, and was just settling down for a quiet read, when the sound of footsteps smote on his ear. He opened the door, and started back at the sight of a white figure which came floating towards him, with flowing locks and outstretched hands.

"What is it?—who is it? What is the matter?—Lettice!"

The next moment two arms were clasped round his neck; he felt the heaving of breathless sobs, and an agonised voice called on him by name—

"Oh, father, father! save me! save me! I can't go on! I can't marry him! My heart will break—!"



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

BROKEN PLANS.

The light was still dim the next morning when Hilary woke with a start to find her father standing by her bedside. Even in the first sleepy glance she was struck by the pale distress of his face, and sat up hurriedly, pushing back the hair from her face, and murmuring a confused "What—what—what?"

"My dear, I am sorry to disturb you, but I need your help." Mr Bertrand seated himself on the edge of the bed, and took the girl's hands in his. "Hilary, a great trouble has come upon us. Lettice wishes to break off her engagement. She cannot bear the idea of marrying Arthur Newcome. There will be no wedding on Thursday as we expected."

Hilary stared at him with dazed eyes. Her awakening from sleep had been so sudden, and the news was so overwhelming, that it was some moments before she could grasp its full meaning.

No wedding! But the preparations were made—everything was ready. It could not be stopped at the very last moment. She drew in her breath with a quick, frightened respiration:

"Oh, father! is it true? Is she sure? Does she really mean it?"

"I am afraid there is no doubt about that, Hilary. Now that she has summoned up courage to speak, she acknowledges that she has been unhappy all along. She is in great distress, as is only natural. Norah is with her. I put off disturbing you as long as I could, for you have had too much fatigue lately, but I need your help, dear. You must get up at once. We have some painful duties before us."

"Oh, father—Arthur! What will he—how will you—?"

Mr Bertrand drew a sharp sigh. "I have wired to him to stop all preparations, and come down himself by the early train. He will be here this afternoon. Poor fellow! he has been cruelly used. I am bitterly ashamed. I have told Mary to bring you up a breakfast tray at once, and here she comes; so eat as much as you can before you get up, and then come to me in my study. Be brave! Remember I rely on your help!"

"Yes, father," said Hilary tremblingly; and the next moment Mary entered the room, her rosy face awed and frightened, her ready tongue silenced by the seriousness of the situation.

That breakfast seemed like a hideous nightmare to Hilary. Every moment brought a fresh pang of recollection. In every direction in which her eyes glanced, they lighted upon some object which accentuated her misery—the long dress box, in which the bridesmaids' finery lay ready for use; the pile of letters on the table; the hundred and one etceteras of preparation. Could it be possible that they were all for nothing— that she must now set to work to undo the labour of weeks? And the misery of it all! the humiliation—the dreadful, dreadful publicity! Hilary leapt out of bed in despair, unable to remain idle any longer, dressed with feverish rapidity, and ran downstairs to join her father. As she reached the foot of the staircase, Mr Rayner came forward to meet her. Their hands met in a close, sympathetic grasp, but neither spoke during the moment that it lasted. Then came the sound of a heavy footstep on the tiled floor, and the village joiner crossed the hall on his way to complete the erection of the tables in the dining-room. He touched his cap to Hilary as he passed, and the girl drew back, growing pale to her lips.

"Oh, he must be stopped! I can't do it. It is too dreadful!"

"Leave it to me. It's so seldom I can do anything—do let me help you now. Go to your father, and leave all this to me." He led her forward, unresisting, to the study, where her father greeted her with an exclamation of relief.

"Ah, here you are, dear! Sit down. We must get to work at once on this wretched business. I have sent off notes already to the vicar and the curate, who will stop preparations at the church; the domestic arrangements I must leave to you; and there will be notes to write to all invited guests. Rayner will help, and Raymond also. I will draw up a form which you can copy, but the letters must go off by the afternoon post, so the sooner they are written the better. Newcome will be with us before many hours are over—"

He broke off with a sigh, which Hilary echoed from the depths of an aching heart.

"I will go at once and speak to the servants. I will set them to work to put the house in order, and hide all the preparations out of sight, and then come back here, and get the writing done first of all."

"That's my good girl!" said her father warmly; and they kissed each other with sympathetic affection.

Poor Hilary! She had need of all her courage to enable her to go through that morning's work. The servants received her orders with tears of distress and disappointment Norah came stealing out of the room with the news that Lettice had cried all night long, could not be induced to eat, and lay on her bed icy cold and trembling as if with an ague. Miss Carr was too much upset to be able to leave her bed, and Geraldine's straightforward questions were for once agonising to the listeners.

"Has Lettice been naughty?" she inquired. "Has Mr Newcome been naughty? Will she never wear her pretty dresses? Shall I never wear my dress? What shall we do with all the presents? Shall we have to send back the cake?"

"Oh, Mouse, be quiet, for pity's sake!" cried Hilary in desperation. "If you ask any more questions you must go to bed. It's very naughty and unkind;" at which unexpected reproof Geraldine's eyes filled with tears.

"I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, Hilary; I only thought if you didn't want it, perhaps Miss Briggs's sister in Scarborough might like some cake—"

"Come along with me, Mouse, and I'll give you a swing in the garden," said Mr Rayner, coming to the rescue for the twentieth time. His presence was a comfort to every member of the household, and Hilary could never think of that dreadful morning without recalling the quiet, unobtrusive way in which he watched over her, and shielded her from every possible aggravation. When afternoon came, he insisted upon taking her to a quiet little coppice near the gates, so that she should not be in the house at the time of Arthur Newcome's visit; but from their seat among the trees they heard the sound of wheels as the fly turned down the drive, and knew that the dreaded interview was at hand.

"Lettice begged and prayed not to see him, father says, but he insisted that she should go down. He said it was only due to Arthur. Fancy what it must be to the poor, poor fellow, to lose her at the last moment, and to have to go back to London and explain everything to his friends—when the house is ready, and all preparations made. I feel so angry and humiliated that I can't be sorry for Lettice. She deserves all she suffers!"

Mr Rayner did not answer; and they sat in silence for five or ten minutes, at the expiration of which Hilary stole a glance at his face, and ventured a timid question.

"Are you sorry?"

"Sorry for your sister? Yes—intensely sorry!"

"You think I am hard—unsympathetic?"

"I think you are hardly in a fit state to understand your own feelings to-day. It has been a great strain, and you have kept up bravely and well."

Hilary's lip trembled, and she covered her face with her hands. "Oh, I don't want to be hard, but it does seem so dreadful! She had a whole month to think over it—and then to bring all this misery upon him at the last moment. I feel ashamed! Surely, surely, it is easy to know whether one cares or not. If I were engaged—"

"Yes?"

"Oh, I don't know—I should never, never promise to marry anyone unless I loved him with my whole heart; but when I did, I'd stick to him if the whole world were against us."

"I believe you would." Mr Rayner hesitated at the end of these words as if he were about to say something further, but the hesitation ended in silence, and presently Hilary leapt to her feet and began to pace up and down.

"Oh, let us walk about. I can't sit still. I am too nervous. If we go along this path we shall not meet anybody, and it will pass the time. I can't bear to think of what is going on inside the house." So for the next hour they walked up and down trying in vain to talk upon outside topics, and coming back again and again to the same painful theme. At last the sound of wheels came to their ears again. The fly could be seen wending its way down the country lane, and Hilary lost no time in running home to rejoin her father in his study.

He was standing with his arms resting upon the mantelpiece, his head buried in his hands, and when he turned to meet her, it struck the girl with a stab of pain that for the first time he looked old—an old man, tired and worn with the battle of life.

"Well?" she gasped; and he answered with a long-drawn sigh.

"Well—it is over! The most painful scene I have ever gone through in my life. He wouldn't believe me, poor fellow! Then Lettice came in. He looked at her, and—the light died out of his face. It was very pitiful. He was brave and manly; would not blame her, or hear her blamed. I admired him more than I could have believed possible. He said very little. Stricken to the heart, poor fellow, and I could do nothing for him! He has gone back to town to stop preparations. I would have given my right hand to help him."

"Father dear! You look so ill! It has been too much strain. What can I do for you now? Let me do something!"

"Send in Rayner to have a smoke with me. How thankful I am that he is here. He is a comfort and strength to us all!"



CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

THE SUNNY CLIMES.

The sun was shining over the lake of Thun, and the little steamer was puffing cheerily through the water. Behind lay the picturesque town, with its rushing river, and quaint, old-world buildings; in front lay— ah! what a scene of beauty and grandeur! Surely, it were worth while to travel from the ends of the earth to see this marvellous sight. The blue waters, fringed with brilliant foliage; the trees in their autumn glory, the rowan-berries making patches of scarlet here and there, the solemn pines capping the mountain height, and at the head of the lake— beautiful, dazzling, majestic—the snow-clad range of Eiger, Monck, and Jungfrau.

In all the beautiful world there can be few spots so beautiful as the lake of Thun, as seen upon a glorious September afternoon!

The passengers on board the steamer displayed a special interest in an English party who walked up and down the deck. A father and three daughters; an elderly lady whose relationship it was difficult to guess, and a young man with a clever, sensitive face, who managed his crutches with marvellous agility, and who was obviously neither husband nor brother. The girls themselves received a full share of admiration from the French and German visitors who are in the majority in Switzerland in autumn. The eldest was so neat and dainty, with her pretty English complexion and trim little figure; the tall, dark girl was spirituelle and uncommon; while the third had an air tres chic, and would have been quite ravissante if she had been a trifle less pale and serieuse, but even the surprising beauty of the scene seemed powerless to bring a smile to her face.

It was chiefly owing to Mr Rayner's persuasion that Mr Bertrand had left Westmoreland on the very day after that fixed for his daughter's marriage. The painful duty of returning the wedding presents had been accomplished, and it was so distressing to all concerned to remain in a place where they felt themselves to be the subject of continual gossip, that they were thankful to get away to fresh surroundings. They had travelled straight through to Thun, engaging sleeping-carriages in advance, and had been ensconced for over a week in the hotel on the shores of the lake, taking daily excursions, and resting beneath the broad verandah, while, by common consent, no reference was made to the painful events of the past week.

"If we are going away, we must try to get as much good as we can from the change. What is past, is past. There is no use fretting over it any longer," Mr Bertrand had said; and Hilary found so little difficulty in following his advice and being radiantly happy, that she felt a pang of remorse when suddenly confronted by Lettice's pale face, and reminded thereby of her sadness and Arthur Newcome's suffering.

Lettice had ceased to cry, but she was very silent, and her eyes wore a strained, frightened look which it was sad to see in so young a face. Everyone was studiedly kind to her, but Lettice was sensitive enough to feel the effort which lay behind the kindness. Norah alone was just as loving and whole-hearted as ever. Dear Norah! she had been shocked and distressed beyond measure, but how loyally she had kept her promise to help "every moment of the time"! During those two first awful days, what a comfort it had been to have her near; to clutch that strong, faithful hand when the others came into the room, and looked on from afar with cold, sad eyes! Norah was the same, but all the rest had changed. They had been grieved, shocked, humiliated by her behaviour, and though she was nominally forgiven, the chill ring of disapproval sounded in every word they spoke, and Lettice faded like a flower deprived of light and sunshine. Instead of gaining strength by the change she grew every day paler, thinner, and more ghost-like, until at last her father became alarmed, and questioned her closely as to her health.

"Does your head ache, Lettice?"

"No, father."

"Do you sleep well at night?"

"I think—sometimes I do, father. Pretty well."

"Have you any pain?"

Lettice raised her eyes and looked at him—a look such as a wounded stag might cast at its executioner. She trembled like a leaf, and clasped her hands round his arm in an agony of appeal.

"Oh, father, father! I am all pain. I think of it day and night—it never leaves me. I think I shall see it before me all my life."

"See what, Lettice? What do you mean?"

"His face!" quivered Lettice, and was silent. Mr Bertrand knew that she was referring to the stricken look with which Arthur Newcome had left the room where he had received the deathblow to his hopes, and the remembrance brought a cloud across his own face.

"Ay! I don't wonder at that; but it will only add to our trouble, Lettice, if you fell ill—and we have had enough anxiety."

He was conscious of not being very sympathetic, but his feeling was so strong on the subject that he could not control his words, and when Lettice spoke again it was with no reference to herself.

"Father, do you think he will ever—forget?—get over it?"

Mr Bertrand hesitated. "With most young men I should have said unhesitatingly—yes! but I think Arthur Newcome will probably remember longer than most, though I sincerely hope he will recover in time. But at the best, Lettice, you have caused him bitter pain and humiliation, and, what is worse, have shaken his faith in women for the rest of his life."

Lettice gave a little cry of pain. "Oh, father! I want to talk to you. I want to tell you how I feel, but I can't, while you speak in that hard, dry voice! Don't you see—don't you see that you are all killing me with your coldness? I have made you miserable, and have been weak, and foolish, and vain; but, father, father! I have not base wicked, and I have suffered most of all! Why do you break my heart by treating me like a stranger, and freezing me by your cruel, cruel kindness? You are my father—if I have done wrong, won't you help me to be better in the future? It isn't as if I were careless of what I have done. You see— you see how I suffer!" And she held out her arms with a gesture so wild and heart-broken that her father was startled, and caught her to him with one of his old, fond gestures.

"My poor child! My little Lettice! Heaven knows I have not intended to be cruel to you, dear, but I have been so worried and distressed that I have hardly known what I was about. You must forgive me, dear, and I will help you in every way I can. I do indeed see that you are miserable, poor child; but that I cannot help. It is only right that you should realise—"

"Father, I don't think you or anyone else can tell how intensely I feel it all. You know I have been a coward all my life—afraid to grieve anyone, always trying to avoid disagreeable things; and now to feel that I have ruined Arthur's life and wrecked his happiness, goes through my heart like a knife. And his poor, poor face! Father, I am too miserable and ashamed to be sure of anything, but I do believe this will be a lesson to me all my life. I can never, never be so cruel again! I will never marry now, but I will try to be a comfort to you, father dear, and do everything I can to make up for the misery I have caused— only do, do love me a little bit. Don't everybody stop loving me!"

Mr Bertrand smiled to himself as he stroked the girl's soft hair. Small fear that he or anyone else would cease caring for lovely, lovable Lettice; but all the same, his smile was more sad than bright.

"I shall always love you, dear," he said; "but, Lettice, try to think less of people's love for you, and more of your own love for them. That is the secret of happiness! This constant craving to receive love is not far removed from selfishness, when you go down to the root of things. Try to think of other people first—"

"I will, father—I really will; but don't lecture me to-day, plea-se! I feel so low and wretched that I can't stand anything more. I am not— all—all—altogether bad, am I?"

Mr Bertrand laughed despite himself. "No, indeed. Very well, then—no more lectures. We understand each other now, and there are to be no more clouds between us. Off with you into the hotel! Put on your hat and cloak, and we will go for a row on the lake before lunch."



CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

A GLAD SURPRISE.

The weather continued so warm and sunny that Mr Bertrand and his party lingered in Thun, day after day, enjoying the Indian summer, and loath to tear themselves away from the lovely surroundings. Lettice remained silent and subdued, but there was no longer any coldness between her and her companions, and her face had lost the strained, despairing expression which had been so painful to behold. The news from London, moreover, was as satisfactory as could be hoped for under the circumstances. A friend of Arthur Newcome's, who was also engaged to be married, had come forward and offered to take the house and furniture at a valuation, while his father had recalled his business manager in America and was sending Arthur to take his place for the next two or three years. Everyone felt that the change would be the best cure which the poor fellow could have, while it was an immense relief to know that there would be no danger of painful encounters in London. Even with this dread removed, Mr Bertrand was in ten minds about his plans for the coming winter. There seemed many reasons why it would be better to remain quietly in Westmoreland for another year. He puzzled over the question in private, and finally confided his difficulty to Mr Rayner, with startling and unexpected results.

"You see, the boys could go on as they are for some time to come; Norah is not over anxious for the change, and I cannot say I am willing to let Lettice go much into society just now. She is so very lovely that she is bound to attract attention, and after this painful business it would be in better taste to keep out of the way until it is forgotten. All things considered, I think I should be wise to give up the idea of coming to town until next winter."

Mr Rayner's face had clouded over while his friend was speaking, and his answer came in dry, irritated tones.

"When you say, 'all things considered,' you forget, of course, that you have entirely overlooked Miss Hilary's feelings in the matter. As your eldest daughter, I should have thought that her wishes might have been consulted; but it appears that all the others are put before her!"

"Hallo, what's this? And pray when did you constitute yourself Hilary's champion?" cried Mr Bertrand, turning round in his seat with a laugh, and an amused expression on his face, which gave place to one of blankest astonishment as he met the flash in his companion's eyes, and heard the firm tone of the answer—

"How long ago? I don't know! But I am her champion, now and for ever, if she will have me!"

"Rayner! What is this? You cannot possibly be in earnest?"

Herbert Rayner laughed shortly. No one could look at him for a moment and doubt that he was deeply in earnest, but there was a bitter ring in his laughter which showed that he misunderstood the reason of his friend's surprise.

"I don't wonder that you are astonished! A fine lover I am—am I not, to dare to aspire to a bright young girl?"

"My dear fellow, you misunderstood me. I know to what you refer, but that never even entered my mind. What I can't realise is that you can possibly entertain any feeling of the kind for Hilary. You! If I ever thought of your possible marriage it was always with some clever, charming woman of the world who would help you with your work, and enter into your plans. Hilary is a mere girl. She has no special ability of any kind—"

"No?"

"Not the slightest literary gift!"

"No."

"Absolutely ignorant of your world."

"Yes."

"You are ten years older than she is."

"Yes."

"Well—well—well—"

"Well, Bertrand, we can't argue about these things. There it is, and I can't account for it. I want Hilary, and I don't want the 'clever, charming woman.' She satisfies me, and—"

"Have you spoken to her?"

"Certainly not! I don't know that I should have ever summoned up courage to speak to you, if you had not taken me by surprise. It would be different if I were now as I was ten years ago, but I feared you might think my health an insuperable objection."

"No—no! I can't say that—if you have really set your heart on it. How long has this been going on?"

Mr Rayner smiled—a quick, whimsical smile, which was like a flash of sunshine.

"Well, you have heard the story of the scarlet slippers? That evening, after you left, I went to look for them behind the curtains, and smuggled them downstairs beneath my coat. I don't know what possessed me to do it, but I did, and I have them still!"

Mr Bertrand threw back his head with a burst of laughter.

"Oh, after that! If you have got the length of treasuring worsted slippers, there is no more to be said. Rayner, my dear fellow, I suppose I ought to be distressed, but I believe I am—uncommonly pleased and proud! Little Hilary! It would be delightful to feel that you were one of us. And have you any idea as to whether she cares for you in return?"

"We have always been great friends. I cannot say more. And do you really give me permission to speak to her? Would you give her to me, in spite of my weakness and infirmity? How can I ever express my thanks?"

"If Hilary cares for you, I will put no hindrance in your way; but we must have no more mistakes. I will not allow an engagement until I have satisfied myself as to her feelings. There is one comfort: she knows her own mind uncommonly well, as a rule. You can speak to her when you will..."

Although the conversation lasted for some time longer, the same things were practically repeated over and over again, and when the two gentlemen came in to lunch, the girls and Miss Carr all noticed the unusual radiance of their expressions. The last few weeks had contained so much trouble and worry, that it was quite inspiriting to see bright faces again, and to hear genuine laughter take the place of the forced "ha, ha!" which had done duty for so long. Even Lettice smiled once or twice in the course of that meal, and Norah's eyes lost their dreamy, far-away look and twinkled with the old merry expression, while Hilary nodded gaily across the table in answer to her father's searching look, and chattered away all unsuspecting of the great event which was so close at hand.

When Mr Rayner asked her to take her work to the seat overlooking the lake, in the afternoon, she said, "Won't you come too, Lettice?" and tripped after him, humming a lively air.

It was a very different Hilary who returned to the hotel two hours later, and went to join her father on the verandah. Her face was pale and serious; she looked older and more womanlike; but there was a steady light of happiness in her eyes which told its own tale.

"Well, Hilary," he asked gravely, "and what is it to be?"

"There is no doubt about that, father! It is to be as he wants—now and always!"

"I thought as much. But you must realise what you are doing, dear. When most girls are married they look forward to having a strong man's arm between them and the world; they expect to be shielded from trouble; but if you marry Rayner, this will not be your lot. You will have to watch over him, to spare him fatigue and anxiety, and take the burden on your own shoulders, for he is a man who will require constant care."

"I know that. It is what I long to do. I should be so happy looking after him."

"And perhaps—it seems brutal to mention it, but the possibility must be faced—he might not be spared to you for many years! A delicate fellow like that—"

"Strong men die unexpectedly, father, as well as weakly ones. Everyone has to run that risk. I would rather be his wife even for two or three years than marry any other man. And I will nurse him so well—take such good care—"

"Ah, I see your mind is made up! Well, dear, some people would think I was doing a foolish thing in consenting to this engagement, but I do consent. I do more than that, I rejoice with all my heart in your happiness, and in my own happiness, for it will be a joy to every one of us. Rayner will be a son-in-law worth having, and a husband of whom any woman might be proud. Ah, well! this is something like an engagement! That other unhappy affair was nothing but trouble from first to last. You know your mind, my dear, and are not likely to change."

"Never!" said Hilary. And her eyes flashed with a bright, determined look, at which her father smiled.

"That's good hearing! Well, dear, we will have another talk later on, but now we had better go and join the others. They are curious to know what we are whispering about over here."

Miss Carr had come out of the hotel after her afternoon nap, and was seated on the verandah beside the two younger girls. Mr Rayner had joined them, and was listening with mischievous enjoyment to their speculations about Hilary's conference with her father.

"How interested they seem! Now he is kissing her. Why don't they come over here and tell us all about it?" cried Norah; and, as if anxious to gratify her curiosity, Mr Bertrand came towards the verandah at that very moment, and presenting Hilary to them with a flourishing hand, cried roguishly—

"Allow me to introduce to you the future Mrs Herbert Rayner!"

The excitement, joy, and astonishment of the next few minutes can be better imagined than described. Miss Carr shed tears into her teacup; the girls repeated incoherently that they had always expected it, and that they had never expected it; and Mr Bertrand was as mischievous in his teasing ways as Raymond himself could have been under the circumstances; but the lovers were too happy to be disturbed by his sallies. It was both beautiful and touching to see Mr Rayner's quiet radiance, and to watch how his eyes lightened whenever they lit on Hilary's face, while to see that self-possessed young lady looking shy and embarrassed was something new indeed in the annals of the family! Shy she was, however, beyond possibility of doubt, hardly daring to look in Mr Rayner's direction, and refusing outright to address him by his Christian name for the edification of the listeners.

"What is there to be frightened at? I am not frightened! Herbert, do you take sugar, Herbert? Will you have two lumps, Herbert?" cried Lettice saucily, and everyone smiled, pleased to see the lovely face lighted up by the old merry smile, and to hear a joke from the lips which had drooped so sadly.

"Will you put me in a story, Herbert, if I'm very good, and promise not to tease?" said Norah, determined not to be outdone; and the new brother looked at her with admiring eyes.

"I think I rather enjoy being teased, do you know; it is so very new and satisfactory! But I shall certainly make a heroine of you some fine day, Norah, when I have manufactured a hero worthy of the occasion!"

Norah's laugh rang out merrily, but as she turned her head to look at the distant mountains, a little film of moisture dimmed her eyes. Impossible to see two people so happy together as Herbert and Hilary, and not think of the long years which must pass before such a joy came to herself. But Rex was true—he would not change; he was worth all the waiting—

"Well, Helen," said Mr Bertrand to his faithful old friend as the young people moved off at last and left them alone together. "Well, Helen, and what do you think of this latest development? Are you satisfied? Have I been wise?—Do you think he is the right man for her?"

Miss Carr looked at him with a little flash of disdain.

"I think," she said slowly, "that Hilary has improved so wonderfully during the last few years, that there is now some chance of her being almost good enough for him! My dear Austin, he is a king among men! Hilary may be a proud woman that his choice has fallen upon her. They will be very happy."

"I trust, I think they will! It seems strange that it should be Hilary, who was always so careful of her own interests, who should have chosen to marry a delicate, crippled fellow who must be more or less of a care all his days; but I believe it will make a splendid woman of her, draw out all the tenderness of her nature, and soften her as nothing else could have done. Yes! I am thoroughly happy about it, more especially as it has the honour of your distinguished approval. These engagements come thick and fast upon us, Helen. Let us hope there will be a breathing time now for some time to come. Lettice is bound to marry sooner or later, but we will pray for 'later,' and as for Norah, I suppose her future is practically settled. Poor child! it will be a long waiting, but Rex is a fine lad, and is bound to succeed. He knows his own mind, too, and will not be likely to change; while Norah—"

"Yes, she is one of the steadfast ones, but she is only a child, Austin, and will be none the worse for the time of waiting."

"And I cannot regret it, since through it I shall be able to keep one of my little lasses with me for some years at least. I shall be a lonely man when they all take flight! ... Come, it is getting chilly. Let us go into the house."

THE END