For Jenny knew Eleonora of old, through Emily's letters, and had no doubt of her rectitude, constancy, and deep principle, though she was at the present time petrified by constant antagonism to such untruthfulness as, where it cannot corrupt, almost always hardens those who come in contact with it. And this cruel idea of self- sacrifice was, no doubt, completing the indurating process.

Jenny knew the terrible responsibility of giving such advice. She had not done it lightly. She had been feeling for years past that "'Tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all;" and she knew that uncertainty of the right to love and trust would have been a pang beyond all she had suffered. To give poor Eleonora, situated as she now was, admission to the free wholesome atmosphere of the Charnock family, was to her kind heart irresistible; and it was pleasant to feel the poor girl clinging to her, as people do to those who have given the very counsel the heart craved for.

It was twilight when the walk was over, and the drawing-room was empty; but Anne came to invite them to Mrs. Poynsett's tea, saying that Cecil had Lady Tyrrell in her own sitting-room. Perhaps Mrs. Poynsett had not realized who was Jenny's companion, for she seemed startled at their entrance; and Jenny said, "You remember Lenore Vivian?"

"I must have seen you as a child," said Mrs. Poynsett, courteously. "You are very like your sister."

This, though usually a great compliment, disappointed Eleonora, as she answered, rather frigidly, "So people say."

"Have you walked far?"

"To the Outwood Lodge."

"To-day? Was it not very damp in the woods?"

"Oh no, delightful!"

"Lena and I are old friends," said Jenny; "too glad to meet to heed the damp."

Here Raymond entered, with the air of a man who had just locked up a heavy post-bag at the last possible moment; and he too was amazed, though he covered it by asking why the party was so small.

"Rosamond has gone to meet her husband, and Cecil has her guest in her own domains."

Then Jenny asked after his day's work—a county matter, interesting to all the magistracy, and their womankind in their degree; and Eleonora listened in silence, watching with quiet heedfulness Frank's mother and brother.

When Frank himself came in, his face was a perfect study; and the colour mantled in her cheeks, so that Jenny trusted that both were touched by the wonderful beauty that a little softness and timidity brought out on the features, usually so resolutely on guard. But when, in the later evening, Jenny crept in to her old friend, hoping to find that the impression had been favourable, she only heard, "Exactly like her sister, who always had the making of a fine countenance."

"The mask—yes, but Lena has the spirit behind the mask. Poor girl! she is not at all happy in the atmosphere her sister has brought home."

"Then I wish they would marry her!"

"Won't you believe how truly nice and good she is?"

"That will not make up for the connection. My heart sank, Jenny, from the time I heard that those Vivians were coming back. I kept Frank away as long as I could—but there's no help for it. It seems the fate of my boys to be the prey of those sirens."

"Well, then, dear Mrs. Poynsett, do pray believe, on my word, that Eleonora is a different creature!"

"Is there no hope of averting it? I thought Camilla would—poor Frank is such insignificant game!"

"And when it does come, don't be set against her, please, dear Mrs. Poynsett. Be as kind to her—as you were to me," whispered Jenny, nestling up, and hiding her face.

"My dear, but I knew you! You were no such case."

"Except that you all were horribly vexed with us, because we couldn't help liking each other," said Jenny.

"Ah! my poor child! I only wish you could have liked any one else!"

"Do you?" said Jenny, looking up. "Oh no, you don't! You would not have me for your supplementary child, if I had," she added playfully; then very low—"It is because the thought of dear Archie, even ending as it did, is my very heart's joy, that I want you to let them have theirs!"

And then came a break, which ended the pleading; and Jenny was obliged to leave Compton without much notion as to the effect of her advice, audacious as she knew it to have been.



CHAPTER XIV Neither Land Nor Water

A light that never was on sea or land.—WORDSWORTH

Nothing could be prettier than Rosamond's happiness in welcoming her school-boy brothers, and her gratitude to Mrs. Poynsett for inviting them, declaring that she liked boys. Her sons, however, dreaded the inroad of two wild Irish lads, and held council what covers and what horses could most safely be victimized to them, disregarding all testimony in their favour from interested parties. When, therefore, Terence and Thomas de Lancey made their appearance, and were walked in for exhibition by their proud and happy sister, there was some surprise at the sight of two peculiarly refined, quiet boys, with colourless complexions, soft, sleepy, long-lashed, liquid brown eyes, the lowest of full voices, and the gentlest of manners, as if nothing short of an explosion could rouse them.

And it was presently manifest that their sister had said rather too little than too much of Terry's abilities. Not only had he brought home a huge pile of prizes, but no sooner was the seance after dinner broken up, than he detained Julius, saying, in a very meek and modest tone, "Rose says you know all the books in the library."

"Rose undertakes a great deal for me. What is this the prelude to?"

"I wanted to ask if I might just look at any book about the physical geography of Italy, or the History of Venice, or the Phoenicians."

"Why, Terry?"

"It is for the Prize Essay," explained the boy; "the subject is the effect of the physical configuration of a country upon the character of a nation."

Julius drew a long breath, astounded at the march of intellect since his time. "They don't expect such things of fellows like you!" he said.

"Only of the sixth, but the fifth may go in for it, and I want to get up to the Doctor himself; I thought, as I was coming to such a jolly library, I might try; and if I do pretty well, I shall be put up, if any more fellows leave. Do you think I may use the books? I'm librarian, so I know how to take care of them."

"You can be trusted for that, you book-worm," said Julius; "here's the library, but I fear I don't know much about those modern histories. My mother is a great reader, and will direct us. Let us come to her."

Quiet as Terry was, he was neither awkward nor shy; and when Julius had explained his wishes, and Mrs. Poynsett had asked a few good- natured questions, she was charmed as well as surprised at the gentle yet eager modesty with which the low-pitched tones detailed the ideas already garnered up, and inquired for authorities, in which to trace them out, without the least notion of the remarkable powers he was evincing. She was delighted with the boy; Julius guided his researches; and he went off to bed as happy as a king, with his hands full of little dark tarnished French duodecimos, and with a ravenous appetite for the pasture ground he saw before him. Lower Canada had taught him French, and the stores he found were revelry to him.

Cecil's feelings may be better guessed than described when the return of Mudie's box was hastened that he might have Motley's Dutch Republic. She thought this studiousness mere affectation; but it was indisputable that Terry's soul was in books, and that he never was so happy as when turned loose into the library, dipping here and there, or with an elbow planted on either side of a folio.

Offers of gun or horse merely tormented him, and only his sister could drag him out by specious pleas of need, to help in those Christmas works, where she had much better assistance in Anne and the curates—the one for clubs and coals, the other for decorations.

Mrs. Poynsett was Terry's best friend. He used to come to her in the evening and discuss what he had been reading till she was almost as keen about his success as Frank's. He talked over his ambition, of getting a scholarship, becoming a fellow, and living for ever among the books, for which the scanty supply in his wandering boyhood had but whetted his fervour. He even confided to her what no one else knew but his sister Aileen, his epic in twenty-four books on Brian Boromhe and the Battle of Clontarf; and she was mother enough not to predict its inevitable fate, nor audibly to detect the unconscious plagiarisms, but to be a better listener than even Aileen, who never could be withheld from unfeeling laughter at the touching fate of the wounded warriors who were tied to stakes that they might die fighting.

Tom was a more ordinary youth, even more lazy and quiet in the house, though out of it he amazed Frank and Charlie by his dash, fire, and daring, and witched all the stable-world with noble horsemanship. Hunting was prevented, however, by a frost, which filled every one with excitement as to the practicability of skating.

The most available water was a lake between Sirenwood and Compton; and here, like eagles to the slaughter, gathered, by a sort of instinct, the entire skating population of the neighbourhood on the first day that the ice was hard enough. Rosamond was there, of course, with both her brothers, whom she averred, by a bold figure of speech, to have skated in Canada before they could walk. Anne was there, studying the new phenomena of ice and snow under good- natured Charlie's protection, learning the art with unexpected courage and dexterity. Cecil was there but not shining so much, for her father had been always so nervous about his darling venturing on the ice, that she had no skill in the art; and as Raymond had been summoned to some political meeting, she had no special squire, as her young brother-in-law eluded the being enlisted in her service; and she began to decide that skating was irrational and unwomanly; although Lady Tyrrell had just arrived, and was having her skates put on; and Eleonora was only holding back because she was taking care of the two purple-legged, purple-faced, and purple-haired little Duncombes, whom she kept sliding in a corner, where they could hardly damage themselves or the ice.

Cecil had just thanked Colonel Ross for pushing her in a chair, and on his leaving her was deliberating whether to walk home with her dignity, or watch for some other cavalier, when the drag drew up on the road close by, and from it came Captain and Mrs. Duncombe, with two strangers, who were introduced to her as 'Mrs. Tallboys and the Professor, just fetched from the station.'

The former was exquisitely dressed in blue velvet and sealskin, and had the transparent complexion and delicate features of an American, with brilliant eyes, and a look of much cleverness; her husband, small, sallow, and dark, and apparently out of health. "Are you leaving off skating, Cecil?" asked Mrs. Duncombe; "goodness me, I could go on into next year! But if you are wasting your privileges, bestow them on Mrs. Tallboys, for pity's sake. We came in hopes some good creature had a spare pair of skates. Gussie Moy offered, but hers were yards too long."

"I hope mine are not too small," said Cecil, not quite crediting that an American foot could be as small as that of a Charnock; but she found herself mistaken, they were a perfect fit; and as they were tried, there came a loud laugh, and she saw a tall girl standing by her, whom, in her round felt hat and thick rough coat with metal buttons, she had really taken for one of the Captain's male friends.

"I wouldn't have such small feet," she said; "I shouldn't feel secure of my understanding."

"Mrs. Tallboys would not change with you, Gussie," said Captain Duncombe. "I'd back her any day—"

"What odds will you take, Captain—"

But Mrs. Duncombe broke in. "Bless me, if there aren't those little dogs of mine! Lena Vivian does spoil them. Send them home, for pity's sake, Bob."

"Poor little kids, they are doing no harm."

"We shall have them tumbling in, and no end of a row! I can't stand a swarm of children after me, and they are making a perfect victim of Lena. Send them home, Bob, or I shall have to do it."

The Captain obeyed somewhat ruefully. "Come, my lads, Bessie says you must go home, and leave Miss Vivian in peace."

"O, Bob, please let us stay; Lena is taking care of us—"

"Indeed I like nothing so well," protested Lenore; but the Captain murmured something about higher powers, and cheerfully saying he would give the boys a run, took each by an unwilling hand, and raced them into a state of frightened jollity by a short cut, by which he was able to dispose of them in the drag.

The Professor, meanwhile, devoted himself to Mrs. Charnock Poynsett, took her chair for a whirl on the ice; described American sleighing parties; talked of his tour in Europe. He was really a clever, observant man, and Cecil had not had any one to talk Italy to her for a long time past, and responded with all her full precision. The Professor might speak a little through his nose, but she had seldom met any one more polite and accomplished.

Meantime, a quadrille was being got up. Such a performance and such partners had never been seen in light that shone on water or on land, being coupled by their dexterity in the art. They were led off by Mrs. Duncombe and the Reverend James Bindon. Mrs. Tallboys paired with Terry De Lancey, Lady Tyrrell with Herbert Bowater, Lady Rosamond with one of the officers. Tom was pounced on by the great 'Gussy Moy,' who declared, to his bitter wrath, that she preferred little boys, turning her back on Mr. Strangeways and two or three more officers, as she saw them first solicitous to engage Eleonora Vivian—who, however, was to skate with Charlie.

A few wistful glances were cast towards the Wil'sbro' road, for Frank had been obliged by the cruel exigencies of the office to devote this magnificent frosty day to the last agonies of cram. This, however, had gone on better for the last fortnight—owing, perhaps, to some relaxation of Eleonora's stern guard over her countenance in their few meetings since Jenny's departure.

"And after all," as Charlie said, with the cheeriness of one who has passed his own ordeal, "a man who had taken such a degree as Frank could not depend on a few weeks of mere cramming."

Frank did come speedily up the road just as the quadrille was in full force; and perhaps the hindrance had stood him in good stead; for when the performance ceased in the twilight, and voices were eagerly talking of renewing it as a fackel-tanz in the later evening, and only yielding at the recollection of dinner engagements, it was not Charlie who was taking off Eleonora's skates; and when, after fixing grand plans for the morrow, Lady Tyrrell mounted her pony-carriage and looked for her sister, she heard that Miss Vivian was walking home.

Yes, Miss Vivian was walking home; and there was a companion by her side feeling as if that dark, hard gravelled road were the pebbly beach of Rockpier.

"When do you go to London?" she asked.

"To-morrow afternoon. Wish me well through, Lenore."

"Indeed I do."

"Say it again, Lenore! Give me the elixir that will give me power to conquer everything."

"Don't say such exaggerated things."

"Do you think it is possible to me to exaggerate what a word from you is to me?" said Frank, in a low voice of intense feeling.

"O Frank! it is wiser not to say such things."

"Wise! what is that to me? It is true, and you have known it—and why will you not allow that you do, as in those happy old days—"

"That's what makes me fear. It would be so much better for you if all this had never begun."

"It has begun, then!" murmured Frank, with joy and triumph in the sound. "As long as you allow that, it is enough for me."

"I must! It is true; and truth must be somewhere!" was whispered in a strange, low, resolute whisper.

"True! true that you can feel one particle of the intensity—Oh! what words can I find to make you understand the glow and tenderness the very thought of you has been!"

"Hush, hush!—pray, Frank. Now, if I do own it—"

"It—what? Let me hear! I'm very stupid, you know!" said Frank, in a voice of exulting comprehension, belying his alleged stupidity.

"What you have been to me—"

"Have been—eh?" said this cruel cross-examiner.

"Do not let us waste time," said Eleonora, in a trembling voice; "you know very well."

"Do I?"

"Now, Frank!"

"If you only knew what it would be worth to me to hear you say it!"

"I'm afraid it would be only worth pain and grief to you, and anger from every one," said she, in a low dejected voice, "far more than I am worth."

"You? Trust me to judge of that, Lenore. Would not you be worth all, and more than all, that flesh or spirit could feel! I could face it all for one look from you!" said Frank, with fervour from his heart of hearts.

"You make me more and more afraid. It is all too wretched to lead any one into. Since I knew the whole truth, I have tried to spare you from it."

"That is why you have been so cold, and held so cruelly aloof all this time, so that if I had not caught one ray now and then, you would have broken my heart, Lenore; as it is, I've been wretched beyond description, hardly able to sleep by night or speak rationally by day. How had you the heart to serve me so, like a stony Greek statue?"

"I thought it must be right. It seemed to break my own heart too."

"That's the woman's way of showing a thing is right; but why I can't see. If you did hate me, it might be all very well to throw me over; but if not, why torture two as well as one? Are you afraid of my people? I'll manage them."

"You little know—"

"Know what?"

"All that made it cruel in Camilla to throw us together."

"Cruel! when it was the crowning joy of my past life, and is to be the crowning joy of the future?"

"How can it? Frank, you must know the causes your mother has for abhorring any connection with our unhappy family."

"My mother has too much sense to think a little extravagance among the men of a family can affect the daughters. I know the outer world is afraid of her, but she is the tenderest and most indulgent of mothers to us. No fear of her!"

"Ah! but that's not all."

"You mean that she has not taken much to your sister. I know; and I'm very sorry; but bring them together, and it would soon be got over. Besides, it is not your sister, but you. What do you mean?" rather disconcerted.

"Then you really did not know of the old engagement between Camilla and your eldest brother?"

"Oh, oh! So she consented once! Then she will do so again."

"Listen! Camilla broke it off because your mother could not resign her position to her."

He gave a whistle of dismay, then recovering himself with a laugh, said, "Fourth sons don't have such expectations founded on them. Don't fear, dearest; that can't be all the story, though no doubt it was part of it. My mother would rather go into a hermitage than stand in the way of Raymond's happiness. Some one must have made mischief."

"It was not all," said the girl; "it was Lord Tyrrell's coming in the way. Yes, my father told me so; he held it up to me as an example of what one ought to do for one's family."

"Then she was coerced?"

"I don't know; but such a marriage for me, with some one who would redeem the property, is their scheme for me. Even if your mother and brother could tolerate the thought of one of us, my poor dear father will never dare to consent as long as she is with him."

"Nay, Lenore; have I not often heard her say she prefers happiness to ambition? Whatever she may have done, she has come to think differently. She has well-nigh told me so."

"Yes, at Rockpier," sighed Eleonora. "Hark!" The sound of the ponies' bells and hoofs was heard; Lenore put her hand on his arm, and drew him aside on the grass, behind a clump of trees, hushing him by a silent pressure as he tried to remonstrate. He clasped her hand, and felt her trembling till the tinkling and tramp were gone by.

"You frightened darling!" were his first words, when she let him speak. "Who would have thought you would be so shy? But we'll have it out, and—"

"It is not that," interrupted Lenore, "not maidenly shyness. That's for girls who are happy and secure. No; but I don't want to have it all overthrown at once—the first sweetness—"

"It can't be overthrown!" he said, holding arm and hand in the intense grasp.

"Not really, never; but there is no use in attempting anything till I am of age—next autumn, the 7th of November."

"Say nothing till then!" exclaimed Frank, in some consternation.

"We are only where we were before! We are sure of each other now. It will be only vexation and harass," said she, with the instinct of a persecuted creature.

"I couldn't," said Frank. "I could not keep it in with mother! It would not be right if I could, nor should I feel as if I were acting fairly by your father."

"You are right, Frank. Forgive me! You don't know what it is to have to be always saving one's truth only by silence. Speak when you think right."

"And I believe we shall find it far easier than you think. I'm not quite a beggar—except for you, my Lena. I should like to go home this minute, and tell mother and Charlie and Rose, that I'm—I'm treading on air; but I should only be fallen upon for thinking of anything but my task-work. So I'll take a leaf out of your book, you cautious Lenore, and wait till I come down victorious, happy and glorious—and I shall now. I feel as if you had given me power to scale Olympus, now I know I may carry your heart with me. Do you remember this, Lena?" He guided her hand to the smooth pebble on his chain. She responded by putting her own into his.

"My talisman!" he said. "It has been my talisman of success many a time. I have laid my hand on it, and thought I was working for you. Mine! mine! mine! Waters cannot quench love—never fear."

"Hush!" as the light of the opening hall door was seen, and Lady Tyrrell's voice was heard, saying, "I thought we passed her; I am sure she was near."

Eleonora withdrew her arm, patted Frank back, waved him into silence, and went forward, saying, "Here I am, Camilla; I walked home."

Her voice was calm and self-contained as ever—the unassailable dignity just as usual. The hall was full of officers, standing about the fire and drinking tea, and Eleonora's well-worn armour was instantly on, as her sister asked where she had been, since others had walked home and had not overtaken her.

"I came by the lower road," said she.

"Indeed! I never saw you."

"I saw you pass—or rather heard you."

"And did not let me pick you up! Did you hide yourself?"

"It was much warmer to walk."

"So you seem to have found it, to judge by your cheeks," said Lady Tyrrell.

And Mr. Strangeways and one or two others could not restrain a murmured exclamation on the exceeding loveliness of that deepened colour and brightened eye; but Lenore only knew that an equally bright and keen eye was watching her heedfully, and knew that she was suspected, if not read through and through.

She mingled in the discussion of the skating, with those outward society-senses that she learnt to put on, and escaped as soon as possible to her own room.

Again she almost fell on the ground in her own little oratory chamber, in a tumult of gladness that was almost agony, and fear that was almost joy.

She wanted to give thanks that Frank had become so wholly and avowedly hers, and for that deep intense affection that had gone on, unfed, uncherished, for years; but the overflow of delight was checked with foreboding—there was the instinctive terror of a basilisk eye gazing into her paradise of joy—the thanksgiving ran into a half-despairing deprecation.

And she knew that Frank was under Camilla's spell, and admired and trusted her still; nor had she been able to utter a word of caution to undeceive him. Should she have the power on the morrow? Camilla really loved skating, and surrounded as she was sure to be, there was hope of escaping her vigilant eye once more. To-morrow there would be another meeting with Frank! perhaps another walk with him!

That anticipation was soothing enough to bring back the power of joyful gratitude, and therewith of hopeful prayer.



CHAPTER XV Plot and Counterplot

A lady a party of pleasure made, And she planned her scheme full well, And day and night the party filled The head of the demoiselle.—FABER

Though Frank had no reason to expect that the tidings of his success would be hailed with much satisfaction at home, yet his habit of turning to his mother for sympathy would have been too much for his prudence, but for the fact that Terry De Lancey had dragged into her room a massive volume of prints from the Uffizi Gallery, and was looking it over with her, with a zest she had not seen since the days when her father gloried in his collection.

His victory could only be confided to Charlie, who might laugh, but fully appreciated the repose of mind with which he could now encounter the examiners, and promised to do his part to cover the meetings of the lovers the next day. But even then the chances of another performance on the lake, or of a walk among the icicles afterwards, were departing. Thaw was setting in and by breakfast- time there was a down-pouring rain. Frank lingered about Cecil in hopes of a message to serve as an excuse for a rush to Sirenwood; but she proved to be going to drive to the working-room, and then to lunch at Mrs. Duncombe's, to meet the Americans and the ladies from Sirenwood, according to a note sent over in early morning at first sight of the wet.

Thereupon Frank found he had a last reference to make to his tutor, and begged for a lift. A touch of warmth in Cecil would have opened the flood-gates of his confidence, but she was exercised about a mistake in the accounts, and claimed his aid in tracking a defective seven-pence. When she heard him utter the monstrous statement that a hundred and five farthings were almost nine shillings, she looked at him with withering compassion, as sure to fail, and a small loss to Her Majesty; nor would she listen to any of his hints that he was very curious to see her working-room.

His question to the tutor judiciously lasted till twelve, when he dropped in to consult Captain Duncombe about horse-hire in London; and that gentleman, who had been undergoing a course of political economy all the morning, eagerly pounced on him for a tour of his stables, which lasted till luncheon was due, and he could casually enter the dining-room, where Lady Tyrrell held out her hand good- naturedly to him, laughing at the blankness he could not entirely conceal. "Only me!" she said. "It can't be helped! Poor Lenore caught such a dreadful sore throat last night, that I have shut her up in her room with a mustard poultice."

"Indeed! I am very sorry."

"You may well look horrified! You were the guilty party, I suspect. Taking her all across the park under those dank trees!"

He coloured up to the eyes, little expecting to be thus convicted; but Mrs. Duncombe came to his aid. "My impartiality would impute the damage to her standing about with those wretched little dogs of mine."

"It is your climate," said Mrs. Tallboys. "In our dry atmosphere there would be no risk with a far lower temperature."

"I hope it is nothing serious," said Frank, anxiously.

"I hope so too," said Lady Tyrrell, looking archly into his face, which had not learnt such impenetrability as poor Lenore's.

"No; but really?" he said, in anxiety that would not be rallied away.

"This is the way," said Lady Tyrrell. "Young gentlemen persuade young ladies to do the most imprudent things—saunter about in the cold after skating, and dawdle under trees, and then wonder when they catch cold.—Do they do such things in your country, Mrs. Tallboys, and expect the mammas and elder sisters to be gratified?"

"Mammas and elder sisters are at a discount with you, are not they?" said Mrs. Duncombe.

"Our young women are sufficient to protect themselves without our showing tacit distrust, and encumbering them with guardianship," returned the Professor.

"Mr. Charnock wishes we had reached that point," said Lady Tyrrell.

She had put him completely out of countenance. He had not supposed her aware of his having been Lenore's companion, and was not certain whether her sister had not after all confided in her, or if he himself had not been an unconscious victim. The public banter jarred upon him; and while Cecil was making inquiries into the extent of the young ladies' privileges in America, he was mentally calculating the possibilities of rushing up to Sirenwood, trying to see Lenore in spite of her throat, and ascertaining her position, before his train was due; but he was forced to resign the notion, for Raymond had made an appointment for him in London which must not be missed; and before luncheon was over the dog-cart, according to agreement with Charlie, called for him.

"Good-bye, Mr. Frank," said Mrs. Duncombe; "will you have an old shoe thrown after you for luck?"

"The time is not come for that yet," said Cecil, gravely.

"Tending in that direction. Eh, Charnock?" said the Captain. "Here's to your success—now, and in what's to come!"

"Thank you, Captain," said Frank, shaking his hand, liking the hearty voice. "Lady Tyrrell, won't you give me your good wishes?" he asked, half diffidently.

"For the examination—yes, certainly," she replied. "It is safer not to look too far into your wishing-well."

"And—and will you give my—my best regards to Le—to Miss Vivian, and say I grieve for her cold, and trust to her—to her good wishes— " he uttered, quick and fast, holding her hand all the time.

"Yes, yes," she said quickly; "but last messages won't do when trains are due."

"Not due yet," said Frank; "but I must go home. I've not seen my mother to-day, and I shall not have a moment.—Good-bye, Cecil; have you any commands for Raymond?"

"No, thank you," said Cecil, gravely; and with a bow to the Americans, he was gone.

"That is one of your products of the highest English refinement?" said Mrs. Tallboys, whom in his preoccupation he had scarcely noticed.

"How does he strike you?" said Cecil. "He is my brother-in-law, but never mind that."

"He looks fitted for the hero of a vapid English novel. I long to force him to rough it, and to rub off that exquisite do-nothing air. It irritates me!"

"Frank Charnock has done a good deal of hard work, and is not to lead the life of an idle man," said Captain Duncombe. "I know I should not like to be in his shoes if he succeeds—grinding away in an office ten months out of the twelve."

"In an office! I should like to set him to work with an axe!"

"Well, those dainty-looking curled darlings don't do badly in the backwoods," said Lady Tyrrell.

"Ah! I understand! You stand up for him because there's a little tendresse for your sister," said the plain-spoken American.

"Poor fellow! I am afraid he is far gone. It is an impossible thing, though, and the sooner he can be cured of it the better," said Lady Tyrrell. "I am sorry that walk took place yesterday.—Did he mention it at home, Cecil?"

"You are a very inconsistent woman, Lady Tyrrell," broke in Mrs. Duncombe in her abrupt way. "Here you are come to uphold the emancipation of woman, and yet, when we come to your own sister taking one poor walk—"

"I beg your pardon, Bessie," said Lady Tyrrell, with her most courteous manner. "I never said I was come to uphold the emancipation of woman; only to subject myself to Mrs. Tallboys' influence—she has to make a convert of me."

For, of course, Lady Tyrrell was only drawn into the controversy as a matter of amusement, and possibly as something specially distasteful to the house of Charnock Poynsett; and Cecil was a good deal influenced by the fascination of her example, as well as by the eagerness of Mrs. Duncombe and the charms of the Americans; and above all, they conspired in making her feel herself important, and assuming that she must be foremost in all that was done. She did not controvert the doctrines of Dunstone so entirely as to embrace the doctrines of emancipation, but she thought that free ventilation was due to every subject, most especially when the Member's wife was the leading lady in bringing about such discussion. The opposition made in the town to Mrs. Duncombe's sanitary plans, and the contempt with which they had been treated as ladies' fancies, had given a positive field of battle, with that admixture of right and wrong on either side which is essential to championship. And in truth Cecil was so much more under the influence of Camilla Tyrrell and Bessie Duncombe than under that of any other person, that she was ready to espouse any cause that they did.

How to arrange for the intended instruction was the difficulty, since Wil'sbro' was without a town-hall, and, moreover, the inhabitants were averse to all varieties of change, either as to the claims of women, the inequality of social laws, the improvement of education, or the comprehension of social science—the regular course which Mrs. Clio W. Tallboys was wont to lecture.

The matter could only be managed by arranging a series of soirees at different houses. Mrs. Duncombe's rooms were far too small; but if some person of more note—'some swell' as she said—would make the beginning, there would be no difficulty in bringing others to follow suit.

"You must do it, Lady Tyrrell," said Mrs. Duncombe.

"I! If there's nobody else; but it would come much better from another quarter," nodding at Cecil.

"Don't you wish you may get it?" muttered the slang-loving Bessie.

"That's one point in which we leave you far behind," said Mrs. Tallboys. "We issue our invitations quite independently of the other members of the household. Each has a separate visiting list."

"There need be no difficulty," said Cecil; "all matters of visiting are in my hands. It is necessary in our position; and if Lady Tyrrell thinks it proper that I should give the first party, I will do so."

"Bravo, what fun!" cried Mrs. Duncombe, clapping her hands. "You won't get into a jolly row, though?" she added, anxiously.

"I am perfectly sure of my ground," said Cecil, with the dignity of one to whom a 'row' was unheard of. "It is the simple duty of a Member to come forward in promoting free discussion of opinions."

"You are a public-spirited woman, Cecil," said Lady Tyrrell. "When you have made the first move, I'll follow. Then whom shall we ask next?"

"Mrs. Moy," said Bessie. "She is a nonentity herself, but if Gussie were to be strongly bitten she could do more than any one else, and make her father reform that nest of horrors in Water Lane!"

"I'm afraid the freedom side will bite her more than the sanitary side," said Lady Tyrrell.

"She is capital fun, though, and a great ally of ours," said Mrs. Duncombe; "and the rooms at Proudfoot Lawn are worth anything!"

Other details were fixed, even to the day of Cecil's opening party, which must take place on the first practicable day; but there was none to be found till the Wednesday week, the day before Raymond would return home. Cecil did not recollect this till the day had been unanimously agreed on, and it was with a little alarm; but after what she had asserted about her freedom of action, she could not retract before the eyes of the American lady; and, as she said to herself, she could receive her own ladies' party, without interfering with any one else, in the library, so that no one had a right to object. However, she had a certain anticipation of opposition, which caused her to act before announcing her intention; and thus it was that Rosamond found her dropping a number of notes through the slit in the lid of the post-box. "Another dinner?" was the question.

"No, this is a soiree in the library, entirely for ladies; Mrs. Tallboys is to explain her views in the evenings at the Principal houses in the neighbourhood. She will begin here on Wednesday week."

"Why, that's before Raymond comes back!"

"This is entirely for women."

"Women! women's rights! How have you got Mrs. Poynsett to consent?"

"I have carte blanche in these matters."

"Do you mean that you have not consulted her? Does Raymond know? Oh! Yes, I see I have no right to ask; but, Cecil, for your own sake, I entreat you to consider what you are about, before running into such a frightful scrape!" and Rosamond impulsively caught the hand that was still putting in a letter; but Cecil stood still, not withdrawing or moving a muscle, perfectly impassive. Rosamond went on more eagerly, "Oh yes, I know you don't like me—I'm only a poor battered soldier's daughter, quite an unworthy associate for a Charnock of the Charnocks; but I can't help begging you to consider the consequences of sending out invitations to hear this strange woman hold forth in Mrs. Poynsett's own house, in your husband's absence."

"Thank you for your solicitude," said Cecil, dropping in her envelope the instant the obstructive hand was removed, and going on her way with dignified self-possession; while Rosamond, in a tumult of indignation, which made her scarcely comprehensible, rushed up to her husband at his writing, and poured out her story.

Clio advocating female supremacy in Mrs. Poynsett's own house, without notice to her! Should she be warned in time to stop the letters? Should Raymond be written to? Rosamond was for both, Julius for neither. He said that either way would begin a system that could never be forgiven; and that they had better consider themselves as practically at the Rectory, and not interfere.

"How can you be so cold-blooded?" cried she.

"I do not want to do worse harm. My mother will learn what is to happen sooner or later; and then she can put a stop to it in any way she chooses."

"I wish she would send in Mrs. Crabtree with her tawse!" said Rosamond. "But is it right by Raymond to let his wife bring this Yankee muse to talk her nonsense in his very rooms?"

"You have argued with her?"

"Or with a block—a stock—a stone!" raved Rosamond.

"Then depend upon it, to inform against her would be far worse than letting any amount of absurdity be talked. I should like to know how you would get over being so served!"

"Don't make comparisons, sir! Poor things! they would not be the worse for a little of our foolishness!"

Things settled themselves according to Julius's prediction; for Mr. Bowater, coming up with his son Herbert to see his old friend, said, "What grand doings are you having here? What is Raymond's wife up to? Ladies' conversazione—that's a new thing in these parts!"

"I gave such matters up to her," said Mrs. Poynsett. "Young people like a little freedom of action; and there are changes in the neighbourhood since I was laid up." It was a temporizing speech, to avoid showing her total ignorance.

Mr. Bowater cleared his throat. "Young folk may like freedom of action, but it don't always follow that it is good for them. I hope she won't get Raymond into a scrape, that's all—committing him and herself to a course of lectures by that Yankee woman on woman's rights."

"It does not commit him; it is before he comes home, on Wednesday," said Herbert.

"Never mind that; what a woman does her husband does. Look here, Mrs. Poynsett, I brought over Jenny's note in my pocket; see, here are two—one to accept, and one to refuse, just as you choose."

"Oh! accept, by all means," cried Mrs. Poynsett; "don't leave the wrong one!"

Then she changed the conversation, so decidedly, that Mr. Bowater could not resume his warning; but after taking leave of her, he met Rosamond in the avenue, and could not help saying, "Pray, was my old friend aware of Mrs. Raymond's doings?"

"Have you told her? Oh! I am so glad!"

"Then it is as you said, Herbert. Mrs. Raymond had left her in ignorance! The impudent baggage! That's what the world is coming to!"

"But what regular game Mrs. Poynsett was!" said Herbert. "You could not make out in the least that she had been left in the lurch; and I'm sure she has a plan, by the way in which she desired Jenny and Edie to come."

"Only make her understand that the Wil'sbro' folks are in a ticklish state," said Mr. Bowater; "they are sulking already, because they say the ladies have been stirring him up to put them to expense about the drains."

"Wil'sbro' isn't sweet," said Herbert.

"There's been nothing amiss in my time," returned his father. "Perfectly healthy in all reason! Ay! you may laugh, young folks, but I never heard of any receipt to hinder people from dying; and let well alone is a safe maxim."

"If it be well," said Rosamond. "However, Raymond says whatever is done must be by general consent, and that small private attempts do more harm than good."

"He had better take care what he says. If they fancy he is in league with that ridiculous Duncombe woman against their pockets, Moy is on the watch to take advantage of it; and all the old family interest will not save his seat."

When Rosamond reached home she found Anne beside her mother-in-law, provided with a quire of note-paper and pile of envelopes. "My dear, I want your help," she said. "Till my accident I always had a children's party at Christmas; and now I have so many young people to manage it for me, I think we might try again, and combine it with Cecil's ladies' party, on Wednesday."

"Hurrah!" cried Rosamond. "You mean that we should have plenty of fun—and, in fact, drum out the rights of woman."

"At any rate, present a counter attraction. You and Charlie and your brothers, with the Bowaters, might do something?"

"Trust me!" cried Rosamond. "Oh! I am so thankful to Mr. Bowater. Julius and I had our blood boiling; and I said as much or more to Cecil than woman could, but she minded me no more than the old white cockatoo; and Julius said our telling would only make more mischief."

"He was quite right," said his mother. "Let there not be one word of opposition, you know; only swamp it. You could get up some charades, and have something going on all the evening."

"Trust me for that! Oh! if my darling Aileen were but here! But Tom is the very model of an actor, and Terry is grand, if only we can keep him out of the high tragedy line. King Lear is the mildest thing he condescends to!"

"Could you manage a Christmas-tree? The taking up a room beforehand is inconvenient; but I should like to offer some little substantial bait, even to the grown-up;" and her eyes twinkled merrily.

"I know a better thing," said Rosamond; "an enchanted grove with a beneficent witch. We did it at St. Awdry's, with bon-bons and trumpery, in a little conservatory, hardly large enough to turn round in. If I may have the key of the conservatory, I'll manage."

"You shall have what you please; and perhaps you would kindly go and choose the things at Backsworth. There is a very good fancy shop there."

"Thank you, thank you! How sweet!—Now, Anne, you will see what you shall see!"

"Is there to be dancing?" asked Anne, humbly yet resolutely.

"There shall not be, my dear, if it will spoil the evening for you," said Mrs. Poynsett.

"I promised," said Anne.

At that moment the servants came in with the preparations for the afternoon tea, closely followed by the ever punctual Cecil.

Mrs. Poynsett asked her whether she would require the barouche on the morrow, since Rosamond and Anne would want it to go to Backsworth, to obtain requisites for a children's entertainment to take place on Wednesday.

"Some friends of mine are coming on Wednesday," said Cecil

"Indeed! In Raymond's absence?"

"This is not a dinner, but a ladies' party."

"Then it will combine the better."

"Certainly not," replied Cecil. "Mine is simply intellectual—only a few intelligent women to meet Mrs. Tallboys in the library. It will be quite apart from any amusements Rosamond may like to have for the children in the drawing-room."

"Pray, will they require nothing but this feast of reason and flow of soul?—for the housekeeper will need warning."

"They will have dined. Nothing but coffee will be wanted."

"For how many?"

"About twelve or fourteen, thank you. Excuse me—I have something to finish in my own room."

They were very glad to excuse her, and the following note was concocted to serve both for those she might have invited and those she might not; and it was copied by the two daughters for all the acquaintance who had young folks in their houses. An appearance of want of unanimity was carefully avoided, and it stood thus:—

"I am desired by Mrs. Poynsett to say that the ladies' party already proposed for the 3rd is to undergo a little expansion, and that she much hopes to see you and —-, at 7 p.m., disposed for a few Christmas amusements."



CHAPTER XVI The Drive To Backsworth

She was betrothed to one now dead, Or worse, who had dishonoured fled.—SCOTT

The party set out for Backsworth early in the day. It included Julius, who had asked for a seat in the carriage in order to be able to go on to Rood House, where lived Dr. Easterby, whom he had not seen since he had been at Compton.

"The great light of the English Church," said Rosamond, gaily; while Anne shuddered a little, for Miss Slater had told her that he was the great fountain-head of all that distressed her in Julius and his curates. But Julius merely said, "I am very glad of the opportunity;" and the subject dropped in the eager discussion of the intended pastimes, which lasted beyond the well-known Wil'sbro' bounds, when again Julius startled a Anne by observing, "No dancing? That is a pity."

"There, Anne!" exclaimed Rosamond.

"It was out of kindness to me," said Anne: and then, with a wonderful advance of confidence, she added, "Please tell me how you, a minister, can regret it?"

"Because I think it would be easier to prevent mischief than when there has to be a continual invention of something original. There is more danger of offence and uncharitableness, to speak plainly."

"And you think that worse than dancing?" said Anne, thoughtfully.

"Why is dancing bad at all, Anne?" asked Rosamond.

Anne answered at once, "It is worldly."

"Not half so worldly as driving in a carriage with fine horses, and liveries, and arms, and servants, and all," said Rosamond from her comfortable corner, nestling under Miles's racoon-skin rug; "I wonder you can do that!"

"The carriage is not mine," said Anne.

"The worldliness would be in sacrificing a duty to the luxury and ostentation of keeping one," said Julius. "For instance, if I considered it due to my lady in the corner there to come out in this style, and put down a curate and a few such trifles with that object. To my mind, balls stand on the same ground; they are innocent as long as nothing right is given up for them."

"You would not dance?" said Anne.

"Wouldn't he?" said Rosamond. "I've seen him. It was at St. Awdry's at a Christmas party, in our courting days. No, it wasn't with me. Oh no! That was the cruel cut! It was with little Miss Marks, whose father had just risen from the ranks. Such a figure she was, enough to set your teeth on edge; when, behold! this reverend minister extracts her from the wall-flowers, and goes through the Lancers with her in first-rate style, I assure you. It had such an effect, do you know, that what does my father do but go and ask her next; and I heard an old lady remarking that there were only two gentlemen in the room, Mr. Charnock and Lord Rathforlane. So you see it was all worldliness after all, Anne."

"I suppose it was good-nature," said Anne.

"Indignation, I fancy," said Julius.

"Now, was he very wicked for it, Anne?"

"N—no, if dancing be not wrong."

"But why should it?"

"All the bad people danced in the Bible."

"Miriam—King David, eh?"

"That was part of their religious service."

"The welcome to the prodigal son?" further suggested Julius. "Does not this prove that the exercise is not sinful in itself?"

"But you would not do it again?" repeated Anne.

"I certainly should not make a practice of it, nor go to balls any more than I would be a sportsman or a cricketer, because I am bound to apply my whole self to the more direct service; but this does not show that there is evil necessarily connected with these amusements, or that they may not safely be enjoyed by those who have time, and who need an outlet for their spirits, or by those who wish to guard these pleasures by presiding over them."

"Don't persuade me!" exclaimed Anne. "I gave my word to Mr. Pilgrim that nothing should induce me to dance or play at cards."

"Mr. Pilgrim had no right—" began Rosamond; but Julius hushed her, saying, "No one wishes to persuade you, Anne. Your retirement during Miles's absence is very suitable and becoming."

"Till we live in the Bush, out of the way of it all," said Anne.

"I wish you could have seen one of our real old Christmas parties; but those can never be again, without mother herself or Mrs. Douglas."

"Do tell me about those Douglases," said Rosamond. "Cecil hinted at some romance, but seemed to think you had suppressed the connection because he was an attorney."

"Not exactly," said Julius, smiling; "but it is a sad story, though we have no doubt he bore the guilt of others."

"Something about two thousand pounds!"

"Yes. It was the year that my mother and Raymond were abroad. She had been buying some property near, and sent home an order from Vevay. It did not come, and was inquired for; but as it was an order, not a draft, it was not stopped at the bank; and in about a fortnight more it was presented by a stranger, and paid without hesitation, as it was endorsed "Proudfoot and Moy." Old Proudfoot was away at Harrogate, and came home to investigate; young Proudfoot denied all knowledge of it, and so did his brother-in-law Moy; but Raymond, working at the other end, found that the waiter at the hotel at Vevay had forgotten to post the letter for more than a week, and it was traced through the post to Wil'sbro', where the postman remembered delivering a foreign-looking letter to Archie Douglas at the door of the office. It came alone by the afternoon post. His account was this: They were all taking it rather easy in old Proudfoot's absence; and when a sudden summons came to take the old farmer's instructions for his will, Archie, as the junior, was told off to do it. He left George Proudfoot and Moy in a private room at the office, with Tom Vivian leaning over the fire talking, as he had a habit of doing in old Proudfoot's absence. As he opened the office door the postman put the letter into his hand; and recognizing the writing, he ran back, and gave it in triumph to George Proudfoot, exclaiming that there it was at last, but he was in danger of being late for the train, and did not wait to see it opened; and when he came back he was told that it had been merely a letter of inquiry, with nothing in it, and destroyed at once. That was his account; but Proudfoot, Moy, and Vivian all denied any knowledge of this return of his, or of the letter. The night of this inquiry he was missing. Jenny Bowater, who was with an aunt in London, heard that a gentleman had called to see her while she was out for a couple of days; and a week later we saw his name among the passengers lost in the Hippolyta off Falmouth."

"Poor Jenny! Was she engaged to him?"

"On sufferance. On her death-bed Mrs. Douglas had wrung from Mr. Bowater a promise that if Archie did well, and ever had means enough, he would not refuse consent; but he always distrusted poor Archie, because of his father, and I believe he sent Jenny away to be out of his reach. If any of us had only been near, I think we could have persuaded him to face it out, and trust to his innocence; but Raymond was abroad, Miles at sea, I at Oxford, and nothing like a counsellor was near. If Jenny had but seen him!"

"And has nothing happened to clear him?"

"No. Raymond hurried home, and did his best, but all in vain. George Proudfoot was indeed known to have been in debt to Vivian; but Moy, his brother-in-law, an older man, was viewed as a person whose word was above all question, and they both declared the signature at the back of the order not to be genuine. Archie's flight, you see, made further investigation impossible; and there was no putting on oath, no cross-examination."

"Then you think those three had it?"

"We can think nothing else, knowing Archie as we did. Raymond showed his suspicions so strongly, that old Proudfoot threw up all agencies for our property, and there has been a kind of hostility ever since. Poor Vivian, as you know, came to his sad end the next year, but he had destroyed all his papers; and George Proudfoot has been dead four or five years, but without making any sign. Moy has almost risen above the business, and—see, there's Proudfoot Lawn, where he lives with the old man. He claims to compete with the county families, and would like to contest Wils'bro' with Raymond."

"And Jenny?" asked Anne. "Did she bear it as a Christian? I know she would."

"She did indeed—most nobly, most patiently. Poor girl! at her own home she knew she stood alone in her faith in Archie's innocence; but they were kind and forbearing, and kept silence, and the knowledge of our trust in him has bound her very close to us."

"Was that call, when she did not see him, all she ever heard of him?"

"All! except that he left a fragment of paper with the servant, with the one pencil scrawl, 'A Dieu!'—a capital D to mark the full meaning. She once showed it to me—folded so as to fit into the back of a locket with his photograph."

"Dear Jenny! And had you traced him on board this ship?"

"No, but his name was in the list; and we knew he had strong fancy for South Africa, whither the Hippolyta was bound. In fact he ought to have been a sailor, and only yielded to his mother's wishes."

"We knew a Mr. Archibald Douglas once," said Anne; "he came and outspanned by us when he was going north after elephants. He stayed a fortnight, because his wagon had to be mended."

"O, Julius! if we could but find him for her again!" cried Rosamond.

"I am afraid Archibald Douglas is not much more individual a name than John Smith," said Julius, sadly.

"That tells as much against the Hippolyta man," said Rosamond.

"Poor Archie would not be difficult to identify," said Julius; "for his hair was like mine, though his eyes were blue, and not short- sighted."

"That is all right, then," cried Anne; "for we had a dispute whether he were young or old, and I remember mamma saying he had a look about him as if his hair might have turned white in a single night."

"Julius! Now won't you believe?" cried Rosamond.

"Had he a Scotch accent?" said Julius.

"No; I recollect papa's telling him he never should have guessed him to be a Scot by his tongue; and he said he must confess that he had never seen Scotland."

"Now, Julius!" pleaded Rosamond, with clasped hands, as if Jenny's fate hung on his opinion.

"How long ago was this?" asked he.

"Four years," said Anne, with a little consideration. "He came both in going and returning, and Alick was wild to join him if he ever passed our way again. My father liked him so much that he was almost ready to consent; but he never came again. Ivory hunters go more from Natal now."

"You will trace him! There's a dear Anne!" exclaimed Rosamond.

"I will write to them at home; Alick knows a good many hunters, and could put Miles into the way of making inquiries, if he touches at Natal on his way home."

"Miles will do all he can," said Julius; "he was almost broken- hearted when he found how Archie had gone. I think he was even more his hero than Raymond when we were boys, because he was more enterprising; and my mother always thought Archie's baffled passion for the sea reacted upon Miles."

"He will do it! He will find him, if he is the Miles I take him for! How old was he—Archie, I mean?"

"A year older than Raymond; but he always seemed much younger, he was so full of life and animation—so unguarded, poor fellow! He used to play tricks with imitating hand-writing; and these, of course, were brought up against him."

"Thirty-four! Not a bit too old for the other end of the romance!"

"Take care, Rosie. Don't say a word to Jenny till we know more. She must not be unsettled only to be disappointed."

"Do you think she would thank you for that, you cold-blooded animal?"

"I don't know; but I think the suspense would be far more trying than the quiet resigned calm that has settled down on her. Besides, you must remember that even if Archie were found, the mystery has never been cleared up."

"You don't think that would make any difference to Jenny?"

"It makes all the difference to her father; and Jenny will never be a disobedient daughter."

"Oh! but it will—it must be cleared! I know it will! It is faithless to think that injustice is not always set right!"

"Not always here," said Julius, sadly. "See, there's the Backsworth race-ground, the great focus of the evil."

"Were racing debts thought to have any part in the disaster?"

"That I can't tell; but it was those races that brought George Proudfoot under the Vivian influence; and in the absence of all of us, poor Archie, when left to himself after his mother's death, had become enough mixed up in their amusements to give a handle to those who thought him unsteady."

"As if any one must be unsteady who goes to the races!" cried Rosamond. "You were so liberal about balls, I did expect one little good word for races; instead of which, you are declaring a poor wretch who goes to them capable of embezzling two thousand pounds, and I dare say Anne agrees with you!"

"Now, did I ever say so, Anne?"

"You looked at the course with pious horror, and said it justified the suspicion!" persisted Rosamond.

"That's better," said Julius; "though I never even said it justified the suspicion, any more than I said that balls might not easily be overdone, especially by some people."

"But you don't defend races?" said Anne.

"No; I think the mischief they do is more extensive, and has less mitigation than is the case with any other public amusement."

"H'm!" said Rosamond. "Many a merry day have I had on the top of the regimental drag; so perhaps there's nothing of which you would not suspect me."

"I'll tell you what I more than suspect you of," said Julius, "of wearing a gay bonnet to be a bait and a sanction to crowds of young girls, to whom the place was one of temptation, though not to you."

"Oh, there would be no end to it if one thought of such things."

"Or the young men who—"

"Well," broke in Rosamond, "it was always said that our young officers got into much less mischief than where there was a straight-laced colonel, who didn't go along with them to give them a tone."

"That I quite believe. I remember, too, the intense and breathless sense of excitement in the hush and suspense of the multitude, and the sweeping by of the animals—"

"Then you've been!" cried his wife.

"As a boy, yes."

"Not since you were old enough to think it over?" said Anne eagerly.

"No. It seemed to me that the amount of genuine interest in the sport and the animals was infinitesimal compared with the fictitious excitement worked up by betting."

"And what's the harm of betting when you've got the money?"

"And when you haven't?"

"That's another question."

"Do you approve it at the best?"

"It's a man's own concern."

"That's arguing against your better sense."

"Can't be helped, with two such solemn companions! There would be no bearing you if I didn't take you down sometimes, when you get so didactic, and talk of fictitious excitement, indeed! And now you are going to Rood House, what will you be coming back?"

Rood House stood about two miles on the further side of Backsworth. It was an ancient almshouse, of which the mastership had been wisely given to Dr. Easterby, one of the deepest theological scholars, holiest men, and bravest champions of the Church, although he was too frail in health to do much, save with his pen, and in council with the numerous individuals who resorted to him from far and wide, and felt the beautiful old fragment of a monastic building where he dwelt a true court of peace and refreshment, whence they came forth, aided by prayer and counsel, for their own share of the combat.

Julius Charnock had, happily for himself, found his way thither when his character and opinions were in process of formation, and had ever since looked to Rood House for guidance and sympathy. To be only fourteen miles distant had seemed to him one great perfection of Compton Poynsett; but of course he had found visits there a far more possible thing to an unoccupied holiday son of the great house than to a busy parish priest, so that this opportunity was very valuable to him.

And so it proved; not so much for the details as for the spirit in which he was aided in looking at everything, from the mighty questions which prove the life of the Church by the vehement emotion they occasion, down to the difficulties of theory and practice that harassed himself—not named, perhaps, but still greatly unravelled.

Those perpetual questions, that have to be worked out again and again by each generation, were before him in dealing with his parish; and among them stood in his case the deeper aspects of the question that had come forward on the drive, namely, the lawfulness and expedience of amusement.

Granting the necessity of pastimes and recreation for most persons, specially the young, there opened the doubtful, because ever- varying, question of the kind and the quantity to be promoted or sanctioned, lest restraint should lead to reaction, and lest abstinence should change from purity and spirituality to moroseness or hypocrisy. And if Julius found one end of the scale represented by his wife and his junior curate, his sister-in-law and his senior curate were at the other. Yet the old recluse was far more inclined to toleration than he had been in principle himself, though the spur of the occasion had led him to relaxations towards others in the individual cases brought before him, when he had thought opposition would do more harm than the indulgence. His conscience had been uneasy at this divergence, till he could discuss the subject.

The higher the aspiration of the soul, the less, of course, would be the craving for diversion, the greater the shrinking from those evil accompaniments that soon mar the most innocent delights. Some spirits are austere in their purity, like Anne; some so fervent in zeal, as to heed nothing by the way, like Mr. Bindon; but most are in an advanced stage of childhood, and need play and pleasure almost as much as air or food; and these instincts require wholesome gratification, under such approval as may make the enjoyment bright and innocent; and yet there should be such subduing of their excess, such training in discipline, as shall save them from frivolity and from passing the line of evil, prevent the craving from growing to a passion, and where it has so grown, tone it back to the limits of obedience and safety.

Alas! perhaps there lay the domestic difficulty of which Julius could not speak; yet, as if answering the thought, Dr. Easterby said, "After all, charity is the true self-acting balance to many a sweet untaught nature. Self-denials which spring out of love are a great safeguard, because they are almost sure to be both humble and unconscious."

And Julius went away cheered as he thought of his Rosamond's wells of unselfish affection, confident that all the cravings for variety and excitement, which early habit had rendered second nature, would be absorbed by the deeper and keener feelings within, and that these would mount higher as time went on, under life's great training.

Pleasant it was to see the triumphant delight of the two sisters over their purchases. Such a day's English shopping was quite a new experience to Anne; and she had not been cautioned against it, so her enjoyment was as fresh and vivid as a child's; and they both chattered all the way home with a merriment in which Julius fully shared, almost surprised to see Anne so eager and lively, and—as her cheeks glowed and her eyes brightened—beginning to understand what had attracted Miles.

Mrs. Poynsett had not had quite so pleasant a day, for Cecil knocked at her door soon after luncheon with an announcement that Lady Tyrrell wished for admission. Expecting an exposition of the Clio scheme, she resigned herself, looking with some curiosity at the beautiful contour of face and drooping pensive loveliness, that had rather gained than lost in grace since the days when she had deemed them so formidable.

"This is kind, dear Mrs. Poynsett," said the soft voice, while the hand insisted on a pressure. "I have often wished to come and see you, but I could not venture without an excuse."

"Thank you," was the cold reply.

"I have more than an excuse—a reason, and I think we shall be fully agreed; but first you must let me have the pleasure of one look to recall old times. It is such a treat to see you so unchanged. I hope you do not still suffer."

"No, thank you."

"And are you always a prisoner here? Ah! I know your patience."

"What was the matter on which you wanted to speak to me?" said Mrs. Poynsett, fretted beyond endurance by the soft, caressing tone.

"As I said, I should hardly venture if I did not know we agreed— though perhaps not for the same reasons. We do agree in our love and high opinion of your dear Frank!"

"Well!" repressing a shudder at the 'dear.'

"I am afraid we likewise agree that, under all circumstances, our two young people are very unfortunately attached, and that we must be hard-hearted, and let it go no further."

"You mean your sister?"

"My dear Lena! I cannot wonder! I blame myself excessively, for it was all through my own imprudence. You see, when dear Frank came to Rockpier, it was so delightful to renew old times, and they both seemed such children, that I candidly confess I was off my guard; but as soon as I had any suspicion, I took care to separate them, knowing that, in the state of my poor father's affairs, it would be most unjustifiable to let so mere a youth be drawn into an attachment."

"Frank is no prize," said his mother with some irony.

"I knew you would say that, dear Mrs. Poynsett. Pecuniarily speaking, of course, he is not; though as to all qualities of the heart and head, he is a prize in the true sense of the word. But, alas! it is a sort of necessity that poor Lena, if she marry at all, should marry to liberal means. I tell you candidly that she has not been brought up as she ought to have been, considering her expectations or no expectations. What could you expect of my poor father, with his habits, and two mere girls? I don't know whether the governess could have done anything; but I know that it was quite time I appeared. I tell you in confidence, dear Mrs. Poynsett, there was a heavy pull on my own purse before I could take them away from Rockpier; and, without blaming a mere child like poor dear Lena you can see what sort of preparation she has had for a small income."

It is hard to say which tried Mrs. Poynsett's patience most, the 'dears' or the candour; and the spirit of opposition probably prompted her to say, "Frank has his share, like his brothers."

"I understand, and for many girls the provision would be ample; but poor Lena has no notion of economizing—how should she? I am afraid there is no blinking it, that, dear children as they both are, nothing but wretchedness could result from their corning together; and thus I have been extremely sorry to find that the affair has been renewed."

"It was not an unnatural result of their meeting again."

"Ah! there I was to blame again; but no one can judge whether an attachment be real between such children. I thought, too, that Frank would be gone out into the world, and I confess I did not expect to find that he had absolutely addressed her, and kept it secret. That is what my poor father feels so much. Eleonora is his special darling, and he says he could have overlooked anything but the concealment."

Maternal affection assumed the defensive; and, though the idea of concealment on the part of one of her sons was a shock, Mrs. Poynsett made no betrayal of herself, merely asking, "How did it come to light?"

"I extorted the confession. I think I was justified, standing in a mother's position, as I do. I knew my vigilance had been eluded, and that your son had walked home with her after the skating; and you know very well how transparent young things are."

The skating! The mother at once understood that Frank was only postponing the explanation till after his examination; and besides, she had never been ignorant of his attachment, and could not regard any display thereof more or less as deception towards herself. The very fact that Lady Tyrrell was trying to prejudice her beforehand, so as to deprive him of the grace of taking the initiative towards his own mother, enlisted her feelings in his defence, so she coldly answered, "I am sorry if Sir Harry Vivian thinks himself unfairly treated; but I should have thought my son's feelings had been as well known in the one family as in the other."

"But, dear Mrs. Poynsett," exclaimed Lady Tyrrell, "I am sure you never encouraged them. I am quite enough aware—whatever I may once have been—of the unfortunate contrast between our respective families."

Certainly there was no connection Mrs. Poynsett less wished to encourage; yet she could not endure to play into Camilla' hands, and made reply, "There are many matters in which young men must judge for themselves. I have only once see Miss Vivian, and have no means of estimating my son's chance of happiness with her."

Her impenetrability ruffled Lady Tyrrell; but the answer was softer than ever. "Dear Mrs. Poynsett, what a happy mother you are, to be able so freely to allow your sons to follow their inclinations! Well! since you do not object, my conscience is easy on that score; but it was more than I durst hope."

To have one's approval thus stolen was out of the question and Mrs. Poynsett said, "Regret is one thing, opposition another. Sir Harry Vivian need not doubt that, when my son's position is once fixed, he will speak openly and formally, and it will then be time to judge."

"Only," said Lady Tyrrell, rising, "let this be impressed on your son. Eleonora cannot marry till she is of age, and my father cannot sanction any previous entanglement. Indeed it is most unfortunate, if her affections have been tampered with, for me, who have outgrown romance, and know that, in her position, a wealthy match is a necessity. I have spoken candidly," she repeated; "for I like Frank too well to bear that he should be trifled with and disappointed."

"Thank you!"

The ladies parted, liking one another, if possible, less than before.

Mrs. Poynsett's instinct of defence had made her profess much less distaste to the marriage than she really felt; she was much concerned that another son should be undergoing Raymond's sad experiences, but she had no fear that Lady Tyrrell would ever allow it to come to a marriage, and she did not think Frank's poetical enthusiasm and admiration for beauty betokened a nature that would suffer such an enduring wound as Raymond's had done.

So she awaited his return, without too much uneasiness for amusement in Rosamond's preparations. One opening into the conservatory was through her room, so that every skilful device, or gay ornament, could be exhibited to her; and she much enjoyed the mirth that went on between the queen of the revels and her fellow-workers.

Cecil did not interfere, being indeed generally with her friends at Sirenwood, Aucuba Villa, or the working-room, in all of which she had the pleasure of being treated as a person of great consideration, far superior to all her natural surroundings, and on whom hinged all the plans for the amelioration of Willansborough.

Sometimes, however, it happens that the other side of a question is presented; and thus it was on the day before the entertainment, when Rosamond had taken her brother Tom to have his hair cut, and to choose some false moustaches, and the like requisites for their charades.

They went first to Pettitt's, the little hair-dresser, where Tom was marvellously taken with the two Penates, and could hardly be dragged into the innermost recesses, where in the middle of a sheet, with a peignoir on his shoulders, he submitted to the clipping of his raven-black locks, as Mr. Pettitt called them, on the condition of his sister looking on.

Presently they heard some feet enter the outer shop, and Mrs. Duncombe's voice asking for Mr. Pettitt; while his mother replied that he would wait on her immediately, but that he was just now engaged with the Honourable Mr. De Lancey. "Could she show them anything?"

"Oh no, thank you, we'll wait! Don't let us keep you, Mrs. Pettitt, it is only on business."

"Ay!" said the other voice—female, and entirely untamed. "He's your great ally about your gutters and drains, isn't he?"

"The only landowner in Wil'sbro' who has a particle of public spirit!" said Mrs. Duncombe.

Whereat good-natured Lady Rosamond could not but smile congratulation to the hair-cutter, who looked meekly elevated, while Tom whispered, "Proverb contradicted."

But the other voice replied, "Of course—he's a perfumer, learned in smells! You'd better drop it, Bessie! you'll never make anything of it."

"I'll never drop what the health and life of hundreds of my fellow- creatures depend on! I wish I could make you understand, Gussie!"

"You'll never do anything with my governor, if that's your hope—you should hear him and the mum talking! 'It's all nonsense,' he says; 'I'm not going to annoy my tenants, and make myself unpopular, just to gratify a fashionable cry.' 'Well,' says mumsey, 'it is not what was thought the thing for ladies in my time; but you see, if Gussie goes along with it, she will have the key to all the best county society.' 'Bother the county society!' says I. 'Bessie Duncombe's jolly enough—but such a stuck-up set as they all are at Compton, I'll not run after, behaving so ill to the governor, too!' However—"

"There's a proverb about listeners!" said Rosamond, emerging when she felt as if she ought to hearken no longer, and finding Mrs. Duncombe leaning with her back to the counter, and a tall girl, a few degrees from beauty, in a riding-habit, sitting upon it.

They both laughed; and the girl added, "If you had waited a moment, Lady Rosamond, you would have heard that you were the only jolly one of all the b'iling!"

"Ah! we shall see where you are at the end of Mrs. Tallboys' lectures!" said Mrs. Duncombe.

"On what?" asked Rosamond. "Woman's rights, or sanitary measures? for I can't in the least understand why they should be coupled up together."

"Nor I!" said Miss Moy. "I don't see why we shouldn't have our own way, just as well as the men; but what that has to do with drains and gutters, I can't guess."

"I'm the other way," said Rosamond. "I think houses and streets ought to be made clean and healthy; but as for woman's rule, I fancy we get more of it now than we should the other way."

"As an instance," said Mrs. Duncombe, "woman is set on cleansing Wil'sbro'. Man will not stir. Will it ever be done till woman has her way?"

"Perhaps, if woman would be patient, man would do it in the right way, instead of the wrong!" quoth Rosamond.

"Patient! No, indeed! Nothing is to be done by that! Let every woman strive her utmost to get the work done as far as her powers go, and the crusade will be accomplished for very shame!"

Just then Tom, looking highly amused, emerged, followed by Mr. Pettitt, the only enlightened landlord on whom Mrs. Duncombe had been able to produce the slightest impression. He had owned a few small tenements in Water Lane, which he was about to rebuild, and which were evidently the pivot of operations.

At the door they met Cecil, and Rosamond detained her a moment in the street to say, "My dear Cecil, is that Miss Moy coming on Wednesday?"

"Of course she is. We greatly want to move her father. He has the chief house property there."

"It is too late now," said Rosamond; "but do you think it can be pleasant to Jenny Bowater to meet her?"

"I know nothing of the old countrified animosities and gossipings, which you have so heartily adopted," replied Cecil, proudly. "Firstly, I ignore them as beneath me; secondly, I sacrifice them all to a great cause. If Miss Bowater does not like my guests, let her stay away."

Here Mrs. Duncombe stood on the step, crying out, "Well, Cecil, how have you sped with Mrs. Bungay?"

"Horrid woman!" and no more was heard, as Cecil entered Mr. Pettitt's establishment.

"That might be echoed," said Tom, who was boiling over at the speech to his sister. "I knew that ape was an intolerable little prig of a peacock, but I didn't think she could be such a brute to you, Rosie! Is she often like that, and does your parson stand such treatment of you?"

"Nonsense, Tom!" said Rosamond; "it doesn't often happen, and breaks no bones when it does. It's only the ignorance of the woman, and small blame to her—as Mrs. M'Kinnon said when Corporal Sims's wife threw the red herring's tail at her!"

"But does Julius stand it?" repeated Tom, fiercely, as if hesitating whether to call out Julius or Mrs. Charnock Poynsett.

"Don't be so ridiculous, Tom! I'd rather stand a whole shower of red herrings' tails at once than bother Julius about his brother's wife. How would you and Terry like it, if your wives took to squabbling, and setting you together by the ears? I was demented enough to try it once, but I soon saw it was worse than anything."

"What? He took her part?"

"No such thing! Hold your tongue, Tommy, and don't talk of married folk till you're one yourself!"

"Papa never meant it," repeated the indignant Tom. "I've a great mind to write and tell him how you are served!"

"Now, Tom," cried Rosamond, stopping short, "if you do that, I solemnly declare I'll never have you here again! What could papa do? Do you think he could cure Raymond's wife of being a ridiculous little prig? And if he could—why, before your letter got to Meerut, she will be gone up to London; and by the time she comes back we'll be safe in our own Rectory. Here, come in, and get our string and basket at Mrs. Bungay's."

"I'll pay her out!" muttered Tom, as he followed his sister into Mrs. Bungay's shop, one of much smaller pretensions, for the sale of baskets, brushes, mats, &c.

The mistress, a stout, red-faced woman, looked as if she had been 'speaking a bit of her mind,' and was at first very gruff and ungracious, until she found they were real customers; and moreover, Tom's bland Irish courtesy perfectly disarmed her, when Rosamond, having fixed her mind on a box in the very topmost pigeon-hole, they not only apologized for the trouble they were giving, but Tom offered to climb up and bring it down, when she was calling for the errand-boy in vain.

"It's no trouble, sir, thank you; I'd think nothing of that for you, my lady, nor for Mr. Charnock—which I'm sure I'll never forget all he did for us at the fire, leading my little Alferd out like a lamb! I beg your ladyship's pardon, ma'am, if I seemed a bit hasty; but I've been so put about—and I thought at first you'd come in on the same matter, which I'm sure a lady like you wouldn't ever do—about the drains, and such like, which isn't fit for no lady to speak of! As if Water Lane weren't as sweet and clean as it has any call to be, and as if we didn't know what was right by our tenants, which are a bad lot, and don't merit no money to be laid out on them!"

"So you have houses in Water Lane, Mrs. Bungay? I didn't even know it!"

"Yes, Lady Rosamond! My husband and I thought there was no better investment than to buy a bit of land, when the waste was inclosed, and run 'em up cheap. Houses always lets here, you see, and the fire did no damage to that side. But of course you didn't know, Lady Rosamond; a real lady like you wouldn't go prying into what she's no call to, like that fine decked-out body Duncombe's wife, which had best mind her own children, which it is a shame to see stravaging about the place! I know it's her doing, which I told young Mrs. Charnock Poynsett just now, which I'm right sorry to see led along by the like of her, and so are more of us; and we all wish some friend would give her a hint, which she is but young—and 'tis doing harm to Mr. Charnock Poynsett, Lady Rosamond, which all of us have a regard for, as is but right, having been a good customer, and friend to the town, and all before him; but we can't have ladies coming in with their fads and calling us names for not laying out on what's no good to nobody, just to satisfy them! As if Wil'sbro' hadn't been always healthy!"

Tom was wicked enough to put in a good many notes of sympathy, at the intervals of the conjunctive whiches, and to end by declaring, "Quite right, Mrs. Bungay! You see how much better we've brought up my sister! I say—what's the price of that little doll's broom?"

"What do you want of it, Tom?"

"Never you mind!"

"No mischief, I hope?"



CHAPTER XVII The Enchantments

"It seems a shame," the Walrus said, "To play them such a trick, After we've brought them out so far, And made them trot so quick." The carpenter said nothing, but "The butter's spread too thick."—LEWIS CARROLL

A telegram arrived from Frank, in the midst of the preparations on Wednesday, announcing that 'he was all right, and should be at Hazlitt's Gate at 8.10 p.m.'

At 6.30 children of all sizes, with manes of all colours, were arriving, and were regaled in the dining-room by Anne, assisted by Jenny and Charlie. Anne had a pretty pink colour in her cheeks, her flaxen locks were bound with green ribbons, and green adorned her white dress, in which she had a gracious, lily-like look of unworldly purity. She thoroughly loved children, was quite equal to the occasion, and indeed enjoyed it as much as the recent Christmas- tree in the village school.

Such of Cecil's guests as were mothers for the most part came with their children; but Lady Tyrrell, her sister, and others, who were unattached, arrived later, and were shown to the library, where she entertained them on the specified refreshment, biscuits and coffee, and enthroned Mrs Tallboys in the large arm-chair, where she looked most beautiful and gorgeous, in a robe of some astonishing sheeny sky-blue, edged with paly gold, while on her head was a coronal of sapphire and gold, with a marvellous little plume. The cost must have been enormous, and her delicate and spirituelle beauty was shown to the greatest advantage; but as the audience was far too scanty to be worth beginning upon, Cecil, with a sigh at the folly of maternal idolatry, went to hunt up her ladies from gazing at the babyish amusements of their offspring; and Miss Moy, in spite of her remonstrance, jumped up to follow her; while Mrs. Duncombe, the only good mother in this new sense, remained, keeping guard lest curiosity, and the echo of piano music, which now began to be heard, should attract away any more of the ladies.

Cecil was by no means prepared for the scene. The drawing-room was crowded—chiefly indeed with ladies and children, but there was a fair sprinkling of gentlemen—and all had their faces turned towards the great glass doors opening into the conservatory, which was brilliantly lighted and echoing with music and laughter. Cecil tried to summon some of the ladies of her own inviting, announcing that Mrs. Tallboys was arrived; but this appeared to have no effect. "Yes, thank you," was all she heard. Penetrating a little farther, "Mrs. Tallboys is ready." "Thank you, I'll come; but my little people are so anxious to have me with them."—"Mrs. Tallboys is waiting!" to the next; who really did not hear, but only responded, "Did you ever see anything more charming?"

By this time Cecil could see over the heads of the front rank of children. She hardly knew the conservatory. All the veteran camellia and orange-trees, and a good many bay and laurel boughs besides, were ranged along the central alley, gorgeous with fairy lamps and jewels, while strains of soft music proceeded from some unseen quarter. "Very pretty!" said Cecil, hastily, trying another of her intended guests with her intelligence. "Really—yes, presently, thank you," was the absent answer. "There is some delightful mystery in there."

Cecil found her attempts were vain, and was next asked, as one of the household, what delicious secret was going on there; and as it hurt her feelings to be left out, she pressed into the conservatory, with some vague intention of ordering Anne, if not Rosamond, to release her grown-up audience, and confine their entertainment to the children; but she found herself at once caught by the hand by a turbaned figure like a prince in the Arabian Nights, who, with a low salaam, waved her on.

"No, thank you. I'm looking for—"

But retreat was impossible, for many were crowding up in eager curiosity; moreover, a muslin bandage descended-on her eyes. "Don't!" she expostulated; "I'm not at play—I'm—" but her words were lost.

"Hush! the Peri's cave is near, No one enters scatheless here; Lightly tread and lowly bend, Win the Peri for your friend,"

sung a voice to the mysterious piano accompaniment; and Cecil found both hands taken, and was forced to move on, as she guessed the length of the conservatory, amid sounds of suppressed laughter that exceedingly annoyed her, till there was a pause and repetition of the two last lines with an attempt to make her obey them. She was too impatient and angry to perceive that it would have been much better taste to enter into the humour of the thing; and she only said with all her peculiar cold petulance, just like sleet, "Let me go, if you please; I am engaged. I am waited for."

"Peri gracious, She's contumacious; Behold, every hair shall bristle When she hears the magic whistle!"

and a whistle, sharp, long, and loud, sounded behind her, amid peals of merriment. She turned sharply round, but still the whistle was behind her, and rang out again and again, till she was half deafened, and wholly irate; while the repetition of

"Bend, bend, lowly bend, Win the Peri for your friend,"

forced on her the conviction that on no other condition should she be set free, though the recognition of Terry's voice made the command doubly unpalatable, and as she made the stiffest and most reluctant of courtesies, a voice said,

"Homage done, you may be Of this merry company;"

and with a last blast of the whistle the bandage was removed, and she found herself in the midst of a half circle of laughing children and grown people; in front of her a large opening, like a cavern, hung with tiny lamps of various colours, in the midst of which stood the Peri, in a Persian pink robe, white turban, and wide white trousers, with two oriental genies attendant upon her.

A string was thrust into Cecil's hand, apparently fastened to her, and accounting for some sharp pulls she had felt during the whistling. She drew it in front in sharp haste, to be rid of the obnoxious instrument; but instead of a whistle, she found in her hand a little dust-pan and brush, fit for a baby-house, drawn through a ring, while the children eagerly cried, "What have you got? What have you got?"

"Some nonsense. I do not approve of practical jokes," began Cecil; but the song only replied,

"Away, away, In the cave no longer stay; Others come to share our play;"

and one of the genies drew her aside, while another blindfolded victim was being introduced with the same rites, only fare more willingly. The only way open to here was that which led to the window of the dining-room, where she found Anne with the children who had had their share, and were admiring their prizes. Anne tried to soothe her by saying, "You see every one is served alike. They thought it would be newer than a tree."

"Did you mean to give me this?" asked a little girl, in whose hands Cecil had thrust her dust-pan, without a glance at it.

"Oh the ring!" said Anne. "You must keep that, Mrs. Poynsett thought you would like it. It is a gem—some Greek goddess, I think."

"Is this her arrangement?" asked Cecil, pointing to the dust-pan.

"Oh no! she knew nothing about that, nor I; but you see every one has something droll. See what Mr. Bowater has!"

And Herbert Bowater showed that decidedly uncomplimentary penwiper, where the ass's head declares "There are two of us;" while every child had some absurdity to show; and Miss Moy's shrieks of delight were already audible at a tortoise-shell pen-holder disguised as a hunting-whip.

"I must go to my friends," said Cecil, vouchsafing no admiration of the ring, though she had seen enough to perceive that it was a beautifully engraved ruby; and she hurried back to the library, but only to find all her birds flown, and the room empty! Pursuing them to the drawing-room, she saw only the backs of a few, in the rearmost rank of the eager candidates for admission to the magic cave.

Lady Tyrrell alone saw her, and turned back from the eager multitude, to say in her low, modulated voice, "Beaten, my dear. Able strategy on la belle mere's part."

"Where's Mrs. Tallboys?"

"Don't you see her blue feather, eagerly expectant? Just after you were gone, Edith Bowater came in, and begged us to come and see the conservatory lighted up; and then came a rush of the Brenden children after their aunt, exclaiming wildly it was delicious— lights, and a fairy, and a secret, and every one got something, if they were ever so old. Of course, after that there was nothing but to follow the stream."

"It is a regular plot for outwitting us! Rosamond is dressed up for the fairy. They are all in league."

"Well, we must put a good face on it for the present," said Lady Tyrrell. "Don't on any account look as if you were not in perfect accordance. You can show your sentiments afterwards, you know."

Cecil saw she must acquiesce, for Mrs. Tallboys was full in the midst. With an infinitely better grace than her hostess, she yielded herself to the sports, bowed charmingly to the Peri, whirled like a fairy at the whistling, and was rewarded with a little enamel padlock as a brooch, and two keys as ear-rings; indeed she professed, with evident sincerity, that she was delighted with these sports of the old country, and thought the two genies exquisite specimens of the fair, useless, gentle English male aristocracy.

Mrs. Duncombe, too, accepted the inevitable with considerable spirit and good-humour, though she had a little passage-at-arms with Julius; when showing him the ivory card-case that had fallen to her lot, she said, "So this is the bribe! Society stops the mouth of truth."

"That is as you choose to take it," he said.

"Exactly. When we want to go deep into eternal verities you silence us with frivolous din and dainty playthings for fear of losing your slaves."

"I don't grant that."

"Then why hinder an earnest discussion by all this hubbub?"

"Because this was not the right place or time."

"It never is the right time for the tyrants to let their slaves confer, or to hear home-truths."

"On the contrary, my curiosity is excited. I want to hear Mrs. Tallboys' views."

"Then when will you dine with us? Next Wednesday?"

"Thank you. Wednesday has an evening service."

"Ah! I told you it was never the right time! Then Thursday? And you'll trust your wife with us?"

"Oh yes, certainly."

"It is a bargain, then? Seven o'clock, or there will be no time."

Julius's attention suddenly wandered. Was not a whisper pervading the room of a railway accident? Was not Frank due by that night's train?

There were still so many eager to visit the magic cave, that Julius trusted his wife would remain there sheltered from the report; Jenny Bowater was behind a stand of trees, acting orchestra; but when Terry came to the outskirts of the forest in search of other knights of the whistle, Julius laid a hand on him, and gave instructions in case any rumour should reach Rosamond to let her know how vague it was, tell her that he was going to ascertain the truth, and beg her to keep up the game and cause no alarm.

Next encountering Anne, he begged her to go to his mother and guard her from any alarm, until there was some certainty.

"Can't we send all these people away?" she asked.

"Not yet. We had better make no unnecessary disturbance. There will be time enough if anything be amiss. I am going down to Hazlitt's Gate."

Anne was too late. Charlie had not outgrown the instinct of rushing to his mother with his troubles; and he was despairingly telling the report he had heard of a direful catastrophe, fatal to an unknown quantity of passengers, while she, strong and composed because he gave way, was trying to sift his intelligence. No sooner did he hear from Anne that Julius was going to the station, than he started up to accompany him—the best thing he could do in his present state. Hardly, however, had he closed the door, before he returned with fresh tears in his eyes, leading in Eleonora Vivian, whom he had found leaning against the wall outside, white and still, scarce drawing her breath.

"Come," he said; and before she knew what he was doing, she was at Mrs. Poynsett's side. "Here, mother," he said, "take her." And he was gone.

Mrs. Poynsett stretched out her arms. The hearts of the two women who loved Frank could not help meeting. Eleonora sank on her knees, hiding her face on the mother's breast, with two tender arms clasped round her.

Anne was kneeling too, but she was no longer the meek, shy stranger. Now, in the hour of trouble, she poured forth, in a voice fervent and sweet, a prayer for protection and support for their beloved one, so that it might be well with him, whatever might be his Heavenly Father's Will.

As she paused, Mrs. Poynsett, in a choked voice, said, "Thank you, dear child;" when there were steps in the hall. Anne started up, Lenore buried her face on Mrs. Poynsett's bosom, the mother clasped her hands over her convulsively, then beheld, as the door opened, a tall figure, with a dark bright face full of ineffable softness and joy. Frank himself, safe and sound, with his two brothers behind him. They stayed not to speak, but hastened to spread the glad tidings; while he flung himself down, including both his mother and Lenore in one rapturous embrace, and carrying his kiss from one to the other—conscious, if no one else was, that this first seal of his love was given in his mother's arms.

Lenore did indeed extricate herself, and stand up as rosy red as she had been pale; but she had no room for any thought beyond his mother's trembling "Not hurt, my dear?"

"Not hurt! Not a scratch! Thank God! Oh! thank God!" answered Frank, quivering all over with thankfulness, though probably far more at the present joy than the past peril.

"Yes—oh, thanks for His mercy!" echoed Anne, giving fervent hand and tearful cheek to the eager salutation, which probably would have been as energetic to Clio or old Betty at that moment!

"But there's blood on your wristband," cried the mother. "You are hurt!"

"No; it's not mine. I didn't know it. It is from the poor fellow I helped to carry into the public-house at Knoll, just this side Backsworth, a good deal hurt, I'm afraid. Something had got on the lines, I believe. I was half asleep, and knew nothing till I found ourselves all crushed up together in the dark, upside-down, my feet above my head. There was but one man in my carriage, and we didn't get foul of one another, and found we were all right, when we scrambled out of the window. So we helped out the others, and found that, besides the engineer and stoker—who I don't suppose can live, poor fellows!—there was only this man much damaged. Then, when there seemed no more to be done, I took my bag and walked across country, to reach home before you heard. But oh, this is worth anything!"

He had to bend down for another embrace from his mother whose heart was very full as she held his bright young healthful face between her hands, though all she said was, "You have walked eleven miles and more! You must be half starved!—Anne, my dear, pray let him have something. He can eat it here."

"I'll see," said Anne, hastening away.

"Oh, don't go, Lenore," cried Frank, springing up. "Stay, I've not seen you!—Mother, how sweet of you! But I forgot! You don't know! I was only waiting till I was through."