I am bound to confess that, as far as the servants were concerned, everything went on with the utmost propriety and respect. Sir Guy, indeed, pulled his partner about with an unnecessary degree of vigour, which at times almost degenerated into a romp, and squeezed my hands in "the Poussette" with an energy of affection which I could well have dispensed with; but every one else was a very pattern of politeness and decorum. In fact, the thing was almost getting stupid, when my little second-horse rider and myself, returning breathless from our rapid excursion down some two-and-thirty couple, were "brought up," startled and dismayed, by a piercing scream from at least that number of female voices, all raised at the same instant.

"Fire! fire!" exclaimed the tall housemaid at my elbow.

"Save me! save me!" shrieked the fat housekeeper, plumping into Frank Lovell's arms, and well-nigh bringing him to the ground, in which case she must have crushed him.

"Murder! murder!" shouted my idiot of a maid, Gertrude, rushing frantically for the doorway, followed by Sir Guy, who was swearing, I am sorry to say, most fearfully.

"Stand still, fools!" I heard Lady Scapegrace exclaim in her deep tones, "and let nobody open the door!"

By this time there was a rush of all the women towards the door; and as the centre of the room was cleared, I saw what had happened. The muslin transparency had caught fire—a large fragment of it was even now blazing on the floor, and the consequences amongst all those light floating dresses and terrified women might have been indeed awful. For an instant everybody seemed paralyzed—everybody but Cousin John; during that instant he had flung off his coat, and kneeling upon it, extinguished the flames. They were still blazing over his head: with a desperate bound he tore down the ill-fated transparency; regardless of singed hair and blistered hands, he clasped and pressed it, and stamped upon it, and smothered it. Ere one could have counted fifty the danger was over and not a vestige of the fire remained. How handsome he looked with his brave face lighted up and his eyes sparkling with excitement! Nobody could say John wanted expression of countenance now. The next moment he was quietly apologizing in his usual tone to Lady Scapegrace for "spoiling her beautiful transparency," and parrying her thanks and encomiums on his courage and presence of mind with an assurance that he "only pulled it down because he happened to be directly under it;" but he could not help turning to me and saying,—

"Kate, I hope you were not much frightened."

The words were not much, but they were uttered in the old kind voice; they rung in my ears all the evening, and I went to bed happier than I ever thought I could have been after such a day.



CHAPTER XXI.

The Sunday at Scamperley, I am sorry to say, was hardly observed with that degree of respect and strictness which is due to the one sacred day of the week. Very few people went to morning service, as indeed the late hours overnight kept most of us in our rooms till eleven or twelve o'clock, when we dawdled down to a breakfast that seemed to lengthen itself out till luncheon-time. To be sure, when the latter meal had been discussed, and we had marked our reverence for the day by a conversation in which we expressed our disapproval of the personal appearance, faults and foibles, and general character of our friends, some of us would declare an intention of attending afternoon church; on which subject much discussion would arise, and the probability of the weather holding up would be volubly commented on—the church being situated about a quarter of a mile from the house, and the way to it through the Park being so completely sheltered by evergreens that to have got wet, save in a downright pour of rain, was next to impossible. At last we would get under way—the ladies mincing along with their magnificently covered prayer-books, affecting an air of unwilling decorum; the dandies carrying cloaks, shawls, and umbrellas for their respective goddesses, and following them, so to speak, under protest, as if there was something to be ashamed of in the whole proceeding. Lady Scapegrace always went early, and quite by herself; she sat apart, too, from her guests and relatives. Not so Sir Guy. It was his great delight to create as much noise and confusion as possible, that on his entrance the respectable yeomen and humble parishioners might be dazzled with his glory, and whisper one to another, "That be Sir Guy," as he marched to the front of his family pew in a blaze of wondrous apparel. It was natural that he should create a sensation with his red face and gaudy-coloured clothes, and huge, dyed whiskers, and the eternal flower in his mouth, which was always on duty save when relieved by a cigar or a toothpick. Pew it could scarcely with propriety be called, inasmuch as it was more like a box at the opera than a seat in a place of worship. We entered by a staircase outside the church, with a private door of our own; passing through which we found ourselves in a very comfortable chamber, with a good many chairs and sofas, a handsome bookcase, and a blazing fire. This, again, led to a smaller apartment, into which Sir Guy would swagger with much unnecessary noise and bustle. Throwing up a large window, he leaned over as it were from a hustings, and, behold! we were at church.

When the sermon was concluded Sir Guy shut the window down again, and we took our departure, much edified, as may easily be imagined, by the lessons of meekness and humility which we had received in so becoming a manner. From church we invariably proceeded to the kennel, where a stout, healthy-looking keeper paraded the Baronet's pointers and setters for the inspection of the ladies. Here Sir Guy took entire possession of me once more.

"Don't be alarmed, my dear," said he, as a great bull-headed, black-and-white brute, surnamed Don, came blundering up and tried to put his muddy paws on my dress. Sir Guy's affectation of the "paternal," and his odious way of calling one "my dear," provoked me intensely; and I gave Don such a crack over his double nose with my parasol as broke the ivory handle of that instrument, and completely quelled all further demonstrations of affection from the uninteresting brute. Sir Guy was charmed.

"Hit him hard," said he; "he's got no friends. What a vixen it is! How she punished my near leader the other day! I love that girl!"

The latter sentence, be it observed, was spoken sotto voce, and required, as indeed it received, no reply.

"What interesting creatures!" exclaimed Miss Molasses, indicating an old pointer lady, who went swinging by with all the appearance of having lately brought up a large and thirsty family. "Do tell me, can that dog really catch a hare?"

The keeper's face was a study; he was apparently a humorous individual. But Miss Molasses addressed her remarks to Frank Lovell; and Frank, as in duty bound, replied. That girl was evidently making up to him, and, thinking he was fond of field-sports, pretended to take an interest in everything connected with those pursuits for his sake.

"Come and see the tame pheasants, Miss Coventry," said Sir Guy. I knew what this meant: I knew it would entail a tete-a-tete walk with my aversion, and I cast an imploring look at Frank, as much as to say, "Do save me." He caught my meaning in an instant, and skilfully interposed. Of course, as he accompanied us, so did Miss Molasses; but Frank and I lingered a little behind the rest of the party, made a wrong turn in the shrubbery, and found ourselves, I never knew exactly how, taking a long walk all alone in the waning twilight. I don't know what Aunt Deborah would have said to such proceedings, and I am quite sure Lady Horsingham would have been unspeakably shocked; but these Sunday walks were the custom of the country at Scamperley—and, after all, it was not my doing, and consequently not my fault.

I wonder why it is that, in the very convenient code of morality which the world has adopted for its private use, places and people should so completely alter facts. You may do things with impunity in London that would destroy the character of a Diana in the country; and, again, certain rural practices, harmless—nay, even praiseworthy—when confined to a picturesque domain, if flourished before the eyes of the metropolis, would sink the performer to the lowest depths of social degradation. It is not what you do that matters one whit, but what the world thinks of your actions; and the gentlemen use a proverb which I have often heard in connection with certain racing enormities, that "One man may steal a horse, while another must not even look at a halter:" and if this be the case with that sex who arrogate to themselves the exclusive privilege of doing wrong, how much more does the adage hold good with us poor, weak, trampled-upon women? Lady Straitlace may do what she likes: she assumes a severe air in society, is strict with her children, and harsh with her servants. In all ranks of her acquaintance (of course below that of a countess) she visits the slightest dereliction from female propriety with unrelenting bitterness. Woe be to the trespasser, high or low! The weapon is always ready to probe and gash and lacerate; the lash is constantly raised, "swift to smite and never to spare." But who would venture to speak a word against the decorum of Lady Straitlace? If she goes out in the dark, 'tis to visit a sick friend; if she encourages young Antinoeus to be what ladies call continually "in her pocket," that is only in order to give the lad good advice and keep him out of mischief. Major Ramrod is never out of the house; but what then? The visits of fifty Major Ramrods would not entitle the world to breathe a whisper against a person of such strict propriety as Lady Straitlace. But how that same forbearing world indemnifies itself on poor Mrs. Peony! It is never tired of shrugging its worldly shoulders and raising its worldly hands and eyebrows at the sayings and doings of unfortunate Mrs. Peony.

"Did you hear of her going to the bachelors' ball with three gentlemen in a fly?" (Nobody thinks it worth while to specify that the three Lotharios consisted of her grandfather, her husband, and her nephew.) "Did you see her drop her bracelet, to make young Stiffneck pick it up? Do you know that she takes morning walks with Colonel Chanticleer, and evening strolls with Bob Bulbul? She chatters, she laughs, she flirts, she makes eyes; she's bad style, she's an odious woman; 'pon my word, I don't know whether mamma will go on visiting her!"

And why should the world make this dead set at poor Mrs. Peony? She is good-looking, soft-hearted, and unaffected; she laughs when she is pleased, and cries when she is touched. She is altogether frank, and natural, and womanly. Can these be good reasons for running her down? Heavens knows! but run down she is, just as the hypocritical Lady Straitlace is cried up. Well, we must take things as they are and make the best of them. So Frank and I walked on through the pleasant fields in the darkening twilight, and I, for one, enjoyed it excessively, and was quite sorry when a great bell sounding from the house warned us that it was time to return, and that our absence would too surely be the subject of remark should we linger out of doors any longer. I never knew Frank so agreeable; on every topic he was brilliant, and lively, and amusing. Only once, in some casual remark about the future, there was a shade of melancholy in his tone, more like what he used to be formerly. Somehow, I don't think I liked him so well in his best spirits; perhaps I was myself changed in the last few weeks. I used often to think so. At first, during that walk, I feared lest Frank should touch upon a topic which would have been far from unwelcome a short time ago. I soon saw he had not the slightest intention of doing so, and I confess I was immensely relieved. I had dreaded the possibility of being obliged at last to give a decided answer—of having my own fate in my own hands, and feeling totally incapable of choosing for myself. But I might have spared my nerves all such misgivings: my cavalier never gave me an opportunity of even fancying myself in such a dilemma till just as we reached the house, when, espying Mrs. Lumley and Miss Molasses returning from their stroll, he started, coloured up a little, like a guilty man, and acted as though he would have escaped their notice. I was provoked.

"Don't desert your colours, Captain Lovell," I said, in a firm voice; "Miss Molasses is looking for you, even now."

"Unfeeling," muttered Frank, biting his lip, and looking really annoyed. "O Miss Coventry! O Kate! give me an opportunity of explaining all."

"Explain nothing," was my reply; "we understand each other perfectly. It is time for me to go in and dress."

So I marched into the house, and left him looking foolish—if Frank ever could look foolish—on the doorstep. As I hurried along the passages I encountered Lady Scapegrace.

"What's the matter, Kate?" said she, following me into my room; "you look as if something had happened. No bad news, I trust, from Aunt Deborah?"

I burst into tears. Kindness always overcomes me completely, and then I make a fool of myself.

"Nothing's the matter," I sobbed out; "only I'm tired and nervous, Lady Scapegrace, and I want to dress."

My hostess slipped quietly out of the room, and presently returned with some sal volatile and water: she made me drink it every drop.

"I must have a talk to you, Kate," said she, "but not now; the dinner-bell will ring in ten minutes." And she too hurried away to perform her toilette.

As I get older I take to moralizing, and I am afraid I waste a good deal of valuable time in speculating on the thoughts, ideas, and, so to speak, the inner life of my neighbours. It is curious to observe a large, well-dressed party seated at dinner, all apparently frank and open as the day, full of fun and good humour, saying whatever comes uppermost, and to all outward seeming laying bare every crevice and cranny of their hearts, and then to reflect that each one of the throng has a separate life, entirely distinct from that which he or she parades before the public, cherished perhaps with a miser's care or endured with a martyr's fortitude. Sir Guy, sitting at the bottom of his table, drinking rather more wine than usual—perhaps because it was Sunday, and the enforced decencies of the day had somewhat damped his spirits—looked a jovial, thoughtless, merry country gentleman, somewhat slang, it may be, not to say vulgar, but still open-hearted, joyous, and hospitable. Was there no skeleton in Sir Guy's mental cupboard? Were there no phantoms that would rise up, like Banquo's ghost, to their seat, unbidden, at his board? While he smacked his great lips over those bumpers of dark red Burgundy, had he quite forgotten the days of old—the friends he had pledged and made fools of—the kind hearts he had loved and betrayed? Did he ever think of Damocles and the hanging sword? Could he summon courage to look into the future, or fortitude even to think of the past? Sir Guy's was a strong, healthy, sensuous nature, in which the physical far outweighed the intellectual; and yet I verily believe his conscience sometimes nearly drove him mad.

Then there was my lady, sitting at the top of her table, the very picture of a courteous, affable, well-bred hostess; perhaps, if anything, a little too placid and immovable in her outward demeanour. Who would have guessed at the wild and stormy passions that could rage beneath so calm a surface? Who would suppose that stately, reserved, majestic-looking woman had the recklessness of a brigand and the caprices of a child? A physiognomist might have marked the traces of strong feelings in her deepened eyes and the lines about her mouth—damages done by the hurricane, that years of calm can never repair; but there had been a page or two in Lady Scapegrace's life that, with all his acuteness, would have astonished Lavater himself. Then there was Miss Molasses, the pink of propriety and "what-would-mamma-say" young ladyism—cold as a statue, and, as old Chaucer says, "upright as a bolt," but all the time over head and ears in love with Frank Lovell, and ready to do anything he asked her at a moment's notice. There was Frank himself, gay and debonnair: outwardly the lightest-hearted man in the company; inwardly, I have reason to know, tormented with misgivings and stung by self-reproach. Playing a double game—attached to one woman and courting another, despising himself thoroughly the while; hemmed in by difficulties and loaded with debt, hampered by a bad book on "The Two Thousand," and playing hide-and-seek even now with the Jews—Frank's real existence was very different from the one he showed his friends. So with the rest of the party. Old Mrs. Molasses was bothered by her maid; Mr. Lumley puzzled by his beetles; his wife involved in a thousand schemes of mischief-making, which kept her in perpetual hot water: all, even honest Cousin John, were sedulously hiding their real thoughts from their companions; all were playing the game with counters, of which indeed they were lavish enough; but had you asked for a bit of sterling coin, fresh from the Mint and stamped with the impress of truth, they would have buttoned their pockets closer than ever—ay, though you had been bankrupt and penniless, they would have seen you further first, and then they wouldn't.

So we flirted, and talked, and laughed, and adjourned to the drawing-room, where, after a proper interval, we were joined by the gentlemen, who, in consideration of the day, consented for that one evening in the week to forego their usual games of chance or skill, such as whist, billiards, and cockamaroo. But the essential inanity of a fashionable party requires to be amused, so we set round a large table, and played at "letters," sedulously "shuffling" the handsome ivory capitals as we gave each other long jaw-breaking words, the difficulties of which were much enhanced by their being usually misspelt, but which, nevertheless, formed a very appropriate vehicle for what the world calls "flirtation." I can always find out other people's words much quicker than my own, and whilst I was puzzling over "centipede," and teasing Mrs. Lumley, who had given it me, for the initial letter, I peeped over the shoulder of my next neighbour, Miss Molasses, and made out clearly enough the word she had just received from Frank Lovell. She would not have discovered it for a century, but I read it at a glance. I just looked at Frank, who blushed like a girl, took it back, vowing he had spelt it wrong, and gave her another. Did he think to throw dust in my eyes? There is a stage of mental suffering at which we grow naturally clear-sighted. I had arrived at it long ago. Watching every action of my neighbours, I had yet ears for all that was going on around. Sir Guy, occupying a position on the hearth-rug, with his coat-tails over his arms, was haranguing the clergyman of the parish, a quiet, meek little man, who dined at Scamperley regularly on Sunday, and appeared frightened out of his wits. He was a man of education and intellect, a ripe scholar, a middling preacher, and a profound logician; but he was completely overpowered by coarse, ignorant, noisy Sir Guy.

"Driving—hey?" said the Baronet; "we're all fond of driving, here, Mr. Waxy: there's a young lady who will teach you to handle the ribbons. Gad, she'd make the crop-eared mare step along. Have you got the old mare still? Devilish good old mare!"

No child of man is too learned, or too quiet, or too humble, to feel flattered at praise of his horse. Mr. Waxy blushed a moist yellow as he replied,—

"Very good of you to remember her, Sir Guy; docile and safe, and gentle withal, Sir Guy. But I don't drive her myself, Sir Guy," added Mr. Waxy, raising his hands deprecatingly, as who should say, "Heaven forbid!" "I don't drive myself, sir; no—no, my lad assumes the reins; and notwithstanding the potency of your Scamperley ale, Sir Guy, we manage to arrive pretty safe at our destination."

"Quite right, Mr. Waxy," vociferated Sir Guy. "Did I ever tell you what happened to me once, when I took it into my head to drive my own chariot home? Look ye here, sir, I'll tell you how it was. I was unmarried then, Mr. Waxy, and as innocent as a babe, d'ye see? Well, sir, I'd been to a battue at my friend Rocketer's; and what with staying to dinner, and a ball and a supper afterwards, it was very late before I started for Scamperley, and all the servants were drunk, as a matter of course. Why, sir, when I came out of the house there were my carriage and horses standing in the line with some dozen others, and devil a soul to look after 'em. What should you have done, Mr. Waxy? Sworn like a trooper, I'll warrant it!"

Mr. Waxy shook his head with an air of mild deprecation.

"Well, sir," continued Sir Guy, "I'll tell you what I did. I jumped on the box, Sir, before you could say Jack Robinson. I put on my own coachman's box-coat, Sir, and drove 'em home myself. Thinks I, 'I'll give the rascals a precious benefit: they'll have to walk every mile of the way'—nine miles, and as dark as pitch, Mr. Waxy, as dark as pitch! Well, sir, I'd a London footman, who was a sharpish fellow, and used to dissipation in general; he heard the carriage drive off, and ran to catch it. I gave him a pretty good breather as I rattled down the avenue. The fellow puffed like a grampus when he got up behind, making no doubt it was all right, and he hadn't been found out. The horses knew they were going home, and it wasn't long before I pulled up at my own door. Down gets John, all officiousness and alacrity to make up for past enormities, and rings a peal that might waken the dead. Directly he hears them beginning to unbar he opens the carriage-door and looks in. No master! The day was just dawning. I shall never forget the fellow's face as he looked up, mistaking me, muffled as I was in my own livery, for his fellow-servant.

"'I always told you how it would be, Peter,' said he, turning up a face of drunken wisdom; 'and now it's come to pass. The devil's been and took Sir Guy at last; and if he's as wicious there as he's been here, it's a precious bad bargain for both of 'em!'"

Poor Mr. Waxy was obliged to laugh, but he took his departure immediately; and of course, directly there was a move, the ladies went to bed.

"Come to my room, Kate," whispered Lady Scapegrace, as we lighted our hand-candles—"you can go the short way through the boudoir—I want to speak a word with you."



CHAPTER XXII.

"Kate," said Lady Scapegrace, as she shut the door of her snug dressing-room and wheeled an easy-chair before the fire for my benefit—"Kate, you're a foolish girl; it strikes me you are playing a dangerous game, and playing it all wrong, moreover. I can see more than you think. Do you know the difference between real diamonds and paste? Not you, you little goose. But you shall, if I can teach it you. Kate, have you ever heard me talked about? Did you ever hear any good of me?" I was forced to answer both questions—the former in the affirmative, the latter in the negative.

"Do you believe I'm as bad as they give me credit for?" proceeded her ladyship.

"No, no!" I replied, taking her hand and kissing it; for I really liked Lady Scapegrace. "Let them say what they will, I won't believe anything bad of you at all."

"I have had a strange life, Kate," said she; "and perhaps not quite fair play. Well, the worst is over now, at any rate. I don't much care how short the remainder may be. Kate, did you ever hear I was a murderess?"

"No, no!" I repeated, taking her hand once more; for I was shocked and half frightened at the expression of her countenance. "I never heard anybody say more than that you were odd, and a flirt, and perhaps not very much attached to Sir Guy."

Lady Scapegrace shuddered. "I owe you a great deal, Kate Coventry," she resumed—"a great deal more than I can ever hope to repay. I consider that you once saved my life, but of that I make small account; you have done me a far greater kindness—you have interested me; you have made me fond of you; you have taught me to feel like a woman again. The least I can do in return is to watch you and warn you—to show you the rock on which I made shipwreck, and beseech you to avoid it. Kate, you've heard of my Cousin Latimer; would you like to see his picture?"

Lady Scapegrace rose, walked to a small cabinet, unlocked it, and produced a miniature, which she placed in my hands. If the painter had not flattered him, Cousin Latimer was indeed a handsome boy. There was genius on his wide, bold forehead, and resolution in his firm, well-cut mouth; his large dark eyes betrayed strong passions and keen intelligence, whilst high birth was stamped on his fine features and chivalrous expression of countenance. Poor Cousin Latimer!

"Look at that, Kate," said Lady Scapegrace, in low chilling tones; "the last time I saw him that was his very image. Thank God, I never beheld him when those kind features were cold and rigid—that white neck gashed by his own hand! O Kate! 'tis a sad story. I have not mentioned it for twenty years; but it's a relief to talk of it now. Surely I was not altogether to blame; surely he might have given me time; he need not have been so hasty—so desperate.

"Listen, Kate. I was one of a large family of girls. All my sisters were beautiful; all were vain of their charms. As I grew up, I heard nothing talked about but conquests, and lovers, and captivations. I thought, to dazzle and enslave the opposite sex was the noblest aim of woman. Latimer was brought up with us: we called him 'cousin,' though he was in reality a very distant connection. Poor boy! day by day I could see he was growing more and more attached to me. Latimer always brought me the earliest roses. Latimer would walk miles by the side of my pony. Latimer helped me with my drawing, and did my commissions, and turned the leaves when I played on the pianoforte, and hung over the instrument when I sang. In short, Latimer was my slave, body and soul; and the consequence was, Kate, that I cared very little for him. My sisters, to be sure, joked me about my conquest; and I felt, I confess, a proper pride in owning a lover like the rest; but of real affection for him I had then very little; and I often think, my dear, that we women seldom value devotion such as his till too late. I was not old enough to think seriously of marriage; but Latimer was convinced I should become his wife, and (poor fellow!) made all his arrangements and schemes for the future under this idea, with a forethought scarcely to be expected from one so young.

"Well, years crept on, and I 'came out,' as you young ladies call it, and was presented at court, and went to balls, and began to make the most of my time, and enjoy life after the manner of my kind. Of course, I was no wiser than my elders. I danced, and smiled, and flirted, as I had seen my sisters do; and the more partners I could refuse the better I was pleased. One day Cousin Latimer came to me, and spoke out honestly and explicitly. He told me of all his hopes, his misgivings, his future as I had the power to make it, and his love. I was pleased and flattered. I felt that I liked Cousin Latimer better than any one in the world; but there were two things I liked even better than Cousin Latimer: these were power and admiration. Of the former I never could obtain as much as I coveted; of the latter I determined to take my fill. We were that night to have a grand ball in the house, and were much occupied with decorating the rooms, and other preparations, such as we girls delighted in. I put off Latimer with half-promises and vague assurances, which sent him away more in love with me than ever. I was to dance the first quadrille with him. It was an engagement of at least a month's standing, and he had rather wearied me by too often reminding me of it.

"There was a regiment of hussars quartered in our neighbourhood, and we were well acquainted with most of the officers. The more so, as one of my sisters was engaged to be married to the major, who, by the way, ran away from her a year afterwards. One of these officers, a captain in the regiment, was an especial flirt of mine; he was a good-looking, agreeable man, and a beautiful waltzer. I recollect the night as well as if it was yesterday—the officers arriving in their uniforms; my father standing behind us, proclaiming aloud his pride in his six handsome daughters; Cousin Latimer claiming my hand for the first dance, and my refusal, notwithstanding my long promise, on the plea that I was engaged to Captain Normanton. Poor boy! I can see his pained, eager face now. 'You do what you like with me,' he said; 'but you must dance the next.' I laughed and promised.

"Captain Normanton was very agreeable; he was the most dashing-looking man in the room, and I liked the vanity of parading him about in his uniform, and showing my sisters and others the power I had over Cousin Latimer. Once more the latter claimed my promise, and once more I threw him over. I glanced triumphantly at him as he watched me from a corner; and the more he gazed, the more I acted at him, as if I was making violent love to my partner. Somehow, without looking, I saw every shade of Latimer's countenance. Once or twice I had compassion, but there was the excitement of vanity and novelty to lure me on.

"For the first time in my life I knew how much it was possible for men to care for us, and I could not resist torturing my victim to the utmost. Fool that I was! Cousin Latimer came up to me once more. Though annoyed and hurt, he mustered a good-humoured smile as he said, 'For the third and last time, will you dance with me?' 'But you don't waltz half as well as Captain Normanton,' I replied; 'I like him best;' and away I whirled again with the delighted hussar.

"The instant I had spoken, I felt I had gone too far. I would have given anything to unsay those foolish words, but it was too late. When I stopped, panting and breathless, after the dance, Cousin Latimer came quite close to me. I never saw a face so changed: he was deadly pale, and there was a sweet, melancholy expression in his countenance that contrasted strangely with the wild gleam in his eye. He spoke very low, almost softly, but in a voice I had never heard before. He only said, 'God forgive you, dear; you try me too much.' I never saw him again, Kate—never.

"When I heard what had happened, I was laid up for months with brain fever. They cut all my hair off; they pinioned me; they did all that skill and science could do, and I recovered. Would to God that I had died! I do not think my head has ever been right since.

"Kate! Kate! would you have such feelings as mine? Should you like to live all your life haunted by one pale face? Would you wish never to enjoy a strain of music, a gleam of sunshine, a single, simple, natural pleasure, because of the phantom? Be warned, my dear, before it is too late. I tell you honestly, I never forgot him; I tell you, I never forgave myself. What did I care for any of them, except poor Alphonse—and I only liked Alphonse because he reminded me of the dead. Do you think I was not a reckless woman when I married Sir Guy?

"Do you think I have not been punished and humiliated enough? Heaven forbid, my dear, that your fate should resemble mine! I read your feelings far more plainly than you do yourself. You have a kind, generous, noble heart deeply attached to you. Don't be a fool, as I was; don't throw him over for the sake of an empty-headed, flirting, good-for-nothing roue, who will forget you in a fortnight. Strong language, Kate, is it not? But think over what I have told you. Good-night, dear. What would I give to yawn as honestly as you do, and to sleep sound once again, as I used to sleep when I was a girl!"

I took my candle, and kissed Lady Scapegrace affectionately as I thanked her, and wished her "good-night." It was already late, and my room was quite at the other end of the house. As I sped along, devoutly trusting I should not meet any of the gentlemen on their way to bed, I spied a figure advancing towards me from the end of a long corridor. It was attired in a flowing dressing-gown of crimson silk, with magnificent Turkish slippers, and carried a hand candlestick much off the perpendicular, as it swayed up the passage in a somewhat devious course. When it caught sight of me, it extended both its arms, regardless of the melted wax with which such a manoeuvre bedaubed the wall, and prepared, with many endearing and complimentary expressions, to bar my further progress.

The figure was no less a person than Sir Guy, half tipsy, proceeding from his dressing-room to bed. What to do I knew not. I shuddered at the idea of meeting the Baronet at such an hour, and in so excited a state. I loathed and hated him at all times, and I quite trembled now to face his odious compliments and impertinent double entendres. My hunting experience, however, had given me a quick eye to see my way out of a difficulty; and espying a green baise door on my right I rushed through it, and down a flight of stone steps that led I knew not where. Giving a view-holloa that must have startled every light sleeper in the house, Sir Guy followed close in my wake, dropping the silver candlestick with a most alarming clatter. I saw I had not the speed of him to any great extent, so I dodged into the first empty room I came to, and blowing out my light, resolved to lie there perdue till my pursuer had overrun the scent.

The manoeuvre answered admirably so far. I heard the enemy swearing volubly as he blundered along the passage, thinking I was still before him; and I now prepared to grope my way back in the dark to my own room. But I had not escaped yet. To my infinite dismay, I heard the voices of gentlemen wishing each other the usual "Good-night, old fellow," and proceeding along the passage from the direction of the smoking-room. Horror of horrors! a light approached the door of the very room in which I had taken refuge; in another second he would enter—the man would find me in his room. He stopped a moment on the threshold to fire a parting jest at his companions, and the light from his candle showed me my only chance. A covered showerbath stood in the corner of the apartment, and into that shower-bath I jumped, closing the curtains all round me, but, as may be easily believed, taking very particular care not to pull the string. Scarcely was I fairly ensconced before Frank Lovell made his appearance; and I saw at once, through a hole in the curtains, that he was the lawful occupier and possessor of the apartment.

Here was a predicament indeed! If the emergency had not been so desperate, I must have fainted. "Good gracious," I thought, "if he should lock the door!" Frank, however, seemed to have no such intention; I believe this is a precaution gentlemen seldom adopt. On the contrary, he proceeded to make himself thoroughly at home. Lighting his candle, he leisurely divested himself of his coat, waistcoat, and neckcloth, enfolded his person in a large loose dressing-gown, leaned his head on both hands, and gave a deep sigh. Apparently much relieved by this process, he took up his hair-brushes, and after a good refreshing turn at his locks and whiskers, and a muttered compliment to his own reflection in the glass, that sounded very like "You fool!" he unlocked a small writing-case, and producing from it a little bundle of letters, tied up with pink ribbon, selected them one by one, and read them over from beginning to end, kissing each with devout fervour as he replaced it carefully in its envelope. I would have given a great deal to know who they were from; their perusal seemed to afford him mingled satisfaction and annoyance; but he sighed heavily again, and I saw he had a long lock of hair in his fingers, which he gazed at till the tears stood in his eyes. He kissed it, the traitor! and fondled it, and spoke to it, and clasped it to his heart (men are just as great fools as we are). Whose could it be? Not mine, certainly, for I never gave him such a thing; Miss Molasses'? No; hers was black, and rather coarse; this was a silky chestnut. Could it have belonged to Mrs. Lumley? Hers was very much the colour, and I often thought Frank rather epris with her. Nonsense! that lively lady had not an atom of sentiment in her composition; she would just as soon have thought of working him a counterpane!

I was so interested in my discoveries that I forgot altogether my own critical position, the impracticability of escape till Frank had gone to sleep, the chance of arousing him as I went out, or, more alarming still, the awful possibility of his lying awake all night. When morning dawned, concealment could no longer be preserved, and what to do then? I meditated a bold stroke. To rush from my hiding-place, blow out both the candles before my host had recovered his surprise, and then run for it. Thrice was I on the eve of this perilous enterprise. Thrice my courage failed me at the critical moment. The fourth time I think I should have gone, when a knock at the door arrested my attention, and Frank's "Come in" welcomed a visitor whose voice I well knew to be that of Cousin John. The plot began to thicken. It was impossible to get away now.

"Lovell," said John, in an unusually grave voice, "I told you I wanted to speak a word with you, and this is the only time I can make sure of finding you alone."

Frank was busy huddling his treasures back into the writing-case.

"Drive on, old fellow," said he, "there's lots of time; it's not two o'clock yet."

"Lovell," proceeded John, "you are an old friend of mine, and I have a great regard for you, but I have a duty to perform, and I must go through with it. Point-blank, on your honour as a gentleman, I ask you, Are you or are you not engaged to be married to Miss Molasses?"

Frank coloured, hesitated, looked confused, and then got angry.

"No intimacy can give you a right to ask such a question," he replied, talking very fast and excitedly: "you take an unwarrantable liberty, both with her and me. Who told you I was going to be married at all? or what business is it of yours whether I am married or not?"

John began to get heated too, but he looked very determined.

"I am sorry you should take it thus," he replied, "for you force me to come at once to the point. As the nearest relation and natural guardian of my cousin, Miss Coventry, I must ask your intention with regard to that young lady. I have often remarked you paid her great attention, but it was not till to-day that I heard your name coupled with hers, and a doubt expressed as to which of the ladies I have mentioned you meant to honour with your preference. I don't want to quarrel with you, Frank," added John, softening, "I don't want to mistrust your good feelings or your honour. Perhaps you don't know her as well as I do; perhaps you can't appreciate her value like me. Many men would give away their lives for her—would think no sacrifice too dear at which to purchase her regard. Believe me, Frank, she's worth anything. If you have proposed to her, as I have reason to think you must have done, confide in me; I will smooth all difficulties; I will arrange everything for you both. God knows I love her better than anything on earth; but her happiness is my first consideration, and if she likes you, Frank, she shall marry you."

Captain Lovell seemed to be of a different opinion. He bit his lip, looking angry and annoyed.

"You go too fast, Mr. Jones," he replied very stiffly; "I have never given the young lady you mention an opportunity of either accepting or refusing me. If ever I am fool enough to marry, I shall take the liberty of selecting my own wife, without consulting your taste; and I really cannot undertake to wed every lively young lady that condescends to flirt with me, merely pour passer le temps."

John's face grew dark with anger. How noble he looked as he squared his fine figure and reared his gallant head, standing erect before his enemy, and scanning him from top to toe. He was very quiet too; he only said,—

"Captain Lovell, I claim a brother's right to protect Miss Coventry's reputation, and as a brother I demand reparation for the wrong you have done her; need I say any more?"

"Not another syllable," replied Frank Lovell carelessly. "Whenever you like, only the sooner the better. Popham always acts for me on these occasions; he don't go away till to-morrow afternoon, so I refer you to him. I'm getting sleepy now, Mr. Jones. I wish you a good-night."

Cousin John took up his candle, and retired. Never in my life had I been in such a position as this. That there would be a duel I had not the slightest shadow of doubt—and all for my sake. That my gallant, generous, true-hearted cousin should have behaved so nobly, so unselfishly, did not surprise me; but that he should be sacrificed to his devoted fidelity—I could not bear to think of it for a moment! How I loved him now! How I wondered that I could ever have compared the two for an instant! How I resolved to make him full amends, and, come what might, to frustrate this projected duel! But what could I do? In the first place, how was I to get out of the room?

My situation was so embarrassing, and at the same time so ridiculous, that I could with difficulty resist a hysterical inclination to laugh. Here I was, at all events, a close prisoner till Captain Lovell should go to bed, and he seemed to have no idea of that rational proceeding, though it was now past three o'clock. He walked about the room, whistling softly. Once he came so near my hiding-place that I felt his breath on my cheek. "Good heavens," thought I, "if he should take it into his head to have a shower-bath now to brace his nerves!" At last he walked to a drawer, selected a cigar, lit it, and throwing open the window, proceeded deliberately to get out. I almost hoped he would break his neck! But I conclude there was a ledge or balcony of some sort to sustain him, and that he was accustomed to a nightly cigar in that position. Here was a chance not to be lost! I bolted out of the shower-bath; I popped the extinguisher on one candle, and blew the other out at the same instant. I heard the smoker's exclamation of astonishment, but heeded it not. I rushed through the door. I flew along the dark passages, breathless and trembling; at last I reached my own room, more by instinct, I believe, than any other faculty, and having locked the door and struck a light, sat me down, in a state of immense confusion and bewilderment, to think what I should do next.



CHAPTER XXIII.

Who was there to whom I could apply? Sir Guy, of course, was out of the question. Then, in an affair of such delicacy, I could not consult a young man; besides, these boys, I fancy, are always for fighting, right or wrong. A woman was no use, or I should have gone straight back to Lady Scapegrace. I pondered matters over and over again. I thought of every horror in the way of duelling I had ever heard of.

My own uncle was shot dead by a Frenchman when attached to the army of occupation at Cambray. It was a romantic story, and I had often heard the particulars from my godfather, General Grape, who officiated as his second. My uncle was a handsome, chivalrous youth, deeply attached to a countrywoman of his own, whose picture he wore constantly next his heart. Such a man was not likely to become compromised with another lady. It happened, however, that my uncle was quartered in the vicinity of a chateau belonging to a retired general of the Grand Army, who hated an Englishman as a matter of taste, and a British officer as a matter of duty.

The French general had a charming daughter, and Rosalie, besides being belle comme le jour, was likewise what her acquaintance called tant soit peu coquette. So she made love to my uncle on every available opportunity, and of course, because he didn't care for her two pins, set her faithless heart upon him, as a woman will. To make things simpler, she was herself engaged to a young marquis in the neighbourhood. Well, my uncle, like a sensible man, did his best to keep clear of the whole thing, but he could not avoid meeting Rosalie occasionally in his walks, nor could he absolutely refuse to make her acquaintance, or refrain from perusing the letters she wrote to him, or, finally, prevent that forward young person from falling into his arms, and bursting into tears, with her head on his shoulder. The moment was, however, ill-chosen for so dramatic a scene, inasmuch as it occurred under the very noses of her father and her fiance, both of whom, unknown to the fair wanderer, had followed Rosalie, on purpose to find out where it was she walked day after day so perseveringly.

My uncle had scarcely recovered his surprise at the first demonstration ere he was staggered by the second—"Malheureuse!" exclaimed the father; "Perfide!" groaned the lover; "Traitre!" shouted the marquis; "Lache!" growled the general. My uncle turned from one to the other, completely at a nonplus, Rosalie in the meantime clinging to his breast and imploring him passionately to save her! My uncle's waistcoat came undone—his real mistress's miniature dropped out; the sight added fuel to the fire of the belligerents. Nothing would satisfy them but his blood. In vain he protested, in vain he swore, in extremely bad French, that he had no penchant for Rosalie, had never made love to her in his life; in fact, rather disliked her than otherwise.

The Frenchmen sacreed, and fumed, and stormed at him, and jostled him, till my uncle lost all patience, shook himself clear of Rosalie, who fell fainting to the ground, knocked each of his adversaries down in turn, and walked home to his quarters, very much disgusted with the world in general, and the wilfulness of French young ladies in particular. Of course he knew perfectly well it was not to end here. He sent for Grape, then a brother subaltern, and placed his honour in that officer's hands.

No message came for two days, that interval having elapsed in consequence of a deadly quarrel between the marquis and the general as to who should take the thing up first. Grape firmly believes they decided the matter with small swords; another version is, that they played piquet for eight-and-forty hours to settle it—the best out of so many games. Be this how it may, the general appeared as the ostensible champion, and the marquis officiated as his temoin. Grape, as my uncle's second, chose pistols for the weapons, and selected a retired piece of ground in a large garden near the chateau as the lists. I give the conclusion in his own words:—

"Horsingham was as cool as a cucumber, and the only thing that seemed to annoy him was a possibility that the cause of his rencontre might be misrepresented to her he loved at home.

"'Tell her I was faithful to the last,' said he to me as he squeezed my hand just before I put him up. 'Tell her, if I fall, that I never loved another; that my heart is pure and spotless as that white rose, which I will wear upon it for her sake.'

"While he spoke, he plucked a white rose from a neighbouring bush, and in spite of my remonstrances fixed it in the breast of his close-fitting dark coat.

"'What are you about, Charlie?' I urged. 'This is no time for romance. Don't you know all these cursed Frenchmen are dead shots? You might as well chalk out a bull's eye over the pit of your stomach!'

"He was a romantic, foolish fellow. I can see him now, drawing himself up, and looking like a knight of the olden time, with his brightening eye, and his smooth, unruffled forehead."

"'Give her the white rose,' he only said. 'She'll keep it when it's withered, perhaps. And tell her I never wavered—never for an hour!'"

"I knew too well how it would be. From the instant he came on the ground the old general never took his eye off his man. What an eye it was! Cold and gray and leaden; half shut, like that of some wild animal, with a pupil that contracted visibly while I watched it. I knew my friend had no chance. I did all I could. As I had the privilege of placing the men, I stationed our adversary where he would have to look over his shoulder to see my signal, whilst my friend's face was turned towards me. They were to fire when I dropped my hat. I dropped it with a flourish. Alas! all was of no use. The general shot him right through the heart. I knew he would; and the bullet cut the stalk of the rose in two, smashed the lower part of the miniature, leaving only the face untouched, and poor Charlie Horsingham never spoke again. As we lifted him and unbuttoned his waistcoat, the two Frenchmen gazed at the miniature with looks of anger and curiosity. Great was their astonishment to behold the portrait of another than Rosalie. The younger man was much affected; he groaned aloud and covered his face with his hands. Not so the old general. 'Tenez,' said he, wiping the barrel of his weapon on his glove, 'c'est dommage! je ne contais pas la-dessus; mais, que voulez-vous? Peste! ce n'est qu'un Anglais de moins.'"

This is the carelessness with which men talk and think of human life; and here was my cousin about to go through the fearful ordeal, perhaps to be shot dead, like poor Charles Horsingham. The more I thought of it, the more resolutely I determined to prevent it. I had never taken off my dinner-dress—my candles were nearly burned down—the clock struck five—in two hours it would be daylight. There was not a moment to lose. All at once a bright thought struck me. I would rouse good old Mr. Lumley. He was clever, sensible, and respected; he was likewise a man of honour and a gentleman. With all his infirmities, I had seen him show energy enough when he could do any good. I would go to him at once; and I left my room with the resolution that I, for one, would move heaven and earth ere a hair of Cousin John's precious head should be imperilled on my account.

I lit my candle and tripped once more along the silent passages. I knew where Mrs. Lumley slept, and soon reached the door of her room; audible snores, base and treble, attested, if not the good consciences, at least the sound digestions of the inmates. I tapped loudly; no answer. Again I knocked till my knuckles smarted. A sleepy "Come in" was the reply to my summons. They probably thought it was the housemaid arrived to open the shutters. It was no time for false delicacy or diffidence, and I walked boldly into the apartment. By the light of the night-lamp I beheld the happy pair. Of course, I am not going to describe the lady's dress; but all I can say is, that if ever I am prevailed on to marry, and such a catastrophe is by no means impossible, I shall not permit my husband to disfigure himself at any hour by adopting such a custom as that of dear, kind, good old Mr. Lumley.

A white cotton nightcap, coming well over the ears, and tied under the throat with tape to match, surmounted by a high bonnet rouge like an extinguisher, the entire headdress being further secured by a broad black ribbon, would make Plato himself look ridiculous; and a sleepy old face, with a small turn-up nose, and a rough stubbly chin of unshaven gray, does not add to the beauty or the dignity of such a recumbent subject. However, what I wanted was Mr. Lumley; and Mr. Lumley I was forced to take as I could get him.

"What's o'clock?" he murmured drowsily. "Come again to light the fire in half an hour."

"Why, it's Kate!" exclaimed his better half, rousing up, bright and warm, in a moment, like a child. "Goodness, Kate, what are you doing here?"

"Miss Coventry!" ejaculated her husband. "What is it? A perfect specimen of the common house-spider, I'll lay my life. What an energetic girl! Found it on her pillow, and lost not a moment in bringing it here! I'm eternally obliged to you. Where is it? Mind you don't injure the legs. Pray don't stick a pin through the back."

"Oh, Mr. Lumley!" I sobbed out, "it's worse than a spider. Get up, please; there's going to be a duel, and I want you to stop it. Captain Lovell and Cousin—Cousin——"

I fairly broke down here, and burst into tears; but the kind old man understood me in an instant.

"Margery, my dear," he shouted, "get me up directly; there's not a moment to lose. Oh, these boys! these boys! young blood and absence of brains! If they would but devote their energies to science. Don't distress yourself, my dear; I'll manage it all. Where does Captain Lovell sleep?"

"First door on the right, when you get down the steps in the Bachelors' wing," I replied unhesitatingly, much to the surprise of Mrs. Lumley. She would have known too, if she had been shut up there for a couple of hours in a shower-bath.

"I'll go to him as soon as I'm dressed," promised Mr. Lumley. "I pledge you my honour he shan't fight till I give him leave. Go to bed, my dear, and leave everything in my hands. Don't cry, there's a good girl. By the way, the housemaids here are infernally officious; you haven't seen a good specimen of the common house-spider anywhere about, have you?"

I assured the kind-hearted old naturalist I had not; and as he was already half out of bed, I took my departure, and sought my own couch—not to sleep, Heaven knows, but to toss and turn and tumble, and see horrid visions, waken as I was, and think of everything dreadful that might happen to my cousin, and confess to my own heart how I loved him now, and hated myself for having treated him as I had, and revel, as it were, in self-reproach and self-torture. It was broad daylight ere I fell into a sort of fitful dose, so out-wearied and over-excited was I, both in body and mind.



CHAPTER XXIV.

It is very disagreeable to face a large party with anything on your mind that you cannot help thinking must be known, or at least suspected, by your associates. When I came down to breakfast, after a hasty and uncomfortable toilette, and found the greater portion of the guests assembled at that gossiping meal, I could not help fancying that every listless dandy and affected fine lady present was acquainted with my proceedings during the last twelve hours, and was laughing in his or her sleeve accordingly. I cast a rapid and frightened glance round the table, and, to my infinite relief, beheld Cousin John eating his egg as composedly as possible; whilst a reassuring smile and a pleasant "Good-morning" from Mr. Lumley gave me to understand that his mediation had averted all fatal proceedings.

The other guests ate and drank, and laughed and chattered much as usual; but still I could not help remarking on the face of each of them a subdued expression of intelligence, as though in possession of some charming bit of news or delightful morsel of scandal. Lady Scapegrace was the first to put me on a footing of equality with the rest.

"We have lost some of our party, Kate," said she, as she handed me my tea. "I confess I suspected it last year, in London. She is a most amiable girl, and will have a large fortune."

I looked at her ladyship as if I was dreaming.

"You needn't be so surprised, Kate," said she, laughing at my utter bewilderment; "don't you miss anybody? Look round the table."

Sure enough the Molasses party were absent, and there was no Frank Lovell. Then it was true, after all! He had sold himself to that lackadaisical young lady, and had been making a fool of me, Kate Coventry, the whole time. How angry I ought to have been! I was surprised to find I was not. On the contrary, my first feeling was one of inexpressible relief, as I thought there was now no earthly obstacle between myself and that kind face on the other side of the breakfast-table; though too soon a horrid tide of doubts and fears surged up as I reflected on my own unworthiness and caprice.

How I had undervalued that noble, generous character! How often I had wounded and annoyed him in sheer carelessness or petulance, and thought little of inflicting on him days of pain to afford myself the short and doubtful amusement of an hour's flirtation and folly!

What if he should cast me off now? What if he had obtained an insight into my character which had cured him entirely of any regard he might previously have entertained for me? What if I should find that I had all my life been neglecting the gem which I was too ignorant to appreciate, and now, when I knew its real value and would give my life for it, it was beyond my grasp?

At all events, I would never forget him. Come what might now, I would never care for another. I felt quite glad Frank Lovell was as good as married, and out of the way. The instant I had swallowed my breakfast I put my bonnet on and rushed into the garden, for I felt as if fresh air was indispensable to my very existence. The first person I met amongst the flower-beds was dear old Mr. Lumley. He had hobbled out on his crutches purposely to give me an interview. I thanked him, as if he had been my father, for all his kindness; and he talked to me gently and considerately, as a parent would to a child.

"I promised you, my dear, that they should not fight, and I think I have kept my word. Your cousin, Miss Coventry, is a noble fellow," said the old man, his benevolent features kindling into admiration; "but I had more difficulty with him than his antagonist. He would not be satisfied till Captain Lovell had assured him, on his honour, that you had yourself declined his advances in a manner which admitted of no misconstruction; and that then, and not till then, he considered himself free. You were right, my dear—I am an old man, and I take a great interest in you, so do not think me impertinent—you were right to have nothing to say to a roue and a gambler.

"I was not always the old cripple you are so forbearing with now. I lived in the world once, and saw a good deal of life and men. My experience has convinced me that selfishness is the bane of the generality of mankind; but that nowhere is it so thoroughly developed as in those who live what people call 'by their wits,' and enjoy all the luxuries and pleasures of life by dint of imposing on the world. I consider Frank Lovell, though we all vote him such a good fellow, one of that class, and I do not think he would have made a good husband to my young friend Miss Coventry. Your cousin, my dear, is a character of another stamp altogether; and if, as I hear everybody say, he is really to be married to that Welsh girl, I think you will agree with me that she has got a prize such as falls to the lot of few."

Mr. Lumley was by this time out of breath; but I could not have answered him to save my life. Like one of his own favourite house-spiders, I had been unconsciously spinning a web of delightful self-delusion, and here came the ruthless housemaid and swept it all away. How blind I must have been not to see it long ago! John might be very fond of pheasant-shooting, and I believe, when the game is plentiful and the thing well managed, that sport is fascinating enough; but people don't travel night and day into such a country as Wales, where there are no railroads, merely for the purpose of standing in a ride and knocking over a certain quantity of half-tame fowls. No, no; I ought to have seen it long ago. I had lost him now, and now I knew his value when it was too late. Too late!—the knell that tolls over half the hopes and half the visions of life.

Too late!—the one bitter drop that poisons the whole cup of success. Too late! The golden fruit has long hung temptingly just above your grasp; you have laboured and striven and persevered, and you seize it at last and press it to your thirsty lips. Dust and ashes are your reward. The fruit is still the same, but it is too late: your desire for it is gone, or your power of enjoying it has failed you at the very moment of fruition; all that remains to you is the keen pang of disappointment, or, worse still, the apathy of disgust. I might have made John my slave a few weeks ago, and now—it was too provoking, and for that Welsh girl too! How I hated everything Welsh! Not Ancient Pistol, eating his enforced leek with its accompanying sauce, could have entertained a greater aversion for the Principality than I did at that moment.

Presently we were joined by Lady Scapegrace. She too had got something pleasant to say to me.

"I told you so, Kate," she observed, taking my arm, and leading me down one of those secluded walks—"I told you so all along. Your friend Captain Lovell proposed to Miss Molasses yesterday. Don't blame him too much, Kate; if he's not married within three weeks, he'll be in the Bench. Never mind how I know, but I do know. I think he has behaved infamously to you, I confess; but take comfort, my dear—you are not the first by a good many."

I put it to my impartial reader whether such a remark, though made with the kindest intentions, was not enough to drive any woman mad with spite. I broke away from Lady Scapegrace, and rushed back into the house. We were to leave Scamperley that day by the afternoon train. Gertrude was already packing my things; but I was obliged to go to the drawing-room for some work I had left there, and in the drawing-room I found a whole bevy of ladies assembled over their different occupations.

Women never spare each other; and I had to go through the ordeal, administered ruthlessly, and with a refinement of cruelty known only to ourselves. Even Mrs. Lumley, my own familiar friend, had no mercy.

"We ought to congratulate you, I conclude, Miss Coventry," said one.

"He's a relation of yours, is he not?" inquired another.

"Only a very great friend," laughed Mrs. Lumley, shaking her curls.

"It's a great marriage for him," some one else went on to say—"far better than he deserves. Poor thing! he'll lead her a sad life; he's a shocking flirt!"

Now, if there is one thing to my mind more contemptible than another, it is that male impostor whom ladies so charitably designate by the mild term "a flirt." It is all fair for us to have our little harmless vanities and weaknesses. We are shamefully debarred from the nobler pursuits and avocations of life; so we may be excused for passing the time in such trivial manoeuvres as we can invent to excite the envy of our own and triumph over the pride of the opposite sex. But that a man should lower himself to act the part of a slave, "tied to an apron-string," and voluntarily be a fool, without being an honest one—it is too degrading!

Such a despicable being does us an infinity of harm: he encourages us to display all the worst points of the female character; he cheats us of our due amount of homage from many a noble heart, and perhaps robs us of our own dignity and self-respect. Yet such is the creature we encourage in our blind vanity, and whilst we vote him "so pleasant and agreeable," temper our commendation with the mild remonstrance, "though I am afraid he's rather a flirt!"

I saw the drawing-room on that morning was no place for me; so I folded my work, and curbing my tongue, which I own had a strong inclination to take its part in the war of words, I sought my own room, and found there, in addition to the litter and discomfort inseparable from the process of packing, a letter just arrived by the post. It was in Cousin Amelia's hand, and bore the Dangerfield postmark. "What now?" I thought, dreading to open it lest it might contain some fresh object of annoyance, some further inquiries or remarks calculated to irritate my already overdriven temper out of due bounds.

"Cousin Amelia never writes to me unless she has something unpleasant to say," was my mental observation, "and a very little more would fill the cup to overflowing. Whatever happens, I am determined not to cry; rather than face all those ladies with red eyes when I go to wish Lady Scapegrace good-bye, I would forego the pleasure of ever receiving a letter or hearing a bit of news again!"

So I popped Cousin Amelia's epistle into my pocket without breaking the seal, and put on my bonnet at once, that I might be ready to start, and not keep Cousin John waiting.

The leavetaking was got over more easily than I expected. People generally hustle one off in as great a hurry as the common decencies of society would admit of, in order to shorten as much as possible the unavoidable gene of parting. Sir Guy, staunch to his colours, was to drive me back on the detested drag; but his great face fell several inches when I expressed my determination to perform the journey this time inside.

"I've bitted the team on purpose for you, Miss Kate," he exclaimed, with one of his usual oaths, "and now you throw me over at the last moment. Too bad; by all that's disappointing, it's too bad! Come now, think better of it; put on my box-coat, and catch hold of 'em, there's a good girl."

"Inside, or not at all, Sir Guy," was my answer; and I can be pretty determined, too, when I choose.

"Then perhaps your maid would like to come on the box," urged the Baronet, who seemed to have set his heart on the enjoyment of some female society.

"Gertrude goes with me," I replied stoutly; for I thought Cousin John looked pleased, and Sir Guy was at a nonplus.

"Awfully high temper," he muttered, as he took his reins and placed his foot on the roller-bolt. "I like 'em saucy, I own, but this girl's a regular vixen!"

Sir Guy was very much put out, and vented his annoyance on his off-wheeler, "double-thonging" that unfortunate animal most unmercifully the whole way to the station. He bade me farewell with a coldness, and almost sulkiness, quite foreign to his usual demeanour, and infinitely pleasanter to my feelings. Besides, I saw plainly that the more I fell in the Baronet's good opinion, the higher I rose in that of my chaperone; and by the time John and I were fairly settled in a coupe, my cousin had got back to his old, frank, cordial manner, and I took courage to break the seal of Cousin Amelia's letter, and peruse that interesting document, regardless of all the sarcasms and innuendoes it might probably contain.

What a jumble of incongruities it was! Long stories about the weather, and the garden, and the farm, and all sorts of things which no one knew better than I did had no interest for my correspondent whatever. I remarked, however, throughout the whole composition, that "mamma's" sentiments and regulations were treated with an unusual degree of contempt, and the writer's own opinions asserted with a boldness and freedom I had never before observed in my strait-laced, hypocritical cousin. Mr. Haycock's name, too, was very frequently brought on the tapis: he seemed to have breakfasted with them, lunched with them, walked, driven, played billiards with them, and, in short, to have taken up his residence almost entirely at Dangerfield. The postscript explained it all, and the postscript I give verbatim as I read it aloud to Cousin John whilst we were whizzing along at the rate of forty miles an hour.

"P.S.—I am sure my dear Kate will give me joy. You cannot have forgotten a certain person calling this autumn at Dangerfield for a certain purpose, in which he did not seem clearly to know his own mind. Everything is now explained. My dear Herod (is it not a pretty Christian name!)—my dear Herod is all that I can wish, and assures me that all along it was intended for me. The happy day is not yet fixed; but my dearest Kate may rest assured that I will not fail to give her the earliest intelligence on the first opportunity. Tell Mr. Jones I shall be married before him, after all."

The last sentence escaped my lips without my meaning it. Had I not come upon it unexpectedly, I think I should have kept it to myself. John blushed, and looked hurt. For a few minutes there was a disagreeable silence, which we both felt awkward. He was the first to break it.

"Kate," said he, "do you think I shall be married before Miss Horsingham?"

"How can I tell?" I replied, looking steadfastly out of the window, whilst my colour rose and my heart beat rapidly.

"Do you believe that Welsh story, Kate?" proceeded my cousin.

I knew by his voice it couldn't be true; I felt it was a slander; and I whispered, "No."

"One more question, Kate," urged Cousin John, in a thick, low voice. "Why did you refuse Frank Lovell?"

"He never proposed to me," I answered; "I never gave him an opportunity."

"Why not?" said my cousin.

"Because I liked some one else better," was my reply; and I think those few words settled the whole business.

* * * * *

I shall soon be five-and-twenty now, and on my birthday I am to be married. Aunt Deborah has got better ever since it has all been settled. Everybody seems pleased, and I am sure no one can be better pleased than I am. Only Lady Horsingham says, "Kate will never settle." I think I know better. I think I shall make none the worse a wife because I can walk, and ride, and get up early, and stand all weathers, and love the simple, wholesome, natural pleasures of the country. John thinks so too, and that is all I need care about.

I have such a charming trousseau, though I am ashamed to say I take very little pleasure in looking at it. But kind, thoughtful Cousin John has presented Brilliant with an entirely new set of clothing; and I think my horse seems almost more delighted with his finery than his mistress is with hers. My Cousin and I ride together every day. Dear me, how delightful it is to think that I shall always be as happy as I am now!

THE END.



NELSON'S CLASSICS

A Library of Masterpieces, well printed, well bound in cloth, and unabridged.



UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME.

Tom Brown's Schooldays. THOMAS HUGHES.

Since its publication more than half a century ago, this book has been the only school story which a boy recognizes as true to life.

Henry Esmond. W. M. THACKERAY.

If the merit of a historical novel be the exact reproduction of the life of another age, then Esmond is the greatest of its class. No other book has caught more perfectly the flavour of the later Stuart times.

Kenilworth. Sir WALTER SCOTT.

Like all Sir Walter Scott's books, Kenilworth is a great picture of a historical epoch, and it is also a very great and wonderful drama.

Quentin Durward. Sir WALTER SCOTT.

One of the most brilliant of Scott's romances. It presents a wonderfully powerful and moving picture of the times of Louis the Eleventh.

Ivanhoe. Sir WALTER SCOTT.

The most popular novel of Sir Walter Scott, and the first which every boy reads. It has given a living interest to an age which, in other hands, becomes a mere catalogue of conventional antiquities.

Adam Bede. GEORGE ELIOT.

The book which made Mrs. Carlyle feel "in charity with the whole human race" could be no ordinary one. Adam Bede contains all George Eliot's broad and catholic knowledge of life, and the characters are all drawn by the hand of a master.

The Mill on the Floss. GEORGE ELIOT.

This is perhaps the best beloved of modern novels. It is the book in which George Eliot put most of her early life, and of all her heroines Maggie Tulliver is the one on whom she has expended most care and tenderness.

Oliver Twist. CHARLES DICKENS.

In this book Dickens achieved the dual purpose which he had always before him. He wrote a great story, and he laboured also to redress a great social scandal. In no other, perhaps, except A Tale of Two Cities, is the tragic power which lay behind all his humour apparent in so wonderful a degree.

The Old Curiosity Shop. CHARLES DICKENS.

This book, largely biographical, has always been one of the most popular of the author's works. Humour and pathos are mingled in it, for if we have on the one hand Little Nell, on the other we have "The Marchioness," Mrs. Jarley, and the immortal Codlin and Short.

A Tale of Two Cities. CHARLES DICKENS.

Sidney Carton is almost the only case in which Dickens has drawn a hero on the true heroic scale, and his famous act of self-sacrifice is unmatched in fiction. The book must be ranked very high among the great tragedies in literature.

A Child's History of England. CHARLES DICKENS.

Amongst histories for children this is easily first. It possesses all Dickens's wonderful force, vivacity, and keen insight into human nature, and his characteristic enthusiasm for all that is loyal, manly, and true.

Hard Times. CHARLES DICKENS.

A bitter and scathing satire on the belief in "Facts, nothing but Facts" in education, the results developed in a tale of deep and pathetic interest.

Westward Ho! CHARLES KINGSLEY.

This is the best novel ever written on the greatest age of English adventure. It is a saga of the Devonshire sailors who, like Drake, sailed to the unknown to found an empire for their queen, "as good as any which his Majesty of Spain had." The story swings from start to close at a breathless pace.

Hypatia. CHARLES KINGSLEY.

This book is a remarkable instance of the range of Kingsley's powers. No difference could be greater than that between the stirring age of Elizabeth and that of Alexandria in the fifth century, when the world was occupied with barren ecclesiastical strife. Hypatia, the last defender of the pagan faith, is a wonderful study, and the whole book is a brilliant picture of the passing of the old faiths of Greece and Rome.

The Last Days of Pompeii. Lord LYTTON.

A classical romance is always a difficult form of art, but Lord Lytton's is easily the most successful. He does not overload his narrative with antiquarian details, and the story moves rapidly to its great climax. It is a brilliant and imaginative picture of the later Roman civilization.

The Cloister and the Hearth. CHARLES READE.

There are many who think this the greatest of all historical novels, and it is certain that there are few better. It is not a story so much as a vast and varied transcript of life. It is also a delightful romance, and Gerard and Margaret are among the immortals of fiction.

John Halifax, Gentleman. Mrs. CRAIK.

This simple and candid study of one who lived up to the standard of truth and honour and courtesy which an earlier age defined by the word "gentleman" is one of the most popular novels of last century, and there is no sign that its attraction is waning.

Cranford. Mrs. GASKELL.

To praise Cranford at this time of day is an idle task. After being overshadowed for a little, it has taken its place finally among the masterpieces of English fiction, along with Jane Austen and the Vicar of Wakefield. There has never been a more delightful and tender study of English village life, or one in which insight is so joined with kindliness.

East Lynne, Mrs. HENRY WOOD. The Channings.

Mrs. Wood has long been the most popular of writers, and the publishers are glad to be able to add her two chief novels to their series. The whole world is familiar with her characters.

The Deerslayer, FENIMORE COOPER. The Last of the Mohicans, " The Pathfinder. "

Fenimore Cooper was the Scott of America, the man who, by turning his own history into great romance, gave it immortality. Many years have passed since the first publication of these books, and there have been many imitators, but their merits still remain unsurpassed.

The Three Musketeers. ALEXANDRE DUMAS.

Dumas is, after Scott, the foremost of historical novelists, and The Three Musketeers is, by universal consent, his masterpiece. It tells of a great companionship in arms, and the names of Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and D'Artagnan are among the most familiar to all lovers of good fiction. No man had so generous an imagination, so great a sense of drama, so boyish a love of high enterprises, or so masterly a power of narrative.

Villette. CHARLOTTE BRONTE.

From an artistic point of view, the most perfect of Charlotte Bronte's stories. Practically an autobiography, it abounds with rich humour and keen analysis of character.

Pride and Prejudice, JANE AUSTEN. Sense and Sensibility. "

Jane Austen's novels were Sir Walter Scott's especial favourites, and of recent years their charm has won for them a great revival of popularity.

Uncle Tom's Cabin. Mrs. H. B. STOWE.

This is one of the books which have made history. It was the chief instrument in the abolition of slavery in America, and it has touched the conscience of mankind; but it is not only a great propagandist work, it is also a brilliant story.

The Bible in Spain. GEORGE BORROW.

One of the most brilliant and entertaining of books of travel.

The Pilgrim's Progress. JOHN BUNYAN.

Robinson Crusoe. DANIEL DEFOE.

Gulliver's Travels. DEAN SWIFT.

Three immortal works, of which nothing remains to be said that has not been said over and over again.

In Preparation.

Silas Marner. GEORGE ELIOT.

Notre Dame. VICTOR HUGO.



* * * * *



TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:

The following misprints in the original have been corrected:

men think they are begining to grow old! (beginning) the very personification of that danydism (dandyism) in London that would destory (destroy) "Traitre!" shouted the marquis; (Traitre) The Frenchmen sacreed, and fumed (sacreed)

THE END