Volume One—Chapter Eleven.

Volume One—Chapter Eleven.Family Matters.Captain Robert Millet’s lunch was carried up to him upon a very stiff, narrow tray, which took dishes and plates one after the other in a long row. It was evidently something or several somethings very savoury and nice from the odours exhaled, but everything was carefully covered over.It was no easy task, the carriage of that long, narrow tray from the basement to the back drawing-room on the first floor, especially as there were gravies and other liquids on the tray; but Valentine Vidler and his wife had taken up breakfasts, lunches, and dinners too many thousand times to be in any difficulty now.So, starting from the dark kitchen, where coppers, pewters, and tins shone like so many moons amidst the gloom, the odd couple each took an end of the tray, which was quite six feet long, and Vidler’s own invention. Salome went first, backwards, and Vidler followed over the level, when, as the little woman reached the mat at the foot of the kitchen stairs, there was a pause, while she held the tray with one hand and gave her long garments a hitch, so as to hold one end in her teeth and not tread upon them as she went up backwards. Then, stooping and holding the tray as low as she could, she began to ascend, Vidler following and gradually raising his end to preserve the level of the tray till he held it right above his head.This raising and lowering in ascent and upon level was all carried out in the most exact and regular way—in fact, so practised had the old couple grown in the course of years, that they could have carried a brimming glass of water up the gloomy stairs without spilling a drop. Hence, then, they reached the drawing-room with the tray preserving its equilibrium from bottom to top.As soon as they were inside Salome placed her end upon the little bracket while Vidler retained his; then she went out of the room, took up a big, soft drumstick, and gave three gentle taps on a gong that hung in its frame—three taps at long intervals, which sounded like the boomings of a bell at the funeral of a fish and a fowl—and then returned to the drawing-room and stood on the right-hand side of the panel close to the wall with one hand raised.As she took her place the panel was softly slid back towards her. Then she took off the first cover, Vidler acting in conjunction, made the long tray glide slowly forwards into the opening, its end evidently resting on something within. Then two hands appeared, a knife and fork were used, with a glass at intervals, and the fish was discussed.As soon as the knife and fork were laid down Salome whipped off two more covers, and the tray glided in a couple of feet further, both the lady and her lord keeping their eyes fixed upon the floor.The calmness and ease with which all this was carried on indicated long practice, and for precision no amount of drilling could have secured greater regularity. As the knife and fork fell upon the plate again there was a pause, for a pint decanter and glass were pushed opposite the thin white hands that now approached, and, removing the stopper, filled the glass. Then a cover was raised, and the tray glided onward once more, with some steaming asparagus on toast; and after a short pause the cold, colourless voice was heard to repeat a short grace, the tray was slowly withdrawn, the panel glided to, and Vidler and his little wife bore the remains of the luncheon to the lower regions.Hardly had the tray been set down before there was a double knock, and on going upstairs Vidler found John Huish at the front door.“Would Captain Millet give me an interview, Vidler?” he asked.The little man looked at him sidewise, then tried the other eye, and ended by standing out of the way and letting the visitor enter, shutting out the light again as carefully as before.“I’ll try, sir,” he said; “I don’t think he will. I was just going to take up that,” he continued, pointing to a basket of coloured scraps of print. “He’s about to begin a new counterpane to-day.”“A new what?” said Huish.“A new counterpane for the Home Charity. That’ll be six he has made this year. I’ll show you the last.”He led Huish into the darkened dining-room, and showed him a wonderfully neat piece of needlework, a regular set pattern, composed of hundreds upon hundreds of tiny scraps of cotton print.“Makes ’em better than many women could, and almost in the dark,” said the little man; “but I’ll go up and see. Miss Millet and her sister have not been gone long.”“What!” cried Huish, “from here?”“Gone nearly or quite an hour ago, sir. Been a good deal lately.”“My usual fortune,” muttered Huish excitedly. “But go up,” he said aloud; “I particularly want to have a few words with him.”“I don’t think it’s of any use, sir; but I’ll see,” repeated the little man; and he went upstairs, to return at the end of about five minutes to beckon the visitor up, and left him facing the panel.It was evident that the young man had been there before, as he took a seat, and waited patiently for the panel to unclose, which it did at last, but not until quite a quarter of an hour had passed.“Well, John Huish,” said the voice, “what do you want?”It was rather a chilling reception for one who had come upon such a mission; but he was prepared for it, and dashed at once into the object of his visit, in spite of the peculiarity of having to address himself to a square opening in the wall.“I have come for advice and counsel,” said Huish firmly.“You, a man of the world, living in the world, come to such an anchorite as I!” said the voice—“as I, who have for pretty well thirty years been dead to society and its ways?”“Yes,” said Huish. “I come to you because you can help.”“How much do you want, John Huish?” said the voice. “Give me the pen and ink.”The thin white hand appeared impatiently at the opening, with the fingers clutching as if to take the pen.“No, no, no!” said the young man hastily. “It is not that. Let me tell you,” he exclaimed, as the fingers ceased to clutch impatiently at the air and the white hand rested calmly upon the edge of the opening—“let me speak plainly, for I am not ashamed of it—I am in love.”There was a faint sigh here, hardly audible to the young man, who went on:“I come to you for help and advice.”“What can I do to help? As for advice,” said the voice coldly, “I will do what I can. Is she worthy of your love?”“Worthy?” cried Huish, flushing. “She is an angel.”“Yes,” said the voice, with a sigh. “They all are. But, tell me, does she refuse you.”“No, sir.”“Then what more do you want? Who and what is she?”These last words were said with more approach to interest, and the fingers began to tap the edge of the opening.“It is presumption on my part,” said Huish, growing excited, and rising to stride up and down the room, “for I am poor and unworthy of her.”“No true honourable man is unworthy of the woman he loves,” said the voice calmly, “though he may, perhaps, be unsuited. Go on. Who is the lady?”“Who is she, sir? I believed that you must know. It is your niece—Gertrude.”“My God!”It was almost a whisper, but John Huish heard it, and saw that the thin white hand seemed to be jerked upwards, falling slowly back, though, to remain upon the edge of the opening trembling.“I shock you, sir, by my announcement,” said Huish bitterly.“No—yes—no; net shock—surprise me greatly.” There was a pause, and the fingers trembled as they were now and again raised, then grew steady as they were laid down. “But tell me,” it continued, trembling and becoming less cold, “does Gertrude return your love?”“Oh yes, Heaven bless her, yes!” cried the young man fervently; and there was another silence, such as might have ensued had the owner of the voice been trying to master some emotion.“What more, then, do you want?” said the voice, now greatly changed. “You, an honourable young man, in love with a girl who is all sweetness and purity. It is strange; but it is the will of God. Marry her, and may He bless the union!”“Captain Millet, you make me very, very happy,” cried the young man; and before the hand could be removed it was seized and pressed in his strong grasp.It was withdrawn directly, and a fresh silence ensued, when the voice said softly:“And my brother, does he approve?”“Oh yes; I think so,” replied Huish; “but—”“The mother objects—of course. She has made her choice. Who is it?”“Lord Henry Moorpark.”“A man nearly three times her age. It would be a crime. You will not permit such an outrage against her youth. Moorpark must be mad.”“What can I do, sir?” cried Huish. “That is why I ask your help and counsel.”“Bah!” said the voice contemptuously. “You are young and strong; you have your wits; Gertrude loves you, and you ask me for help and counsel! John Huish, at your age, under such circumstances, it would have been a bold man who would have robbed me of my prize. There, go—go, young man, and think and act. Poor Gertrude! she has a mother who makes Mammon her God—a woman who has broken one of her children’s hearts; do not let her break that of the other. Go now, I am weary: this has been a tiring day. You can come to me again.”“Do not let her break that of the other,” said John Huish to himself as the panel slowly closed; and from that moment the dim twilight of the shuttered house became to him glorious with light, and he went away feeling joyous and elastic as he had not felt for days. As he neared his chambers a thin, grey, hard-faced-looking woman, who had stood watching for quite an hour, stepped out of a doorway and touched him on the arm.He turned sharply, and she said in a low voice:“I must see you. Come to-morrow night at the old time.”Before he could speak she had hurried away, turned down the next street, and was gone.“To-morrow night—the old time?” said Huish, gazing after her, and then raising his hat to place his hand upon his forehead. “Quite cool. Is it fancy? Why should that woman speak to me?”Then, turning upon his heel, he entered the door of his chambers, and set himself to work to think over his interview, and to devise some plan for defeating Lady Millet in her projected enterprise.“It would shock her,” he said at last; “but when she knows of her uncle’s views she might be influenced. She must, she shall be. The poor old man’s words have given me strength, and I shall win, after all. But what slaves we are to custom and prejudice! I ought not to be the man to study them in such a case as this.”Then the words just spoken to him at the door came back to puzzle and set him thinking of several other encounters—or fancied encounters with people whom he felt that he had never seen before.“I don’t know what to say to it,” he thought; “Stonor ought to know; but somehow I feel as if he had not grasped my case. There, I will not trouble about that now.”He kept the thoughts which troubled him from his brain for a time, but they soon forced themselves back with others.“I wonder,” he mused, “what took place in the past? There must have been something. My father and mother must have known Captain Millet very intimately. He received his injury from some fall, and Dr Stonor saved his limb, I believe. But there’s a reticence about all that time which is aggravating. I suppose I must wait, and when I learn everything which puzzles me now, it will be only shadowy and vague. Only my mother always asks about the Captain with so tender a tone of respect. Ah, well! I must wait.”At about the same time that John Huish was pondering over his state in connection with his love affairs, Renée Morrison called in her carriage for her sister, bore her off to where she thought they could be alone, and sent the carriage back. The place chosen was the Park, which, though pretty well thronged with people, seemed to them solitary, as they strolled across toward the Row.Gertrude was very silent, for she felt that Renée had something important to say; but the minutes sped on, and their scattered remarks had been of the most commonplace character, and at last, as she glanced sideways, Gertrude saw that if her sister were to confide her troubles and be the recipient of those effervescing in her own breast she herself must speak.“You do not confide in me, Renée dear,” she said tenderly, as they took a couple of chairs beneath one of the spreading trees. “Why do you not always make me more your confidant? One feels as if one could talk out here in the park, where there are no walls to listen. Come, dear, why do you not tell me all?”“Because I feel that my husband’s secrets are in my keeping, and that I should be doing wrong to speak of what he does.”“Not wrong in confiding in me, Renée. You are not happy. Oh, Ren, Ren, why did you consent? Trouble, and so soon!”“Don’t talk to me like that, now, Gerty,” cried Renée in a low, passionate voice, “because it was mamma’s will that we should marry well and have establishments, and satisfy her pride. Sometimes I think it would have been better if I had never been born.”“Oh, Ren, Ren,” her sister whispered, pressing her hand. “But Frank—he is kind to you?”“Yes,” said Renée sadly; “he is never angry with me.”“But I mean kind and loving and attentive, as your husband should be?” said Gertrude softly.Renée looked at her with a sad, heavy look, and now that the first confidence had been made, her heart was open to her sister.“Gertrude,” she whispered to her, “he never loved me!”“Oh, Ren dear, think what you are saying!”“I do think, dear, and I say it once more. He never loved me.”“But, Renée, you have been kind and loving to him.”“Yes, as tender as a woman could be to the man she had sworn to love; but he does not care for me, and I am haunted.”“Haunted, Renée?”“Yes; hush! Here is Major Malpas.”Gertrude glanced in the direction taken by her sister’s eyes, and her heart seemed to be compressed as by a cold hand, as she turned indignantly to her sister.“Renée!” she said, in a horrified whisper, “oh, do not say you care for him still!”“Gertrude!” cried Renée, catching her hand, “how dare you say that! I hate—I detest him! I thought him a gentleman once, and I did love him; but that was over when I married Frank, and since then he has haunted me; he follows me everywhere, and Frank makes him his constant companion, and he leads him away.”“Oh, this is dreadful!”“Dreadful!” cried Renée, “I feel at times that I cannot bear it. Come away: he has seen us, and is coming here.”“Is—is that Mr Huish?” whispered Gertrude, gazing in another direction.“Yes. Who is the dark lady on his arm?”“I do not know,” said Gertrude quietly. “Some friend, perhaps; but, look, is not that Frank?”She drew her sister’s attention towards a phaeton in which Frank Morrison was driving a handsome-looking woman dressed in the height of fashion; and directly Renée saw him plainly the Major came up.“What a delightful meeting, Miss Millet!” he said. “Mrs Morrison, I hope I shall not bede trop?”“My husband’s friends have too great a claim on me,” said Renée quietly, as she left her seat and moved in the direction of her own home; but she kept glancing in the direction taken by the phaeton.It was cleverly-managed, and as if Malpas knew exactly when the carriage would next come by, timing his place so well that the sisters were close to the railings as the dashing pair scattered some of the earth over the young wife’s dress.“Who is that with Frank Morrison, Major Malpas?” said Gertrude quickly.“I beg your pardon?” he said.“That fashionably-dressed lady in my brother-in-law’s phaeton. There they go.”“Indeed!” said the Major. “I was not looking. Are you sure it was he?”“Certain,” replied Gertrude.“My dear Mrs Morrison, is anything the matter?” cried the Major, with a voice full of sympathy.“No, nothing,” said the young wife, who was now deadly pale. “May I ask you—to leave us?”“Yes,” he said earnestly; “but I shall not go. Pray take my arm. Miss Millet, your sister is ill. I fear you have been imprudent and have taxed her strength. I must see her safely home, or I could not face Morrison again.”“He haunts me!” thought Gertrude to herself, as she recalled her sister’s words, and found that the Major persisted in walking by her side till they reached Chesham Place, where, murmuring his satisfaction that Renée seemed better, he left the sisters in the hall.“All things come to the man who waits,” he muttered to himself, as he went off smiling.“Renée,” said Gertrude, as soon as they were alone, “have you ever encouraged him in any way since your marriage? How is it he seems to have such a hold upon you?”“I do not know—I cannot tell,” said Renée wearily, as, with brow contracted, she sat thinking of the scene in the Park. “But do not mention him—do not think of him, Gertrude dear; he is as nothing in face of this new misery.”“New misery?” said Gertrude innocently.“Yes,” cried Renée passionately; “do you not see? Oh, Frank, Frank!” she moaned, “why do you treat me so?”Gertrude, upon whom all this came like a revelation, strove to comfort her, and to point out that her fears might be mere exaggerations, but her sister turned sharply.“You do not understand these things, Gertrude,” she said. “He does not love me as he should, and, knowing this, Major Malpas has never ceased to try and tempt him away from me—to the clubs—to gambling parties, from which he comes home hot and feverish; and now it seems that worse is to follow. Oh, mother, mother! you have secured me an establishment which I would gladly change for the humblest cottage, if it contained my husband’s faithful love.”Gertrude’s heart beat fast at these words, and a faltering purpose became strengthened.“But, Ren darling,” she whispered; “have you spoken to him and tried to win him from such associations? Frank is so good at heart.”“Yes,” sighed Renée; “but so weak and easily led away. Spoken to him, Gertrude? No, dear. As his wife, I have felt that I must ignore such things. I would not know that he visited such places—that he gambled—that he returned home excited. I have put all such thoughts aside, and met him always with the same smile of welcome, when my heart has been well-nigh broken.”“My poor sister!” whispered Gertrude, drawing her head to her breast and thinking of the husband and establishment that her mother had arranged for her to possess.“But this I feel that I cannot bear,” cried Renée impetuously. “It is too great an outrage!”“Oh, Ren, Ren!” whispered Gertrude, “do not judge him too rashly; wait and see—it may be all a mistake.”“Mistake!” said Renée bitterly; “did you not see him driving that woman out? Did you not see her occupying the place that should be mine?”“Yes—yes,” faltered Gertrude; “but still there may be some explanation.”“Yes,” said Renée at last, as she dried her tears and sat up, looking very cold and stern; “there may be, and we will wait and see. At all events, I will not say one single harsh word.”Gertrude left her at last quite calm and composed, the brougham being ordered for her use, and she sat back thinking of John Huish with the dark lady; but only to smile, for no jealous fancy troubled her breast.End of Volume One.

Captain Robert Millet’s lunch was carried up to him upon a very stiff, narrow tray, which took dishes and plates one after the other in a long row. It was evidently something or several somethings very savoury and nice from the odours exhaled, but everything was carefully covered over.

It was no easy task, the carriage of that long, narrow tray from the basement to the back drawing-room on the first floor, especially as there were gravies and other liquids on the tray; but Valentine Vidler and his wife had taken up breakfasts, lunches, and dinners too many thousand times to be in any difficulty now.

So, starting from the dark kitchen, where coppers, pewters, and tins shone like so many moons amidst the gloom, the odd couple each took an end of the tray, which was quite six feet long, and Vidler’s own invention. Salome went first, backwards, and Vidler followed over the level, when, as the little woman reached the mat at the foot of the kitchen stairs, there was a pause, while she held the tray with one hand and gave her long garments a hitch, so as to hold one end in her teeth and not tread upon them as she went up backwards. Then, stooping and holding the tray as low as she could, she began to ascend, Vidler following and gradually raising his end to preserve the level of the tray till he held it right above his head.

This raising and lowering in ascent and upon level was all carried out in the most exact and regular way—in fact, so practised had the old couple grown in the course of years, that they could have carried a brimming glass of water up the gloomy stairs without spilling a drop. Hence, then, they reached the drawing-room with the tray preserving its equilibrium from bottom to top.

As soon as they were inside Salome placed her end upon the little bracket while Vidler retained his; then she went out of the room, took up a big, soft drumstick, and gave three gentle taps on a gong that hung in its frame—three taps at long intervals, which sounded like the boomings of a bell at the funeral of a fish and a fowl—and then returned to the drawing-room and stood on the right-hand side of the panel close to the wall with one hand raised.

As she took her place the panel was softly slid back towards her. Then she took off the first cover, Vidler acting in conjunction, made the long tray glide slowly forwards into the opening, its end evidently resting on something within. Then two hands appeared, a knife and fork were used, with a glass at intervals, and the fish was discussed.

As soon as the knife and fork were laid down Salome whipped off two more covers, and the tray glided in a couple of feet further, both the lady and her lord keeping their eyes fixed upon the floor.

The calmness and ease with which all this was carried on indicated long practice, and for precision no amount of drilling could have secured greater regularity. As the knife and fork fell upon the plate again there was a pause, for a pint decanter and glass were pushed opposite the thin white hands that now approached, and, removing the stopper, filled the glass. Then a cover was raised, and the tray glided onward once more, with some steaming asparagus on toast; and after a short pause the cold, colourless voice was heard to repeat a short grace, the tray was slowly withdrawn, the panel glided to, and Vidler and his little wife bore the remains of the luncheon to the lower regions.

Hardly had the tray been set down before there was a double knock, and on going upstairs Vidler found John Huish at the front door.

“Would Captain Millet give me an interview, Vidler?” he asked.

The little man looked at him sidewise, then tried the other eye, and ended by standing out of the way and letting the visitor enter, shutting out the light again as carefully as before.

“I’ll try, sir,” he said; “I don’t think he will. I was just going to take up that,” he continued, pointing to a basket of coloured scraps of print. “He’s about to begin a new counterpane to-day.”

“A new what?” said Huish.

“A new counterpane for the Home Charity. That’ll be six he has made this year. I’ll show you the last.”

He led Huish into the darkened dining-room, and showed him a wonderfully neat piece of needlework, a regular set pattern, composed of hundreds upon hundreds of tiny scraps of cotton print.

“Makes ’em better than many women could, and almost in the dark,” said the little man; “but I’ll go up and see. Miss Millet and her sister have not been gone long.”

“What!” cried Huish, “from here?”

“Gone nearly or quite an hour ago, sir. Been a good deal lately.”

“My usual fortune,” muttered Huish excitedly. “But go up,” he said aloud; “I particularly want to have a few words with him.”

“I don’t think it’s of any use, sir; but I’ll see,” repeated the little man; and he went upstairs, to return at the end of about five minutes to beckon the visitor up, and left him facing the panel.

It was evident that the young man had been there before, as he took a seat, and waited patiently for the panel to unclose, which it did at last, but not until quite a quarter of an hour had passed.

“Well, John Huish,” said the voice, “what do you want?”

It was rather a chilling reception for one who had come upon such a mission; but he was prepared for it, and dashed at once into the object of his visit, in spite of the peculiarity of having to address himself to a square opening in the wall.

“I have come for advice and counsel,” said Huish firmly.

“You, a man of the world, living in the world, come to such an anchorite as I!” said the voice—“as I, who have for pretty well thirty years been dead to society and its ways?”

“Yes,” said Huish. “I come to you because you can help.”

“How much do you want, John Huish?” said the voice. “Give me the pen and ink.”

The thin white hand appeared impatiently at the opening, with the fingers clutching as if to take the pen.

“No, no, no!” said the young man hastily. “It is not that. Let me tell you,” he exclaimed, as the fingers ceased to clutch impatiently at the air and the white hand rested calmly upon the edge of the opening—“let me speak plainly, for I am not ashamed of it—I am in love.”

There was a faint sigh here, hardly audible to the young man, who went on:

“I come to you for help and advice.”

“What can I do to help? As for advice,” said the voice coldly, “I will do what I can. Is she worthy of your love?”

“Worthy?” cried Huish, flushing. “She is an angel.”

“Yes,” said the voice, with a sigh. “They all are. But, tell me, does she refuse you.”

“No, sir.”

“Then what more do you want? Who and what is she?”

These last words were said with more approach to interest, and the fingers began to tap the edge of the opening.

“It is presumption on my part,” said Huish, growing excited, and rising to stride up and down the room, “for I am poor and unworthy of her.”

“No true honourable man is unworthy of the woman he loves,” said the voice calmly, “though he may, perhaps, be unsuited. Go on. Who is the lady?”

“Who is she, sir? I believed that you must know. It is your niece—Gertrude.”

“My God!”

It was almost a whisper, but John Huish heard it, and saw that the thin white hand seemed to be jerked upwards, falling slowly back, though, to remain upon the edge of the opening trembling.

“I shock you, sir, by my announcement,” said Huish bitterly.

“No—yes—no; net shock—surprise me greatly.” There was a pause, and the fingers trembled as they were now and again raised, then grew steady as they were laid down. “But tell me,” it continued, trembling and becoming less cold, “does Gertrude return your love?”

“Oh yes, Heaven bless her, yes!” cried the young man fervently; and there was another silence, such as might have ensued had the owner of the voice been trying to master some emotion.

“What more, then, do you want?” said the voice, now greatly changed. “You, an honourable young man, in love with a girl who is all sweetness and purity. It is strange; but it is the will of God. Marry her, and may He bless the union!”

“Captain Millet, you make me very, very happy,” cried the young man; and before the hand could be removed it was seized and pressed in his strong grasp.

It was withdrawn directly, and a fresh silence ensued, when the voice said softly:

“And my brother, does he approve?”

“Oh yes; I think so,” replied Huish; “but—”

“The mother objects—of course. She has made her choice. Who is it?”

“Lord Henry Moorpark.”

“A man nearly three times her age. It would be a crime. You will not permit such an outrage against her youth. Moorpark must be mad.”

“What can I do, sir?” cried Huish. “That is why I ask your help and counsel.”

“Bah!” said the voice contemptuously. “You are young and strong; you have your wits; Gertrude loves you, and you ask me for help and counsel! John Huish, at your age, under such circumstances, it would have been a bold man who would have robbed me of my prize. There, go—go, young man, and think and act. Poor Gertrude! she has a mother who makes Mammon her God—a woman who has broken one of her children’s hearts; do not let her break that of the other. Go now, I am weary: this has been a tiring day. You can come to me again.”

“Do not let her break that of the other,” said John Huish to himself as the panel slowly closed; and from that moment the dim twilight of the shuttered house became to him glorious with light, and he went away feeling joyous and elastic as he had not felt for days. As he neared his chambers a thin, grey, hard-faced-looking woman, who had stood watching for quite an hour, stepped out of a doorway and touched him on the arm.

He turned sharply, and she said in a low voice:

“I must see you. Come to-morrow night at the old time.”

Before he could speak she had hurried away, turned down the next street, and was gone.

“To-morrow night—the old time?” said Huish, gazing after her, and then raising his hat to place his hand upon his forehead. “Quite cool. Is it fancy? Why should that woman speak to me?”

Then, turning upon his heel, he entered the door of his chambers, and set himself to work to think over his interview, and to devise some plan for defeating Lady Millet in her projected enterprise.

“It would shock her,” he said at last; “but when she knows of her uncle’s views she might be influenced. She must, she shall be. The poor old man’s words have given me strength, and I shall win, after all. But what slaves we are to custom and prejudice! I ought not to be the man to study them in such a case as this.”

Then the words just spoken to him at the door came back to puzzle and set him thinking of several other encounters—or fancied encounters with people whom he felt that he had never seen before.

“I don’t know what to say to it,” he thought; “Stonor ought to know; but somehow I feel as if he had not grasped my case. There, I will not trouble about that now.”

He kept the thoughts which troubled him from his brain for a time, but they soon forced themselves back with others.

“I wonder,” he mused, “what took place in the past? There must have been something. My father and mother must have known Captain Millet very intimately. He received his injury from some fall, and Dr Stonor saved his limb, I believe. But there’s a reticence about all that time which is aggravating. I suppose I must wait, and when I learn everything which puzzles me now, it will be only shadowy and vague. Only my mother always asks about the Captain with so tender a tone of respect. Ah, well! I must wait.”

At about the same time that John Huish was pondering over his state in connection with his love affairs, Renée Morrison called in her carriage for her sister, bore her off to where she thought they could be alone, and sent the carriage back. The place chosen was the Park, which, though pretty well thronged with people, seemed to them solitary, as they strolled across toward the Row.

Gertrude was very silent, for she felt that Renée had something important to say; but the minutes sped on, and their scattered remarks had been of the most commonplace character, and at last, as she glanced sideways, Gertrude saw that if her sister were to confide her troubles and be the recipient of those effervescing in her own breast she herself must speak.

“You do not confide in me, Renée dear,” she said tenderly, as they took a couple of chairs beneath one of the spreading trees. “Why do you not always make me more your confidant? One feels as if one could talk out here in the park, where there are no walls to listen. Come, dear, why do you not tell me all?”

“Because I feel that my husband’s secrets are in my keeping, and that I should be doing wrong to speak of what he does.”

“Not wrong in confiding in me, Renée. You are not happy. Oh, Ren, Ren, why did you consent? Trouble, and so soon!”

“Don’t talk to me like that, now, Gerty,” cried Renée in a low, passionate voice, “because it was mamma’s will that we should marry well and have establishments, and satisfy her pride. Sometimes I think it would have been better if I had never been born.”

“Oh, Ren, Ren,” her sister whispered, pressing her hand. “But Frank—he is kind to you?”

“Yes,” said Renée sadly; “he is never angry with me.”

“But I mean kind and loving and attentive, as your husband should be?” said Gertrude softly.

Renée looked at her with a sad, heavy look, and now that the first confidence had been made, her heart was open to her sister.

“Gertrude,” she whispered to her, “he never loved me!”

“Oh, Ren dear, think what you are saying!”

“I do think, dear, and I say it once more. He never loved me.”

“But, Renée, you have been kind and loving to him.”

“Yes, as tender as a woman could be to the man she had sworn to love; but he does not care for me, and I am haunted.”

“Haunted, Renée?”

“Yes; hush! Here is Major Malpas.”

Gertrude glanced in the direction taken by her sister’s eyes, and her heart seemed to be compressed as by a cold hand, as she turned indignantly to her sister.

“Renée!” she said, in a horrified whisper, “oh, do not say you care for him still!”

“Gertrude!” cried Renée, catching her hand, “how dare you say that! I hate—I detest him! I thought him a gentleman once, and I did love him; but that was over when I married Frank, and since then he has haunted me; he follows me everywhere, and Frank makes him his constant companion, and he leads him away.”

“Oh, this is dreadful!”

“Dreadful!” cried Renée, “I feel at times that I cannot bear it. Come away: he has seen us, and is coming here.”

“Is—is that Mr Huish?” whispered Gertrude, gazing in another direction.

“Yes. Who is the dark lady on his arm?”

“I do not know,” said Gertrude quietly. “Some friend, perhaps; but, look, is not that Frank?”

She drew her sister’s attention towards a phaeton in which Frank Morrison was driving a handsome-looking woman dressed in the height of fashion; and directly Renée saw him plainly the Major came up.

“What a delightful meeting, Miss Millet!” he said. “Mrs Morrison, I hope I shall not bede trop?”

“My husband’s friends have too great a claim on me,” said Renée quietly, as she left her seat and moved in the direction of her own home; but she kept glancing in the direction taken by the phaeton.

It was cleverly-managed, and as if Malpas knew exactly when the carriage would next come by, timing his place so well that the sisters were close to the railings as the dashing pair scattered some of the earth over the young wife’s dress.

“Who is that with Frank Morrison, Major Malpas?” said Gertrude quickly.

“I beg your pardon?” he said.

“That fashionably-dressed lady in my brother-in-law’s phaeton. There they go.”

“Indeed!” said the Major. “I was not looking. Are you sure it was he?”

“Certain,” replied Gertrude.

“My dear Mrs Morrison, is anything the matter?” cried the Major, with a voice full of sympathy.

“No, nothing,” said the young wife, who was now deadly pale. “May I ask you—to leave us?”

“Yes,” he said earnestly; “but I shall not go. Pray take my arm. Miss Millet, your sister is ill. I fear you have been imprudent and have taxed her strength. I must see her safely home, or I could not face Morrison again.”

“He haunts me!” thought Gertrude to herself, as she recalled her sister’s words, and found that the Major persisted in walking by her side till they reached Chesham Place, where, murmuring his satisfaction that Renée seemed better, he left the sisters in the hall.

“All things come to the man who waits,” he muttered to himself, as he went off smiling.

“Renée,” said Gertrude, as soon as they were alone, “have you ever encouraged him in any way since your marriage? How is it he seems to have such a hold upon you?”

“I do not know—I cannot tell,” said Renée wearily, as, with brow contracted, she sat thinking of the scene in the Park. “But do not mention him—do not think of him, Gertrude dear; he is as nothing in face of this new misery.”

“New misery?” said Gertrude innocently.

“Yes,” cried Renée passionately; “do you not see? Oh, Frank, Frank!” she moaned, “why do you treat me so?”

Gertrude, upon whom all this came like a revelation, strove to comfort her, and to point out that her fears might be mere exaggerations, but her sister turned sharply.

“You do not understand these things, Gertrude,” she said. “He does not love me as he should, and, knowing this, Major Malpas has never ceased to try and tempt him away from me—to the clubs—to gambling parties, from which he comes home hot and feverish; and now it seems that worse is to follow. Oh, mother, mother! you have secured me an establishment which I would gladly change for the humblest cottage, if it contained my husband’s faithful love.”

Gertrude’s heart beat fast at these words, and a faltering purpose became strengthened.

“But, Ren darling,” she whispered; “have you spoken to him and tried to win him from such associations? Frank is so good at heart.”

“Yes,” sighed Renée; “but so weak and easily led away. Spoken to him, Gertrude? No, dear. As his wife, I have felt that I must ignore such things. I would not know that he visited such places—that he gambled—that he returned home excited. I have put all such thoughts aside, and met him always with the same smile of welcome, when my heart has been well-nigh broken.”

“My poor sister!” whispered Gertrude, drawing her head to her breast and thinking of the husband and establishment that her mother had arranged for her to possess.

“But this I feel that I cannot bear,” cried Renée impetuously. “It is too great an outrage!”

“Oh, Ren, Ren!” whispered Gertrude, “do not judge him too rashly; wait and see—it may be all a mistake.”

“Mistake!” said Renée bitterly; “did you not see him driving that woman out? Did you not see her occupying the place that should be mine?”

“Yes—yes,” faltered Gertrude; “but still there may be some explanation.”

“Yes,” said Renée at last, as she dried her tears and sat up, looking very cold and stern; “there may be, and we will wait and see. At all events, I will not say one single harsh word.”

Gertrude left her at last quite calm and composed, the brougham being ordered for her use, and she sat back thinking of John Huish with the dark lady; but only to smile, for no jealous fancy troubled her breast.

End of Volume One.

Volume Two—Chapter One. The Story - Years Ago - (Continued).Mr Montaigne Establishes a Bond of Sympathy.Mr Paul Montaigne was one of those quiet, bland gentlemen who, apparently without an effort, seemed to know everything that went on in his immediate neighbourhood. He never asked questions, but waited patiently, and the result was that, drawn, perhaps, by his quiet, persuasive way, people told him all he wanted to know.Somehow, he had the knack of winning the confidence of women, and if he had been a confessor his would have been an easy task.There were those who said that he was a Jesuit, but when it came to his ears he merely smiled pityingly, and made a point of attending church at all the week-day services, and repeating the responses in a quiet, reverent way that, combined with his closed eyes, gave him the aspect of true devoutness.How he lived none knew, but it was supposed that he had an income from a vineyard in Central France, one which he had inherited from his father, an English gentleman who had had a taste for wine-growing.Mr Paul Montaigne never contradicted the rumour, and he never entered into particulars about his past. He had been the friend of the mother of Clotilde and Marie. He had brought the children over to England when quite a young man, with a very French look and a suggestion of his being a student at a French religious seminary. He had brought letters of introduction with him, and he had been in England ever since.Time seemed to have stood still with Paul Montaigne. Certainly, he was just a shade stouter, and there were a few bright, silvery-looking hairs about his temples; in other respects he looked quite a young man, for his smoothly-shaven face showed scarcely a line, his dark eyes were bright, and his black brows were as smoothly arched as if drawn with a pair of compasses.Upon that smooth face there was always a pensive, half-sad smile, one which he seemed to be constantly trying to wipe off with his soft, plump, well-shaped, and very white hand, but without success, for the smile was always there—the quiet, beseeching smile, that won so many women’s confidence, but sometimes had the contrary effect upon the sterner sex.Those who said that he was a student were to some extent right, for his modest lodgings at Teddington were well furnished with books, and he was a familiar object to many, as with his white hands clasped behind him he walked in his semi-clerical habit to and from the Palace at Hampton Court—through Bushey Park, and always on the same side of the road, making a point of pausing at the inlet of the Diana Pool to throw crumbs of bread to the eager fish, before continuing his walk in by the Lion Gate into the Palace gardens to the large fountain basin, where the great gold and silver fish also had their portion.He never spoke to anyone; apparently nobody ever spoke to him, and he went his way to and fro, generally known as “the priest,” making his journeys two or three times a week to call at the apartments of the Honourable Misses Dymcox to see his young pupils, as he called them, and to converse with them to keep up their French.Upon these occasions he partook of the weak tea handed round by Joseph, and broke a portion off one of the thin biscuits that accompanied the cups. In fact, he was an institution with the Dymcox family, and had been duly taken into the ladies’ confidence respecting the movement proposed by Lady Littletown.“My dear ladies,” he had responded, “you know my position here—my trust to the dead; I watch over the welfare of their children, and you tell me this is for their well-being. What else can I say but may your plans prosper?”“But I would not mention it to the children, Mr Montaigne,” said Miss Philippa.“I mention it! My dear madam, all these years that you have known me, and is my character a sealed book to you still?”“For my part, I don’t like him,” said Joseph once to Markes, and he was politely told not to be a fool. Cook, however, who had a yearning after the mysterious, proved to be of a more sympathetic mind, and when Joseph told her his opinion, that this Mr Montaigne was only a Jesuit and a priest in disguise, cook said she shouldn’t a bit wonder, for “them sort often was.”Now, cook had not seen Mr Montaigne, so her judgment should be takencum grano, as also in the case where Joseph declared Mr Montaigne to be “a deep ’un,” when she declared that was sure to be the case.On the night of the dinner-party at Hampton, the carriage—to wit, Mr Buddy’s fly—had no sooner departed than Markes announced her intention of going next door to see Lady Anna Maria Morton’s maid; at which cook grunted, and, being left alone, proceeded to take out a basket from the dresser drawer, and seated herself to have what she called a couple of hours’ good darn.One of those hours had nearly passed, and several black worsted stockings had been ornamented with patches of rectangular embroidery, when the outer door-bell rang.“If that’s one of them dratted soldiers calling with his impudence, he’ll get sent off with a flea in his ear,” cried cook.She bounced up angrily, and made her way to the door. It was no gallant Lancer in undress uniform and a cane under his arm, but Mr Paul Montaigne, whom cook at once knew by his description.“The ladies in?” he said quietly.“No, sir; which, please, they’ve gone to dine at Lady Littletown’s.”“To be sure, yes, I had forgotten,” he said, smiling nicely—so cook put it—at the plump domestic. “But never mind, I will have a few minutes’ chat with Miss Clotilde and Miss Marie.”“Which they’ve gone as well, sir.”“To be sure, yes, I ought to have known,” said the visitor absently, “I ought to have remembered; and is Miss Ruth gone as well?”“Oh no, sir; she’s in the schoolroom all alone!”“Indeed!” said Mr Montaigne, raising his eyebrows. “Ah, well, I will not disturb—and yet, I don’t know; I am rather tired, and I will have a few minutes’ chat with her before I walk back.”“Such a nice, mild-spoken kind of gentleman, though he had rather a papish look,” said cook; and she ushered the visitor into the empty drawing-room, going directly after to tell Ruth.It was growing dark, and Ruth, who was in bad spirits at having been left alone, felt a kind of shrinking, she could not have told why, from meeting Mr Montaigne.He had always been quiet and paternal in his treatment, and she had, as a rule, shared the lessons of Clotilde and Marie; but, somehow, Ruth was one of the women whose confidence he had never won.“Ah, Ruth, my child,” he said, advancing with quiet, cat-like step as she entered, and his voice sounded soft and velvety in the silence of the gloomy place, “and so you are all alone?”“Yes; I will ring for candles,” she said hastily.“No, my child, it is not necessary,” he replied, taking her hand, and leading her to the stiff, formal old sofa at the side of the room. “I had forgotten that the dinner-party was this evening, or I should not have walked over. As it is, dear child, I will sit down and rest for ten minutes, and then stroll back.”“Would you like a cup of tea made for you? cook would soon have it ready,” asked Ruth.“Oh no, no, my child,” he said softly, as he sat there, evidently forgetting that he still retained the little white hand, which, after an effort to withdraw, Ruth felt obliged to let rest where it was, prisoned now between both of Mr Montaigne’s soft sets of well-cared-for fingers, as he spoke.“What a calm, delicious repose there always seems to be here, Ruth, within these Palace walls! The gay, noisy throng of pleasure-seekers come from the busy hive of industry, and flit and flutter about the park and gardens; their footsteps echo through the state chambers, as they gaze at the relics of a bygone time, and their voices ring with merry, thoughtless jest; but, somehow, their presence never seems to penetrate to these private apartments, where all is calmness, purity, and peace.”“Yes; I often wonder at the way in which we seem to escape hearing them as we do,” replied Ruth, making an effort to respond; for her heart was beating painfully, and she was afraid that the visitor might note the tremor in her voice.“Peace and repose,” he said softly, as he played with the hand he held. “The world seems far away from you here, and I often envy you the calm, unruffled existence that you enjoy. But tell me, child, did you feel disappointed at not forming one of the party this evening?”“I—I must confess that I should have liked to go,” faltered Ruth.“Well, yes, it was very natural,” he replied; and as Ruth glanced quickly at him, she felt that there was a grave smile upon his face. She could barely see it, for the room was growing darker, and now, for a few moments, her tremor began to increase.“But Clotilde and Marie are older than I, and it was only natural that they should be preferred. And then, Mr Montaigne, they are so beautiful.”“Not more beautiful than you are, Ruth.”“Mr Montaigne!”She made an effort to withdraw her hand, but it was tightly retained.“Not more beautiful in person, less beautiful in mind and temperament, my child,” continued Montaigne. “Don’t try to withdraw your hand; I wish to talk seriously to you.”Ruth felt that to struggle would be unseemly, and though she felt an undefined dread of her position, her reason seemed to combat what she was ready to condemn as fancy, and Mr Montaigne had known her from, and still addressed her as, a “child.”“I should feel deeply disappointed if it were not so, Ruth; for I look upon you as one whose mind I have helped to train, whose growing intellect I have tried to form, and bias towards a love of the beautiful and pure and good.”Ruth felt more at her ease, and less troubled that the visitor should retain her hand.“I have, I think—nay, I boldly say—led your mind in its studies, and guided your reading,” continued Montaigne in the same low, bland voice, every tone of which was musical, deep, and sweet. It had not a harsh, jarring tone, but all was carefully modulated, and lent a charm to what he spoke.Ruth murmured something about feeling very grateful, and wished that he would go.“Tell me, child,” he said gently, and now one soft hand glided to Ruth’s wrist, and a finger rested upon her pulse, probably that the mental physician might test the regularity of the beats produced by his long-administered moral medicine, “what are you reading now?”“‘Froissart’s Chronicle,’” replied Ruth.“An excellent work—one which leads the mind to an appreciation of chivalry and the noble deeds of the past. Any work of fiction?”“Ye-es,” faltered Ruth; “I have read part of a novel.”“That the Misses Dymcox placed in your hands?”“No,” faltered Ruth, speaking like a found-out child. “Ought I to tell you, Mr Montaigne?”“Assuredly, my child. What should you keep from me?”“It was a work by George Eliot that Clotilde had obtained from the library.”“Unknown to her aunts?”“Yes, Mr Montaigne; but please don’t be angry with her.”“No, my child, I will not.”“Clotilde did not like it, and threw it aside, and I happened to see it; but I have not read much.”“They get novels, then?” said Mr Montaigne.“They will be very angry with me for telling you, Mr Montaigne.”“I shall not tell them, dear child; perhaps it is natural. What is Clotilde reading now?”“A French story, ‘Annette’.”“In-deed!” said Montaigne softly; and he drew his breath between his teeth. “And have you read it, child?”“No, Mr Montaigne. Miss Philippa expressly forbade our ever reading French novels; she said they were bad.”“Well—yes—perhaps, my child; but your pure, sweet young mind would eliminate the evil, and retain only the true and good. I should not debar you from such works. So you young ladies obtain novels from the library?”“I do not,” said Ruth simply. “But pray do not ask me such things, Mr Montaigne; it makes me seem to be tale-bearing about my cousins.”“Don’t be afraid, my child,” continued Montaigne; “let there be more confidence between us. Believe me, Ruth, you may trust me always as your best friend, and one to whom your welfare is very, very dear.”“Thank you, Mr Montaigne,” faltered Ruth; “I will try to think of you as you wish. Will you let me ring for candles now?”“Oh no, it is not necessary, my dear; I am going directly. Come, Ruth, my child, why do you shrink away? Am I so very dreadful, my little girl? There, sit still,” he said in a whisper. “I shall have to make you a prisoner, while I read you a lesson on obedience and duty to those who have your welfare at heart.”Ruth was growing alarmed, for he had softly passed one arm round her little waist, and in spite of her feeble struggles drawn her to his side.“There, my child, now I feel as if you were my own loving, dutiful little girl whom I had adopted; and I am going to cross-examine you like a father confessor,” he continued playfully. “Ruth dear, I hope this little heart is in safe-keeping.”“I—I do not understand you, Mr Montaigne,” cried Ruth, whose womanly instincts were now alarmed.“Will you loose me, please, and let me ring for the candles? It is quite dark.”“But you are not afraid of being in the dark, my child,” he whispered; “and—hush! not a word.”He laid his hand upon her lips, for just then Markes’ voice was heard outside.“Ruth! Miss Ruth!”“Sit still, foolish child!” he whispered, holding her more tightly; “that woman would perhaps chatter if she knew you were here like this with me.”A chill of horror came over Ruth, and she sat like one paralysed, as the handle turned, the door opened, and Markes looked into the darkened room.“Why, where has the girl gone?” she muttered angrily.She went away directly, and a moment or two later her voice was heard crying:“She isn’t in the drawing-room, cook.”“You had better go up to your own room, child,” said Montaigne softly. “I will go now. Do not trouble about this; for I think it weak to trust servants, whose ignorance and prejudice often lead them to wrong ideas. Good-night, my child. You have neither father nor mother, but remember that while Paul Montaigne lives you have one who is striving to fill the place of both, as he tries to watch over you for your good.”He had allowed her to rise now, but he still retained her hand as he stood beside her, his words for the moment disarming the resentment in her breast.“Good-night, my dear child. I shall let myself out after you have reached your room. Good-night—good-night. Nay, your lips, Ruth, to me.”Before she had well realised the fact, he had folded her in his arms, and pressed his lips to hers. Then, loosening her from his embrace, he let her go, and, trembling and agitated as she had never been before, she ran quickly to her room.Innocent at heart, and unskilled in the ways of the world as girl could be, as she seated herself upon the edge of the bed she ran rapidly over what had taken place.She did not like Mr Montaigne, and his acts towards her that night made her tremble with indignation; but these thoughts were met by another current, which seemed to tell her that she was misjudging him. He had spoken to her as to one who was very dear to him. His words had been those of a father to his child; and why should she resent it? Mr Montaigne was not a young man, and it might seem to him that their positions had in no wise changed since she, a trembling, heart-broken little girl, fresh from a wretched home, had sat and listened to his soft, bland voice, followed his instructions, and had her curls smoothed by his soft white hand.“But I am a woman grown now, and it is dreadful,” she cried, bursting into a passion of indignant tears. “I don’t like it. I will speak to Miss Philippa. I don’t think it is right.”“Are you there, Miss Ruth?”“Yes, Markes.”“Oh, that’s right. I thought you was lost. Cook told me you were in the drawing-room when I came in. There, child, don’t sit and mope in the dark because you did not get asked to the party. You’ll be a woman soon, my dear, and maybe they’ll find you a husband like the rest.”“Child!” Yes, it was always “child”; but the girl’s heart rebelled against the appellation. These elderly maidens could not think of her as one whose mind was ripening fast, in spite of the sunless seclusion in which she lived.“I’ll tell Markes,” she thought, as her heart throbbed with the recollection of that which had passed. But no; she could not. There was something repellent in this woman’s ways, and at last, with her brain in a tumult with conflicting ideas, Ruth sought her pillow, while Paul Montaigne, with a curious smile upon his face, was still pacing his room after his dark walk back to Teddington, one hand clasping the other, as if he still held Ruth’s.“No,” he said, “she will not say a word. It is not likely. There is a bond of sympathy between us now.”He walked up and down a little longer, and then stood still, talking softly—half aloud.“Woman is our master, they say; but let her be led to compromise herself, however slightly, and she becomes the slave. Poor little Ruth, she is very innocent and sweet.”

Mr Paul Montaigne was one of those quiet, bland gentlemen who, apparently without an effort, seemed to know everything that went on in his immediate neighbourhood. He never asked questions, but waited patiently, and the result was that, drawn, perhaps, by his quiet, persuasive way, people told him all he wanted to know.

Somehow, he had the knack of winning the confidence of women, and if he had been a confessor his would have been an easy task.

There were those who said that he was a Jesuit, but when it came to his ears he merely smiled pityingly, and made a point of attending church at all the week-day services, and repeating the responses in a quiet, reverent way that, combined with his closed eyes, gave him the aspect of true devoutness.

How he lived none knew, but it was supposed that he had an income from a vineyard in Central France, one which he had inherited from his father, an English gentleman who had had a taste for wine-growing.

Mr Paul Montaigne never contradicted the rumour, and he never entered into particulars about his past. He had been the friend of the mother of Clotilde and Marie. He had brought the children over to England when quite a young man, with a very French look and a suggestion of his being a student at a French religious seminary. He had brought letters of introduction with him, and he had been in England ever since.

Time seemed to have stood still with Paul Montaigne. Certainly, he was just a shade stouter, and there were a few bright, silvery-looking hairs about his temples; in other respects he looked quite a young man, for his smoothly-shaven face showed scarcely a line, his dark eyes were bright, and his black brows were as smoothly arched as if drawn with a pair of compasses.

Upon that smooth face there was always a pensive, half-sad smile, one which he seemed to be constantly trying to wipe off with his soft, plump, well-shaped, and very white hand, but without success, for the smile was always there—the quiet, beseeching smile, that won so many women’s confidence, but sometimes had the contrary effect upon the sterner sex.

Those who said that he was a student were to some extent right, for his modest lodgings at Teddington were well furnished with books, and he was a familiar object to many, as with his white hands clasped behind him he walked in his semi-clerical habit to and from the Palace at Hampton Court—through Bushey Park, and always on the same side of the road, making a point of pausing at the inlet of the Diana Pool to throw crumbs of bread to the eager fish, before continuing his walk in by the Lion Gate into the Palace gardens to the large fountain basin, where the great gold and silver fish also had their portion.

He never spoke to anyone; apparently nobody ever spoke to him, and he went his way to and fro, generally known as “the priest,” making his journeys two or three times a week to call at the apartments of the Honourable Misses Dymcox to see his young pupils, as he called them, and to converse with them to keep up their French.

Upon these occasions he partook of the weak tea handed round by Joseph, and broke a portion off one of the thin biscuits that accompanied the cups. In fact, he was an institution with the Dymcox family, and had been duly taken into the ladies’ confidence respecting the movement proposed by Lady Littletown.

“My dear ladies,” he had responded, “you know my position here—my trust to the dead; I watch over the welfare of their children, and you tell me this is for their well-being. What else can I say but may your plans prosper?”

“But I would not mention it to the children, Mr Montaigne,” said Miss Philippa.

“I mention it! My dear madam, all these years that you have known me, and is my character a sealed book to you still?”

“For my part, I don’t like him,” said Joseph once to Markes, and he was politely told not to be a fool. Cook, however, who had a yearning after the mysterious, proved to be of a more sympathetic mind, and when Joseph told her his opinion, that this Mr Montaigne was only a Jesuit and a priest in disguise, cook said she shouldn’t a bit wonder, for “them sort often was.”

Now, cook had not seen Mr Montaigne, so her judgment should be takencum grano, as also in the case where Joseph declared Mr Montaigne to be “a deep ’un,” when she declared that was sure to be the case.

On the night of the dinner-party at Hampton, the carriage—to wit, Mr Buddy’s fly—had no sooner departed than Markes announced her intention of going next door to see Lady Anna Maria Morton’s maid; at which cook grunted, and, being left alone, proceeded to take out a basket from the dresser drawer, and seated herself to have what she called a couple of hours’ good darn.

One of those hours had nearly passed, and several black worsted stockings had been ornamented with patches of rectangular embroidery, when the outer door-bell rang.

“If that’s one of them dratted soldiers calling with his impudence, he’ll get sent off with a flea in his ear,” cried cook.

She bounced up angrily, and made her way to the door. It was no gallant Lancer in undress uniform and a cane under his arm, but Mr Paul Montaigne, whom cook at once knew by his description.

“The ladies in?” he said quietly.

“No, sir; which, please, they’ve gone to dine at Lady Littletown’s.”

“To be sure, yes, I had forgotten,” he said, smiling nicely—so cook put it—at the plump domestic. “But never mind, I will have a few minutes’ chat with Miss Clotilde and Miss Marie.”

“Which they’ve gone as well, sir.”

“To be sure, yes, I ought to have known,” said the visitor absently, “I ought to have remembered; and is Miss Ruth gone as well?”

“Oh no, sir; she’s in the schoolroom all alone!”

“Indeed!” said Mr Montaigne, raising his eyebrows. “Ah, well, I will not disturb—and yet, I don’t know; I am rather tired, and I will have a few minutes’ chat with her before I walk back.”

“Such a nice, mild-spoken kind of gentleman, though he had rather a papish look,” said cook; and she ushered the visitor into the empty drawing-room, going directly after to tell Ruth.

It was growing dark, and Ruth, who was in bad spirits at having been left alone, felt a kind of shrinking, she could not have told why, from meeting Mr Montaigne.

He had always been quiet and paternal in his treatment, and she had, as a rule, shared the lessons of Clotilde and Marie; but, somehow, Ruth was one of the women whose confidence he had never won.

“Ah, Ruth, my child,” he said, advancing with quiet, cat-like step as she entered, and his voice sounded soft and velvety in the silence of the gloomy place, “and so you are all alone?”

“Yes; I will ring for candles,” she said hastily.

“No, my child, it is not necessary,” he replied, taking her hand, and leading her to the stiff, formal old sofa at the side of the room. “I had forgotten that the dinner-party was this evening, or I should not have walked over. As it is, dear child, I will sit down and rest for ten minutes, and then stroll back.”

“Would you like a cup of tea made for you? cook would soon have it ready,” asked Ruth.

“Oh no, no, my child,” he said softly, as he sat there, evidently forgetting that he still retained the little white hand, which, after an effort to withdraw, Ruth felt obliged to let rest where it was, prisoned now between both of Mr Montaigne’s soft sets of well-cared-for fingers, as he spoke.

“What a calm, delicious repose there always seems to be here, Ruth, within these Palace walls! The gay, noisy throng of pleasure-seekers come from the busy hive of industry, and flit and flutter about the park and gardens; their footsteps echo through the state chambers, as they gaze at the relics of a bygone time, and their voices ring with merry, thoughtless jest; but, somehow, their presence never seems to penetrate to these private apartments, where all is calmness, purity, and peace.”

“Yes; I often wonder at the way in which we seem to escape hearing them as we do,” replied Ruth, making an effort to respond; for her heart was beating painfully, and she was afraid that the visitor might note the tremor in her voice.

“Peace and repose,” he said softly, as he played with the hand he held. “The world seems far away from you here, and I often envy you the calm, unruffled existence that you enjoy. But tell me, child, did you feel disappointed at not forming one of the party this evening?”

“I—I must confess that I should have liked to go,” faltered Ruth.

“Well, yes, it was very natural,” he replied; and as Ruth glanced quickly at him, she felt that there was a grave smile upon his face. She could barely see it, for the room was growing darker, and now, for a few moments, her tremor began to increase.

“But Clotilde and Marie are older than I, and it was only natural that they should be preferred. And then, Mr Montaigne, they are so beautiful.”

“Not more beautiful than you are, Ruth.”

“Mr Montaigne!”

She made an effort to withdraw her hand, but it was tightly retained.

“Not more beautiful in person, less beautiful in mind and temperament, my child,” continued Montaigne. “Don’t try to withdraw your hand; I wish to talk seriously to you.”

Ruth felt that to struggle would be unseemly, and though she felt an undefined dread of her position, her reason seemed to combat what she was ready to condemn as fancy, and Mr Montaigne had known her from, and still addressed her as, a “child.”

“I should feel deeply disappointed if it were not so, Ruth; for I look upon you as one whose mind I have helped to train, whose growing intellect I have tried to form, and bias towards a love of the beautiful and pure and good.”

Ruth felt more at her ease, and less troubled that the visitor should retain her hand.

“I have, I think—nay, I boldly say—led your mind in its studies, and guided your reading,” continued Montaigne in the same low, bland voice, every tone of which was musical, deep, and sweet. It had not a harsh, jarring tone, but all was carefully modulated, and lent a charm to what he spoke.

Ruth murmured something about feeling very grateful, and wished that he would go.

“Tell me, child,” he said gently, and now one soft hand glided to Ruth’s wrist, and a finger rested upon her pulse, probably that the mental physician might test the regularity of the beats produced by his long-administered moral medicine, “what are you reading now?”

“‘Froissart’s Chronicle,’” replied Ruth.

“An excellent work—one which leads the mind to an appreciation of chivalry and the noble deeds of the past. Any work of fiction?”

“Ye-es,” faltered Ruth; “I have read part of a novel.”

“That the Misses Dymcox placed in your hands?”

“No,” faltered Ruth, speaking like a found-out child. “Ought I to tell you, Mr Montaigne?”

“Assuredly, my child. What should you keep from me?”

“It was a work by George Eliot that Clotilde had obtained from the library.”

“Unknown to her aunts?”

“Yes, Mr Montaigne; but please don’t be angry with her.”

“No, my child, I will not.”

“Clotilde did not like it, and threw it aside, and I happened to see it; but I have not read much.”

“They get novels, then?” said Mr Montaigne.

“They will be very angry with me for telling you, Mr Montaigne.”

“I shall not tell them, dear child; perhaps it is natural. What is Clotilde reading now?”

“A French story, ‘Annette’.”

“In-deed!” said Montaigne softly; and he drew his breath between his teeth. “And have you read it, child?”

“No, Mr Montaigne. Miss Philippa expressly forbade our ever reading French novels; she said they were bad.”

“Well—yes—perhaps, my child; but your pure, sweet young mind would eliminate the evil, and retain only the true and good. I should not debar you from such works. So you young ladies obtain novels from the library?”

“I do not,” said Ruth simply. “But pray do not ask me such things, Mr Montaigne; it makes me seem to be tale-bearing about my cousins.”

“Don’t be afraid, my child,” continued Montaigne; “let there be more confidence between us. Believe me, Ruth, you may trust me always as your best friend, and one to whom your welfare is very, very dear.”

“Thank you, Mr Montaigne,” faltered Ruth; “I will try to think of you as you wish. Will you let me ring for candles now?”

“Oh no, it is not necessary, my dear; I am going directly. Come, Ruth, my child, why do you shrink away? Am I so very dreadful, my little girl? There, sit still,” he said in a whisper. “I shall have to make you a prisoner, while I read you a lesson on obedience and duty to those who have your welfare at heart.”

Ruth was growing alarmed, for he had softly passed one arm round her little waist, and in spite of her feeble struggles drawn her to his side.

“There, my child, now I feel as if you were my own loving, dutiful little girl whom I had adopted; and I am going to cross-examine you like a father confessor,” he continued playfully. “Ruth dear, I hope this little heart is in safe-keeping.”

“I—I do not understand you, Mr Montaigne,” cried Ruth, whose womanly instincts were now alarmed.

“Will you loose me, please, and let me ring for the candles? It is quite dark.”

“But you are not afraid of being in the dark, my child,” he whispered; “and—hush! not a word.”

He laid his hand upon her lips, for just then Markes’ voice was heard outside.

“Ruth! Miss Ruth!”

“Sit still, foolish child!” he whispered, holding her more tightly; “that woman would perhaps chatter if she knew you were here like this with me.”

A chill of horror came over Ruth, and she sat like one paralysed, as the handle turned, the door opened, and Markes looked into the darkened room.

“Why, where has the girl gone?” she muttered angrily.

She went away directly, and a moment or two later her voice was heard crying:

“She isn’t in the drawing-room, cook.”

“You had better go up to your own room, child,” said Montaigne softly. “I will go now. Do not trouble about this; for I think it weak to trust servants, whose ignorance and prejudice often lead them to wrong ideas. Good-night, my child. You have neither father nor mother, but remember that while Paul Montaigne lives you have one who is striving to fill the place of both, as he tries to watch over you for your good.”

He had allowed her to rise now, but he still retained her hand as he stood beside her, his words for the moment disarming the resentment in her breast.

“Good-night, my dear child. I shall let myself out after you have reached your room. Good-night—good-night. Nay, your lips, Ruth, to me.”

Before she had well realised the fact, he had folded her in his arms, and pressed his lips to hers. Then, loosening her from his embrace, he let her go, and, trembling and agitated as she had never been before, she ran quickly to her room.

Innocent at heart, and unskilled in the ways of the world as girl could be, as she seated herself upon the edge of the bed she ran rapidly over what had taken place.

She did not like Mr Montaigne, and his acts towards her that night made her tremble with indignation; but these thoughts were met by another current, which seemed to tell her that she was misjudging him. He had spoken to her as to one who was very dear to him. His words had been those of a father to his child; and why should she resent it? Mr Montaigne was not a young man, and it might seem to him that their positions had in no wise changed since she, a trembling, heart-broken little girl, fresh from a wretched home, had sat and listened to his soft, bland voice, followed his instructions, and had her curls smoothed by his soft white hand.

“But I am a woman grown now, and it is dreadful,” she cried, bursting into a passion of indignant tears. “I don’t like it. I will speak to Miss Philippa. I don’t think it is right.”

“Are you there, Miss Ruth?”

“Yes, Markes.”

“Oh, that’s right. I thought you was lost. Cook told me you were in the drawing-room when I came in. There, child, don’t sit and mope in the dark because you did not get asked to the party. You’ll be a woman soon, my dear, and maybe they’ll find you a husband like the rest.”

“Child!” Yes, it was always “child”; but the girl’s heart rebelled against the appellation. These elderly maidens could not think of her as one whose mind was ripening fast, in spite of the sunless seclusion in which she lived.

“I’ll tell Markes,” she thought, as her heart throbbed with the recollection of that which had passed. But no; she could not. There was something repellent in this woman’s ways, and at last, with her brain in a tumult with conflicting ideas, Ruth sought her pillow, while Paul Montaigne, with a curious smile upon his face, was still pacing his room after his dark walk back to Teddington, one hand clasping the other, as if he still held Ruth’s.

“No,” he said, “she will not say a word. It is not likely. There is a bond of sympathy between us now.”

He walked up and down a little longer, and then stood still, talking softly—half aloud.

“Woman is our master, they say; but let her be led to compromise herself, however slightly, and she becomes the slave. Poor little Ruth, she is very innocent and sweet.”

Volume Two—Chapter Two.Love Paints and Decorates.The change at the Honourable Misses Dymcox’s home was something so startling that Ruth was almost bewildered. Even on the following morning at breakfast, after Joseph had brought in the urn, the alteration had begun.The wine of the last night’s party might have been fancied to be still having its influence, the ladies were so much less austere.“I’m very, very glad you enjoyed yourselves so much, my dears,” said the Honourable Philippa, smiling.“You feel none the worse, my loves?” said the Honourable Isabella.“Oh no, aunt,” said Clotilde; “I feel better. Don’t you, Marie?”“Oh yes,” said that young lady; “it was a delightful party.”“It was, my dears,” said the Honourable Philippa, letting the water from the urn run over the top of the teapot. “Bless me, how careless! I am glad I consented to allow you both to go, for you see how necessary to a proper state of existence a due amount of money becomes.”“How admirably dear Lady Littletown manages her income!” said the Honourable Isabella.“Yes, and how needful a good income really is! Yes, it was a verydistinguédinner. Marie, my child, Lord Henry Moorpark is most gentlemanly, is he not?”“Oh yes, I like him very much,” replied Marie, with animation, and a slight flush in her cheek, for she had been suddenly appealed to when thinking about Marcus Glen, and the way he had glanced at her more than once. “He seems a very nice old gentleman.”“Hem!” coughed the Honourable Philippa austerely. “I do not think him old.”“Certainly not!” exclaimed the Honourable Isabella; “hardly elderly.”“Decidedly no,” continued the Honourable Philippa. “By the way, Clotilde, my love, you found Mr Elbraham very pleasant?”“Oh yes, aunt.”“I am glad of it,” said the Honourable Philippa, smiling graciously, while Ruth, open-eyed and listening, went on with her breakfast, wondering at the change. “He is the great financier—enormously wealthy. I hear that he is to be made a duke by the Austrian emperor. He is already a chevalier.”“Indeed, aunt?” said Clotilde, who also was thinking of Captain Glen.“Yes, my dear; his houses are a marvel, I believe, for their wealth and display.”“Is he a Jew, aunt?” said Marie innocently.“My dear child, no! How can you ask such a question, Marie? I have heard something about his family being of Hebrew descent—Eastern Hebrew descent—Elbraham, Abraham, very ancient, no doubt; but I don’t know for certain, and really I do not care to know: for what does it matter?”“Yes, what indeed?” said her sister. “A very gentlemanly, highly-cultured man.”“With a wonderful knowledge of the world and its ways. He has been a deal in Egypt, did not Lady Littletown say, Isabella?”“Yes, with the Khedive,” was the reply. “Enormously wealthy.”The breakfast ended, the young ladies were dismissed.“I would not go to the schoolroom this morning, my dears,” said the elder sister; “go and lie down for an hour or two and rest. After lunch Lady Littletown is coming with the carriage to take you for a drive, and I should like you to look your best.”“Rie,” exclaimed Clotilde, as soon as they were in their room with Ruth, who was debating in her own mind whether she ought not to take her cousins into her confidence about Mr Montaigne, but shrinking from relating the communication to such unsympathetic ears.“Well?”“You, Ruth, if you dare to say a word about what we talk about, I’ll kill you!” cried Clotilde.“I think you may trust me,” said Ruth, smiling.“Then mind you do keep secret,” continued Clotilde. “Rie,” she cried again, “I can see through it all; I know what it means.”“Do you?” said Marie quietly.“Yes, they’re going to sell us both—a bargain.”“Are they?” said Marie, who was thinking she would like to be sold to Marcus Glen.“Yes, it’s going to be like it was in that novel of Georges Sand. We’re to be married to rich old men because we are young and beautiful; and if they marry me to one, I’m sorry for the old man.”“Do you think so?”“Yes, I do,” exclaimed Clotilde: “else why were we dressed up, and sent down to dinner with that old Jew, and that old, yellow Lord Henry Moorpark, when there were those young officers there?”“I don’t know,” said Marie thoughtfully, as once more her mind reverted to Captain Glen.“Then I do,” cried Clotilde, with flashing eyes. “I should like to be married, and have an establishment, and diamonds, and servants; but if they make me marry that dreadful man—”“Well, what?” said Marie, with a depth of thought in her handsome eyes.“You’ll see!” cried Clotilde; and thrusting her hand in between the mattress and the palliasse, she dragged out the highly-moral paper-covered French novel that had lain thereperdu.After the genial thawing of the ice there could be no more such severe and cutting behaviour as that which marked the meeting of Captain Glen and Richard Millet with the Dymcox family; and a day or two later, when the two officers were idling about the broad walks, with the boy’s eyes watching in all directions, but only to be disappointed at every turn, they came suddenly upon the party taking their morning walk.“No, my dears,” the Honourable Philippa was saying, in reply to a request made by Clotilde; “the park is impassable, for the scenes that take place there are a disgrace to humanity, and the Government ought to be forced to interfere. It is not so very long ago that your aunt and I were thoughtfully walking beneath the trees—that glorious avenue of chestnuts, that we poor occupants of the Palace can only view free from insult at early morn or late in the evening—I say your aunt and I were pensively walking beneath the trees, when we stumbled full upon a coarse-minded crew of people sitting eating and drinking upon the grass, and a dreadful-looking man with a shiny head held up a great stone bottle and wanted us to drink. You remember, Isabella?”“Yes, sister; and we fled down the avenue, to come upon another party engaged in some orgie. They had joined hands in a circle like savages, and one dreadful man was pursuing a woman, whom he captured, and in spite of her shrieks—”“I think we had better not pursue the subject further, Isabella,” said the Honourable Philippa; “it is not a seemly one in the presence of young ladies. I need only tell you, my dears, that they were engaged in a rite popular among the lower orders—a sort of sport called ‘kiss-in-the-ring’.”“Hush, sister!” whispered the Honourable Isabella; “the gentlemen.”Poor Isabella’s hands began to tremble in a peculiar, nervous way as tall, English-looking Marcus Glen approached, appearing so much the more manly for having dapper Richard Millet by his side. The lady was not foolish enough to imagine that Glen wished to be attentive to her, but there was a sweet, regretful kind of pleasure in his presence, and when he spoke her withered heart seemed to expand, and old affections that had been laid up to dry, like sweet-scented flowers between leaves, began to put forth once again their forgotten odours, as if they were evoked by the presence of the sun.The Honourable Philippa looked stern, and would have passed on with a bow; but when her sister put forth her trembling hand, and smiled with satisfaction at meeting the young officer again, such a line of conduct was impossible; and, as a matter of course, there was a very friendly greeting all round.The Honourable Philippa felt frigid as she saw Marie’s eyes brighten, and that a charmingly ingenuous blush rose in her cheeks; she felt more frigid as she saw the greeting between Clotilde and Glen; for if ever girl looked her satisfaction at seeing anyone again, the ascetically-reared Clotilde was that maiden, and, truth to tell, in the innocency and guiltlessness of her heart she returned the pressure of the young officer’s hand as warmly as it was given.As for Richard Millet, he began by blushing like a girl; then, making an effort, he mastered his timidity, and shone almost as brightly as his new patent-leather boots, thinking, too, how well he managed to get the young ladies all to himself; while Marcus talked quietly, and in a matter-of-fact way, to the Honourable Misses Dymcox, till Philippa grew a little less austere, and her hand felt at parting not quite so much like five pieces of bone in as many finger-stalls.There was another unmistakable pressure from Clotilde’s hand, too, and a far more timid one from that of Marie, whose eyes wore a curiously pensive look, as the gentlemen doffed their hats and went their way.It is worthy of note that poor Ruth passed an exceedingly uncomfortable day, being made aware of what was as nearly a couple of quarrels as could take place between ladies. The first took place in the drawing-room, where, after bidding Clotilde and Marie go and take off their things, the Honourable Philippa fiercely attacked her sister upon her levity.“Shocked, Isabella! I can find no other word for it—shocked,” she exclaimed. “Your conduct to-day with those two young men was really objectionable.”“I deny it, sister,” retorted the Honourable Isabella. “We met two of dear Lady Littletown’s guests whom we knew, and we spoke to them. They are both officers and gentlemen, and nothing, I am sure, could have been nicer than the behaviour of Captain Glen.”“Is—a—bella!” exclaimed her sister, “when you know what is being arranged. It is like madness to encourage the intimacy of those young men.”“Perhaps they wish to be intimate for politeness’ sake,” said the Honourable Isabella demurely, though her nervous hands were trembling and playing about the puckers of her dress.“I declare, sister, you are absurd, you are almost childish; as if young men—young officers—cared about politeness when there were ladies like our nieces in the case.”“Well, sister,” replied the Honourable Isabella tearfully, “I am sure I don’t know, but for my part I would rather see Clotilde and Marie married to Captain Glen and Mr Millet than as you and dear Lady Littletown had arranged.”“And you!” cried her sister; “you were as eager as anyone, and you know how it will be for their good. Our family will be raised from penury to affluence, and we shall have done our duty, I am sure.”“But it seems very sad, sister—very sad indeed.”“Fie, Isabella!” exclaimed the Honourable Philippa; “what would Lady Littletown think if she heard of such miserable weakness? Think, too, what would Lord Henry Moorpark or Mr Elbraham say if they knew that these young men were encouraged here? It must be stopped, or encouraged very coldly indeed. Yes, Markes, what is it?”“This box, please’m, and this little basket, please’m,” said the woman.“How often have we told you, Markes, that all these things should be left to Joseph to bring up? It is not your duty,” exclaimed the Honourable Philippa. “Now, let me see.”The box was directed to her, so was the basket; and reading the direction by the aid of her large gold eyeglass, she afterwards cut the box string, and on opening the loose lid set free a marvellously beautiful bouquet of very choice flowers.The basket was opened, and contained another bouquet, but there was no message, no letter, with either.The Honourable Philippa gazed at the Honourable Isabella, and that lady returned the meaning gaze; then they sent Markes away with the empty box and basket, leaving the elderly sisters to commune alone, and to whisper their satisfaction, in spite of a little hanging back on the part of the Honourable Isabella, that matters had progressed so well.Meanwhile there was a cloudiness in the moral atmosphere upstairs which betokened a storm.Ruth saw it and trembled, for hour by hour her cousins had seemed to her to change.She did not know how it was—in fact, she was puzzled; but the change was very natural. The two girls had been treated somewhat after the fashion of flowers, and grown on and on in their cool retirement until they had attained to their full development and beauty, though as yet only in a state of bud. Then they had suddenly been placed in the full blaze of society’s sunshine.The effect was what might have been expected. The buds had suddenly expanded; every latent thought of suppressed womanhood had burst into light and passionate life; every kept-down fancy and desire that had been in abeyance had started forth, and the buds were in full bloom, just as some choice exotic will in a few hours be completely transformed.Very little was said for a time, but as the sisters removed their walking apparel there was more than one fierce look exchanged.“I saw her look at him,” thought Clotilde; “and I’d kill her sooner than she should.”“Such outrageous effrontery!” thought Marie; “but she does not know me if she thinks I am going to sit down quietly and let her win.”“Enjoy your walk, dear?” said Clotilde, attitudinising before the glass, and admiring herself with half-closed eyes.“Oh yes, Clo dear, it was delightful; but you shouldn’t flirt so with that little boy.”“Now that’s too bad, dear,” retorted Clotilde, turning half round to smile sweetly at her sister. “You know that it was you. I felt quite ashamed sometimes to see how you went on.”Ruth’s eyes grew a little more wide open as she heard this, for she thought that poor little Richard Millet seemed to be left to talk to her more than he liked.“Oh, nonsense, love,” replied Marie. “But you don’t mean it, you know;” and then the sisters smiled most affectionately one at the other, and gazed curiously in each other’s eyes.But as they smiled and looked affectionately at each other, they seemed to need an outlet for the wrath that was gathering fast, and poor Ruth’s was the head upon which this poured. The tears stood in her eyes again and again, as first one and then the other displayed her irritation in words, pushes, and more than once in what seemed greatly like blows, all of which was borne in a patient, long-suffering manner. For Ruth was far worse off than a servant, the least independent of which class of young lady would not have submitted to a tithe of the insult and annoyance that fell to the poor girl’s share.Upon the present occasion the loud jangling of the bell, that was swung about and shaken by Joseph as if he detested the brazen creation, announced that lunch was ready, the mid-day repast by a pleasant fiction retaining that name, though no late dinner followed, the evening meal taking the form of tea and thick bread, and butter of the kind known as “best Dorset, and regarding whose birth there is always a mystery.”The looks of the sisters were anything but bright and loving as they went down, followed by Ruth, who secretly drew up her sleeve, displaying her white, well-moulded arm as she ruefully inspected a black mark—to wit, the bruise made by a forcible pinch from Clotilde’s nervous finger and thumb.The poor girl heaved a little sigh as she drew back her gingham sleeve—gingham and alpaca being fabrics highly in favour with the Honourable Misses Dymcox—though they always insisted upon calling the latter by the name of “stuff”—on economical grounds. Then she meekly took her place, grace was said, and the Honourable Isabella proceeded to dispense the mutton broth, richly studded with pearls of barley to the exclusion of a good deal of meat, Joseph giving quite a dignity to the proceedings as he waited at table, removing the soup-tureen cover with an artistic flourish, and turning it bottom upwards so as not to let a drop of the condensed steam fall upon the cloth, though a drop reached Ruth, whose fate it seemed to be to get the worst of everything, even to the boniest portions of the substance of the mutton broth, and the crustiest, driest pieces of the day before yesterday’s bread.But there was a becoming dignity in Miss Philippa’s manners upon the present occasion, and she sipped her broth and played with the barley as if she anticipated finding pearls in place of unpleasant little sharp splinters of scrag of mutton bone.“Thank you, yes, Joseph,” she said quietly, as the man brought round a very small jug of the smallest beer, and poured out a wineglassful each for the elderly sisters, without froth, so that it might look like sherry, or that delicious elderly maiden lady’s beverage known as marsala.“Oh, by the way, sister,” said Miss Isabella, “did you think to mention about town?”“Oh no, I did not,” said Miss Philippa. “By the way, Joseph, you will order the carriage for nine o’clock to-morrow morning.”“Yes, ma’am,” said Joseph, who was handing potatoes to the mutton broth.“We must go in good time, for we shall have to visit the tailor’s about your new livery, Joseph.”Joseph’s jaw dropped like the lower lids of his eyes, and a very waxy potato from the dish as he sloped it down, the said potato gambolling gaily across the cloth as if under the idea that it was a vegetable cricket-ball, and that its duty was to hit Ruth’s high-backed chair wicket fashion on the other side. It was, however, carefully blocked by that young lady with a spoon, and after a moment’s hesitation deposited in her soup-plate, her cousins, however, eyeing it jealously from old habit, as if they thought she was getting more than her share.“Be careful, Joseph,” said Miss Philippa with severity; and Joseph was careful as he went on waiting; but the perspiration broke out profusely over his forehead, and he seemed, as he gazed from one to the other of his mistresses, as though the news, so unaccustomed in its way, was almost greater than he could bear.“Bring those bouquets from the drawing-room, Joseph,” said Miss Philippa, just before the removal of the soup-tureen.Joseph went out, and, to the astonishment of the young ladies, returned with the presents.“Take that one to Miss Clotilde,” said Miss Philippa, beaming on the eldest of the young ladies, as she indicated the gayest of the carefully built up bunches of flowers. “Yes; and now that one to Miss Marie.”The bouquets were handed to the young ladies in turn.“Now remove the soup-tureen,” said Miss Philippa.“Oh, aunt!” exclaimed Clotilde, as Joseph left the room.“What lovely flowers!” cried Marie, holding them to her face.“Yes, yes; yes, yes!” cried Miss Philippa in a highly pitched and very much cracked but playful voice. “I don’t know what to say to it, I’m sure; do you, sister?”“No, indeed—indeed,” cried Miss Isabella, in an imitation playful tone.“It seems to me that our quiet little innocent home is being laid siege to by gentlemen,” prattled Miss Philippa.“And—and I don’t know what’s coming to us,” said Miss Isabella gaily; and her hands shook, and her head nodded as she laughed, a sad ghost of a youthful hearty sign of mirth.“But is this for me, aunt?” cried Clotilde, flushing up, and looking handsome in the extreme.“And this for me, aunt?” cried Marie, whose cheeks could not brook the rivalry displayed by those of her sister.“Oh, I don’t know, my dears, I’m sure; but it’s very, very, very, very shocking, and you are both very, very, very, very naughty girls to look so handsome, and go to dinner-parties, and captivate gentlemen.”“And make them lay offerings before your shrines,” prattled Miss Isabella.“Floral offerings before your shrines,” repeated Miss Philippa, who nodded her approval of her sister’s poetical comparison.“But, aunt, who sent them?”“Oh, it’s no use to ask me, my dear,” exclaimed Miss Philippa. “There may be a wicked little note inside. I don’t know. I don’t understand such things. They are beyond me.”“Oh yes, quite beyond us, my dear,” said Miss Isabella; and she laid her hand upon her side as she felt a curious little palpitation, and there was a pathetic sadness in her withered face, as she began thinking of Captain Glen.“But somebody must have sent them, aunties,” said Marie, who dropped into the diminutive, and slightly endearing, appellative quite naturally, now that she found herself being exalted by her relatives.“Oh yes, my dears, of course—of course,” said Miss Philippa: “someone must have sent them. Mind,” she cried, shaking one finger, “I don’t say that those beautiful, those lovely exotics were sent to you by Lord Henry Moorpark. And I don’t say—no: you don’t say, sister—”“Yes, of course,” cried Miss Isabella, clumsily taking up the cue given to her, and shaking her thin finger very slightly, for it shook itself naturally a good deal, “I don’t say, Clotilde, my dear, that that delicious and most expensive bouquet was sent by the great wealthy Mr Elbraham; but I’ve a very shrewd suspicion. Haven’t you, sister?”“Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes,” cried Miss Philippa playfully. “A little bird at dear Lady Littletown’s whispered a little something in my ear. But it’s very, very shocking, isn’t it, sister?”“Oh yes,” cried Miss Isabella, repeating her sad little laugh, her head nodding very much the while; “but fie—fie—fie! Hush—hush—hush! Here is Joseph coming to change the plates.”Joseph it was, and as he changed the plates Clotilde held her bouquet to her flushed cheeks in turn, and gazed at Marie, who held the flowers to her own cheeks, both of which were creamy white as some of the blossoms; and she, too, gazed rather curiously at her sister, trying to read her meaning in her eyes.But nobody paid any heed to Ruth, who looked wistfully at the gorgeous colours in Clotilde’s bouquet, and the delicate tints in that of Marie, and she could not help wishing that someone sent her flowers—someone, say, like Captain Glen. Then she thought of Mr Montaigne, and she shivered, she hardly knew why, as she asked herself whether she ought not to have told her aunts of his visit and his ways. Then her thoughts were brought back to the happy present by Joseph placing a large section of “roley-poley” pudding before her upon a plate—not the ordinary homely “roley-poley” pudding, with flaky pastry and luscious gushings of the sweetest jam; but a peculiarly hard, mechanical style of compound which kept its shape, and in which the preserve presented itself in a rich streak of pink, starting from the centre, and winding round and round to the circumference, as if cook had turned artist, and was trying to perpetuate the neighbouring Maze in pastry at the least expenditure in cost.The cheese which followed was Glo’ster of the ducal sound and soapy consistency, and then the empty plates, representing dessert, were placed upon the table—there was no fruit that day; grace had been said, and the ladies rose, Clotilde and Marie being kissed, and advised to place their bouquets in water in the drawing-room.“They would look so nice if anyone called, my dears,” said Miss Philippa.“Which they might, you know, my darling,” added Miss Isabella, smiling, and nodding her head.So the flowers were placed in vases, duly watered, and the young ladies went up once more to their room, under orders to quickly redescend.“There!” cried Clotilde maliciously, as soon as they were alone, “I knew it—I knew it! Ruth! Cindy! Do you hear! Go down on one knee, and kiss the hand of the future Viscountess or Baroness, or whatever she is to be, Lady Moorpark.”“No, don’t, Ruth,” cried Marie fiercely. “Go and salute the future Mrs Elbraham. Let me see, Clo dear; do ladies who marry Jews become Jewesses?”“Perhaps they do,” cried Clotilde, who had no repartee ready.Marie laughed. “Jew—Jewess! Clo—old Clo! I wonder whether Mr Elbraham made his money that way? Eh, Clo dear?”“I shall throw the water-bottle or the jug at you directly,” cried Clotilde, as she washed her hands. “Never mind: he is rich, and not old. I wouldn’t marry a yellow, snuffy old man, if he were ten thousand lords. There!”“Who’s going to marry him?” said Marie scornfully.“You are. You’ll be obliged to,” retorted Clotilde.“I wonder,” said Marie, “whether Mr Elbraham is going to buy you of aunties, and if so, how much he is going to give.”Clotilde faced round at this sting.“If you think I’m going to marry him, or if aunts think so, they are mistaken!” she cried. “I know what I am going to do. I know something that you would give your ears to know, my lady.”She looked mockingly at her sister, and waved her hand, as if wafting a kiss through the air.Marie did not respond, but there was something in her eyes that troubled Ruth, who, being near, laid her hand in a sympathetic fashion upon her arm.A summons from Markes put a stop to further conversation.“What is it, Markes?” cried Clotilde.“Aunts want you,” said the woman roughly. “Gentlemen visitors;” and before she could be further questioned she closed the door.“I know,” cried Clotilde, darting a malicious glance at her sister: “it’s Captain Glen, and he has brought his little squire with him. Come along down, and speak to Richard Millet, while I talk to the Captain. I say, Rie, dear.”“Well?”“What a nice little husband he would make—quite a lady’s page!”“‘My pretty page, look out afar,Look out, look out afar,’”she sang; but Marie seemed hardly to notice her, for she was very quiet and thoughtful, as she gave a touch or two to her hair.“There, that will do; come along—you won’t be noticed.”Marie glanced at her sharply, and the blood suffused her cheeks; but she said nothing, only beckoned to Ruth to come, and they had nearly reached the drawing-room door when they met Markes, who took Ruth into custody.“Not you, my dear,” she said quietly—“you’re to stop; it’s them that’s to go.”As she laid her hand upon the door Clotilde’s heart beat fast, while a look of delight flushed her countenance. At the same time, though, she wondered that Marcus Glen and his friend should have called so soon.“The silly old things!” she thought; “they could not see that the bouquets came from the Captain and Mr Millet.”Then she glanced round to see that her sister was close beside her, opened the door, and entered.Disappointment!Seated with their backs to the window were Mr Elbraham and Lord Henry Moorpark. The Fates had ordained that they should make their calls both at the same hour, and they now rose to meet Clotilde and Marie.“Then they did send the bouquets,” thought Clotilde; and her heart sank at the thought of their aunts’ innuendoes meaning anything serious.Had she or her sister any doubts, they were soon chased away; for, though this was made quite a formal visit, there was a something quite unmistakable in their visitors’ ways.Lord Henry and Elbraham had encountered close by the door, and a look of distrust overspread their features as they exchanged an exceedingly cool salutation; but soon after their meeting the elder and the younger sisters, matters seemed so satisfactory, that their breasts expanded with quite a brotherly feeling.Elbraham had the natural dislike of a man of his stamp for one who happened to be high-born, and was by nature refined and amiable; while Lord Henry, with his gentlemanly notions of polish, felt rather a shrinking from the blatant man of the world, whose manners were not always separated from the dross that clings to badly-refined metal. But in a very short time each saw that he was on a different route, and that there was no likelihood of their clashing in their onward journey.The Honourable sisters were amiability itself, and played most cleverly into their visitors’ hands; while, in spite of a feeling of repugnance and disgust at the idea of their being, as it were, sold into bondage to men so much older than themselves, and so very far from their hearts’ ideal of a lover, both Clotilde and Marie felt flattered.For as Clotilde listened to Elbraham’s deep voice, and gazed unflinchingly in his coarse face, she saw through him, as it were, and beyond him, visions of life and gaiety, of a princely establishment, with servants and carriages and plate, and, for her own special use, the richest of dresses, the brightest of bonnets, and jewels as many as she would.Marie, too, as she listened to the polished, deferential remarks of Lord Henry Moorpark, and saw the deep interest and admiration that beamed from his eyes, could not help thoughts of a similar character crossing her mind. Lord Henry was certainly old, but he was the perfection of all that was gentlemanly, and his deference for the young and beautiful woman to whom he was certainly paying his court had for her something that was very grateful to her feelings, while it was flattering to her self-esteem.But interposing, as it were, between them and the visitors, the frank, manly countenance of Marcus Glen was constantly rising before the young girls’ vision, making them thoughtful and distant as their visitors chatted on. This, however, only added to their attraction, especially in Lord Henry’s eyes. To him even the shabby furniture and their simple dresses lent a piquancy that he would have missed had they been elsewhere; and at last, when he rose to take his leave, both gentlemen stepped out into the open air feeling as if their paths were in future to be strewn with roses, and ready to become brothers on the spot.“Shall we take a walk in the gardens for a few minutes, my lord?” said Elbraham, as they stood together outside.“With much pleasure, Mr Elbraham,” replied Lord Henry.“Then I’ll just hook on,” said Elbraham.He did “hook on”—to wit, he took Lord Henry’s arm; and that gentleman did not shrink, but walked with the millionaire down one of the broad walks between the trim lawns, both for the time being silent.“I’m a man of the world,” said Mr Elbraham at last.“Indeed,” said Lord Henry.“Yes, my lord, and I’m going to speak out like a man of that sort.”Lord Henry bowed and smiled, for he had Marie’s great dark eyes before him, and the memory was very pleasant at the time.“Just an hour ago, my lord, when I met you at that door, I felt as if we two were to be enemies.”“Indeed,” said Lord Henry again. “Yes, my lord; but now I don’t think we are.”“Surely not.”“To be plain then, my lord, I am going to propose in due form for the hand of Miss Clotilde.”Lord Henry stopped short, with his eyes half-closed, and one foot beating the gravel as if he were thinking out an answer to the remark made by the man who held his arm.“Well, my lord, what have you got to say?”“Not much,” said Lord Henry, rousing himself; “but I will be frank and plain to you, Mr Elbraham, though no one is more surprised at this change in my prospects than I. You are going to propose for the hand of Miss Clotilde, one of the most beautiful women I ever saw.”“Eh!” exclaimed Elbraham, whose jaw dropped, “don’t say that.”“But I do say it,” said Lord Henry, smiling, and looking very dreamy and thoughtful: “the most beautiful woman I ever saw—except her sister—for whose hand I shall become a candidate myself.”“Hah!” ejaculated Mr Elbraham, with a sigh of relief; “then look here, my lord, under these circumstances we shall be brothers-in-law.”“Probably so.”“Then we’ll have no more ceremony. Look here, my lord, I’m a plain man, and I don’t boast of my blood nor my position, but I’m warm; and a fellow can’t find a better friend than I can be when I take to a man. I like you. You’ve got blood, and a title, and all that sort of thing; but that isn’t all: you’re a gentleman, without any haw-haw, sit-upon-a-fellow airs. Moorpark, there’s my hand, and from henceforth I’ll back you up in anything.”“Thank you, Mr Elbraham,” said Lord Henry, smiling, for in his then frame of mind the coarse manners of his companion were kept from jarring by the roses that metaphorically hedged him in. “There, then, is my hand, and I’m sure we shall be the best of friends.”“And brothers,” exclaimed Elbraham, giving Lord Henry exquisite pain, which he bore like a martyr, by crushing his fingers against a heavy signet ring.“God bless you, Moorpark! God bless you!”There was more than a trace of emotion in Lord Henry’s eyes just then, as he warmly returned the other’s grasp; and then they walked on together.“I shan’t shilly-shally, Moorpark,” exclaimed Elbraham hoarsely. “I shall send her down a few diamonds and things at once. What’s the use of waiting?”“Ay, what, indeed!” said Lord Henry, smiling.“Besides, my friend, we are too old.”“Well, I don’t know so much about that, Moorpark. A man’s as old as he feels; and hang it, sir, when I’m in the presence of that woman, sir, I feel two-and-twenty.”“Well, yes; it does make one feel young and hopeful, and as if we imbibed some of their sweetness and youth, Elbraham.”“Sweetness and youth! Ah, that’s it, Moorpark. Sweetness and youth—they’re full of it. Miss Riversley’s lovely, ain’t she?”“Truly a beautiful woman.”“That she is,” said Elbraham. “Though, for the fact of that, Marie is not to be sneezed at.”“No, by no means,” assented Lord Henry, whose brow knit a little here. “They are very charming, and thoroughly unspoiled by the world.”“That’s the beauty of them, Moorpark, and that’s what fetches me, my dear boy. Lord bless your heart! with my money I could have married a thousand women. I’m not boasting, Moorpark, but I can assure you I’ve stood up like a stump, and duchesses, and countesses, and viscountesses, and my lady this and my lady that, have for any number of years bowled their daughters at me, and I might have had my pick and choice,” said Elbraham—apparently forgetting in his excitement that there was a trifling degree of exaggeration in his words, for his efforts to get into high-class society had not been successful on the whole.“I am not surprised—with your wealth,” said Lord Henry.“Yes, I am warm,” continued Elbraham; “and the best of the fun is, that they were all ready to forget that I was a Jew. For I don’t mind speaking plainly to you: I have some of the chosen blood in my veins, though I have changed over. But that’s neither here nor there.”“Of course not,” assented Lord Henry.“And what I like in our beauties is, that they look as if they’d got some of the chosen blood in them.”“Ye-e-es,” assented Lord Henry; “they are dark, with the Southern look in their complexions. But it improves them.”“Improves! I should think it does. Why, look here, Moorpark, you saw Clotilde to-day in that plain cotton dress thing, or whatever it was?”“Yes, and she looked beautiful as her sister,” said Lord Henry warmly.“She did—she did. But wait a bit, my boy. I’ll hang diamonds and pearls round that girl’s neck, and stick tiaras in her hair, and bracelets on her arms, till I make even the princesses envious—that I will. But now, look here, I’m glad we’ve come to an understanding. You’ll dine with me at my club, Moorpark? Don’t say no.”“With pleasure, if you will dine with me.”“Done. Where do you hang out?”“Four hundred and four, Berkeley Square.”“Say Monday for me, at the Imperial—seven sharp; and we’ll settle when I come toyou.”“At seven on Monday,” said Lord Henry, “I will be there.”“And now I must be off back to town. Good-bye, God bless you, Moorpark. One word first: you’ll like to do it handsome, of course, in presents, and that sort of thing.”“Indeed I shall not be ungenerous as soon as I know her tastes.”“Then look here, Moorpark, these things cost money.”“Assuredly.”“Then can I do anything for you? A few thousands on your simple note of hand? Only say the word. No dealing—no interest. Just a simple loan. How much?”“My dear Elbraham,” said Lord Henry, “you are very kind; but I have a handsome balance at my bank. I am a man of very simple tastes, and I have never lived half up to my income.”“Then you must be worth a pot,” exclaimed Elbraham. “I mean, you are really rich.”“Well, I suppose I am,” said Lord Henry, smiling; “but I care very little for money, I assure you.”“That’ll do,” exclaimed Elbraham, crushing the other’s hand once more. “Good-bye. Monday.”By this time they had reached the spot where their carriages were waiting—Elbraham’s a phaeton, with a magnificent pair of bays, whose sides were flecked with the foam they had formed in champing their bits; Lord Henry’s a neat little brougham drawn by a handsome roan.Then there was a wave of the hand, and Elbraham took his whip, the bays starting off at a rapid trot, while, having let himself into his brougham, Lord Henry gave the word “Home,” and leaned back with the tears in his eyes to think how soon he was finding consolation for the coldness with which he had been treated by Gertrude Millet. Then he felt slightly uneasy, for though he had never spoken to Lady Millet, his visits had been suggestive, and he could not help asking himself what her ladyship would say.But that soon passed off, as he began to glide into a delightful day-dream about beautiful Marie, and to think how strange it was that, at his age, he should have fallen fairly and honestly in love with an innocent, heart-whole, unspoiled girl.“Yes, so different to Gertrude Millet,” he said to himself. “She loved that young Huish, I am sure.”

The change at the Honourable Misses Dymcox’s home was something so startling that Ruth was almost bewildered. Even on the following morning at breakfast, after Joseph had brought in the urn, the alteration had begun.

The wine of the last night’s party might have been fancied to be still having its influence, the ladies were so much less austere.

“I’m very, very glad you enjoyed yourselves so much, my dears,” said the Honourable Philippa, smiling.

“You feel none the worse, my loves?” said the Honourable Isabella.

“Oh no, aunt,” said Clotilde; “I feel better. Don’t you, Marie?”

“Oh yes,” said that young lady; “it was a delightful party.”

“It was, my dears,” said the Honourable Philippa, letting the water from the urn run over the top of the teapot. “Bless me, how careless! I am glad I consented to allow you both to go, for you see how necessary to a proper state of existence a due amount of money becomes.”

“How admirably dear Lady Littletown manages her income!” said the Honourable Isabella.

“Yes, and how needful a good income really is! Yes, it was a verydistinguédinner. Marie, my child, Lord Henry Moorpark is most gentlemanly, is he not?”

“Oh yes, I like him very much,” replied Marie, with animation, and a slight flush in her cheek, for she had been suddenly appealed to when thinking about Marcus Glen, and the way he had glanced at her more than once. “He seems a very nice old gentleman.”

“Hem!” coughed the Honourable Philippa austerely. “I do not think him old.”

“Certainly not!” exclaimed the Honourable Isabella; “hardly elderly.”

“Decidedly no,” continued the Honourable Philippa. “By the way, Clotilde, my love, you found Mr Elbraham very pleasant?”

“Oh yes, aunt.”

“I am glad of it,” said the Honourable Philippa, smiling graciously, while Ruth, open-eyed and listening, went on with her breakfast, wondering at the change. “He is the great financier—enormously wealthy. I hear that he is to be made a duke by the Austrian emperor. He is already a chevalier.”

“Indeed, aunt?” said Clotilde, who also was thinking of Captain Glen.

“Yes, my dear; his houses are a marvel, I believe, for their wealth and display.”

“Is he a Jew, aunt?” said Marie innocently.

“My dear child, no! How can you ask such a question, Marie? I have heard something about his family being of Hebrew descent—Eastern Hebrew descent—Elbraham, Abraham, very ancient, no doubt; but I don’t know for certain, and really I do not care to know: for what does it matter?”

“Yes, what indeed?” said her sister. “A very gentlemanly, highly-cultured man.”

“With a wonderful knowledge of the world and its ways. He has been a deal in Egypt, did not Lady Littletown say, Isabella?”

“Yes, with the Khedive,” was the reply. “Enormously wealthy.”

The breakfast ended, the young ladies were dismissed.

“I would not go to the schoolroom this morning, my dears,” said the elder sister; “go and lie down for an hour or two and rest. After lunch Lady Littletown is coming with the carriage to take you for a drive, and I should like you to look your best.”

“Rie,” exclaimed Clotilde, as soon as they were in their room with Ruth, who was debating in her own mind whether she ought not to take her cousins into her confidence about Mr Montaigne, but shrinking from relating the communication to such unsympathetic ears.

“Well?”

“You, Ruth, if you dare to say a word about what we talk about, I’ll kill you!” cried Clotilde.

“I think you may trust me,” said Ruth, smiling.

“Then mind you do keep secret,” continued Clotilde. “Rie,” she cried again, “I can see through it all; I know what it means.”

“Do you?” said Marie quietly.

“Yes, they’re going to sell us both—a bargain.”

“Are they?” said Marie, who was thinking she would like to be sold to Marcus Glen.

“Yes, it’s going to be like it was in that novel of Georges Sand. We’re to be married to rich old men because we are young and beautiful; and if they marry me to one, I’m sorry for the old man.”

“Do you think so?”

“Yes, I do,” exclaimed Clotilde: “else why were we dressed up, and sent down to dinner with that old Jew, and that old, yellow Lord Henry Moorpark, when there were those young officers there?”

“I don’t know,” said Marie thoughtfully, as once more her mind reverted to Captain Glen.

“Then I do,” cried Clotilde, with flashing eyes. “I should like to be married, and have an establishment, and diamonds, and servants; but if they make me marry that dreadful man—”

“Well, what?” said Marie, with a depth of thought in her handsome eyes.

“You’ll see!” cried Clotilde; and thrusting her hand in between the mattress and the palliasse, she dragged out the highly-moral paper-covered French novel that had lain thereperdu.

After the genial thawing of the ice there could be no more such severe and cutting behaviour as that which marked the meeting of Captain Glen and Richard Millet with the Dymcox family; and a day or two later, when the two officers were idling about the broad walks, with the boy’s eyes watching in all directions, but only to be disappointed at every turn, they came suddenly upon the party taking their morning walk.

“No, my dears,” the Honourable Philippa was saying, in reply to a request made by Clotilde; “the park is impassable, for the scenes that take place there are a disgrace to humanity, and the Government ought to be forced to interfere. It is not so very long ago that your aunt and I were thoughtfully walking beneath the trees—that glorious avenue of chestnuts, that we poor occupants of the Palace can only view free from insult at early morn or late in the evening—I say your aunt and I were pensively walking beneath the trees, when we stumbled full upon a coarse-minded crew of people sitting eating and drinking upon the grass, and a dreadful-looking man with a shiny head held up a great stone bottle and wanted us to drink. You remember, Isabella?”

“Yes, sister; and we fled down the avenue, to come upon another party engaged in some orgie. They had joined hands in a circle like savages, and one dreadful man was pursuing a woman, whom he captured, and in spite of her shrieks—”

“I think we had better not pursue the subject further, Isabella,” said the Honourable Philippa; “it is not a seemly one in the presence of young ladies. I need only tell you, my dears, that they were engaged in a rite popular among the lower orders—a sort of sport called ‘kiss-in-the-ring’.”

“Hush, sister!” whispered the Honourable Isabella; “the gentlemen.”

Poor Isabella’s hands began to tremble in a peculiar, nervous way as tall, English-looking Marcus Glen approached, appearing so much the more manly for having dapper Richard Millet by his side. The lady was not foolish enough to imagine that Glen wished to be attentive to her, but there was a sweet, regretful kind of pleasure in his presence, and when he spoke her withered heart seemed to expand, and old affections that had been laid up to dry, like sweet-scented flowers between leaves, began to put forth once again their forgotten odours, as if they were evoked by the presence of the sun.

The Honourable Philippa looked stern, and would have passed on with a bow; but when her sister put forth her trembling hand, and smiled with satisfaction at meeting the young officer again, such a line of conduct was impossible; and, as a matter of course, there was a very friendly greeting all round.

The Honourable Philippa felt frigid as she saw Marie’s eyes brighten, and that a charmingly ingenuous blush rose in her cheeks; she felt more frigid as she saw the greeting between Clotilde and Glen; for if ever girl looked her satisfaction at seeing anyone again, the ascetically-reared Clotilde was that maiden, and, truth to tell, in the innocency and guiltlessness of her heart she returned the pressure of the young officer’s hand as warmly as it was given.

As for Richard Millet, he began by blushing like a girl; then, making an effort, he mastered his timidity, and shone almost as brightly as his new patent-leather boots, thinking, too, how well he managed to get the young ladies all to himself; while Marcus talked quietly, and in a matter-of-fact way, to the Honourable Misses Dymcox, till Philippa grew a little less austere, and her hand felt at parting not quite so much like five pieces of bone in as many finger-stalls.

There was another unmistakable pressure from Clotilde’s hand, too, and a far more timid one from that of Marie, whose eyes wore a curiously pensive look, as the gentlemen doffed their hats and went their way.

It is worthy of note that poor Ruth passed an exceedingly uncomfortable day, being made aware of what was as nearly a couple of quarrels as could take place between ladies. The first took place in the drawing-room, where, after bidding Clotilde and Marie go and take off their things, the Honourable Philippa fiercely attacked her sister upon her levity.

“Shocked, Isabella! I can find no other word for it—shocked,” she exclaimed. “Your conduct to-day with those two young men was really objectionable.”

“I deny it, sister,” retorted the Honourable Isabella. “We met two of dear Lady Littletown’s guests whom we knew, and we spoke to them. They are both officers and gentlemen, and nothing, I am sure, could have been nicer than the behaviour of Captain Glen.”

“Is—a—bella!” exclaimed her sister, “when you know what is being arranged. It is like madness to encourage the intimacy of those young men.”

“Perhaps they wish to be intimate for politeness’ sake,” said the Honourable Isabella demurely, though her nervous hands were trembling and playing about the puckers of her dress.

“I declare, sister, you are absurd, you are almost childish; as if young men—young officers—cared about politeness when there were ladies like our nieces in the case.”

“Well, sister,” replied the Honourable Isabella tearfully, “I am sure I don’t know, but for my part I would rather see Clotilde and Marie married to Captain Glen and Mr Millet than as you and dear Lady Littletown had arranged.”

“And you!” cried her sister; “you were as eager as anyone, and you know how it will be for their good. Our family will be raised from penury to affluence, and we shall have done our duty, I am sure.”

“But it seems very sad, sister—very sad indeed.”

“Fie, Isabella!” exclaimed the Honourable Philippa; “what would Lady Littletown think if she heard of such miserable weakness? Think, too, what would Lord Henry Moorpark or Mr Elbraham say if they knew that these young men were encouraged here? It must be stopped, or encouraged very coldly indeed. Yes, Markes, what is it?”

“This box, please’m, and this little basket, please’m,” said the woman.

“How often have we told you, Markes, that all these things should be left to Joseph to bring up? It is not your duty,” exclaimed the Honourable Philippa. “Now, let me see.”

The box was directed to her, so was the basket; and reading the direction by the aid of her large gold eyeglass, she afterwards cut the box string, and on opening the loose lid set free a marvellously beautiful bouquet of very choice flowers.

The basket was opened, and contained another bouquet, but there was no message, no letter, with either.

The Honourable Philippa gazed at the Honourable Isabella, and that lady returned the meaning gaze; then they sent Markes away with the empty box and basket, leaving the elderly sisters to commune alone, and to whisper their satisfaction, in spite of a little hanging back on the part of the Honourable Isabella, that matters had progressed so well.

Meanwhile there was a cloudiness in the moral atmosphere upstairs which betokened a storm.

Ruth saw it and trembled, for hour by hour her cousins had seemed to her to change.

She did not know how it was—in fact, she was puzzled; but the change was very natural. The two girls had been treated somewhat after the fashion of flowers, and grown on and on in their cool retirement until they had attained to their full development and beauty, though as yet only in a state of bud. Then they had suddenly been placed in the full blaze of society’s sunshine.

The effect was what might have been expected. The buds had suddenly expanded; every latent thought of suppressed womanhood had burst into light and passionate life; every kept-down fancy and desire that had been in abeyance had started forth, and the buds were in full bloom, just as some choice exotic will in a few hours be completely transformed.

Very little was said for a time, but as the sisters removed their walking apparel there was more than one fierce look exchanged.

“I saw her look at him,” thought Clotilde; “and I’d kill her sooner than she should.”

“Such outrageous effrontery!” thought Marie; “but she does not know me if she thinks I am going to sit down quietly and let her win.”

“Enjoy your walk, dear?” said Clotilde, attitudinising before the glass, and admiring herself with half-closed eyes.

“Oh yes, Clo dear, it was delightful; but you shouldn’t flirt so with that little boy.”

“Now that’s too bad, dear,” retorted Clotilde, turning half round to smile sweetly at her sister. “You know that it was you. I felt quite ashamed sometimes to see how you went on.”

Ruth’s eyes grew a little more wide open as she heard this, for she thought that poor little Richard Millet seemed to be left to talk to her more than he liked.

“Oh, nonsense, love,” replied Marie. “But you don’t mean it, you know;” and then the sisters smiled most affectionately one at the other, and gazed curiously in each other’s eyes.

But as they smiled and looked affectionately at each other, they seemed to need an outlet for the wrath that was gathering fast, and poor Ruth’s was the head upon which this poured. The tears stood in her eyes again and again, as first one and then the other displayed her irritation in words, pushes, and more than once in what seemed greatly like blows, all of which was borne in a patient, long-suffering manner. For Ruth was far worse off than a servant, the least independent of which class of young lady would not have submitted to a tithe of the insult and annoyance that fell to the poor girl’s share.

Upon the present occasion the loud jangling of the bell, that was swung about and shaken by Joseph as if he detested the brazen creation, announced that lunch was ready, the mid-day repast by a pleasant fiction retaining that name, though no late dinner followed, the evening meal taking the form of tea and thick bread, and butter of the kind known as “best Dorset, and regarding whose birth there is always a mystery.”

The looks of the sisters were anything but bright and loving as they went down, followed by Ruth, who secretly drew up her sleeve, displaying her white, well-moulded arm as she ruefully inspected a black mark—to wit, the bruise made by a forcible pinch from Clotilde’s nervous finger and thumb.

The poor girl heaved a little sigh as she drew back her gingham sleeve—gingham and alpaca being fabrics highly in favour with the Honourable Misses Dymcox—though they always insisted upon calling the latter by the name of “stuff”—on economical grounds. Then she meekly took her place, grace was said, and the Honourable Isabella proceeded to dispense the mutton broth, richly studded with pearls of barley to the exclusion of a good deal of meat, Joseph giving quite a dignity to the proceedings as he waited at table, removing the soup-tureen cover with an artistic flourish, and turning it bottom upwards so as not to let a drop of the condensed steam fall upon the cloth, though a drop reached Ruth, whose fate it seemed to be to get the worst of everything, even to the boniest portions of the substance of the mutton broth, and the crustiest, driest pieces of the day before yesterday’s bread.

But there was a becoming dignity in Miss Philippa’s manners upon the present occasion, and she sipped her broth and played with the barley as if she anticipated finding pearls in place of unpleasant little sharp splinters of scrag of mutton bone.

“Thank you, yes, Joseph,” she said quietly, as the man brought round a very small jug of the smallest beer, and poured out a wineglassful each for the elderly sisters, without froth, so that it might look like sherry, or that delicious elderly maiden lady’s beverage known as marsala.

“Oh, by the way, sister,” said Miss Isabella, “did you think to mention about town?”

“Oh no, I did not,” said Miss Philippa. “By the way, Joseph, you will order the carriage for nine o’clock to-morrow morning.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Joseph, who was handing potatoes to the mutton broth.

“We must go in good time, for we shall have to visit the tailor’s about your new livery, Joseph.”

Joseph’s jaw dropped like the lower lids of his eyes, and a very waxy potato from the dish as he sloped it down, the said potato gambolling gaily across the cloth as if under the idea that it was a vegetable cricket-ball, and that its duty was to hit Ruth’s high-backed chair wicket fashion on the other side. It was, however, carefully blocked by that young lady with a spoon, and after a moment’s hesitation deposited in her soup-plate, her cousins, however, eyeing it jealously from old habit, as if they thought she was getting more than her share.

“Be careful, Joseph,” said Miss Philippa with severity; and Joseph was careful as he went on waiting; but the perspiration broke out profusely over his forehead, and he seemed, as he gazed from one to the other of his mistresses, as though the news, so unaccustomed in its way, was almost greater than he could bear.

“Bring those bouquets from the drawing-room, Joseph,” said Miss Philippa, just before the removal of the soup-tureen.

Joseph went out, and, to the astonishment of the young ladies, returned with the presents.

“Take that one to Miss Clotilde,” said Miss Philippa, beaming on the eldest of the young ladies, as she indicated the gayest of the carefully built up bunches of flowers. “Yes; and now that one to Miss Marie.”

The bouquets were handed to the young ladies in turn.

“Now remove the soup-tureen,” said Miss Philippa.

“Oh, aunt!” exclaimed Clotilde, as Joseph left the room.

“What lovely flowers!” cried Marie, holding them to her face.

“Yes, yes; yes, yes!” cried Miss Philippa in a highly pitched and very much cracked but playful voice. “I don’t know what to say to it, I’m sure; do you, sister?”

“No, indeed—indeed,” cried Miss Isabella, in an imitation playful tone.

“It seems to me that our quiet little innocent home is being laid siege to by gentlemen,” prattled Miss Philippa.

“And—and I don’t know what’s coming to us,” said Miss Isabella gaily; and her hands shook, and her head nodded as she laughed, a sad ghost of a youthful hearty sign of mirth.

“But is this for me, aunt?” cried Clotilde, flushing up, and looking handsome in the extreme.

“And this for me, aunt?” cried Marie, whose cheeks could not brook the rivalry displayed by those of her sister.

“Oh, I don’t know, my dears, I’m sure; but it’s very, very, very, very shocking, and you are both very, very, very, very naughty girls to look so handsome, and go to dinner-parties, and captivate gentlemen.”

“And make them lay offerings before your shrines,” prattled Miss Isabella.

“Floral offerings before your shrines,” repeated Miss Philippa, who nodded her approval of her sister’s poetical comparison.

“But, aunt, who sent them?”

“Oh, it’s no use to ask me, my dear,” exclaimed Miss Philippa. “There may be a wicked little note inside. I don’t know. I don’t understand such things. They are beyond me.”

“Oh yes, quite beyond us, my dear,” said Miss Isabella; and she laid her hand upon her side as she felt a curious little palpitation, and there was a pathetic sadness in her withered face, as she began thinking of Captain Glen.

“But somebody must have sent them, aunties,” said Marie, who dropped into the diminutive, and slightly endearing, appellative quite naturally, now that she found herself being exalted by her relatives.

“Oh yes, my dears, of course—of course,” said Miss Philippa: “someone must have sent them. Mind,” she cried, shaking one finger, “I don’t say that those beautiful, those lovely exotics were sent to you by Lord Henry Moorpark. And I don’t say—no: you don’t say, sister—”

“Yes, of course,” cried Miss Isabella, clumsily taking up the cue given to her, and shaking her thin finger very slightly, for it shook itself naturally a good deal, “I don’t say, Clotilde, my dear, that that delicious and most expensive bouquet was sent by the great wealthy Mr Elbraham; but I’ve a very shrewd suspicion. Haven’t you, sister?”

“Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes,” cried Miss Philippa playfully. “A little bird at dear Lady Littletown’s whispered a little something in my ear. But it’s very, very shocking, isn’t it, sister?”

“Oh yes,” cried Miss Isabella, repeating her sad little laugh, her head nodding very much the while; “but fie—fie—fie! Hush—hush—hush! Here is Joseph coming to change the plates.”

Joseph it was, and as he changed the plates Clotilde held her bouquet to her flushed cheeks in turn, and gazed at Marie, who held the flowers to her own cheeks, both of which were creamy white as some of the blossoms; and she, too, gazed rather curiously at her sister, trying to read her meaning in her eyes.

But nobody paid any heed to Ruth, who looked wistfully at the gorgeous colours in Clotilde’s bouquet, and the delicate tints in that of Marie, and she could not help wishing that someone sent her flowers—someone, say, like Captain Glen. Then she thought of Mr Montaigne, and she shivered, she hardly knew why, as she asked herself whether she ought not to have told her aunts of his visit and his ways. Then her thoughts were brought back to the happy present by Joseph placing a large section of “roley-poley” pudding before her upon a plate—not the ordinary homely “roley-poley” pudding, with flaky pastry and luscious gushings of the sweetest jam; but a peculiarly hard, mechanical style of compound which kept its shape, and in which the preserve presented itself in a rich streak of pink, starting from the centre, and winding round and round to the circumference, as if cook had turned artist, and was trying to perpetuate the neighbouring Maze in pastry at the least expenditure in cost.

The cheese which followed was Glo’ster of the ducal sound and soapy consistency, and then the empty plates, representing dessert, were placed upon the table—there was no fruit that day; grace had been said, and the ladies rose, Clotilde and Marie being kissed, and advised to place their bouquets in water in the drawing-room.

“They would look so nice if anyone called, my dears,” said Miss Philippa.

“Which they might, you know, my darling,” added Miss Isabella, smiling, and nodding her head.

So the flowers were placed in vases, duly watered, and the young ladies went up once more to their room, under orders to quickly redescend.

“There!” cried Clotilde maliciously, as soon as they were alone, “I knew it—I knew it! Ruth! Cindy! Do you hear! Go down on one knee, and kiss the hand of the future Viscountess or Baroness, or whatever she is to be, Lady Moorpark.”

“No, don’t, Ruth,” cried Marie fiercely. “Go and salute the future Mrs Elbraham. Let me see, Clo dear; do ladies who marry Jews become Jewesses?”

“Perhaps they do,” cried Clotilde, who had no repartee ready.

Marie laughed. “Jew—Jewess! Clo—old Clo! I wonder whether Mr Elbraham made his money that way? Eh, Clo dear?”

“I shall throw the water-bottle or the jug at you directly,” cried Clotilde, as she washed her hands. “Never mind: he is rich, and not old. I wouldn’t marry a yellow, snuffy old man, if he were ten thousand lords. There!”

“Who’s going to marry him?” said Marie scornfully.

“You are. You’ll be obliged to,” retorted Clotilde.

“I wonder,” said Marie, “whether Mr Elbraham is going to buy you of aunties, and if so, how much he is going to give.”

Clotilde faced round at this sting.

“If you think I’m going to marry him, or if aunts think so, they are mistaken!” she cried. “I know what I am going to do. I know something that you would give your ears to know, my lady.”

She looked mockingly at her sister, and waved her hand, as if wafting a kiss through the air.

Marie did not respond, but there was something in her eyes that troubled Ruth, who, being near, laid her hand in a sympathetic fashion upon her arm.

A summons from Markes put a stop to further conversation.

“What is it, Markes?” cried Clotilde.

“Aunts want you,” said the woman roughly. “Gentlemen visitors;” and before she could be further questioned she closed the door.

“I know,” cried Clotilde, darting a malicious glance at her sister: “it’s Captain Glen, and he has brought his little squire with him. Come along down, and speak to Richard Millet, while I talk to the Captain. I say, Rie, dear.”

“Well?”

“What a nice little husband he would make—quite a lady’s page!”

“‘My pretty page, look out afar,Look out, look out afar,’”

“‘My pretty page, look out afar,Look out, look out afar,’”

she sang; but Marie seemed hardly to notice her, for she was very quiet and thoughtful, as she gave a touch or two to her hair.

“There, that will do; come along—you won’t be noticed.”

Marie glanced at her sharply, and the blood suffused her cheeks; but she said nothing, only beckoned to Ruth to come, and they had nearly reached the drawing-room door when they met Markes, who took Ruth into custody.

“Not you, my dear,” she said quietly—“you’re to stop; it’s them that’s to go.”

As she laid her hand upon the door Clotilde’s heart beat fast, while a look of delight flushed her countenance. At the same time, though, she wondered that Marcus Glen and his friend should have called so soon.

“The silly old things!” she thought; “they could not see that the bouquets came from the Captain and Mr Millet.”

Then she glanced round to see that her sister was close beside her, opened the door, and entered.

Disappointment!

Seated with their backs to the window were Mr Elbraham and Lord Henry Moorpark. The Fates had ordained that they should make their calls both at the same hour, and they now rose to meet Clotilde and Marie.

“Then they did send the bouquets,” thought Clotilde; and her heart sank at the thought of their aunts’ innuendoes meaning anything serious.

Had she or her sister any doubts, they were soon chased away; for, though this was made quite a formal visit, there was a something quite unmistakable in their visitors’ ways.

Lord Henry and Elbraham had encountered close by the door, and a look of distrust overspread their features as they exchanged an exceedingly cool salutation; but soon after their meeting the elder and the younger sisters, matters seemed so satisfactory, that their breasts expanded with quite a brotherly feeling.

Elbraham had the natural dislike of a man of his stamp for one who happened to be high-born, and was by nature refined and amiable; while Lord Henry, with his gentlemanly notions of polish, felt rather a shrinking from the blatant man of the world, whose manners were not always separated from the dross that clings to badly-refined metal. But in a very short time each saw that he was on a different route, and that there was no likelihood of their clashing in their onward journey.

The Honourable sisters were amiability itself, and played most cleverly into their visitors’ hands; while, in spite of a feeling of repugnance and disgust at the idea of their being, as it were, sold into bondage to men so much older than themselves, and so very far from their hearts’ ideal of a lover, both Clotilde and Marie felt flattered.

For as Clotilde listened to Elbraham’s deep voice, and gazed unflinchingly in his coarse face, she saw through him, as it were, and beyond him, visions of life and gaiety, of a princely establishment, with servants and carriages and plate, and, for her own special use, the richest of dresses, the brightest of bonnets, and jewels as many as she would.

Marie, too, as she listened to the polished, deferential remarks of Lord Henry Moorpark, and saw the deep interest and admiration that beamed from his eyes, could not help thoughts of a similar character crossing her mind. Lord Henry was certainly old, but he was the perfection of all that was gentlemanly, and his deference for the young and beautiful woman to whom he was certainly paying his court had for her something that was very grateful to her feelings, while it was flattering to her self-esteem.

But interposing, as it were, between them and the visitors, the frank, manly countenance of Marcus Glen was constantly rising before the young girls’ vision, making them thoughtful and distant as their visitors chatted on. This, however, only added to their attraction, especially in Lord Henry’s eyes. To him even the shabby furniture and their simple dresses lent a piquancy that he would have missed had they been elsewhere; and at last, when he rose to take his leave, both gentlemen stepped out into the open air feeling as if their paths were in future to be strewn with roses, and ready to become brothers on the spot.

“Shall we take a walk in the gardens for a few minutes, my lord?” said Elbraham, as they stood together outside.

“With much pleasure, Mr Elbraham,” replied Lord Henry.

“Then I’ll just hook on,” said Elbraham.

He did “hook on”—to wit, he took Lord Henry’s arm; and that gentleman did not shrink, but walked with the millionaire down one of the broad walks between the trim lawns, both for the time being silent.

“I’m a man of the world,” said Mr Elbraham at last.

“Indeed,” said Lord Henry.

“Yes, my lord, and I’m going to speak out like a man of that sort.”

Lord Henry bowed and smiled, for he had Marie’s great dark eyes before him, and the memory was very pleasant at the time.

“Just an hour ago, my lord, when I met you at that door, I felt as if we two were to be enemies.”

“Indeed,” said Lord Henry again. “Yes, my lord; but now I don’t think we are.”

“Surely not.”

“To be plain then, my lord, I am going to propose in due form for the hand of Miss Clotilde.”

Lord Henry stopped short, with his eyes half-closed, and one foot beating the gravel as if he were thinking out an answer to the remark made by the man who held his arm.

“Well, my lord, what have you got to say?”

“Not much,” said Lord Henry, rousing himself; “but I will be frank and plain to you, Mr Elbraham, though no one is more surprised at this change in my prospects than I. You are going to propose for the hand of Miss Clotilde, one of the most beautiful women I ever saw.”

“Eh!” exclaimed Elbraham, whose jaw dropped, “don’t say that.”

“But I do say it,” said Lord Henry, smiling, and looking very dreamy and thoughtful: “the most beautiful woman I ever saw—except her sister—for whose hand I shall become a candidate myself.”

“Hah!” ejaculated Mr Elbraham, with a sigh of relief; “then look here, my lord, under these circumstances we shall be brothers-in-law.”

“Probably so.”

“Then we’ll have no more ceremony. Look here, my lord, I’m a plain man, and I don’t boast of my blood nor my position, but I’m warm; and a fellow can’t find a better friend than I can be when I take to a man. I like you. You’ve got blood, and a title, and all that sort of thing; but that isn’t all: you’re a gentleman, without any haw-haw, sit-upon-a-fellow airs. Moorpark, there’s my hand, and from henceforth I’ll back you up in anything.”

“Thank you, Mr Elbraham,” said Lord Henry, smiling, for in his then frame of mind the coarse manners of his companion were kept from jarring by the roses that metaphorically hedged him in. “There, then, is my hand, and I’m sure we shall be the best of friends.”

“And brothers,” exclaimed Elbraham, giving Lord Henry exquisite pain, which he bore like a martyr, by crushing his fingers against a heavy signet ring.

“God bless you, Moorpark! God bless you!”

There was more than a trace of emotion in Lord Henry’s eyes just then, as he warmly returned the other’s grasp; and then they walked on together.

“I shan’t shilly-shally, Moorpark,” exclaimed Elbraham hoarsely. “I shall send her down a few diamonds and things at once. What’s the use of waiting?”

“Ay, what, indeed!” said Lord Henry, smiling.

“Besides, my friend, we are too old.”

“Well, I don’t know so much about that, Moorpark. A man’s as old as he feels; and hang it, sir, when I’m in the presence of that woman, sir, I feel two-and-twenty.”

“Well, yes; it does make one feel young and hopeful, and as if we imbibed some of their sweetness and youth, Elbraham.”

“Sweetness and youth! Ah, that’s it, Moorpark. Sweetness and youth—they’re full of it. Miss Riversley’s lovely, ain’t she?”

“Truly a beautiful woman.”

“That she is,” said Elbraham. “Though, for the fact of that, Marie is not to be sneezed at.”

“No, by no means,” assented Lord Henry, whose brow knit a little here. “They are very charming, and thoroughly unspoiled by the world.”

“That’s the beauty of them, Moorpark, and that’s what fetches me, my dear boy. Lord bless your heart! with my money I could have married a thousand women. I’m not boasting, Moorpark, but I can assure you I’ve stood up like a stump, and duchesses, and countesses, and viscountesses, and my lady this and my lady that, have for any number of years bowled their daughters at me, and I might have had my pick and choice,” said Elbraham—apparently forgetting in his excitement that there was a trifling degree of exaggeration in his words, for his efforts to get into high-class society had not been successful on the whole.

“I am not surprised—with your wealth,” said Lord Henry.

“Yes, I am warm,” continued Elbraham; “and the best of the fun is, that they were all ready to forget that I was a Jew. For I don’t mind speaking plainly to you: I have some of the chosen blood in my veins, though I have changed over. But that’s neither here nor there.”

“Of course not,” assented Lord Henry.

“And what I like in our beauties is, that they look as if they’d got some of the chosen blood in them.”

“Ye-e-es,” assented Lord Henry; “they are dark, with the Southern look in their complexions. But it improves them.”

“Improves! I should think it does. Why, look here, Moorpark, you saw Clotilde to-day in that plain cotton dress thing, or whatever it was?”

“Yes, and she looked beautiful as her sister,” said Lord Henry warmly.

“She did—she did. But wait a bit, my boy. I’ll hang diamonds and pearls round that girl’s neck, and stick tiaras in her hair, and bracelets on her arms, till I make even the princesses envious—that I will. But now, look here, I’m glad we’ve come to an understanding. You’ll dine with me at my club, Moorpark? Don’t say no.”

“With pleasure, if you will dine with me.”

“Done. Where do you hang out?”

“Four hundred and four, Berkeley Square.”

“Say Monday for me, at the Imperial—seven sharp; and we’ll settle when I come toyou.”

“At seven on Monday,” said Lord Henry, “I will be there.”

“And now I must be off back to town. Good-bye, God bless you, Moorpark. One word first: you’ll like to do it handsome, of course, in presents, and that sort of thing.”

“Indeed I shall not be ungenerous as soon as I know her tastes.”

“Then look here, Moorpark, these things cost money.”

“Assuredly.”

“Then can I do anything for you? A few thousands on your simple note of hand? Only say the word. No dealing—no interest. Just a simple loan. How much?”

“My dear Elbraham,” said Lord Henry, “you are very kind; but I have a handsome balance at my bank. I am a man of very simple tastes, and I have never lived half up to my income.”

“Then you must be worth a pot,” exclaimed Elbraham. “I mean, you are really rich.”

“Well, I suppose I am,” said Lord Henry, smiling; “but I care very little for money, I assure you.”

“That’ll do,” exclaimed Elbraham, crushing the other’s hand once more. “Good-bye. Monday.”

By this time they had reached the spot where their carriages were waiting—Elbraham’s a phaeton, with a magnificent pair of bays, whose sides were flecked with the foam they had formed in champing their bits; Lord Henry’s a neat little brougham drawn by a handsome roan.

Then there was a wave of the hand, and Elbraham took his whip, the bays starting off at a rapid trot, while, having let himself into his brougham, Lord Henry gave the word “Home,” and leaned back with the tears in his eyes to think how soon he was finding consolation for the coldness with which he had been treated by Gertrude Millet. Then he felt slightly uneasy, for though he had never spoken to Lady Millet, his visits had been suggestive, and he could not help asking himself what her ladyship would say.

But that soon passed off, as he began to glide into a delightful day-dream about beautiful Marie, and to think how strange it was that, at his age, he should have fallen fairly and honestly in love with an innocent, heart-whole, unspoiled girl.

“Yes, so different to Gertrude Millet,” he said to himself. “She loved that young Huish, I am sure.”

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