George Manville Fenn (continued 4)

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 to you.”

“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.”

Volume Two—Chapter Three.

Lady Millet’s Choice.

Rich men are not always to be congratulated, especially if they are good-looking and weak. Frank Morrison was both, and in early days after her wedding Renée found that a loveless marriage was not all bliss.

But she had marked out her own course, and, with the hopefulness of youth, she often sat alone, thinking that she would win her husband entirely to herself, and that when he fully saw her devotion he would give up acquaintances whom he must have known before they were wed.

One Sunday evening, and she was seated waiting, when she heard a well-known step upon the stairs.

It was quite dinner-time, and she was waiting, dressed, for her husband’s return, looking sad, but very sweet and self-possessed; and as he entered the room she ran to meet him, put her arms round his neck and kissed him on lips that had been caressing others not an hour before.

“Ah, Renée,” he said quietly, “waiting dinner? So sorry, little woman. I could not get near a telegraph office, or I would have sent and told you.”

“I have not waited long, Frank,” she said cheerfully. “I am so glad you have come back.”

“But that is not what I meant, dear,” he replied. “I am only returned to dress. I dine out.”

“Dine out, Frank?” she said, trying hard not to seem troubled.

“Yes—obliged to. Two or three fellows at the club. Couldn’t refuse. You will excuse me to-night, little one?”

“Oh yes, Frank,” she said quickly, “if you must go, dear. I will not say I am not disappointed; but if you must go—”

“Yes, I must, really,” he said. “Don’t fidget, and don’t wait up. There may be a rubber of whist afterwards, and I shall be late.”

“How easy it is to lie and deceive!” thought Renée, as, with the same calm, placid smile, she listened to her husband’s excuses. “You are going, Frank, to that handsome, fashionable-looking woman? You will dine with her, and spend the evening at her house, while I, with breaking heart, sit here alone, mad almost with jealousy I dare not show.”

Thoughts like these flitted through her mind as she put up her face and kissed him before quietly ringing the bell for her dinner to be served, and going down to the solitary meal.

Her husband came in for a moment to say good-bye, cheerfully, and then she was alone.

It was a hard and a bitter task, but she fulfilled it, sitting there calmly, and partaking of her solitary dinner. It was for his sake, she said, for no servant must dream that they were not happy; all must go on as usual, and some day he would come back repentant to her forgiving arms, won by her patience and long-suffering.

She sat thinking this over and over again later in the drawing-room with a sad smile upon her lips, pitying, but telling herself that she could be strong enough to fulfil her self-imposed task. Not one word of reproach should be his, only tenderness and kindness always. She was his wife, and would forgive; yes, had already forgiven, and granted him a dispensation for the sins against her that he might commit.

“Poor Frank, he never loved me as he thought he did; but I shall win him yet,” she murmured; and then started, for she fancied that she heard a door close.

She saw nothing, though, and paid little heed, for if it was, it might easily be one of the servants in the farther drawing-room, one of the set of three, the third being quite a small boudoir, where she was seated, while the others were only half lit.

She leaned back in her low chair dreaming of the happy days to come, when her husband would return to her, and then her thoughts glided off to Gertrude and her projected marriage.

“I wonder whether I shall have a child,” she thought, “and if so, whether I shall be, in time to come, as mamma is. Poor Gerty! it seems very shocking that she, too, while caring for another, should be almost forced to accept the addresses of an old man like Lord Henry Moorpark. For that’s what mamma means,” she said half aloud.

Then she sat dreaming on and wondering whether some reports she had heard about John Huish were true—reports of a very dishonourable nature, but which she had carefully hidden from her sister.

“It may be all scandal,” she murmured; “but I am getting hard now—so soon! ah, so soon! Where there is smoke, they say, there is fire. Poor Gerty! Better Lord Henry—who seems to love her—than that she should waste her days on a worthless man. And yet I liked John Huish. Uncle Robert likes him, too; and I never knew him wrong, in spite of his retired life.”

But it would be strange, she thought, if both she and her sister should have set the affections of their young hearts upon men who upon being tried proved to be unworthy of trust. “Poor Gerty!—poor me!” she said, half laughing. “It is a strange world, and perhaps, after all, our parents are right in choosing our partners for life.”

Then she started once more, for she knew that she was not alone, and on turning, there, in evening dress, his crush hat in his hand, and looking calm, handsome, and sardonic enough for an incarnation of the spirit of evil himself, stood Major Malpas.

“Nervous, Mrs Morrison? Good-evening. Did you not hear me announced? No? Your carpets are so soft.”

He almost forced her to hold out her hand to him as she sat up, by extending his own, and he took it and raised it respectfully to his lips.

“But where is Frank?” he asked.

“My husband dines out this evening,” said Renée coldly.

“Indeed! how unfortunate! He asked me to run over one evening for a cup of coffee and a cigar. Perhaps he will return soon.”

“Not till quite late,” said Renée, who tried hard not to show that she was troubled by the visit.

“I am so glad to see you better, Renée,” he said, taking a chair near her, and speaking in a low, earnest voice.

Renée started, for it was the first time since her marriage that he had called her by her name; and as she met his eyes she felt that it was also the first time since the same event that he had gazed at her with such bold admiration.

What could she do? She could not bid him leave her; and, besides, she felt that in a few minutes his gentlemanly instincts must lead him to go, and, indeed, what was there to fear? He was a gentleman—a friend of her husband—and he had called to see them.

“How times are changed, Renée!” he said, after a pause, as he gazed at her pensively. “Once your eyes used to brighten and the colour flushed into your cheek when I came near. Now, is it a dream—a trick of fancy? I find you another’s, and you turn from me with coldness.”

“Major Malpas,” said Renée quietly, “is this a suitable way of addressing the wife of your friend?”

The mask fell off at these words.

“Friend!” he cried bitterly, as he drew his chair close to the couch on which she sat; “he is no friend of mine. Friend! What, the man who has robbed me of all that was dear—who has made my life a desert! Friend? Renée, you mock me by using such a word.”

“Major Malpas!” she cried loudly.

“Hush!” he exclaimed, throwing down his hat. “Hear me now, for the time has come, and I must speak, even though it be to wound the heart of the tenderest and sweetest of women. Renée, can I call the man friend who deliberately forsakes you for the society of a notorious woman—an actress!”

“Friend? No,” cried Renée with flashing eyes, as she rose to ring; but he caught her wrist and stayed her. “No; nor he you, if this is your friendship—to come and blacken my husband’s name with foul calumny to his wife.”

“Stop!” he said. “You shall not ring. Calumny! foul! Is it a foul calumny to say that he was driving her in the Park to-day, that he is dining with her and her friends to-night? Shame, Renée, that you should speak thus to the man who has ever been your faithful slave.”

“Major Malpas, I insist upon your leaving me this instant. There is the door!”

“Leave you! No,” he cried, seizing her other hand, as he fell upon his knees at her feet, “not till I have told you, Renée, that the old love never died in my heart, but has grown up stronger, day by day, till it has mastered my very being.”

That same night there was a party given by Madame Dorinde, limited to eight, fairly balanced between the sexes. The dinner was to be good, the supply of wines very liberal, especially as they cost the hostess nothing.

But they were a curious collection of guests, such as would have puzzled a student of human nature. Certainly he would have understood the status of Madame Dorinde, a handsome, showy woman, with plenty of smart repartee on her lips, and an abundance of diamonds, rubies, and emeralds for neck, arms and fingers—the gifts of the admirers of her histrionic powers. He would have told you that this would be a bright and gay career for a few years, and then probably she would drop out of sight.

There was a pretty, fair girl with good features and the glow of youth on her cheeks, putting to shame the additions of paint, and who seemed to think it right to laugh loudly and boisterously at everything said to her; there was Miss Grace Lister, the first burlesque actress of the day, dark, almost gipsy-looking in her swarthy complexion, whose colour was heightened by the novelty and excitement of the scene; Lottie Deloraine, née Simpkins, of the Marquise Theatre; Frank Morrison and a couple of washed-out habitués of the stalls lounged about the room, and the assembled company were beginning to wonder why dinner was not announced.

“What are we waiting for, Dory?” said Morrison at last. “Aren’t we all here?”

“Only for an old friend of mine. You know him—John Huish,” said the hostess rather maliciously; and then she added to herself, “He’ll keep your eyes off Gracy Lister, my gentleman.”

Morrison screwed up his face a little, laughed in a curious way, uttered the ejaculation “Oh!” and then smiled as the door was opened and a smart soubrette loudly announced “Mr John Huish!” the bearer of that name entering hurriedly, looking flushed and full of apologies, which were at once received and the dinner commenced.

It was intended to be free and easy and full of spirit; but somehow it seemed as if a spirit of discontent had crept in, and from time to time, though there was no open unpleasantly, flashes of annoyance played like the summer lightning which prefaces a storm over the table with its sparkling glass.

Madame Dorinde had a great favour to ask of her admirer, Frank Morrison, and sought to put him in the best of humours; but to her great annoyance she found him preoccupied, for his attention had from the first moment been taken up by Grace Lister, and his eyes were being constantly turned in her direction as, after a time, forgetting past troubles and neglect in the gaiety and excitement of the scene, Madame Dorinde looked brighter and more animated than she had seemed for weeks.

All this annoyed Huish, who was not long in detecting the glances directed by Frank Morrison at the glowing beauty of Grace, and he was the more annoyed because, just before dinner, he had whispered to the giver of the feast:

“Have the cards on the table as soon as you can. You propose.”

“There will be no cards to-night, my friend, so you need not expect to win any money,” the hostess had replied; and the young man had bitten his lip, and sat thinking how he could turn the little party to his own account.

“Why, I say, Huish,” Morrison cried gaily, a little later on, “what a canting humbug you are! I never thought to meet you at a party like this;” and he smiled significantly. “We always thought you were a kind of saint.”

“I am—sometimes.”

“It’s wonderful,” sneered Morrison.

“Yes, it is a wonder, my dear fellow; but you set me such an example.”

The two habitués of the stalls nodded to one another their approbation of the retort, and Madame Dorinde, to calm what threatened to be one ebullition with another, called for champagne.

As the dinner went on, the elements of discord began to leaven the party with greater effect, and a calm observer would have felt sure that the evening would not pass away without a quarrel. Morrison slighted his hostess more than once, and a redder spot burned in her cheeks right in the centre of a rather unnatural tint, while Huish, out of sheer bravado, on seeing how Morrison kept trying to draw Grace into conversation, directed his to Madame Dorinde.

“By the way, why hasn’t Malpas come?” said Morrison at last. “I expected to see him here with little Merelle.”

“Better employed, perhaps,” said Madame Dorinde tartly; and the young girl with the youthful look laughed very heartily.

“I say, Huish,” said Morrison at last, on finding that his attentions to Grace were resented by her companion, “I shall see little fair somebody to-morrow. You know whom I mean. What tales I might tell!”

“Tell them, then,” said Huish sharply; “perhaps I shall retort by telling too.”

“Oh, tut, tut, tut!” cried Dorinde. “Nobody tells tales out of school.”

“This is not the School for Scandal, then,” said one of the habitués of the stalls; and the fair young lady laughed again.

“I say, Dorinde,” said Morrison at last, rather uneasily, “why is not Malpas here?” and as he spoke he directed a peculiar smile at Grace.

Huish drew his breath hard, but said nothing. He set one of the menu cards close to his plate, wrote something on the back, and, waiting his time, doubled it up at last.

“Give that to the gentleman opposite,” he whispered to a waiter, slipping a florin into the man’s hand. “Don’t say where it came from.”

The man nodded, and Huish turned to chat gaily with Dorinde; then, filling his glass slowly, he directed a sidelong glance at Morrison as he took the card, glanced at its writing, crushed it up in his hand, and closed his eyes, as a spasm ran through his countenance and he turned pale as death.

No one else noticed it, and he opened his eyes and glanced quickly round to see that the company were all busily conversing. Then, rising quietly, he left the room, walked slowly to the lobby of the great building, where he had left hat and coat, and went out of the house.

Then he let his excitement have its full vent.

“Hansom!” he shouted, leaping into the first he saw. “Chesham Place—double fare—gallop.”

The horse dashed off in answer to the sharp cut of the whip, and as it tore along Piccadilly Frank Morrison strove to get rid of the fumes of the wine he had been drinking, and to think calmly.

“She is too pure and sweet and true a woman—I don’t believe it,” he said, grinding his teeth. “Whom I am cursed scoundrel enough to neglect. Who could have written that? Curse him! that John Huish, of course. What a scoundrel he has turned out!”

“Bah! what am I railing at?” he cried. “Whom do I call scoundrel? Damn you!” he roared, forcing up the little trap in the roof of the hansom. “Faster, man, faster.”

There was another lash of the whip, and the horse galloped furiously.

“Scoundrel, indeed! he is no worse scoundrel than I. He is an open roué, while I stoop to all kinds of beggarly petty subterfuges to conceal the life I lead. I won’t believe it, though; it is a malicious trick of John Huish’s because he was jealous—and he has fooled me.”

“Well,” he muttered, after a pause, “a good thing too. I’m sick of the whole thing—cards, lose, pay, feast a woman who does not care a sou for me. Heavens, what a fool I am! John Huish, you have ousted me; take my place and welcome. Renée, little woman, I’ll come back, and be a good boy now.”

He said this with a mocking laugh, and then changed his position impatiently in the cab, growing, in spite of his words, more excited every moment.

“How could Huish know?” he said, gnawing his nails. “Impossible; and, besides, he is too good and tried a friend. Suppose he did drop in, what then? Why, he is wiser than I: he prefers the society of a sweet good little woman to that of a set of painted animals, who have not a scrap of reputation big enough to make a bow for their false hair.”

“There, I’ve been tricked,” he exclaimed, as the cab turned down out of Knightsbridge and he neared Chesham Place. “Never mind; I’ll forgive him for fooling me, and I’ll try to leave all this wretched, stupid life behind. We’ll go abroad for a bit; or, no, we’ll go yachting—there’ll be no temptations there. I’m going to begin afresh. We’ll have a new honeymoon, Renée, my little girl. But—but—if that fellow’s words were true!”

The gas-lamps seemed to spin round as he stopped the cab, and he leapt out to hastily thrust some money in the drivers hand, and then walked sharply down the Place till he came opposite his own house.

“Curse it—it can’t be so!” he groaned, as he saw the dimly-lit drawing-room. “If it were true, I should go mad or go to the bad altogether. I won’t believe it. Malpas, old fellow, I beg your pardon,” he muttered. “Renée, my child, if heaven will give me strength, I’ll confess to you like an honest man that I’ve been a fool and an idiot, and ask you to forgive me.”

“Yes, and she’ll forgive me without a word,” he said, as he opened the door, quickly threw off hat and coat, and ran up the great stone staircase three steps at a time, then, trying to control the agitation that made his heart beat so heavily against his side, he threw open the door, closed it hastily, and walked across the faintly-lit room into the next, where he could see into the little boudoir with its bright furniture, flowers, and graceful hanging-lamp, which shed a softened light through the place.

The next instant he had entered, and was standing there face to face with his wife, who with flushed face stood trembling before him, supporting herself by-one hand upon the chimney-piece.

“Renée,” he cried, turning white with rage, as his worst suspicions seemed confirmed, “what does this mean?”

“Frank, Frank!” stretching out her hands towards him as she tottered a couple of steps and then reeled and would have fallen, but he caught her and swung her round on to the couch, where he laid her, and stood gazing down for a few moments.

Then, looking dazed, and trembling in every limb, he turned round, his eyes rested on the curtains which shut off the little conservatory, and with two strides he reached them, tore them aside, and then started away.

It was exactly what he had wound himself up to expect; but his faith in his injured wife was so strong that, as he drew back, he could scarcely believe his eyes, and with a giddy feeling stealing over him, he stood staring wildly at the apparition that he had unveiled. The blood seemed to swell in a chilling flood to his heart, and for a few moments he could neither speak nor move.

Then with an electric rush it seemed to dart again through every vein in his body, making his nerves tingle, and he flew at the man who had crept like a serpent into his Eden.

“Devil!” he cried hoarsely; and he tried to seize his enemy by the throat.

With a deft movement of the arms, though, Malpas struck his hands aside, caught them by the wrist, gave them a dexterous twist, and forced the other, stronger man though he was of the two, upon his knees.

“Fool! idiot!” he said, in a low voice. “Do you wish to publish it all over Belgravia?”

“You crawling, deceitful fiend!” cried Frank Morrison, making a savage effort to free himself, and succeeding so that he closed, and a sharp struggle ensued, which again went against the young husband. For his adversary was an adept in athletic exercises, and taking advantage of a low ottoman being behind, forced him backwards so suddenly that he fell, and in a moment was down with Malpas’s hands in his necktie and a knee on his chest.

“Are you mad?” he said, panting and trying to recover his breath; “what do you want?”

“Your life, you crawling, lying villain,” gasped Morrison.

“Look here, Morrison, be a man of the world,” said Malpas quietly. “So far, I don’t suppose they have heard anything downstairs, so why make a scene? If you wish it, I’ll meet you in Belgium; that is,” he added, smiling, “if you consider that your honour has suffered.”

“You scoundrel!” panted Morrison. “You have blasted my home!”

“Bah! don’t go into high sentiment. Blasted your home? Hang it, man, talk sense! What did you care for your home? Where have you been to-night?”

“Where I pleased,” cried Morrison, with subdued rage in his eyes; but he lowered his voice.

“Exactly, you had your little affair to attend to: why should not madame have her guest by way of solace, in the absence of so true and faithful a husband?”

“You villain!” panted Morrison again, as he caught the wrists that held him down.

“Villain, if you like to use such strong language, mon cher; but for heaven’s sake be calm—be a man of the world! We don’t live in the old, sentimental Darby-and-Joan days, my dear fellow, but in times when it is fashionable to follow one’s own sweet will. You are like the dog in the manger: obstinate—selfish—brutal. Go to, my dear friend, and enjoy yourself, but let others live and enjoy themselves too.”

For answer Frank Morrison made a desperate struggle to rise, but he was quite helpless under the strong pressure of his opponent’s knee.

“For goodness’ sake, be calm,” said Malpas angrily. “Hang it, man, what did you expect in our matter-of-fact world! You brought me here constantly, and you left us together constantly. Do you forget that we were old lovers before you came between us? There, you are coming to your senses, I hope.”

He stepped away quickly towards the door, and Frank Morrison sprang up and made as if once more to seize him, but with a violent thrust Malpas sent him backwards and was gone.

Frank Morrison stood motionless till he heard the front door close; then with a moan of anguish he turned towards where Renée still lay insensible upon the couch.

“My punishment!” he groaned: “and I believed in her so thoroughly; I thought her so pure, so sweet that—out upon me! I left her, dog that I was, for garbage. Curse him!” he cried in a paroxysm of rage, “curse her, with her smooth, white, innocent looks! The whole world is blasted with villainy, and there is not one among us worthy of a moment’s faith.”

“Frank—husband,” moaned a voice, and Renée, pale as death, rose trembling to clasp her hands before him.

He caught them in his, dragged her up savagely, and then swung her down upon her knees.

“And you, too, of all women in the world! Curse you! curse you! may you—”

“Frank, my own, I—”

“Out upon you!” he cried. “I’ll never look upon your smooth false face again!”

Choking with her emotion, she tried to speak—to cling to him; but he snatched himself away, and as she fell heavily upon the carpet he rushed from the house.

Volume Two—Chapter Four.

Late in the Field.

“Why, what’s the matter?”

“Matter!” panted Dick Millet, dancing excitedly into Marcus Glen’s room, where the latter was sitting back, cigar in mouth, reading the most interesting parts of a sporting paper. “Why, everything’s the matter. While you are sitting here at your ease, those two old patriarchs have been stealing a march upon us.”

“When you get a little less excited,” said Glen coolly, “perhaps you will explain.”

“Oh, it’s easily explained: those two—that Jew fellow, Elbraham, and that old yellow apricot, Lord Henry Moorpark—have been in at the private apartments this hour.”

“Visit of ceremony,” said Glen, sending up a little cloud of smoke.

“Yes, and then they’ve been walking up and down in the gardens, talking earnestly together.”

“While you have been in the Maze and got lost,” said Glen.

“I tell you they were walking together, and shaking hands in the most affectionate manner.”

“While you played the spy, Dick? I say, my lad, that’s not square.”

“But it’s a horrible sell. My mother was always asking those two to our place.”

“With matrimonial intentions?”

“I suppose so. Elbraham never came, but old Moorpark often did, and it was on the cards—”

“Visiting-cards?”

“No. That he was to be my brother-in-law. I say, Glen, who is a fellow to trust?”

“But he was not engaged to your sister?”

“No, of course not. Our Gertrude thought a deal of another fellow; but the mater’s word is law, you see, and it might have come off. Good heavens! she will be mad.”

“Your sister?”

“Not she—the mother. Well, I’m not going to stand it. My dear fellow, we are being cut out.”

“Nonsense, my dear boy; those two are old enough to be their grandfathers.”

“But they are rich—at least, Elbraham is rolling in wealth.”

“Then Lord Henry was getting the Jew to do a bill.”

“You seem as if nothing would move you, Glen; I tell you I am sure they have been to propose to those girls.”

“And if they had, what then?”

“I should go mad.”

“Nonsense! you’d go and fall in love with someone else.”

“I? with another!” cried the little fellow tragically. “I tell you I never knew what it was to love till now I can’t bear it, Glen; pray get up, and come and see.”

“Nonsense, man, nonsense! We couldn’t call. Wait till to-morrow, and we shall meet them in the grounds.”

“You’ll drive me mad with your coolness. You can’t care for her. Oh, Glen, ’pon my soul, it’s too bad! I loved Clotilde almost to distraction, but seeing how you seemed to be taken with her, I gave her up to the man I looked upon more as brother than friend, and devoted myself to Marie. If I had known, though, I should have taken up very different ground.”

Glen had felt troubled at his little companion’s remarks, and he had begun to think seriously of the possibility of what he had announced being true; but the tragic manner in which he had spoken of the transfer of his affections in obedience to his friendship was more than Glen could bear, and he burst out into such a hearty fit of laughter that little Richard faced round, and marched pompously and indignantly out of the room.

No sooner had he gone than Glen began to think, and very seriously now. Somehow he seemed to have been stirred by Clotilde from the depths of his ordinary calm life; he did not know that he loved her, but the thought of her dark, passionate eyes had such an effect upon him that he got up and began to pace the room. Never had woman so moved him from his apathy before; and the more he thought of her simplicity and daring combined, the more he told himself that this woman was his fate.

It was plain enough to him, with his knowledge of the world, that he was the first who had ever intruded upon her maiden repose. He knew that she had led an almost conventual life, and that her young heart seemed, as it were, to leap to meet him, so that what would have appeared brazen effrontery in a girl of several seasons, was in her but the natural act of her newly-awakened love.

“I can’t help it,” he exclaimed at last; “she is not the sort of girl that I thought I should have chosen to call wife; but she is all that is innocent and passionate, and, well, I feel sure she loves me, and if she does—”

He stopped short for a few moments, thinking:

“We shall be as poor as the proverbial church mouse; but what does that matter, so long as a man finds a wealth of love?”

He continued his two or three strides backwards and forwards, and then threw himself down in his seat.

“The girl’s a syren,” he exclaimed, “and she has bewitched me. Hang me if I ever thought I could feel such a fool!”

Glen’s folly, as he considered it, increased in intensity like a fever. For years past he had trifled with the complaint—rather laughed at it, in fact; but now he had it badly, and, with the customary unreason of men in his condition, he saw nothing but perfection in the lady who had made his pulses throb.

Certainly, as far as appearance went, he was right, for nature could have done no more to make her attractive. To what art had made her he was perfectly blind, and, intoxicated by his new delight, he began to think of how he should contrive to see her again.

Glen’s mind went faster than his body, which, in spite of energetic promptings, refused to do more than go on in a stolidly calm, well-disciplined way, and the utmost it would accord, when urged by passion to go and loiter about the Palace gardens or the private apartments in the hope of seeing Clotilde, was a stroll slowly towards Hampton.

“I’m not going to behave like a foolish boy,” he said to himself. “I’ve tumbled head over ears in love with her, and if I can read a woman’s face she is not indifferent to me. Till I have a chance to say so I must wait patiently in a sensible way. It would be pleasant, though, to walk as far as Lady Littletown’s and make a call. The old lady might, perhaps, talk about her, and I should hear a little more.”

He started with the idea of walking straight to Hampton, but he met Major Malpas, who detained him some little time. Then he encountered Maberley, the surgeon, and had to hear an account about one of the corporals who had been kicked by a vicious horse.

The consequence was that he did not get to Lady Littletown’s on that day, while the next was pretty well taken up with a march out and other military duties; but free at last, he hurriedly got rid of his uniform, and once more set off to walk to Hampton.

He had hardly seen Dick Millet since he left his quarters in dudgeon. They had met at the mess dinner, and also during the march out, but the little fellow had held himself aloof, and seemed hurt and annoyed.

“I must have a talk with Master Dick,” said Glen to himself, as he walked on. “He’s a good little fellow at heart, and I don’t like to hurt his feelings.”

He had hardly formed the thought when he heard rapid steps behind, and directly after his name was uttered.

Turning round, there was the boy coming on at as nearly a run as his dignity would allow.

“I say, old fellow, how fast you do walk! Either your legs are precious long or mine are precious short.”

“Little of both, perhaps. Take the happy medium, Dick.”

“Ah, that’s better,” exclaimed the boy, whose face was now bright and beaming. “I do hate to see you in one of those sulky, ill-humoured fits of yours.”

“Yes, they are objectionable; but where are you going?”

“Going? I was coming after you. I say, I’ve made it right.”

“Made what right?”

“Why, that. I hung about till I saw the Dymcoxes’ maid, a regular old griffin; and when I spoke to her she looked as if she would have snapped off my head. Couldn’t make anything of her, but I’ve secured the footman.”

“Under military arrest?”

“No, no, of course not. You know what I mean. I tipped him a sov., and the fellow seemed to think I had gone mad; then he thought I meant to have given him a shilling, and told me so. I don’t believe he hardly knew what a sov. was, and he’d do anything for me now. He’ll take letters, or messages, or anything; and he says that I was right.”

“What about?”

“What about? Why, those two ancient patriarchs; and that he is sure the old women are going to make up a match and regularly sell the girls. Glen, old fellow, this must be stopped.”

“How?”

“By proper advances first, and if diplomacy fails, by a dashing charge—an elopement.”

“Humph!” ejaculated Marcus. “Should you inform Lady Millet, your mamma, before you took such a step?”

“I should take the lady I had chosen for my wife straight home.”

“And a very good place, too,” said Glen, who remained very thoughtful, saying little till they reached Lady Littletown’s gates.

“Are you going to call here?”

“To be sure. Come with me?” replied Glen; and receiving an answer in the affirmative to the inquiry as to whether Lady Littletown was at home, they were shown in, to find to their great delight that her ladyship had been over to the Palace that afternoon, and had brought back Clotilde and Marie to dine with her and spend the evening.

“It will help to form their minds, my dears,” her ladyship had said to the Honourable Misses Dymcox; “and really, now that we have this project in hand, I feel towards them as if they were my own children.”

This was while the young ladies had gone up to dress and frighten Ruth by their exigencies and sharp ways, after which they had an airing in Lady Littletown’s carriage, and, when the young officers were announced, were sipping their five o’clock tea.

“Now, now, now,” cried Lady Littletown in tones of playful menace, as she gave her fingers to the officers in turn, “I shall not allow this sort of thing. You soldiers are such dreadful men. You knew my poor children here had come over to cheer my solitude, and you mount your chargers and gallop over at once.”

“I can assure your ladyship that my visit was frankly intended to yourself, and that I was in utter ignorance of your having company; but of course I am the more delighted.”

Glen had never delivered so courtly a speech before, and he felt uncomfortable when he had said it; but he recovered directly as he met Clotilde’s eyes, which were fixed earnestly upon his, and her hand spoke very plainly as they exchanged salutations; Marie, on the contrary, seeming as cold as her sister was warm.

“Then that dreadful little Don Juan knew of it,” cried her ladyship sharply. “I shall forbid him the house.”

“I assure your ladyship”—began Dick.

“Eh? What, Edward?” said Lady Littletown, as a servant made a communication to her in a low, respectful tone. “Dear me, how tiresome! My dears, pray excuse me a minute, I’m called away. You can give these dreadful men a cup of tea each if they will condescend to drink it;” and she rustled out of the room.

“I did not think to have seen you again so soon,” said Dick, crossing to where Marie sat, looking pale and troubled, while Clotilde rose from her seat, looking fixedly at Glen, and walked out into the great conservatory, where, of course, he followed.

Marie turned paler and her breath came faster as she made as if to rise and follow them; but Dick set down the emotion as being caused by his presence, and catching her hand in both of his, he repeated his words, “I did not expect to see you again so soon.”

“Let us go,” replied Marie hoarsely. “My sister; do you not see?”

“Yes,” whispered Dick, full of boyish ardour. “But don’t—pray don’t go.”

Lady Littletown was very proud of her conservatory, which was kept lavishly filled with the choicest flowers and foliage plants. Following on the example of Hampton Court, there were oranges of goodly size, with their bright-green leaves, yellow fruit, green fruit, and delicious blossoms all growing at the same time.

It was into this semi-tropical region, where the atmosphere was redolent of sweet and cloying perfume, that Clotilde had slowly walked, her eyes dreamy and downcast, and her fingers idling amongst the beautiful blossoms on either side.

As Glen followed, and noted her soft undulating form, her bent head with masses of dark hair clustering about her neck, he felt his heart go throb, throb, heavily and slowly, while his blood seemed to bound through his veins.

Clotilde went on down the central path of the great glass-house, and then, without glancing back, she turned off at the bottom, where she was completely hidden from the drawing-room windows, and it was here that Glen overtook her.

“Miss Riversley! Clotilde!” he said softly.

She did not speak, but he saw her shudder, as if a tremor had run through her frame.

“Have I offended you?” he whispered, holding out his hands.

“Oh no,” she cried, starting round with her face flushed; and placing her hands in his, she looked up full in his eyes for a moment, and then let them fall.

It was very shocking, very unusual, and it was all entirely opposed to the etiquette of such matters, but there was a something in Clotilde’s looks and ways that made Glen turn giddy; and he behaved giddily. Some people will say it was his fault, some others may blame the lady for her want of reserve, but the fact remains the same, that, forgetting everything in the moment but the look that had spoken so much to his eyes, the young officer pressed his lips to the hand that not only seemed to, but did invite the caress; but just then there was a sharp “Oh!” and in an instant Clotilde and Glen were admiring the beauty of the colours in some caladiums of which Lady Littletown was very proud.

The ejaculation was not uttered by that lady, however, but by Marie, who, closely followed by Dick Millet, had come down the conservatory tiles silent as a cat and seen all.

“Clotilde!” she exclaimed in a low, angry voice, and then she darted an imperious look at Glen.

“Well, Marie?” said Clotilde coolly, as the rich red slowly died out of her cheeks, “did you find the drawing-room too warm, love? Look, Captain Glen, this one is lovely.”

“Lovely indeed!” cried Marcus, giving a beseeching glance at Marie; but she turned from him scornfully, only to look back at him with a fierce, passionate gaze which startled and surprised him, for he did not then realise the truth.

There was nothing to be done then but to go on admiring the flowers, and as they went from group to group, Glen’s feelings were a strange contradiction. His pulse throbbed with pleasure, but this was marred by the bitterly reproachful look he had received from Marie; while upon catching Dick’s eyes fixed upon him, and receiving a half-droll, half-reproving shake of the head from that young gentleman, he felt so angry and annoyed at his having witnessed the scene, that he could have freely kicked him out of the conservatory.

A gorgeous display of blossoms cultivated to the highest pitch of perfection Lady Littletown had gathered together in her conservatory, but these nobles of Flora’s train might well have felt offence at the treatment they received, for, though the occupants of the glass-house babbled and talked flowers, any disinterested listener would have been astonished at the rubbish that was said.

“Ah, you are admiring my pets,” cried Lady Littletown, returning hastily; “I’m so sorry to have had to leave you, my dears. One of my old pensioners was ill, and had sent on for some wine I promised. Yes, those are my gloxinias, Captain Glen. Delightful, are they not? Did you have some tea? No! Ah, I see how it is. Next time I receive a call at this hour from you military gentlemen, I shall have a pot with two teaspoonfuls of soda in it, and then fill it up with brandy. You would be happy then.”

They stayed very little longer, and when at parting, after receiving a long, earnest pressure from Clotilde’s hand, Glen turned to Marie and took hers, most grudgingly held out, he found time to whisper:

“Don’t be angry with me; surely we ought to be the best of friends.”

Marie’s heart gave a great throb as she felt the warm pressure of his hand, and in spite of herself she could not help her eyes lifting to meet his in a gaze that was full of sadness and reproach.

“Oh, come, I say, Glen, old fellow,” cried Dick as soon as they were well outside the gates. “You do go it, you do! Only just known her.”

“Hold your tongue, do! Hang it, Millet, there are things a man ought not to see.”

“Oh, very well, then, I’m as blind as a beetle and as quiet as a fish. I didn’t see anything; but, I say, didn’t it make Marie cross!”

“Oh, of course. She was surprised.”

“I tried to keep her in the drawing-room, but she was nervous and frightened—poor little darling!—at being alone with me, and I was obliged to let her come at last, or there would have been a scene.”

There was something very suggestive of a dapper little bantam paying his addresses to a handsome young pullet in the boy’s remarks anent the “poor little darling”; but Glen was too much troubled just then to pay much heed, so his companion prattled on.

For Glen was not satisfied: he wished that Clotilde had not been so yielding.

Then he excused her. She was so sweet and innocent. She had been so restrained and kept down; all was so fresh to her, that her young love, he told himself, was like Haidee’s, and like some bird she had flown unhesitatingly to his breast.

It was very delicious, but, all the same, he wished that it was all to come, and that she had been more retiring and reserved.

Still, she loved him. There was no doubt of that, and perceiving that he was dreamy, and strange, and likely to excite notice from his companion, he roused himself from the reverie.

“Well, Dick,” he cried, laughing, “what have you to say now to your story of the patriarchs?”

“Well, I don’t know. I suppose it must be all a flam.”

“Yes, there’s no doubt about that, and you have wasted a sovereign that might have gone in buttonholes and gloves.”

“Oh, no—not wasted,” cried the little fellow. “Decidedly not. Oh, no, my dear boy, my experience teaches me that it is always as well in such matters to have a friend at court.”

“I say, young fellow,” cried Glen, who had cast off his reserve, and was now making an effort to be merry, “you say, ‘in these affairs’! In the name of commonsense, how many love affairs do you happen to have had?”

“Well, really,” said the boy importantly, “I don’t exactly know. Somehow or another, I did begin early.”

Glen laughed merrily, and went on chatting away; but somehow the thoughts of Marie’s reproachful eyes were mingled largely with those of Clotilde’s longing, loving gaze, and there were times when he did not know whether he was most happy or most vexed.

Volume Two—Chapter Five.

A Walk in the Gardens.

The days glided on, with the younger sisters wondering at the change that had taken place, for everything now seemed to be done with an idea to their comfort.

Mr Montaigne called, according to his custom, pretty frequently, and he was quite affectionate in his ways. He and the Honourable Misses Dymcox had long conversations together, after which he used to go, seeming to bless Clotilde and Marie, he was so paternal and gentle—Ruth obtaining, too, her share of his benevolent smiles.

Then, after a good deal of waiting, came a time when Clotilde met Glen alone. The latter did not know that he had Dick to thank for the arrangement; but he it was who made the suggestion to Clotilde, by whom the idea was seized at once, and the very next morning she proposed that Marie and she should have a walk in the gardens directly after breakfast.

“My head aches a good deal, aunties, and a walk will do it good.”

Miss Philippa looked at her sister, and Miss Isabella returned the look.

“Well, my dears, as it is far too early for anyone to be down from London,” said Miss Philippa, “I think you might go, don’t you, sister?”

“Yes, decidedly,” said Miss Isabella; and the young ladies went up to dress, Markes entering the bedroom as they prepared for their walk.

“But you two ain’t going alone?” said the maid.

“Indeed but we are, Markes,” retorted Clotilde.

“But not without your aunts?”

“Yes, of course. How absurd you are!”

“Well, things is coming to a pretty pass! I couldn’t have believed it if I’d been told.”

She went out, and, according to her custom, slammed the door, but it was not heeded now; and soon after, with the affectionate kisses of their aunts moist upon their cheeks, the two girls strolled along one of the paths in the direction of the Lion Gate.

For a time they were very silent, but at last, after two or three sidelong glances at Marie, Clotilde opened the ball.

“Well, dear,” she said, “what do you think of it?”

Marie remained silent.

“For my part,” continued Clotilde, “I think it horrible. It’s like being sold into a seraglio. I won’t have him.”

“Then why did you accept that bracelet?” exclaimed Marie sharply.

“Because it was very beautiful, my dear sister; because I only had a wretchedly common porte bonheur; and, lastly, because it was of diamonds, and I liked it.”

“But it was like telling the man you would have him.”

“Then why did you accept that pearl ring Lord Henry sent you, sweet sissy?”

“For the same reason—because I liked it,” said Marie bitterly; “but I’ve hated myself ever since.”

“It’s a pity they are so old,” said Clotilde. “It would be very nice if they were not, for I like the idea of having plenty of good things, and being able to spend as much money as I like. Why, Rie,” she exclaimed, “let’s have a run through the Maze. We haven’t been since we were quite little children.”

“Nonsense! absurd!”

“Never mind; let’s be absurd for once. There will be no one there so soon as this. I shall go; you can stay away if you like.”

With a quiet, disdainful look, Marie followed her sister, and carelessly began with her threading the devious course through the quaint old labyrinth.

“How ridiculous of you, Clo!” she said at last. “There is not a breath of air, and it is growing terribly hot. Come back, there is someone here.”

“Very well; come back, then,” said Clotilde. “This way, Rie.”

“No; that is not the path.”

“Yes it is. I’m sure it is; and—oh, how strange! Here are those two.”

Marie’s cheeks crimsoned as she found that they had come suddenly upon the two officers. That it was a planned thing she was sure; but this was not the time to resent it, and she returned the salutations with which she was greeted, making up her mind that she would keep close to Clotilde the whole time, and prevent a tête-à-tête.

But such a determination would have been difficult to carry out in the gardens, when three people were arrayed dead against her. In a maze it was simply impossible; and the guide was not there.

She never knew how or when they were separated, but all at once she and Dick were on one side of a hedge, and Clotilde and Glen on the other, and when the boy laughingly tried to put matters right, he did it so cleverly that they were soon two hedges separate; then three, and likely to be four; by which time, forgetful of all his scrupulous feelings, and Clotilde’s want of perfection in his eyes, Glen had clasped her to his heart with a deep, low “My darling, at last!”

“Oh, no, no, no, Marcus,” she sobbed, as she gently thrust him away, and then clung to his arm, gazing piteously up at him the while. “You must not. I ought not to let you. I feel so wicked and despairing I hardly care to live.”

“But why, my darling—my beautiful darling?” he whispered passionately, contenting himself now with holding her hands.

“Because this is so wrong. My aunts would never forgive me if they knew.”

“That is what I want to speak about, dearest,” he said, in a low voice, as he drew her arm through his and they walked on. “May I speak to them? Let me call and ask their permission to come freely and openly to the apartments. I am only a poor suitor, Clotilde—only a captain of cavalry, with very little beside his pay; but you will not despise me for that?”

“For what?” she cried innocently, as she gazed up into his face.

“For my want of money,” he said, smiling down, and longing to clasp her once more in his arms.

“I hardly know what money is,” she said quietly. “We have never had any; so why should I care for that?”

“Then I may speak?” he whispered. “I may be better off by-and-by, and we can wait.”

“Oh yes, we could wait,” sighed Clotilde. “But no—no—no, it is madness! I ought not to talk like this. I’ve been very weak and foolish, and I don’t know what you must think of me.”

“Think of you!” he whispered; “that you are all that is beautiful and innocent and good, and that I love you with all my heart.”

“But I’m not good,” faltered Clotilde; “I’m very wicked indeed, and I don’t know what will become of me; I don’t, really.”

“Become the woman who will share my fate—the woman I shall make my idol. Clotilde, I never saw one I could sincerely say such things to till we met, and at one bound my heart seemed to go out to meet you. Tell me, my darling, that nothing shall separate us now.”

“Oh, don’t, pray don’t speak to me like that,” sighed Clotilde. “You don’t know—you can’t know. What shall I do?”

“My dear girl, tell me,” he whispered, as he gazed in her wild eyes.

“Oh, no, no!” she sobbed.

“Not give your confidence to one who loves you as I do?”

“I dare not tell you—yes, I will,” she cried piteously. “What shall I do? My aunts say that I must marry Mr Elbraham.”

“Then Millet was right,” cried Glen excitedly. “But no, no, my darling, it cannot—it shall not be. Only tell me you love me—that I may care for you—guard you—defend you, and no aunts or Elbrahams in the world shall separate us.”

“I—I think—I believe I do care for you,” she faltered, as she looked up at him in a piteous, pleading way.

“Heaven bless you, sweet!” he cried. “Then this very day I will see them. They are women, and will listen to reason. I will plead to them, and you shall help me.”

“Oh, no, no, no!” cried Clotilde in horrified tones. “That would be to separate us for ever, and—and—and,” she sobbed, “I could not bear that.”

“But surely”—he began.

“Oh, you do not know my aunts!” she said excitedly. “It would only be to force me into that dreadful man’s arms. We must not let them know. It would be too dreadful.”

“But, my darling, I think I could show them—”

“No, no! Don’t show them—don’t try to show them, if you love me!”

“If I love you!” he said reproachfully.

“Then pray—pray keep it secret,” she said imploringly, “for the present.”

“But I must see you—I must talk to you.”

“Yes, yes; you shall sometimes. But if they thought you spoke to me as you have, I should never see you again.”

“But what am I to do?” he pleaded.

“You may write to me sometimes,” she said ingenuously; “and sometimes, perhaps, we may meet.”

“But—”

“Hush! No more now. Oh, pray—pray—pray! Here is sister Marie.”

Glen did not notice it, but Clotilde recovered her calmness very rapidly, as, after a very awkward time spent in trying hard to keep her from joining the others, Marie found out the way for herself, and snubbed Dick so sharply that he came up with her looking exceedingly rueful, and telling himself that the sacrifice he had made to friendship was far too great, and that he ought to have kept to Clotilde.

“Why, Marie,” exclaimed the latter, “where have you been?”

Marie did not reply, only darted an angry glance at her sister, and then one full of scorn at Glen, who made a sign to Millet, one which the little fellow eagerly obeyed, going on with Clotilde, while Glen lingered behind with Marie.

“I am not so blind or so foolish as not to see that you are displeased with my attentions to your sister,” he said in a low voice, which made her thrill with pleasure, in spite of the jealous anger she felt. “Yes, you need not tell me,” he continued, meeting her eyes. “But come, let us be friends—more, let us be like brother and sister, for, believe me, my feelings towards you are warmer than you think. I know that I am no worthy match for your sister, but if love can make up for poverty—there, you will not be angry with me, for I want you to be my ally.”

Marie turned to him again to look scorn and anger, but as she met his eyes her resolution failed, and it was all she could do to keep from bursting into a passionate fit of sobbing.

“He loves her,” she sobbed to herself; “and he cannot see her, he cannot know her, as I do.”

The next moment she was upbraiding herself with her own unworthiness, while he was interpreting her silence into a more softened feeling towards him; and when they parted a few minutes later, and he pressed her hand, Marie felt that if he wished it she could become his slave, while somehow Glen did not feel quite satisfied with his idol.

The sisters did not speak on their way back, while when they re-entered the Palace their aunts were loud in praise of the animation their walk had imparted to their countenances.

“Such news, my dears!” cried Miss Philippa.

“Such good news, my dears!” echoed Miss Isabella.

“Mr Elbraham is coming down to-day,” said Miss Philippa.

“And he will drive Lord Henry Moorpark down in his phaeton.”

“Yes, my sweet darlings,” said Miss Philippa affectionately. “I think, dears, I would sit quietly in the drawing-room all the morning.”

“And go up just before lunch to dress.”

“Yes, dears. Your new morning dresses have come home.”

“Oh, have they, aunt dear?” cried Clotilde. “Come upstairs, then, at once, Rie, and we’ll try them on.”

Volume Two—Chapter Six.

The Anchorite is Consulted Again.

“I wonder whether I shall ever have any children of my own,” said John Huish; “and, if I do, whether I shall ever be so hard, cruel, and worldly to them as some people are. Money is very nice, and one would like to see one’s young folks well off; but how a mother and father can deliberately match a beautiful, innocent young girl with some old fellow because he is rich and has a title, is something beyond my comprehension. Sixty and twenty! Oh, it is a disgrace to our boasted civilisation!”

John Huish’s breakfast was on the table in his snug room, and the coffee, French rolls, and delicately-brown ham looked enticing, but they did not tempt him. He had made several beginnings, such as taking off the cover that concealed the ham, opening his napkin, pouring out the steaming amber coffee, and the like; but he had touched nothing, for a letter he had received from Gertrude that morning had taken away his appetite.

“Poor girl!” he mused; “suffering agonies, and I seem as if I can do nothing to help her. Money! Why have I not plenty of money? I always felt well enough off till this happened, and then all at once I discovered that I was a poor man.”

He wrinkled up his brow, and let his cheek down upon his hand, with his elbow in dangerous proximity to his coffee.

“I was dreaming of going up to Stonor’s again last night. Good heavens! Is it likely that I shall ever become like one of those poor fellows—unhinged, doing all kinds of things involuntarily? There must be something wrong with me; only Stonor spoke as he did, like all doctors do, to take one’s thoughts away from one’s malady. It is so strange, that perhaps I ought not to think any more of my poor darling; only Stonor encouraged me so. It would be a sin against her to marry if I really am wrong. But am I? Let me think.

“Robson, for some reason, cut me dead yesterday; but then he is one of Lady Millet’s intimates. Then Rock Anderson apologised for not paying me that money. What money? I remember no debt. It’s softening of the brain, that’s what it is—memory gradually going; and yet I think of Gertrude and dare—Well, the doctor said I was all right; he ought to know. He said it was only a lapse of memory now and then.

“But there are so many things which are so puzzling. Friends seem to be dropping away from me. Man after man with whom I used to be intimate cuts me dead.

“No, no, no!” he cried impatiently; “I will not think of it. And as to that woman who came to me and made me worry my brains, it must have been some town trick.”

But the cloud hung over him still, various little matters connected with his daily life clinging together like snowflakes from that cloud, till the recollection of his position with regard to Gertrude came back, and her face shone through the darkness to dissipate the mental mist.

“Yes!” he cried, brightening up; “the doctor must be right. He encouraged me in my ideas; and my darling will keep away all these wretched morbid fancies. But what am I to do?

“Act!” he cried sharply; “act!—not sit down here like a morbid, dreamy fool, and let that old woman have her way in making two people wretched for life. I’ll go to Captain Millet’s and see him. Not so easy, though,” he said, laughing. “Never mind; I’ll go. He must have plenty of influence. Oh, of course; and if he fails, why, there’s the doctor. Hang it! he might interfere, and put in a certificate saying that it would be the death of the poor girl if she is forced into a wedding with that fellow. But the old man told me to—Oh, what a hesitating fool I am!”

Meanwhile, matters were progressing in no very pleasant way at the Millet’s. Renée made no confidant of her mother, but clung to her sister, from whom Lady Millet heard a portion of the trouble that had fallen upon her child.

“There, I can’t help it,” said her ladyship. “I do everything I can for you children, and if matters go wrong through your own imprudence, you must put up with the consequences. There, there, it is a silly young married couple’s piece of quarrelling, and they must make it up as fast as they can.”

“But, mamma!” said Gertrude.

“Don’t argue with me, Gertrude. Renée must have been imprudent, and she must take the consequences. She had no business to encourage Major Malpas to visit her; and I trust that this will be a warning to you when you are married.”

“Mamma!”

“Oh yes, I understand you, Gertrude,” said her ladyship; “but I know your obstinacy, and I maintain that it would be utter madness for you to see that man after your marriage.”

“But, mamma, you would not think of pressing on that affair now Renée is in such trouble.”

“What has that to do with it, child? What has Renée’s trouble to do with your marriage? Lord Henry has been put off long enough. I wish you to accept him; and I am convinced that a word, even a look, would make him propose.”

“Oh, mamma!”

“Gertrude, I insist! I know he likes you, and if he is to be kept back like this, a scheming woman will secure him for some creature or another. Why, it is nearly a month since he called, and no wonder, after your icy conduct! I shall take steps at once. Let me see, a dinner-party will be best. There, I’m going out; I’ll resume the subject on my return.”

“Oh, mamma, mamma!” cried Gertrude as soon as she was alone. “But I will not; I’d sooner die.”

Lady Millet was put off from resuming the subject on her return, and during her absence Gertrude had relieved her troubled heart by writing a letter of no small importance to herself.

Next day she was driven to Chesham Place with Lady Millet, who left her there while her ladyship went to attend to some shopping.

“Not been back?” said Gertrude eagerly, as she gazed in her sister’s pale face.

“No, Gertrude, not yet,” replied Renée; “but he will come soon, I hope,” she continued, with a sigh full of resignation; “I am waiting. And now about your troubles. Is this affair to take place?”

“So mamma says,” replied Gertrude, with a bitter smile. “Like you, I am to have an establishment.”

“Oh, Gertrude, sister!” whispered Renée, kissing her. “But it makes it less bitter, now that Mr Huish has proved to be—”

Gertrude laid her hand upon her lips.

“Hush, Renée!” she cried. “I do not know what you may have heard, and I will not listen to it. Neither will I sit and hear a word against Mr Huish.”

“I will not speak against him, dear,” said Renée sadly; and she gazed piteously in her sister’s eyes.

“And you, Renée? My poor darling! your position gives me the heartache.”

“I shall wait, Gertrude. Some day he will find out my innocence and return to ask my pardon. I can wait till then. You see, dear, that, like you, I have faith, and can abide my time.”

In place of returning home, Gertrude persuaded her sister to accompany her to her uncle’s, where Vidler admitted them both directly, and showed them up to the darkened drawing-room.

It was a curious change from the bright sunshine of the street to the gloom within; but it seemed to accord well with the sadness in the sisters’ breasts, and they sat and talked to the old man, playing to him as well, till it drew near the time for them to return to their respective homes.

All this time the pale, almost ghostly-looking hand was playing about in the little opening, and indicating by its nervous action that something was passing in the ordinarily calm mind of its owner.