Front matter (continued 5)

"Husband, look well at yonder man, for Geraldine declares it to be Sir Grey Dumaresq, of whom we were speaking but a few hours back. What a strange thing, if it be!"

Marlborough bent over the young man, less with the intent of identifying him at the present moment as of ascertaining the extent of his injuries, and whether life yet remained whole in him. Experience on the battlefield had given him considerable powers of discerning these things, and he knew that the bludgeons and rapiers of the young bloods of London streets could do as deadly work as the bullets and sword-thrusts of actual battle.

Opening the young man's vest to ascertain whether the heart still beat, he saw something sparkling lying within, and the next moment had uttered a quick, sharp exclamation of astonishment.

Beckoning to his wife to approach, he held up the token—the amethyst ring which he himself had given to the stranger who had risked so much for him upon the field of Ramillies.

"Then Geraldine is right!" cried the Duchess in great excitement. "It is Grey Dumaresq; he is found at last."

CHAPTER XVII.

IN THE HOUSE OF THE DUKE.

When Grey became next aware of any sensation, it was of a throbbing pain in his head, which gradually asserted itself and dissipated the black cloud of unconsciousness which had blotted out for the moment time and space and memory itself. He had no desire to open his eyes; but in a faint and feeble fashion he began to wonder what it was that had happened, and what was the cause of this pain. Gradually he felt also a strange powerless numbness in one of his arms, which he was unable to move. Also he felt that he was reposing on something very soft, with a scent of lavender in his nostrils, and a warmth and comfort to his body that went far to atone for pain in some of his members.

He heard the fall of coals in the grate; he knew that he was lying between smooth linen sheets; his soothed senses seemed to take in an atmosphere other than that of the attic which had so long been his home. He thought of Hartsbourne; it almost seemed as though he were back there once more. He decided that either this was a dream, or else that all which had gone before was one. Perhaps he was, in truth, a boy, and had been dreaming of manhood's struggles, manhood's crosses. Perhaps when he awoke, it would be to find his mother bending over him, and to hear of some boyish escapade in which he had hurt himself. Such things had been in the past, and might be again; but sleep overtook his drowsy brain ere he had reasoned matters out.

How long he slept he knew not; but suddenly he woke with a mind more clear. The events of the previous evening came back to him sharply defined—the emptiness of their treasury; the urgent need upon him to obtain food and money; the shifts to which he had been reduced in so doing; and last of all, that race towards some lady's chair, attacked by street ruffians; the short, sharp tussle round it, and the rain of blows which had stretched him senseless in the gutter.

Yes, he remembered it all now, and could account for the pain in his head and arm. But what had befallen him since, and where was he now? As these questions asserted themselves, Grey opened his eyes; and what did he see?

He was lying in one of those huge canopied beds in which our ancestors delighted. He lay deep in a nest of down, fair linen sheets and silken coverlets were spread over him, and crimson curtains were drawn round three sides of the bed. He saw lace ruffles upon the night-robe in which he lay, and the air was charged with an aromatic fragrance which might haply proceed from a mixture of drugs and perfumes. But it was not upon these matters that Grey's attention was concentrated, but upon a quiet figure seated at a small table beside a brightly-blazing fire, his eyes bent fixedly upon the pages of a roll of manuscript spread open before him, and illumined by the soft radiance of a cluster of wax tapers set in a rich silver candlestick of many branches. This man was attired in a flowing dressing-gown (as we now call such a garment) of richly-embroidered silk, fastened at the throat with a jewelled clasp, and bound at the waist by a girdle of golden cord. The falling hair from the ponderous wig served in part to veil the face, which was turned slightly away from the bed; but as the reader moved to turn the page, and to trim one of the candles with the silver snuffers, his face was fully revealed to Grey, and the young man uttered an exclamation of astonishment, striving to start up in bed as he did so.

"The Duke himself!"

The words were scarcely articulate, for his tongue was dry and his voice sounded hoarse and strange in his own ears; but at the sound of it the Duke rose quickly from his seat, and came forward towards the bed with a pleasant smile upon his face.

"Ah, my young friend, so you have come to your senses. That is well—that is very well. Nay, nay; seek not to move. You must needs remain quiet awhile, to mend you of your hurts; but I trust they are of no very serious nature, and that you will soon be sound and whole."

"But, your Grace, how come I here? What means it that I find myself in such a place as this? I surely am not dreaming. It can be none other but the great Duke of Marlborough himself!"

"And wherefore not," questioned the Duke, smiling, "since it was hard by my house that you were felled by ruffians, and in defence of a lady who had but lately left my doors? So now the mystery is explained; and we meet again, Grey Dumaresq, not on the field of battle this time, albeit you, who escaped without a scar or scratch at Ramillies, lie wounded here at Marlborough House. And right glad am I to welcome you within my doors; for it was but a few hours earlier that I was speaking of you with my wife, and wishing that I might meet you once more."

"Your Grace does me too much honour," spoke Grey in bewildered accents, "to bring me to your house, to sit up by my side—"

"Tush! That is but the habit of an old campaigner. My couch wooes me not as it does other men. I am used to little sleep and hard days. I live something too soft when I reach this land. Besides, yonder scroll absorbed me. For that you are responsible, my friend. Did I not tell you when first we met that you had the face of a poet? And for me there is stronger attraction in the poetry of prose than in that which expresses itself in rhyme and metre, which has a fashion of halting, like a horse whose legs begin to fail him, and who changes his feet or stumbles ever and anon."

The colour swept over Grey's pale face. He remembered now that the packet containing his romance was buttoned up tightly in the breast pocket of the outer coat which he wore that day. Doubtless, it had fallen out when they took off his clothes, and there it lay spread out upon, the table, more than three parts read by the Duke himself.

"I ask no pardon for my boldness in thus scanning your romance," proceeded the great man kindly, "albeit I did open the packet with intent to discover if it might contain your place of abode, so that I might send word to your friend where you were and what had befallen you. Now wherefore this start and upraising? Did I not tell you it behoved you to lie still? Must I call the physician from his slumbers to repeat his orders himself?"

"I crave your Grace's pardon," answered Grey, sinking back upon his pillows; "but your words did bring back to me the remembrance of a sick old man, dependent upon me for tendance and care. When I left him, I knew that for many hours he had all that he did need beside him. But if I am long detained from his side, he must needs suffer lack and hurt."

"Nay; but I will see that he does neither. Tell me only where he may be found, and I will send a trusty messenger to do all that is needful, and make arrangements for his comfort during the time which may elapse before you can return."

So Grey gave the needful information, and the Duke issued some orders to his servants in the outer room, returning to the bedside with a face expressive of a kindly curiosity and wonder.

Sitting down at the bedside, and entering into friendly talk with the young man, it was not difficult to draw from him a full and detailed account of all that had betided since they first met upon the field of Ramillies, and Grey had gone back to his native land to see what fortune had in store for him there.

The Duke made an excellent and sympathetic listener. He was sincerely interested in this young man. He owed him a personal debt of gratitude. Both he and his wife suspected that Lady Geraldine Adair, her favourite, was more than a little attracted by young Sir Grey Dumaresq, whom she had admitted to have met more than once during his brief career as a gentleman of fashion and the friend of Lord Sandford. They had seen self-betrayal in her face last night when he was carried in senseless, and she knew that he was her unknown preserver, who had diverted the attack of the young street ruffians from her chair, and had thus given time for the Duke's carriage to come up; and it had recalled to their minds and hearts the memory of their own young courting days, when John Churchill was paying his addresses to Sarah Jennings, and they could see and think of nothing but each other and their love. That Grey Dumaresq had fallen upon evil times there could be no manner of doubt, and that his fortunes were at the lowest ebb was manifest; yet the Duke, as he listened to the tale, was revolving many matters in his mind, and only spoke to lead the young man on by some well-timed question to express himself with more freedom and detail.

As for Grey, when once the ice had been broken, he had no desire for reserve. There was a strange sense of comfort and relief in pouring out his tale into sympathetic ears. The only matters he held back were his suspicions of others—firstly, those respecting his kinsman, and any possible hand he might have had in hastening his father's death; and secondly, those concerning Lord Sandford and his possible treachery towards himself. It seemed to him unfair to speak of unproven suspicions of crime or evil plotting to one so high in station as the Duke of Marlborough, whose smile or frown might mean so much to those who merited it. But of all else he spoke with frank freedom and unreserve; and at the last, when his tale was told, he saw the kindly gaze of the Duke bent upon him with shrewd searching inquiry.

"And so, Grey Dumaresq, you came actually to know the lack of food; and yet you bore upon your person all the while the token I had given you, telling you that you had but to show the same to my wife, and she would find means of rewarding you for the service done to her husband."

"I had had my reward in your Grace's favour and kindness," answered Grey with quiet dignity; "I prized that token as a thing most precious. Yet I never desired to use it as a means of gain. I will not say I never thought of it," he added, after a moment's pause, his colour slightly rising as he spoke; "and perchance had matters gone so with my old friend Jonathan Wylde that privation or starvation nearly threatened him, I might e'en have swallowed my pride, and become a suppliant for favour. But I should have fallen in my own esteem had I been forced to such a step. It may be pride—false pride—haughtiness of spirit—I know not; but in the days of my prosperity I would not seek to curry favour by making capital out of something which I desired to retain as a pleasant memory. And when poverty had fallen upon me, and I had dropped my name and my title, and was known only as a poor actor, living in obscurity and poverty, how could I hope to be admitted to the presence of the Duchess? How could I desire to parade my fallen fortunes before the eyes of her train of servants? Your Grace had called me friend—that was my reward."

With a smile the great man slowly shook his head. Although a love for money amounting to greed was his own besetting sin, he could admire disinterestedness and honourable pride in others. He knew that had Grey played his cards well, seeking only personal advancement and place, he might by this time have risen, through the influence of the Duchess, into some position which would have secured him ease and affluence. He knew that in his place he would not have scrupled to do this, nor would nine-tenths of the men of the day. Although he smiled at the romantic folly and chivalrous scruples of the youth of poetical temperament, he could yet admire those highly unpractical qualities which had gone near to bring him to ruin.

"Well, my young friend," he said at last, "there must be an end of this masquerading in rags and tatters. I shall make it my business to bring your case before the Queen herself. I trow that you have been scurvily treated by your kinsman, and that that matter requires investigation. In addition to this, no man with that book in his hands," and he pointed to the roll upon the table, "should lack for daily bread. There should be a fortune in it, or in the hands of the man who owns the brain that conceived and the hand that penned it. See here, Sir Grey. The Queen is not exactly a critic of literature or a patron of all genius, but she has a love for what is pure and beautiful and simply true. I warrant that yonder romance will go home to her heart. My wife shall take it and read it to her this very afternoon, when she is to be in attendance upon her Majesty. When that has been done, take my word for it, you will have half the publishers of the town crowding cap in hand to crave the favour of bringing it out for the world to read. Oh, you need not blush, like a young mother when her firstborn babe is praised! I trow I know a good book when I see it; and that is one which will mightily please her Majesty, since it sings the praise of pure love and chivalrous fidelity, and all those virtues which seem well-nigh out of date, but which the Queen would fain see restored as in the bygone days of knights-errant and King Arthur's Round Table."

"I was told that there was no sale nowadays for aught but scurrilous libels and bitter lampoons, or at best for political pamphlets treating of subjects of which I know naught."

"Ay, men love garbage, when they can get it; and the strife of bitter tongues is entertaining to those who would fain believe all that is bad of their fellows. Yet are there enough pure and loving souls left in this great Babylon to appreciate such work as yonder; and when once her Majesty's favour has been shown to it and its writer, you will see how these same publishers will change their tone. Every aspirant to literary fame needs a patron, and your patron shall be the Queen."

It was almost too wonderful for belief. Grey was not sure still that he did not dream. And after he had swallowed the draught which his host mixed and held to his lips, he quickly fell into a sound slumber from which even dreams were banished. But when he woke again the sun must long have been up, and surely he was again dreaming; for here was Dick himself, clad once more in the livery of a well-to-do servant, standing at his bedside with a tray containing a light but savoury breakfast.

"Dicon! Why, will wonders never cease? Man alive, how came you here?"

"Why, if you will but sit up, and let me give you of this broth which has been specially prepared for you, I will gladly tell you all. Master, my dear master, I trow that all our troubles are ended now!"

"If I could be sure I were not dreaming, good Dicon, belike I might say the same; but my head is so bewildered, I know not what to believe. Yet it is good to see your honest face again, even in a dream."

"Faith, I am no dream, master, and my tale can soon be told. I came into the town soon after dawn, to tell you I had discovered Don Carlos in Lord Sandford's stables at St. Albans, where he keeps the beasts he uses for racing and such like. And no sooner had I stepped into a tavern not so far from here for a pot of ale and crust of bread, when I did hear that all the town was ringing with the tale of how young Sir Grey Dumaresq, who had disappeared mysteriously not long since had risked his life not far from Marlborough House in beating off a gang of Mohawks from besetting and perhaps injuring the Lady Geraldine Adair, who was returning homewards after an evening spent with the Duchess. Nay, master, what ails you? You are white as a ghost. Lie down again, and let me fetch the leech."

"Nay, nay, good Dicon; 'tis but a passing qualm. Heed it not. So it was the Lady Geraldine who was in that chair?"

"Yes; and there is no knowing what might have befallen her, but for the timely arrival of Sir Grey. That is what all the town is buzzing about. Well, when I heard that, I thought I would make bold to present myself here, and lay claim to be your servant. And who should come to speak with me but the Duke himself, who even remembered having seen my face that day at Ramillies! I vow he did talk with me for hard upon an hour; and I did tell him—oh, I told him everything that I could think of—things I have not yet dared to speak to you, my master. I have told him what Jock Jarvis and I do think of old Barty at Hartsbourne, and what I think of my Lord Sandford, and how he did first seek to cause you to break your neck, and then robbed you by foul means of your horse—the horse that carried his Grace so bravely through the battle of Ramillies. Oh, I saw how his eyes flashed. I trow he will have a rod in pickle for my Lord Sandford yet! He is a noble and knightly gentleman; and when he had heard all I had to say, he did call me an honest fellow; and he gave me some gold pieces, and sent me out with one of his servants to get me a livery such as it became Sir Grey's servant to wear. And he told me to come back to wait upon you, my master, for that he and her Grace were about to go to Whitehall to attend upon the Queen this afternoon and evening; and I warrant they will tell a tale to her Majesty which will put a spoke in some fine gentleman's wheel."

Grey lay back upon his pillows breathless with wonder and excitement; but it was excitement of that joyful kind which acts rather as a tonic upon the system than as a deterrent to recovery. He sent Dick away to make inquiries about the Old Lion; and as the man went out, the Duke's physician entered and examined the wound upon Grey's head and the condition of the broken arm, which he had skilfully set, and ended by permitting his patient, after other two hours of quiet rest, to leave his bed for a few hours to sit in the adjoining room for a while under the care of his servant.

"Had you been like too many of our young gallants, full-blooded, heated with wine, softened by gluttony and rich living, these injuries might have involved blood-letting and other severe remedies. But your temperate life and meagre living of late tell in your favour now. You need heartening up and strengthening by good food and a little old wine carefully administered, and you will soon cease to feel any ill effects. I congratulate you heartily on the occasion which has brought you once again into the notice of the Duke, who can be a stanch and true friend, as I have reason to know."

When Dick returned to him he was laden with fine clothing, such as Grey had been wont to wear, and which the man spread out with an air of pride and delight that was good to see.

"See there! The Duke's own clothes—those he wore some few years since, when he was something slimmer than now. He bade his man look them out for you, seeing that your own garments were all torn and mud-bespattered—"

"Ay, and of fustian, in lieu of cloth, and silk, and velvet," added Grey, as he looked smilingly at the rich clothing before him. "Well, well, Dicon, when one comes suddenly into the midst of an enchanted palace, one must take the good the gods provide. But tell me of Mr. Wylde. Have you learned aught concerning him?"

"Why, truly yes. I saw the messenger who had been to him; and at the sight of the Duke's livery the whole house was astir, and not a creature there but will wait hand and foot upon the old man till other arrangements for him can be made. The fellow saw him and gave him news of you, and he was right well content. He said he should lack for nothing; and the man did leave with the host two gold pieces sent by his Grace, and told him that he would have to answer to the Duke if aught went amiss with him. After that you need have no fear."

Grey's last anxiety thus set at rest, he seemed to have nothing left to wish for. He drowsed away another hour in peaceful dreamy fashion, and felt fully equal to the fatigue of being dressed by Dick, and walking with the help of his arm into the adjoining room—a pleasant sunny apartment, on the table of which stood a great bowl of pure white snowdrops, at which Grey gazed with an infinite delight; for the sight of white flowers always brought back to his mind one particular face and form, and the very thought of his nearness to her last night set his heart beating tumultuously within him.

He was lying back luxuriously in a deep armchair, beside the glowing heat of the fire. The sunlight filtered in through the great mullions of the window, and the light seemed to concentrate itself upon the whiteness of the flowers near at hand. Dick had retired into the inner room to set his master's things in order there. Grey was alone—alone with his bewildering thoughts of happiness to come, scarce knowing how much of all he had heard could be true, or what would be the outcome.

Had he slept as he sat there musing? What was that sound somewhere in the room? He lifted his head and looked round. A tall, slender, white-robed figure was standing outlined against the rich tapestry of the wall behind. He had not heard the door open or the arras lifted. But she was there; and somehow he was not astonished. It seemed only natural to see her, the golden shafts of sunlight seeming to cling to her, and to follow her as she came slowly forward with that inimitable grace of movement he knew so well.

For one moment he sat spellbound, and then struggled to his feet, holding out his hands.

In a moment she was beside him, holding them—holding them fast; for he was weaker than he knew, and he swayed a little, a mist before his eyes. Then he was back in his chair, and she was standing over him. She was holding something to his lips. He drank, and his senses cleared.

"Forgive me," she said; "I should not have come yet; but I so longed to thank you myself, and to be assured that you had not suffered too much in my service."

"I could not suffer too much in such service," he answered. "And from my heart I thank you for coming. I have been so hungry for the sight of you, Geraldine."

"And I too," she answered in the lowest whisper, as she just touched his hair lightly with her hand.

CHAPTER XVIII.

"GOOD QUEEN ANNE."

Sir Grey Dumaresq bent the knee before the little upright figure in the great carved chair, and the courtiers and ladies pressed one upon the other, as far as etiquette permitted, to get a sight of a personage who, for the moment, was all the talk of the town.

In her gentle, rather thin and high-pitched voice the Queen spoke, and a deep hush fell upon the great room.

"Rise, Sir Grey. I have sent for you here, inasmuch as I have heard much of your story from both the Duke and Duchess of Marlborough, my very good friends; and I have desired to see you, and to hear somewhat of many matters from your own lips."

"Your Majesty has but to speak, and I will answer."

"I hear that you did first encounter his Grace of Marlborough upon the field of Ramillies, and that you did there render him no small succour in a moment of personal peril."

"It was my good fortune, madam, to possess a horse of great courage, and strength, and mettle; and when the Duke was for the moment surrounded by a party of the enemy, and had to force his own horse to a perilous leap, which caused him to fall and become useless, I was able, being close at hand, to mount him upon my good steed, which carried him through that day, which his own genius and courage has rendered for ever glorious."

"How came it that you did adventure yourself into the heart of the danger, not being a soldier, or having any call to risk your life in the cause?"

"Madam, I am an Englishman, and every true-born Englishman is called to adventure himself wherever he may by happy chance be able to serve his country. That is my excuse for being where perchance I had no right to be, save the right of which I have spoken, and of which I pray that your Majesty will not rob me. To serve his Queen and his country must needs be the desire of every man worthy the name, be he soldier or be he none."

A smile played over the pleasant countenance of the Queen. The pale, handsome face, the graceful bearing, the courtly address of the young man, pleased her well. Simply attired, without any of the extravagances of frippery which distinguished so many courtiers, and with his own curly brown locks floating round his head, his appearance was striking and prepossessing enough. To be sure, the Queen could resent any too great easiness in dress amongst her courtiers; and when one of her ministers, coming in haste, had appeared before her in a small wig, such as gentlemen used at their toilets, rather than in full dress, she had remarked to her ladies that she supposed his lordship would present himself in his night-cap next! But there was nothing slovenly in the rich plainness of Grey's attire; and he looked so much the poet and the dreamer, with the pallor of illness still upon him, and that slimness of figure partly due to privations now past, and partly to his active and temperate life, that the Queen regarded him with increasing favour, and a smile of decided approval was his reward.

"Well and bravely spoken, my young knight. And let me in my own person thank you for the service rendered that day to one who has been, and still will be, I doubt not, his country's most able defender. Had aught befallen the Duke on the field of Ramillies, a glorious victory would have become, I cannot doubt, a fearful defeat. France would have swept the Netherlands with her victorious armies, and there would have been none with genius and power to roll back the tide of battle. Wherefore England herself owes you a debt of gratitude, Sir Grey, which must not be forgotten."

"Madam, I have been richly repaid already for any poor service of mine—first by the gracious favour of the Duke, and now in still fuller measure by these words from your Majesty. Had fortune not so far favoured me that I was close at hand at the moment, I cannot doubt but that a score of others would have done what I was favoured by doing. To serve the man who serves his country so well is its own reward."

"Ah, my young friend, it is easy to see you were never bred up in courts," spoke the Queen, with a smile for Grey, and a quick searching glance round at the knots of courtiers and gentlemen filling the room. At this most of them shrank back, a little abashed at her look and her words. Shameless place-hunting was all the fashion of the day; and for any man to make light of service rendered, and to desire no reward, was a thing almost unheard of.

But after having just launched this shaft, the Queen said no more on that subject. She was by nature timid and gentle, and though not lacking in wit or in a quiet penetration, which was not always appreciated by those about her, was for the most part an indulgent mistress, not disposed to overmuch blame even where she saw weakness.

"And I hear more of you than this, Sir Grey. You are not only a man of prompt action, but you are also a dreamer and a poet. I have read with pleasure your romance of pure chivalry, and I would that we could find in these degenerate days more knights and gentlemen, more spotless maidens and virtuous women, such as those of whom your pen delights to tell, and my ears delight to hear."

The young man bowed low, the crimson flush, which praise of his courage had not evoked, dyeing his cheek now that the child of his brain and hand was praised. The Queen continued graciously,—

"I have heard the whole romance, and its beauty touches my heart, and pleases also those amongst my ladies and gentlemen as are best able to appraise the merits of such poetic work. I desire, Sir Grey, that you will dedicate the tale to me, as one who has read and approved it, and would desire it to be widely known and read in the land. To be a patron of all true and beautiful art is the privilege of rulers, and therefore do I give this charge to you. I desire that such a story as you have conceived and penned should be circulated amongst my faithful subjects. They will learn from it loyalty, love, purity, and singleness of heart, and surely no nation can thrive or excel in which these virtues be absent."

A little buzz of amaze and gratulation went round the room as the Queen spoke thus. The young man's fortune as a writer was assuredly made. A second Philip Sidney had suddenly come to light. All the world would delight to honour the man approved of royalty.

Grey himself was speechless. Such a eulogy was altogether unexpected and bewildering. If Dame Fortune had, in the past, showed an unkind face towards him, surely she was atoning for her frowns by the most gracious of smiles now.

Perhaps the young author's confused and blissful silence pleased the Queen more than any florid words of gratitude such as she was used to hear. She spoke again, still in her most gracious and kindly way.

"Moreover, Sir Grey, I have heard somewhat of your history from his Grace of Marlborough, and it doth appear to me that you have been scurvily treated with respect to your rightful inheritance, the manor of Hartsbourne, which, though your property, you are debarred from enjoying. I have made strict inquiry into this matter, and have sent down special commissioners to seek speech with your kinsman now in possession, and to make some settlement with him for the restitution to you of the estate. It is not fitting that one to whom the country and its Queen owe a debt of gratitude should be ousted from his inheritance either by the cunning craft of a greedy miser, or for lack of means to satisfy a creditor and release his lands from debt. From what hath been told me, I misdoubt that unscrupulous means have been employed to oust you from possession and enjoyment of your house and lands. But whether or not this be so, it is not fitting that things should longer continue as now. Sir Grey Dumaresq of Hartsbourne Manor must live upon his hereditary acres in becoming style. That fiat hath already gone forth. England's Queen and people will have it so. It were shame to both if the preserver of her great General should go unrewarded."

Grey, overwhelmed by the magnitude of the grace bestowed upon him, could only sink upon his knees before the Queen, murmuring some confused but heartfelt words of gratitude and loyalty. The royal lady gave him her hand to kiss, and looked smilingly upon him.

"Sir Grey," she said gently, "had you come hither to the Court at once on your return, boasting of what you had done, displaying the Duke's token, and seeking fame and fortune for yourself, belike I should have thought but little of the matter. I am for ever hearing the petitions of those seeking great things for themselves—seeking place, preferment, emoluments, with or without desert. Had you come thus, you had been lost in a crowd. I perchance should scarce have heard your name. But you have asked nothing for yourself. You endured hardship, privation, misery; you thought not scorn to win your bread—and the bread of another who had befriended you—by following a humble vocation. With that in your possession which would have at least placed you above want, you faced want itself rather than stultify your noble act by seeking to trade upon it. You rather sought to win the fame you merit by using those great gifts of poetry and art which it hath pleased God to bestow upon you. Therefore are you different from others; therefore hath your story touched the heart of your Queen; therefore is her favour won, in that she can value a man who seeks and asks nothing for himself, but rather desires that the glory of a noble deed shall be its own reward."

Again she tendered her hand, which Grey kissed in deepest reverence and gratitude. Then at a sign from the Duchess, who had all this time been standing behind the Queen's chair, he rose and made a deep inclination.

"I thank your Majesty a thousand times," he said in a very low voice. "I have no words in which to tell my gratitude, but I pray Heaven that in the future I may have the opportunity to show how deep and true that gratitude is."

"Deeds, and not words, will be your motto through life, I take it, Sir Grey; and in such fashion shall you best please your Queen and serve your country."

Then Grey found himself, he scarce knew how, in the outer room, thronged by courtiers and nobles and gentlemen, all eager to make his acquaintance, all agog to hear such parts of his story as were yet unknown to them, and above all eager to read the book of which it had pleased the Queen to speak in such high praise. To these worthies Grey was already a rising star, and they longed to bask in the light of his rays.

Quietly and courteously Grey replied to direct questions and to the advances showered upon him by the Court; but he disengaged himself as quickly as he could, and was glad to find himself in the coach which had brought him, and on his way to Marlborough House, where he was still a guest. For although he had quickly mended from his hurts, his hosts would not hear of his returning to his old quarters; and the Old Lion had been equally insistent on this point when Grey visited him, which he did on the first opportunity, to tell in person his marvellous tale.

"Nay, nay, my boy; you are now Sir Grey Dumaresq, and your life will run in different grooves. I did guess from the first that you were not what you seemed, and ever have I hoped that you would be restored to your rightful position in the world. As for me, I am well content. I have no lack of tendance—thanks to the liberality of the Duke, and to that wonderful personal visit he did pay me, which has raised me to a pinnacle of glory in the eyes of all men here. It contents me well to know that I am not forgotten, that you still have kindly thought to spare for the Old Lion. But for us to dwell beneath the same roof would not now be fitting or seemly. So think of that no more."

"When I have a roof of mine own I shall think of it much," spoke Grey with quick decision; "but for the nonce I am naught but a guest beneath that of the hospitable Duke. Well, let it remain so in the present; but for the future I make no pledge."

It was more than a week now since those words had been spoken, but they recurred to Grey's mind as he was driven homewards through the sunny streets. Hartsbourne! The name seemed to thrill in his ears like a clarion note of joy. Hartsbourne—his own old home—so well-beloved, so fair! Could it be possible that he would be master there again? The thought filled him with a sense akin to intoxication. The blood mounted to his head; he almost laughed aloud in his joy. Hartsbourne and its revenues his own! His romance published, and bringing him gold as well as fame! What might he not accomplish? How often had he dreamed in bygone years of what he would do for the restoration and adornment of the beautiful old house, and how he and his mother would live there in peace and happiness! True, that last part of the dream could not be realized now. His mother lay sleeping beneath the churchyard sod. Her eyes beheld, he doubted not, fairer sights than these. But yet, must his dream be altogether without fulfilment? Was there none other—nearer, dearer, if possible, than a mother—who might be the sharer of his joys? Had he not read something dazzling, wonderful, well-nigh unbelievable, in one pair of sweet eyes whose light seemed shining on him now? His lips had not dared to frame as yet either question or protestation; but did they not understand each other? His heart beat high with rapture. Perfect love had cast out fear. He knew that they belonged to each other for time and for eternity. And now what hindered him from taking her to his heart, and telling her that he had loved her from the first moment of their meeting?

The Duke sat in his private closet, where he transacted his more important business, and Grey stood before him, having been summoned thither from his own apartments. He was received with a pleasant smile, and bidden to be seated.

"Well, my young friend," questioned the Duke, who, having been absent from home for a few days, had not seen his guest in private just recently, "and how has the world been serving you? And how goes the matter of the book?"

"Ah, I must tell you of that. I had, as your Grace did warn me, quite a levee of publishers desiring to issue it, each with some tempting offer as to payment. But I did as you bade me, and referred the matter to Mr. Poysner, by whose advice, I told them, I should be guided. And, in sooth, methinks he hath advised well; for not only have I received a handsome sum in gold already for the work, but I shall receive more according to the sale; and it is even now being printed as fast as the presses can work. Her Majesty is to have the first copy, bound with the choicest skill that can be brought to bear upon such work. Other choicely-bound volumes are to be reserved for my friends, after which it will be sold to the public; and already they say that the book is being eagerly asked for. Truly the word of a Queen and the patronage of the great are mighty factors in the world of letters!"

"As men of letters are fast learning, my young friend," replied the Duke with a smile. "Genius without a patron is like (as some wag remarked not long since) 'Paradise Lost' without the devil! It falls flat and unfruitful on unheeding ears. But now for another matter of import to yourself. Have you had news from Hartsbourne since her Majesty did speak to you anent that matter?"

"No, my lord; I have heard nothing. My servant Dick was sent thither by request to answer certain questions made by her Majesty's messengers, but he hath not yet returned, and I know nothing of what has transpired there."

His face expressed a keen desire for information, and the Duke at once satisfied this wish.

"Something strange has happened there which simplifies matters not a little. Your kinsman, Mr. Dumaresq, when questioned by the Queen's Commissioners as to his rights and position there, showed a number of papers which seemed on the face of them fair and right; but his uneasiness was manifest, and awoke suspicion. Also it was not clear that he possessed all the rights he claimed over the estate, or that Sir Hugh had signed all the papers; for upon some the writing of the name looked to practised eyes little like his. The more Mr. Dumaresq was questioned, the more uneasy did he become. So they left him that day, saying that they would come again on the morrow and finish the inquiry. By that time your man Dick had arrived, and he with an old man upon the place had long talk with the messengers that night in the old man's room. It seems as though Mr. Dumaresq or his servant must have had some way of listening to what passed. A terrible suspicion was broached that your father's end was hastened by foul means. This was a point which the Commissioners declared must be thoroughly investigated later. They went away, but on the morrow returned—to find Mr. Dumaresq dead in his bed. His servant said he had been subject to seizures of late, and that agitation had probably caused the attack. Old Jock Jarvis and your man Dick are, however, strongly of opinion that he precipitated his own end by the use of perhaps the very same drug which he is suspected of having employed in your father's case. Be that as it may, the man is dead, and he has died without a will, so that whether or not he was ever legally entitled to what he so long held, you are now absolute master of Hartsbourne and all its revenues, without the need of any action or interference upon the part of the lawyers of the Queen."

Grey stood like one in a dream. He could scarce take in the meaning of it all. He had known that Hartsbourne was to be restored to him—he had had the Queen's word for that—but he had expected vexatious delays, complications, and difficulties. He had not dared to let himself hope to escape these. And now the Gordian knot had been cut—cut in a rather terrible fashion, perhaps, but still effectually cut. He was absolute master of his own again. He could ride to Hartsbourne and take possession so soon as his kinsman was laid to rest in the grave, where all enmity and all unhallowed secrets are buried. He had not found his tongue to express his feelings before the door opened and a secretary glided in and whispered something into the Duke's ear.

"He comes in good time," spoke Marlborough; "let him enter at once. Probably he brings news of the matter in hand."

Grey looked up, and behold there was Dick, travel-stained and bespattered with mud, but with a glowing, eager face, evidently full of news.

"Well, sirrah," spoke the Duke, smiling, "so you have come post haste with news. What wonderful tidings do you bring?"

The man made his semi-military salute, first to the Duke and then to his master. He needed no further encouragement in order to unburden himself of his tale.

"May it please your Grace, and you, my master, I have news of a wonderful discovery made by Jock and myself at Hartsbourne at dawn to-day. We have had our eye sharp upon old Judas, as we call Mr. Barty's wall-eyed Peter; and we have known right well that he has been up to some trick of his own ever since his master died. He has been prowling like a wild beast all about the house. We have heard him knocking and even sawing, when he thought himself alone there. It was old Jock to whom the thought first came. 'The old man has some secret hoard; and Judas knows of it, but not the place. He is looking for it, trying to find it ere he is turned out. Well, that is a game that two can play at. You and I will look too, Dicon.' That is what old Jock said. Whilst Mr. Dumaresq was buried, and his man must for decency's sake go and stand beside the grave, we searched the house from basement to garret; but we had no more luck than Judas had."

"But you have had luck ere this, honest fellow; I see it in your eyes," spoke Marlborough with a laugh. "Come, let us know what you found, and what is the value of the treasure."

"It was to me the thought came," spoke Dick, with honest pride. "I was lying awake at night puzzling and pondering, when suddenly I remembered that first and only night you spent there, master, and how that you saw the old man suddenly appear behind your bed with a shining knife in his hand, and that he vanished ere you could grapple with him, and it seemed more like a vision than a reality. But I sprang from my bed, and I roused old Jock, and I yelled in his ear, 'Man, man, I know where the treasure is hid! Behind the wall of the tapestried guest-chamber, where my master slept, and where the wall did move from behind the bed head, and let his foe steal upon him unawares!'"

"Good thought!" ejaculated Grey excitedly; "and was it so?"

"We rose and dressed, and made our way into the house and up to the bed-chamber, and a tough job we had. And, my master, you must pardon us for the havoc we have made of woodwork and panelling; for the trick of the opening we could not find till all had been hewn away. But when it was at last laid bare, we saw the spring, and then the wall swung inwards with a noiseless, ghostlike motion, and within was a secret chamber well-nigh filled with coffers, some containing jewels—Dumaresq jewels, I doubt not—some gold pieces, some silver vessels. We did not open all. We had found enough. Master, there are the savings of years—the revenues of the broad lands which were paid to him—stowed away in yonder chamber. Oh, I can almost forgive him his villainies, now that all hath come to you! It is all there: it is all safe. We did pack Judas off with his wages and his belongings, and his master's clothes, which, I trow, none will grudge him; and we did get in a few trusty fellows from the place who hate Barty and long to see Sir Grey reigning at Hartsbourne again. And having made all safe, and the house in charge, under Jock, of these trusty lads, I did take horse forthwith to bring the news to my master, and here am I."

"And you shall not lose your reward, my trusty Dicon," spoke Grey with fervour; "for the love and trust of a loyal heart is worth more than treasure and gold."

CHAPTER XIX.

LOVE'S TRIUMPHING.

"Mother, I cannot. I have tried—in all truth, I have. But it is all of no avail. I cannot love Lord Sandford. I cannot be his wife."

"You could be his wife very well, if you chose obstinate girl; and as for loving him—poof!—love matters little when there is wealth and title, broad lands, and all that heart can desire into the bargain. You put me out of all patience with your mincing ways and disdainful airs. What more do you want than Lord Sandford offers? Does a countess's coronet not satisfy you? Do you desire to be a duchess, and take precedence of your own mother?"

And Lady Romaine brought her ivory fan down upon her daughter's shoulder with a tap that was almost like a blow. Tears of vexation and disappointment stood in her eyes. In her hand held an open letter, across the bottom of which the word "Sandford" could be easily read, traced in a large and firm hand.

Before Geraldine had found words in which to reply, Lady Romaine had burst out again more petulantly than ever.

"To think of all the trouble I have been at with you! Do you think I want a great lumbering girl, looking ten years older than her years, and with all the affectations of a Quaker—horrid people!—in her gait and dress and speech, for ever in my train? Do you think it is pleasant for me to hear men laughing at your prim ways and silly scruples, and wondering where you learned them? Do you know what they call you behind your back? 'Mistress "No, I thank you, sir."' Faugh! it makes me sick. Who are you, to hold up your opinions against the whole world? It makes me blush with shame and anger. And then, when I have gotten you a suitor in one of the best known nobles of the gay town, and reckon to have you off my hands and in the keeping of a husband who will know how to deal with your airs and graces, you must needs turn stubborn as a mule, and refuse his offer. Lard! it makes me sick to think I should have such a daughter."

"I am very sorry that you are vexed, mother," answered Geraldine quietly, "but my father does not seem greatly to desire the match with my Lord Sandford. He did speak of it to me awhile back, but of late I have heard nothing anent the matter from him."

"Tush, girl! your father is no judge in such matters. He is wrapped up in politics, and has no thought to spare for other things more close at home. And because, forsooth, Lord Sandford finds the Court too dull for him, and is seen there but seldom, your father must needs think lightly of him. As though half the gayest and most fashionable of the younger nobility did not eschew the deadly dullness of the Queen's presence-chamber! Why, I should die of boredom in a week had I to dance attendance on her Majesty. Lord Sandford shows his good sense by staying away. Oh to hear the tales some of them tell! Saints preserve me from the like!"

Geraldine answered no word. She hoped that the had now blown itself out. Not to her mother could she speak of those tender, wonderful, beautiful thoughts and hopes and feelings which had lately come into her life. In her heart of hearts she knew herself beloved of Grey Dumaresq—knew that it would not be long ere he declared himself. She had heard also rumours of what the world was saying about him—that his name was becoming known to all men, and that he was regarded as one who would rise to eminence and prosperity. But it was not for these things that she loved him. Her heart had been his long before—almost before she knew it herself—in the days of his poverty and obscurity, when she dreamed of him, rather than thought consciously, wondering whither he had gone, and what he was doing, and whether he was holding fast to the resolutions he had made. She knew how her heart had leaped at sight of him in the guise of the Youth—how he had flown to her rescue before all others when peril menaced her. Then her eyes had been opened to the love which had sprung up all unknown in her heart; but she had lost him once more, only to find him again in the unknown champion who had risked his life, without knowing for whom he did it, in the dark streets of London some few weeks back now. Since then she had seen him but once, and their words had been few, but their eyes had spoken more eloquently than their lips, and she knew that she had only to possess her soul in patience, and that all would be well. The Duke and the Duchess were her friends: that would be enough, and more than enough, for her father. As for Lady Romaine, she had always been the warm advocate of Lord Sandford's suit, and being ignorant of what was passing elsewhere, jealous of her daughter's friendship with the Duchess, wrapped up in her own trivial round of vanity and pleasure, imagined that the only way of getting rid of the incubus of this grave and stately daughter was by marrying her off-hand to the only suitor whom the girl had ever tolerated for a moment. Therefore this absolute refusal on Geraldine's part, and the indifference of Lord Romaine, who had merely told her he would not have the girl forced to any such step against her will, awoke in her a chagrin and vexation which were hard to bear, and which vented themselves in positive tears of passion and pain.

"Then you shall give the man his dismissal yourself, you minx, you obstinate hussy!" cried the enraged lady at last, flinging down the letter upon the table. "He says he will come to hear his fate to-morrow evening, and I vow I will have no hand in the telling of the tale of your shilly-shally and folly. Here have you been leading him on all these months—"

"Mother, that is not true," spoke Geraldine, rising to her feet and flashing one of her strange, earnest glances full upon her mother's face; "I did never lead him on. I did never encourage him. I did but obey your strict injunctions to speak with him, to make his acquaintance, to try if so be that I might learn to return the affection with which he professed to honour me."

"And was that not enough to encourage him, in one who played the prude or the vixen so well in other quarters?" fumed Lady Romaine. "That you, who chose to send away every other man who addressed compliments to you with a flea in his ear—that you should suffer him to attend upon you, and seem to take pleasure in his converse—was not that enough? Why make yourself the talk of the town with him, to send him away now?"

The injustice of this accusation caused the girl's cheek to flame; but she retained her self-control, and answered gently: "Methinks you are hard to please, mother; for whether I send men away or listen to them awhile, I am always in the wrong. I did but do your bidding in the matter of Lord Sandford, and I do not deny that I found him ofttimes an interesting talker, and that for a while I was willing to regard him as a friend. But then, as I came to know more and to hear more, my opinion was forced to change. I fear me that Lord Sandford himself did change, and for the worse. Nevertheless, I would not judge him; only this I say—that I cannot and I will not marry him."

"Then go your own way and die a spinster, soured with your own tempers and megrims!" cried Lady Romaine in a towering passion, as she swept from the room, her high heels clattering on the polished floor, her draperies making an angry hissing, like that of a snake disturbed. "I wash my hands of you from this time forth. Give Lord Sandford his dismissal yourself, and lose me one of my best and most useful friends. That is always the way with daughters. Young vipers they should be called!" And having now reached the door, Lady Romaine passed out and banged it hard behind her, as a further mark of her displeasure.

Geraldine, left alone, took up the letter and read it. It contained a definite proposal for her hand, was written to her mother (always Lord Sandford's friend and ally in this), and asked leave for the writer to present himself upon the following evening to learn his fate. The girl raised her eyes with a start, for it was upon the following day that the Duke and Duchess had invited themselves to dine with Lord and Lady Romaine, and to bring with them a guest whom they desired to present afresh to their hosts. Lady Romaine had shrugged her shoulders and professed to be bored at the prospect, though in reality somewhat gratified at the idea of entertaining such illustrious guests. Her lord had been undisguisedly gratified, and believing the invitation in some sort due to his daughter, had regarded her with increased favour. But as Geraldine revolved the situation, it seemed to her a strange and rather dangerous complication that Lord Sandford should appear upon that very night; for was it not said that he and Sir Grey Dumaresq had quarrelled bitterly, and that the former had even sought to compass the life of his friend?

Geraldine went to seek her father, but he was not to be found. Her mother refused her entrance into her rooms, and the girl was forced to await the result of the following evening without communicating her vague fears to any one. After all, who would be likely to heed them, and what could she say? It was only the vaguest rumours she had heard; the rest was but her own intuitions, which others would never consider.

"Sir Grey Dumaresq, let me present you to my daughter, Lady Geraldine Adair, whom you will perhaps lead to the dinner-table when the time comes."

So spoke Lord Romaine, his face beaming with gratification and pleasure. The Duke and Duchess had arrived, the last of the select company invited for that day, and the Duke had held a short, low-toned conversation with his host, which had brought many gratified smiles to the face of his interlocutor. Now Geraldine's hand was within that of the young baronet, and her voice trembled a little as she said to her father,—

"Sir Grey and I have met before."

"Ah yes; I believe that is so. But Sir Grey's appearance was something too brief and meteor-like that last time. Now I hope he comes as a fixed star to shine steadily in the sky. If all we hear be true, his brilliance will add a lustre to the times in which he lives."

"You do me too much honour, sir," answered Grey a bow; but there was no time for more, for the company was already moving, and Geraldine's hand was upon his arm, and the delicate fragrance which seemed always to cling about her brought a strange intoxication to his senses, which made speech at the first difficult to him.

Perhaps she shared this feeling, for she was silent too; but the delicate flush upon her face, and the soft shining of her eyes, enhanced her beauty to an extent which made many marvel that they had not observed it before. Now and again the eyes of the undeclared lovers met in a quick, eloquent glance; but for a while they did not directly address one another, for the table was silent, listening to the words of the Duke, who was addressing his host, and discussing with him some matter of general interest. It was only later on, when the hum of talk became more dispersed, that Geraldine was able to say in a low voice,—

"I have heard of the success of your book. It has made my heart glad and happy. I did read some or it ere it went to the Queen. I thought it more beautiful than I can say."

"It should be beautiful, in all sooth, fair lady," answered Grey in a very low voice, "for the thought of it was inspired by the looks and words of one who is of all living creatures the fairest, the purest, the most precious. If my poor work meets with success in the world, it will be due not to any skill of mine, but to the goodness of two gracious ladies, one who inspired and the other who approved its motive."

Geraldine's face burned; there was a great joy in her heart. She could not misunderstand the look he bent upon her. Could it indeed be true that she had had any part or lot in this matter? The thought was bewildering, unspeakable. She sat as one in a dream. She heard him tell softly the tale of those strange events which had brought him unexpected wealth and prosperity. She realized that the time of trial and poverty and struggle was over, and that the sun of success was shining in his sky, and her heart was glad within her. Yet she rejoiced to think that he had faced privation and poverty bravely, and had sought by no unworthy way to mend his broken fortunes. She had trusted him and loved him in the hour of darkness: she was not ashamed to admit it now; she was proud and glad that it had been so.

Later on in the evening they found themselves together and alone in the little room at the far end of the reception suite, where they could talk undisturbed and unheard. It was sweet with the scent of violets, and the soft light of the wax candles in silver sconces illumined it only dimly. He closed the door, and let the curtain fall across it, and then he held out his uninjured hand to her. The broken arm, though mending fast, was still in a sling.

"Geraldine! my beloved!"

She went straight to him then, like a bird to its nest. No protestations were needed between them. They loved each other, and they knew it.

How long they had been alone, they did not know—time flies so quickly at times like these. It seemed but a few minutes to them, though it might well have been an hour, when the handle of the door was turned, and the curtain drawn back. Geraldine uttered a little cry of startled amaze. It was Lord Sandford who hail entered, and she had forgotten his very existence!

Had her mother, in one of her spiteful moods, told him that he would find her here? It was not impossible; and the girl's face grew a little white, for Lord Sandford's rapier dangled at his side, as was indeed the fashion of the times, and he was a man upon whose hot passions nobody could absolutely reckon. Strange stories had been told of him before this.

The young Earl stood for a moment framed in the doorway, his powerful face set in lines the meaning of which it were hard to read aright. Grey had risen and stood close to Geraldine, his eyes fixed vigilantly upon the massive figure of the man who had once been his friend. To the girl it seemed as though their eyes met, and glanced one against the other, like the blades of duellists in a preliminary pass. Her breath came thick and fast. She felt the anxious, tumultuous beating of her heart.

Lord Sandford was the first to break the tense silence.

"Lady Geraldine, I came hither to-night to receive an answer to the offer of marriage which I sent to you through your mother, Lady Romaine. Is this the answer you have prepared for me?"

He looked straight at the girl, and then at Grey, with a wide, unabashed gaze that did not shrink or falter. Grey made one step forward, and spoke in low, quiet tones.

"My lord, you may receive your answer at my hands, for the Lady Geraldine Adair is now my promised wife."

"Lady Geraldine," spoke Lord Sandford, "is this the truth?"

"It is, my lord, albeit I had not meant to give you your answer in such like fashion. I thank you for the honour you have done me; but my heart is given elsewhere."

"Right!" spoke Lord Sandford, in his resonant and emphatic tones. He had dropped the curtain behind him, and now came forward several paces. His face was not easy to read, but he held his head proudly, and looked the lovers straight in the eyes. "I would not have it otherwise, Lady Geraldine; for you have chosen well. You have chosen such an one as you must needs choose. Like will seek like; virtue, fidelity, purity, and honour must fly upward, will not be dragged downward. I saw it from the first; and at the first I rebelled. I swore it should not be so. I stooped to dishonour to remove an obstacle from my path. I thought I had succeeded; but soon I knew I had not advanced my cause one whit. I was rightly served. I did wrong with open eyes. I sinned, as it were, with a cart-rope; and I have had my deserts. I lost my friend, but I won no wife. I was outwitted, at every point. I went on hoping. I am not a man who easily gives up what my heart is set on. Up to the last I hoped to win. But yesterday, after my letter was written and dispatched, I knew that I was beaten at every point."

"Yesterday," faltered Geraldine.

"Even so, lady. I have been absent from town of late; but yesterday in the afternoon I returned. I went as usual to the coffee-house to learn the news, and I learnt it."

Lord Sandford's gaze flashed full upon Grey. He stood squarely in front of him, and held out his hand.

"Grey Dumaresq, I did once seek to do you a great and a grievous wrong. I confess the same with shame of heart. Will you accept my hand in friendship now, and with it my heartiest good wishes for your happiness in life with the lady of your choice?"

Grey did not hesitate; his hand was in Lord Sandford's, clasping it close. All was forgotten, at that moment save the old attraction and fascination which this man had exercised upon him from the first.

"I love the lady of your choice," spoke the Earl, without the faintest shade of hesitation in his tone. "I have loved her long. I doubt me if ever I shall love another in like fashion. And because I love her with every best and truest feeling of my heart, so am I able to desire above all else in the world her best happiness. That happiness she will find with you rather than with me. I am not fool enough not to know that. If I could have won her, I would have sought to make her happy. I swear it before God! But having failed, I yet desire above all things to see her happy with the man of her choice; and I say that she has chosen wisely."

It was indeed a triumph of love. The innate strength and nobility of this man's nature had been brought out by the honest fervour of his love. He had enough greatness of soul to be able to give the right hand of fellowship to his successful rival, though he himself must forego that happiness which he had long been seeking to attain. Grey felt that in the days that were to come Lord Sandford must needs show himself in different colours from those of the past. This victory must surely be a stepping-stone on which he would rise to higher and nobler things.

Geraldine now stood before him, all shrinking over, her eyes alight with pure womanly gratitude, admiration, and affection.

"I thank you, my lord, for such good words. Forgive me if I have ever misjudged you."

"Nay, lady, you never did that; you did but appraise me too truly."

"Yet I had ever some liking for you, my lord—think it not otherwise—save when I thought, I feared—"

"Yes, yes; I know, I understand. Friendship you had for me, so long as I deserved it; but love—never. And you were right, Lady Geraldine; you were right to withhold that. Perchance if your sweet eyes, like wells of liquid light, had not seen so clearly, had not read the secrets I sought to hide, my own love might not have blazed so fiercely. It is ever the unattainable which men desire to possess. But let us think of that no more. Let us bury the past, and live anew in the future. Friendship is left to us—a friendship which, I trust, will last a lifetime." And so speaking he turned once more to Grey, and said with a smile lighting his face,—

"And shall I, for a wedding-gift, restore to you your good horse, Don Carlos, at present in my stables at St. Albans?"

He spoke so freely and openly that Grey heard him in amaze.

"Have you Don Carlos?" spoke Geraldine, much astonished. "I did think that he was stolen from Sir Grey."

"And so think I; but I have had no hand in that business, save that I did hear something of the matter, and fearing foul play I resolved to become master of the gallant beast. Grey had disappeared, I knew not where. My evil anger had burned itself out, and I loathed myself for what I had done in the past. I thought that I might perchance make some reparation by purchasing the good horse he loved, since I heard it was to be sold, that I might keep it awhile, and restore it to its owner if kind fortune gave me the chance. It seemed to me all the amends I might ever make to the steed and his rider for the mischief I sought once to do to both. So, my friend, the horse is yours whensoever you like to lay claim to him. I restore him the more readily in that none of my people can ride him. He brooks not long a strange rider on his back. He has condescended to carry me for a brief while, but he goes unwillingly; he frets after his old master. He would win no races for a new one. So tell me only where and when to deliver him, and you shall have him so soon as you desire. I trow the old miser of Hartsbourne, who, I hear, is now dead, filched him from you by subtlety, for you would never sell your friend."

Grey, ashamed of the thoughts he had harboured against Lord Sandford in this matter, told the whole tale of the creature's disappearance; but he added, with a smile,—

"I suspect that whatever price you paid for him is lying in one of the coffers now discovered in the old house, and I will gladly buy him back."

"Nay, nay; that must not be. It is my wedding-gift to you or to your gentle lady here; and all I ask is, that upon some future day you will suffer me to visit you in your wedded home at Hartsbourne, and see Don Carlos and his master united once more."

CHAPTER XX.

MERRY AS A MARRIAGE BELL.

The brilliant light of a sunny June morning was illumining the private chapel, where a marriage was being solemnized in presence of the Queen, and of certain favoured persons connected with the Court, of whom the Duchess of Marlborough was one.

The Duke himself was in Holland, whither he had gone so soon as the army was able to leave its winter quarters. The year of victory, from which he had returned a few months before, was destined to be followed by a year of disaster to the Allies, and already the brow of the Duchess seemed somewhat clouded by care. She had her own troubles, too, at Court. The Queen's favour was distinctly waning, and the imperious temper of the Duchess knew not how to put up with what seemed to her coldness or slights. She felt the influence of Harley, and of her kinswoman and his, Mrs. Masham, gaining ground daily; and the presage of coming trouble seemed to be hanging over her now. Yet she bore herself bravely, and to-day her face was wreathed in smiles; for Sir Grey Dumaresq was her particular favourite, and had been her guest for a great part of the year, whenever he was in town; and the Queen's interest in the young man and his career and success was one of the strongest links which still bound them together.

And to-day Grey Dumaresq was to wed the Lady Geraldine, and the Queen had decreed that the ceremony should take place at an early hour in her own private chapel in Kensington Palace, that she might witness the nuptials herself; for she had been greatly pleased by the beauty and modesty and gentleness of Geraldine, who had been presented to her by the Duchess, and she desired to show her approval of the young baronet's choice by her own presence at his espousals.

Lady Romaine had forgotten her anger and jealousy against her daughter in her pride and delight at the honour bestowed upon them. It had pleased her to speak slightingly of the Queen and her Court at such times as she had been uncertain of the nature of her own reception there; but now she could not boast sufficiently of the condescension and kindness of the Queen, of her intimacy with the Duchess, and of the favour in which her son-in-law-elect was held by royalty and by all the Court. The matron had even found it well to throw aside some of those frivolities and follies that hitherto had been jealously retained, as giving her favour in the eyes of the young bloods of fashion, with whom she had been wont to amuse herself. Her ready observation told her that she was derided for these by graver persons, and that at the Court they would hinder rather than help her advance to favour. With quick adaptability, she had sought to model herself upon the graver ladies surrounding the Queen, and even to emulate the Duchess of Marlborough in her stately dignity of demeanour. If she had not succeeded in this, she had at least gained much that had hitherto been lacking, and her husband and daughter rejoiced heartily in the change. If some of her admirers forsook her, she found their place taken by men of far greater standing, who regarded Lord Romaine as a man likely to be useful to his party, and paid a certain polished court to his handsome wife. The lady began to talk politics now, to discuss the Act of Union, the Occasional Conformity Bill, and other topics of the day, with an air of interest and knowledge; and being gifted with considerable quickness and powers of assimilation and reproduction, she was soon able to hold her own, and pass for a woman of acuteness and observation.

She had found her daughter of great use to her at the first, for Geraldine was remarkably well educated, and had a very clear notion of the state of parties and the history of public movements. All her stores of information were at her mother's disposal, and so a new link had been formed between them during the months of the girl's betrothal, and instead of the mother's looking forward with delight to being rid of the incubus of a grown-up daughter, she was disposed to be pathetic over the separation and her own personal loss.

Now this was a very happy change for Geraldine, for the lack of a mother's love had been very keenly felt by her. Her face, as she stood at the altar, plighting her troth to the man she loved, was full of a wonderful happiness and joy—a different face from the grave and almost wistful one of the past; different, and yet with an enhanced beauty which riveted the eyes of all beholders, and caused the Queen to wipe her eyes with her lace kerchief as she gazed, whisper softly in the ear of one of her ladies,—

"Ah me! it is good to be young and beloved! Heaven send she may never know aught to dim that joy and that love!"

Sir Grey's happiness and joy was no whit less than that of his bride, and was written almost as clear upon his face. Bride and bridegroom were both clad in white, as became the season and the ceremony; and the young man's gleaming whiteness was well set off by the gorgeous colours of Lord Sandford's attire, as he stood beside him as his supporter and "best man." This he did by his own request, and with the ready consent of the Queen. She had been told enough of Lord Sandford to be interested in that rather remarkable personage. She had given him audience more than once, and had intrusted him earlier in the year with a special embassy to the Duke of Marlborough and Prince Eugene, which he had so ably carried out that it was whispered he was likely to obtain more such secret service errands. It was the sort of work for which he was eminently fitted, and the responsibility had sobered him and kept in check all disposition on his part to break out into any of the wild excesses with which he had been wont to amuse himself in order to while away the time. He was now setting to work to get his affairs into order. Having failed to win the fortune of the heiress, he had to turn his mind to other methods. He had sold his horses for large sums to the gilded dandies who fluttered about him, and with some heavy winnings at the card-tables he paid off a number of his debts, and began to feel like a free man. The sale of his property at St. Albans, which he no longer wanted, enabled him to pay off a mortgage upon his ancestral acres; and with a little care and moderate luck in gaming (for Lord Sandford was not possessed of the scruples which had harassed Grey, and which were far in advance of his day), he hoped soon to retrieve the position of a man of wealth and position, which he had been inclined to fling away for the pleasures of a careless and vicious age.

His friendship with Grey Dumaresq, strangely begun, and strangely broken, was now cemented afresh, and seemed likely to last and to increase. It was by his own wish that he stood beside him on his marriage day. He had so schooled himself that he could do this without pain, and he would have grudged the place to any other, claiming his own right as being Grey's oldest available friend.

And now the brief ceremony was ended. Sir Grey and his bride came down from the steps of the altar to receive the felicitations and gratulations of their friends. The Queen kissed the bride upon her brow, wished her happiness, and presented her with a beautiful clasp of diamonds and pearls, which she took from the laces about her throat, and bade the young wife wear for her sake. Then when the royal lady had taken her departure, and the little procession had left the chapel, other friends and well-wishers crowded round, prophesying happiness and all other good things to the youthful pair. They streamed out—a rainbow-tinted bevy—into the courtyard, where coaches waited to convey them to the wedding feast at Lord Romaine's house; and this they found laid out in al fresco fashion beneath the trees of the beautiful old garden, which had been Geraldine's place of refuge for so long, and to which she would be half sorry now to bid farewell.

"Do you remember, sweetheart," whispered Grey in her ear, as they stood together and a little apart at the conclusion of the banquet—"do you remember that summer morning a year ago when I did hear you singing, and could not keep away?"

"Remember! Do I ever forget it as I stand here looking at the shining river? Ah dear my lord, methinks it was upon that day that my heart first did leave mine own keeping, albeit it was long ere I knew it!"

"Could we but have seen how it would be a year hence with us, how little would the clouds and darkness which followed have disturbed and troubled our peace!"

"And yet methinks, dear love, it is better not to know; for so do we learn to trust the love of our heavenly Father, and to put our faith and confidence in Him. So He leads us from darkness into light, and our hearts are filled with love and gratitude towards Him."

Grey bent and kissed her on the brow.

"You shall teach me more of your pure faith and love, my wife, that we may be one in all things."

Don Carlos was pawing the stones of the courtyard, in fretted impatience which Dick had some ado to curb. Beside him stood a light, graceful barb, bearing a lady's saddle on his back. A little in the rear were some half-dozen horses and some liveried servants. The clock in the tower of Lord Romaine's house had just struck the hour of three.

The doors were flung open wide, and forth there came a gay company of guests, all eager to speed upon their way the newly-wedded pair. These had changed their wedding finery for riding dress. Grey wore his favourite workman-like suit of fine buff, stamped in silver, with white buckskin breeches and long boots. His lady was habited in a riding-dress of white face-cloth, with lacings of golden cord, a white hat with a drooping plume, and long white gauntlet gloves. Her palfrey was snow-white too, as became the bearer of a bride; and as Grey swung her deftly to her saddle, the pretty creature curveted and pranced, as though in pride at bearing so fair a burden.

The next minute the bridegroom had leaped upon Don Carlos, and both riders were waving their hands in response to the eager clamour of gratulation and farewell which sprang to the lips of the bystanders. Smiling and waving his hat, Grey put Don Carlos at a trot, and the little procession swept out of the courtyard in all the glory of the summer afternoon, with the voices of their friends sounding gaily in their ears.

"We shall be at Hartsbourne ere the day dies, sweet wife," spoke Grey, as he looked up at the sunny sky. "You will not be fatigued by the ride, after all you have gone through? You would not rather spend a night upon the way?"

"Ah no; this is rest," answered Geraldine, as her light, mettlesome palfrey cantered gently alongside the stalwart Don Carlos. "I could ride for ever through this clear, soft sunshine, with the wind fanning our faces. Nay, nay, but we will reach Hartsbourne to-night. Have I not waited long enough to see my future home, O tyrant husband, who would not take me there before?" and a laugh sparkled in her eyes as she spoke these words, for it had always been one of their cherished jests that not till she came there as his wife should she look upon the beauties and the charms of Hartsbourne.

"Did you desire it then so much, dearest?" he asked. "It was my wish that it should be made a meet and fitting home for you ere I did bring you thither. It looked so desolate when I reached it after being long absent. I did desire to take away that air of desolation ere your dear eyes should behold it. Yet had I thought you wished it so much—"

"I wish nothing but to do your will, good my lord," she answered, with a look in her eyes that set his heart beating tumultuously within him. "And is not this worth waiting for? Can any sight of it be precious as this one will be, when my husband takes me home?"

They had distanced their servants, and were riding alone in the lane; for they skirted the great city instead of passing through it, and kept to the softer, pleasanter tracks through fields and woodlands; so he could reach forth and take her hand, and hold it in his as they rode onwards with free elastic stride.

"My beloved, my beloved, my beloved!" he replied, and his tongue refused all other words.

The glory of the summer sunset was in the sky as they breasted the last wooded ridge which hid them from the hollow in which Hartsbourne lay. The woods, shimmering in their exquisite dress of golden green, seemed to take fire from the level glory of the ruddy rays lying across them. The waving grass tossed like a restless sea of light, as the breeze played over it; and the birds in the thickets, silent during the hours of heat, now burst into liquid melody to sing to rest the dying day.

Halting at the top of the ridge, as Grey had halted there so long ago, as it now seemed to him, he pointed downwards with his whip, and there was a little quiver in his voice as he said,—

"Yonder, in that hollow, lies our home. You can scarce see it for the screen of the trees; but you will see it anon—there where the shining stream meanders and the glades of the wood open out. Come, let us leave the road, and ride through my favourite glade. So shall I show you a glimpse of your home, where to my eyes it looks the fairest."

They moved along side by side. The horses' feet made scarce a sound, sunk deep in grass and moss. The golden glamour of the beech wood encircled them, lights and shadows played hide-and-seek along the sward, flowers gemmed the hollows, and the breath of the honeysuckle was sweet to their senses as they pursued their way. The deer got up in haste at their approach, and scuttled away into deeper shadow; and squirrels and rabbits whisked hither and thither, astonished at this sudden invasion of their silvan solitude.

But the bride and bridegroom scarce exchanged a word; their hearts were well-nigh too full. The happiness was almost oppressive. Suddenly Grey paused, and, drawing her a little to the left, pointed through an opening in the trees and said,—

"There is your home, my dearest!"

She saw it then, and her heart gave a great throb. They were looking upon the west front of the gray old house, no longer lying desolate, forlorn, shut up, its windows broken or shuttered, neglect and decay everywhere. No, all that was changed now. The windows shone between their carved mullions; the creepers which curtained the walls had been cut and trained, so that they could bloom and breathe once more, instead of hanging in vast masses, almost broken down by their own weight. The last of the sunlight gilded the tracery of oriel window and ancient carving; lay like a caress upon the smooth green of the wide terrace in front, with its clipped yew trees, its stone vases and statues, and its ancient sundial. Two stately peacocks walked up and down, uttering from time to time their strange, melancholy trumpet note. A great hound rose up from a sheltered corner, threw his head into the air, sniffed for a few moments, and then bounded towards them with a mighty baying sound.

"Our first welcome, dear heart," spoke Grey. "This is one of the guardians of Hartsbourne's treasure. Well, he must learn that he has a new and a greater treasure to guard now."

The hound knew the master well. He fawned upon him with delight; and, after having gravely sniffed at Geraldine's proffered hand, took her once and for all beneath his protection, and shared the love of his faithful heart betwixt her and her lord.

The young wife slipped from her saddle as they reached the little wooden bridge which led over the stream, and the servants coming up in a few moments took the horses round by the road, whilst husband and wife went onwards with the hound in attendance, up the sloping greensward, where flowers gemmed the borders, and roses gave forth their sweetness upon the evening air; through the gardens, already partially restored, and in time to be made yet more beautiful; towards the house which was their home, lying dim and dreamlike in the gathering twilight.

"Dear heart, we are at home. Welcome to Hartsbourne!" spoke he. And she could only lift her quivering lips to his, for she had no words in which to answer him.

And so they passed into the ancient house together, to receive the loving greetings of their retainers and servants, who all knew the master by this time, and were eager and joyfully ready to receive the bride of his choice. Old Jock was there, in the glory of his new place as house-steward, the tears of joy standing in his eyes as he kissed the hand the lady graciously extended, when she thanked him for his protestations of devotion, and told him how she had heard of his fidelity to his master. It was all so happy, so full of simple joy and good will. She read affection to her lord in every face; she saw by the flower-decked rooms and the loving care everywhere visible throughout the quaint old house how much all had desired that this home-coming should bring joy to their hearts and bespeak the welcome of loving service. That was more to her than the beauty of the things her eyes rested upon—the soft hangings, the quaint carvings, the pictures, the plenishings, the rare and costly objects which met her gaze at every turn.

"They were found in the secret chamber, most of them," Grey told her as, after having supped, they walked hand in hand through the house, which was all lighted up for their inspection. "When and how and whence they came there, I know not. Jock declares that many are heirlooms, which must have been hidden away in some time of peril—possibly at the rising of Monmouth, or at the Revolution; some perhaps even in the civil war; others, methinks, my poor father must have won from luckless gamblers, and have sold to his kinsman, or paid over to him as interest upon debts. I know not, I cannot tell; but here they are, and all men tell me they are mine. They will serve to make a fitting setting for the priceless jewel which my house doth now enshrine; and in so doing, they and we must needs find contentment."

It would have been hard, in sooth, not to feel contentment in such environment. Grey had taken care not to destroy, but to restore, when the old house passed into his keeping once more. The old world charm hung yet upon it; nothing garish or bizarre was to be found there, as in the houses of fashionable dames such as Lady Romaine, who loved to jumble together trophies and curiosities from every part of the globe in confusion worse confounded. There was none of this lavish profusion or confusion here; but each thing looked in its own place, set off by polished panelling or dusky arras. And even the scent of rose leaves was the same as in his mother's day; and Grey whispered to his bride that he liked to think she could see them now, and share in some sort their happiness.

As they reached the end of a long gallery, which brought their wanderings almost to a close, Grey paused before the door of a certain room, and instead of turning the handle immediately, he knocked upon the panels of the door.

A deep sonorous voice bade him enter; and taking his wife's hand in his, he led her into a large, low, airy apartment, which had windows looking both south and west, where, upon a cleverly-contrived couch, running very easily upon wheels, lay an old man with a lion-like face and a mass of snow-white hair, whose hands were extended in eager yet restrained and dignified greeting.

"Welcome—thrice welcome—happy bridegroom! Methought you would not fail to come and visit me to-night!"

"Of course I should not fail, good friend; and here I bring you my wife, whom you have ofttimes desired to see.—Geraldine, need I tell you that this is my friend, Mr. Jonathan Wylde, whom last you saw as Father Time with his scythe and hour-glass? Well, he has cheated both, you see, albeit he was like to be mown down once. He will remain as our honoured guest and friend so long as he is spared to us. For he did come to my aid when I was very near to desperation and despair, and we have stood shoulder to shoulder ever since."