'After all, a very clever fox may be a very dull dog—don't you think?'

Gentlemen in front of her, and behind, heard it, and at Mr. George's

expense her reputation rose.

Thus the genius of this born general prompted her to adopt the principle

in tactics—boldly to strike when you are in the dark as to your enemy's

movements.

CHAPTER XXII

IN WHICH THE DAUGHTERS OF THE GREAT MEL HAVE TO DIGEST HIM AT DINNER

You must know, if you would form an estimate of the Countess's heroic

impudence, that a rumour was current in Lymport that the fair and well-

developed Louisa Harrington, in her sixteenth year, did advisedly, and

with the intention of rendering the term indefinite, entrust her

guileless person to Mr. George Uplift's honourable charge. The rumour,

unflavoured by absolute malignity, was such; and it went on to say, that

the sublime Mel, alive to the honour of his family, followed the

fugitives with a pistol, and with a horsewhip, that he might chastise the

offender according to the degree of his offence. It was certain that he

had not used the pistol: it was said that he had used the whip.

The details of the interview between Mel and Mr. George were numerous,

but at the same time various. Some declared that he put a pistol to Mr.

George's ear, and under pressure of that persuader got him into the

presence of a clergyman, when he turned sulky; and when the pistol was

again produced, the ceremony would have been performed, had not the

outraged Church cried out for help. Some vowed that Mr. George had

referred all questions implying a difference between himself and Mel to

their mutual fists for decision. At any rate, Mr. George turned up in

Fallow field subsequently; the fair Louisa, unhurt and with a quiet mind,

in Lymport; and this amount of truth the rumours can be reduced to—that

Louisa and Mr. George had been acquainted. Rumour and gossip know how to

build: they always have some solid foundation, however small. Upwards of

twelve years had run since Louisa went to the wife of the brewer—

a period quite long enough for Mr. George to forget any one in; and she

was altogether a different creature; and, as it was true that Mr. George

was a dull one, she was, after the test she had put him to, justified in

hoping that Mel's progeny might pass unchallenged anywhere out of

Lymport. So, with Mr. George facing her at table, the Countess sat down,

determined to eat and be happy.

A man with the education and tastes of a young country squire is not

likely to know much of the character of women; and of the marvellous

power they have of throwing a veil of oblivion between themselves and

what they don't want to remember, few men know much. Mr. George had

thought, when he saw Mrs. Strike leaning to Evan, and heard she was a

Harrington, that she was rather like the Lymport family; but the

reappearance of Mrs. Strike, the attention of the Duke of Belfield to

her, and the splendid tactics of the Countess, which had extinguished

every thought in the thought of himself, drove Lymport out of his mind.

There were some dinner guests at the table-people of Fallow field,

Beckley, and Bodley. The Countess had the diplomatist on one side, the

Duke on the other. Caroline was under the charge of Sir Franks. The

Countess, almost revelling in her position opposite Mr. George, was

ambitious to lead the conversation, and commenced, smiling at Melville:

'We are to be spared politics to-day? I think politics and cookery do

not assimilate.'

'I'm afraid you won't teach the true Briton to agree with you,' said

Melville, shaking his head over the sums involved by this British

propensity.

'No,' said Seymour. 'Election dinners are a part of the Constitution':

and Andrew laughed: 'They make Radicals pay as well as Tories, so it's

pretty square.'

The topic was taken up, flagged, fell, and was taken up again. And then

Harry Jocelyn said:

'I say, have you worked the flags yet? The great Mel must have his

flags.'

The flags were in the hands of ladies, and ladies would look to the

rosettes, he was told.

Then a lady of the name of Barrington laughed lightly, and said:

'Only, pray, my dear Harry, don't call your uncle the "Great Mel" at the

election.'

'Oh! very well,' quoth Harry: 'why not?'

'You 'll get him laughed at—that 's all.'

'Oh! well, then, I won't,' said Harry, whose wits were attracted by the

Countess's visage.

Mrs. Barrington turned to Seymour, her neighbour, and resumed:

'He really would be laughed at. There was a tailor—he was called the

Great Mel—and he tried to stand for Fallow field once. I believe he had

the support of Squire Uplift—George's uncle—and others. They must have

done it for fun! Of course he did not get so far as the hustings; but I

believe he had flags, and principles, and all sorts of things worked

ready. He certainly canvassed.'

'A tailor—canvassed—for Parliament?' remarked an old Dowager, the

mother of Squire Copping. 'My what are we coming to next?'

'He deserved to get in,' quoth Aunt Bel: 'After having his principles

worked ready, to eject the man was infamous.'

Amazed at the mine she had sprung, the Countess sat through it, lamenting

the misery of owning a notorious father. Happily Evan was absent, on his

peaceful blessed bed!

Bowing over wine with the Duke, she tried another theme, while still,

like a pertinacious cracker, the Great Mel kept banging up and down the

table.

'We are to have a feast in the open air, I hear. What you call pic-nic.'

The Duke believed there was a project of the sort.

'How exquisitely they do those things in Portugal! I suppose there would

be no scandal in my telling something now. At least we are out of Court-

jurisdiction.'

'Scandal of the Court!' exclaimed his Grace, in mock horror.

'The option is yours to listen. The Queen, when young, was sweetly

pretty; a divine complexion; and a habit of smiling on everybody. I

presume that the young Habral, son of the first magistrate of Lisbon, was

also smiled on. Most innocently, I would swear! But it operated on the

wretched youth! He spent all his fortune in the purchase and decoration

of a fairy villa, bordering on the Val das Rosas, where the Court enjoyed

its rustic festivities, and one day a storm! all the ladies hurried

their young mistress to the house where the young Habral had been

awaiting her for ages. None so polished as he! Musicians started up,

the floors were ready, and torches beneath them!—there was a feast of

exquisite wines and viands sparkling. Quite enchantment. The girl-Queen

was in ecstasies. She deigned a dance with the young Habral, and then

all sat down to supper; and in the middle of it came the cry of Fire!

The Queen shrieked; the flames were seen all around; and if the arms of

the young Habral were opened to save her, or perish, could she cast a

thought on Royalty, and refuse? The Queen was saved the villa was burnt;

the young Habral was ruined, but, if I know a Portuguese, he was happy

till he died, and well remunerated! For he had held a Queen to his

heart! So that was a pic-nic!'

The Duke slightly inclined his head.

'Vrai Portughez derrendo,' he said. 'They tell a similar story in Spain,

of one of the Queens—I forget her name. The difference between us and

your Peninsular cavaliers is, that we would do as much for uncrowned

ladies.'

'Ah! your Grace!' The Countess swam in the pleasure of a nobleman's

compliment.

'What's the story?' interposed Aunt Bel.

An outline of it was given her. Thank heaven, the table was now rid of

the Great Mel. For how could he have any, the remotest relation with

Queens and Peninsular pic-nics? You shall hear.

Lady Jocelyn happened to catch a word or two of the story.

'Why,' said she, 'that's English! Franks, you remember the ballet

divertissement they improvised at the Bodley race-ball, when the

magnificent footman fired a curtain and caught up Lady Racial, and

carried her—'

'Heaven knows where!' cried Sir Franks. 'I remember it perfectly. It

was said that the magnificent footman did it on purpose to have that

pleasure.'

'Ay, of course,' Hamilton took him up. 'They talked of prosecuting the

magnificent footman.'

'Ay,' followed Seymour, 'and nobody could tell where the magnificent

footman bolted. He vanished into thin air.'

'Ay, of course,' Melville struck in; 'and the magic enveloped the lady

for some time.'

At this point Mr. George Uplift gave a horse-laugh. He jerked in his

seat excitedly.

'Bodley race-ball!' he cried; and looking at Lady Jocelyn: 'Was your

ladyship there, then? Why—ha! ha! why, you have seen the Great Mel,

then! That tremendous footman was old Mel himself!'

Lady Jocelyn struck both her hands on the table, and rested her large

grey eyes, full of humorous surprise, on Mr. George.

There was a pause, and then the ladies and gentlemen laughed.

'Yes,' Mr. George went on, 'that was old Mel. I'll swear to him.'

'And that's how it began?' murmured Lady Jocelyn.

Mr. George nodded at his plate discreetly.

'Well,' said Lady Jocelyn, leaning back, and lifting her face upward in

the discursive fulness of her fancy, 'I feel I am not robbed. 'Il y a

des miracles, et j'en ai vu'. One's life seems more perfect when one has

seen what nature can do. The fellow was stupendous! I conceive him

present. Who'll fire a house for me? Is it my deficiency of attraction,

or a total dearth of gallant snobs?'

The Countess was drowned. The muscles of her smiles were horribly stiff

and painful. Caroline was getting pale. Could it be accident that thus

resuscitated Mel, their father, and would not let the dead man die? Was

not malice at the bottom of it? The Countess, though she hated Mr.

George infinitely, was clear-headed enough to see that Providence alone

was trying her. No glances were exchanged between him and Laxley, or

Drummond.

Again Mel returned to his peace, and again he had to come forth.

'Who was this singular man you were speaking about just now?' Mrs.

Evremonde asked.

Lady Jocelyn answered her: 'The light of his age. The embodied protest

against our social prejudice. Combine—say, Mirabeau and Alcibiades, and

the result is the Lymport Tailor:—he measures your husband in the

morning: in the evening he makes love to you, through a series of

pantomimic transformations. He was a colossal Adonis, and I'm sorry he's

dead!'

'But did the man get into society?' said Mrs. Evremonde. 'How did he

manage that?'

'Yes, indeed! and what sort of a society!' the dowager Copping

interjected. 'None but bachelor-tables, I can assure you. Oh! I

remember him. They talked of fetching him to Dox Hall. I said, No,

thank you, Tom; this isn't your Vauxhall.'

'A sharp retort,' said Lady Jocelyn, 'a most conclusive rhyme; but you're

mistaken. Many families were glad to see him, I hear. And he only

consented to be treated like a footman when he dressed like one. The

fellow had some capital points. He fought two or three duels, and

behaved like a man. Franks wouldn't have him here, or I would have

received him. I hear that, as a conteur, he was inimitable. In short,

he was a robust Brummel, and the Regent of low life.'

This should have been Mel's final epitaph.

Unhappily, Mrs. Melville would remark, in her mincing manner, that the

idea of the admission of a tailor into society seemed very unnatural;

and Aunt Bel confessed that her experience did not comprehend it.

'As to that,' said Lady Jocelyn, 'phenomena are unnatural. The rules of

society are lightened by the exceptions. What I like in this Mel is,

that though he was a snob, and an impostor, he could still make himself

respected by his betters. He was honest, so far; he acknowledged his

tastes, which were those of Franks, Melville, Seymour, and George—the

tastes of a gentleman. I prefer him infinitely to your cowardly

democrat, who barks for what he can't get, and is generally beastly.

In fact, I'm not sure that I haven't a secret passion for the great

tailor.'

'After all, old Mel wasn't so bad,' Mr. George Uplift chimed in.

'Granted a tailor—you didn't see a bit of it at table. I've known him

taken for a lord. And when he once got hold of you, you couldn't give

him up. The squire met him first in the coach, one winter. He took him

for a Russian nobleman—didn't find out what he was for a month or so.

Says Mel, "Yes, I make clothes. You find the notion unpleasant; guess

how disagreeable it is to me." The old squire laughed, and was glad to

have him at Croftlands as often as he chose to come. Old Mel and I used

to spar sometimes; but he's gone, and I should like to shake his fist

again.'

Then Mr. George told the 'Bath' story, and episodes in Mel's career as

Marquis; and while he held the ear of the table, Rose, who had not spoken

a word, and had scarcely eaten a morsel during dinner, studied the

sisters with serious eyes. Only when she turned them from the Countess

to Mrs. Strike, they were softened by a shadowy drooping of the eyelids,

as if for some reason she deeply pitied that lady.

Next to Rose sat Drummond, with a face expressive of cynical enjoyment.

He devoted uncommon attention to the Countess, whom he usually shunned

and overlooked. He invited her to exchange bows over wine, in the

fashion of that day, and the Countess went through the performance with

finished grace and ease. Poor Andrew had all the time been brushing back

his hair, and making strange deprecatory sounds in his throat, like a man

who felt bound to assure everybody at table he was perfectly happy and

comfortable.

'Material enough for a Sartoriad,' said Drummond to Lady Jocelyn.

'Excellent. Pray write it forthwith, Drummond', replied her ladyship;

and as they exchanged talk unintelligible to the Countess, this lady

observed to the Duke:

'It is a relief to have buried that subject.'

The Duke smiled, raising an eyebrow; but the persecuted Countess

perceived she had been much too hasty when Drummond added,

'I'll make a journey to Lymport in a day or two, and master his history.'

'Do,' said her ladyship; and flourishing her hand, '"I sing the Prince of

Snobs!"'

'Oh, if it's about old Mel, I 'll sing you material enough,' said Mr.

George. 'There! you talk of it's being unnatural, his dining out at

respectable tables. Why, I believe—upon my honour, I believe it's a

fact—he's supped and thrown dice with the Regent.'

Lady Jocelyn clapped her hands. 'A noble culmination, Drummond!

The man's an Epic!'

'Well, I think old Mel was equal to it,' Mr. George pursued. 'He gave me

pretty broad hints; and this is how it was, if it really happened, you

know. Old Mel had a friend; some say he was more. Well, that was a

fellow, a great gambler. I dare say you 've heard of him—Burley Bennet

—him that won Ryelands Park of one of the royal dukes—died worth

upwards of L100,000; and old Mel swore he ought to have had it, and would

if he hadn't somehow offended him. He left the money to Admiral

Harrington, and he was a relation of Mel's.'

'But are we then utterly mixed up with tailors?' exclaimed Mrs.

Barrington.

'Well, those are the facts,' said Mr. George.

The wine made the young squire talkative. It is my belief that his

suspicions were not awake at that moment, and that, like any other young

country squire, having got a subject he could talk on, he did not care to

discontinue it. The Countess was past the effort to attempt to stop him.

She had work enough to keep her smile in the right place.

Every dinner may be said to have its special topic, just as every age has

its marked reputation. They are put up twice or thrice, and have to

contend with minor lights, and to swallow them, and then they command the

tongues of men and flow uninterruptedly. So it was with the great Mel

upon this occasion. Curiosity was aroused about him. Aunt Bel agreed

with Lady Jocelyn that she would have liked to know the mighty tailor.

Mrs. Shorne but very imperceptibly protested against the notion, and from

one to another it ran. His Grace of Belfield expressed positive approval

of Mel as one of the old school.

'Si ce n'est pas le gentilhomme, au moins, c'est le gentilhomme manque,'

said Lady Jocelyn. 'He is to be regretted, Duke. You are right. The

stuff was in him, but the Fates were unkind. I stretch out my hand to

the pauvre diable.'

'I think one learns more from the mock magnifico than from anything

else,' observed his Grace.

'When the lion saw the donkey in his own royal skin, said Aunt Bel, 'add

the rhyme at your discretion—he was a wiser lion, that's all.'

'And the ape that strives to copy one—he's an animal of judgement,' said

Lady Jocelyn. 'We will be tolerant to the tailor, and the Countess must

not set us down as a nation of shopkeepers: philosophically tolerant.'

The Countess started, and ran a little broken 'Oh!' affably out of her

throat, dipped her lips to her tablenapkin, and resumed her smile.

'Yes,' pursued her ladyship; 'old Mel stamps the age gone by. The

gallant adventurer tied to his shop! Alternate footman and marquis, out

of intermediate tailor! Isn't there something fine in his buffoon

imitation of the real thing? I feel already that old Mel belongs to me.

Where is the great man buried? Where have they, set the funeral brass

that holds his mighty ashes?'

Lady Jocelyn's humour was fully entered into by the men. The women

smiled vacantly, and had a common thought that it was ill-bred of her to

hold forth in that way at table, and unfeminine of any woman to speak

continuously anywhere.

'Oh, come!' cried Mr. George, who saw his own subject snapped away from

him by sheer cleverness; 'old Mel wasn't only a buffoon, my lady, you

know. Old Mel had his qualities. He was as much a "no-nonsense" fellow,

in his way, as a magistrate, or a minister.'

'Or a king, or a constable,' Aunt Bel helped his illustration.

'Or a prince, a poll-parrot, a Perigord-pie,' added Drummond, whose

gravity did not prevent Mr. George from seeing that he was laughed at.

'Well, then, now, listen to this,' said Mr. George, leaning his two hands

on the table resolutely. Dessert was laid, and, with a full glass beside

him, and a pear to peel, he determined to be heard.

The Countess's eyes went mentally up to the vindictive heavens. She

stole a glance at Caroline, and was alarmed at her excessive pallor.

Providence had rescued Evan from this!

'Now, I know this to be true,' Mr. George began. 'When old Mel was

alive, he and I had plenty of sparring, and that—but he's dead, and I'll

do him justice. I spoke of Burley Bennet just now. Now, my lady, old

Burley was, I think, Mel's half-brother, and he came, I know, somewhere

out of Drury Lane-one of the courts near the theatre—I don't know much

of London. However, old Mel wouldn't have that. Nothing less than being

born in St. James's Square would content old Mel, and he must have a

Marquis for his father. I needn't be more particular. Before ladies—

ahem! But Burley was the shrewd hand of the two. Oh-h-h! such a card!

He knew the way to get into company without false pretences. Well, I

told you, he had lots more than L100,000—some said two—and he gave up

Ryelands; never asked for it, though he won it. Consequence was, he

commanded the services of somebody pretty high. And it was he got

Admiral Harrington made a captain, posted, commodore, admiral, and

K.C.B., all in seven years! In the Army it 'd have been half the time,

for the H.R.H. was stronger in that department. Now, I know old Burley

promised Mel to leave him his money, and called the Admiral an ungrateful

dog. He didn't give Mel much at a time—now and then a twenty-pounder or

so—I saw the cheques. And old Mel expected the money, and looked over

his daughters like a turkey-cock. Nobody good enough for them. Whacking

handsome gals—three! used to be called the Three Graces of Lymport. And

one day Burley comes and visits Mel, and sees the girls. And he puts his

finger on the eldest, I can tell you. She was a spanker! She was the

handsomest gal, I think, ever I saw. For the mother's a fine woman, and

what with the mother, and what with old Mel—'

'We won't enter into the mysteries of origin,' quoth Lady Jocelyn.

'Exactly, my lady. Oh, your servant, of course. Before ladies. A Burley

Bennet, I said. Long and short was, he wanted to take her up to London.

Says old Mel: "London 's a sad place."—" Place to make money," says

Burley. "That's not work for a young gal," says Mel. Long and short

was, Burley wanted to take her, and Mel wouldn't let her go.' Mr. George

lowered his tone, and mumbled, 'Don't know how to explain it very well

before ladies. What Burley wanted was—it wasn't quite honourable, you

know, though there was a good deal of spangles on it, and whether a real

H.R.H., or a Marquis, or a Viscount, I can't say, but—the offer was

tempting to a tradesman. "No," says Mel; like a chap planting his

flagstaff and sticking to it. I believe that to get her to go with him,

Burley offered to make a will on the spot, and to leave every farthing of

his money and property—upon my soul, I believe it to be true—to Mel and

his family, if he'd let the gal go. "No," says Mel. I like the old

bird! And Burley got in a rage, and said he'd leave every farthing to

the sailor. Says Mel: "I'm a poor tradesman; but I have and I always

will have the feelings of a gentleman, and they're more to me than hard

cash, and the honour of my daughter, sir, is dearer to me than my blood.

Out of the house!" cries Mel. And away old Burley went, and left every

penny to the sailor, Admiral Harrington, who never noticed 'em an inch.

Now, there!'

All had listened to Mr. George attentively, and he had slurred the

apologetic passages, and emphasized the propitiatory 'before ladies' in a

way to make himself well understood a generation back.

'Bravo, old Mel!' rang the voice of Lady Jocelyn, and a murmur ensued, in

the midst of which Rose stood up and hurried round the table to Mrs.

Strike, who was seen to rise from her chair; and as she did so, the ill-

arranged locks fell from their unnatural restraint down over her

shoulders; one great curl half forward to the bosom, and one behind her

right ear. Her eyes were wide, her whole face, neck, and fingers, white

as marble. The faintest tremor of a frown on her brows, and her shut

lips, marked the continuation of some internal struggle, as if with her

last conscious force she kept down a flood of tears and a wild outcry

which it was death to hold. Sir Franks felt his arm touched, and looked

up, and caught her, as Rose approached. The Duke and other gentlemen

went to his aid, and as the beautiful woman was borne out white and still

as a corpse, the Countess had this dagger plunged in her heart from the

mouth of Mr. George, addressing Miss Carrington:

'I swear I didn't do it on purpose. She 's Carry Harrington, old Mel's

daughter, as sure as she 's flesh and blood!'

CHAPTER XXIII

TREATS OF A HANDKERCHIEF

Running through Beckley Park, clear from the chalk, a little stream gave

light and freshness to its pasturage. Near where it entered, a bathing-

house of white marble had been built, under which the water flowed, and

the dive could be taken to a paved depth, and you swam out over a pebbly

bottom into sun-light, screened by the thick-weeded banks, loose-strife

and willow-herb, and mint, nodding over you, and in the later season

long-plumed yellow grasses. Here at sunrise the young men washed their

limbs, and here since her return home English Rose loved to walk by

night. She had often spoken of the little happy stream to Evan in

Portugal, and when he came to Beckley Court, she arranged that he should

sleep in a bed-room overlooking it. The view was sweet and pleasant to

him, for all the babbling of the water was of Rose, and winding in and

out, to East, to North, it wound to embowered hopes in the lover's mind,

to tender dreams; and often at dawn, when dressing, his restless heart

embarked on it, and sailed into havens, the phantom joys of which

coloured his life for him all the day. But most he loved to look across

it when the light fell. The palest solitary gleam along its course spoke

to him rich promise. The faint blue beam of a star chained all his

longings, charmed his sorrows to sleep. Rose like a fairy had breathed

her spirit here, and it was a delight to the silly luxurious youth to lie

down, and fix some image of a flower bending to the stream on his brain,

and in the cradle of fancies that grew round it, slide down the tide of

sleep.

From the image of a flower bending to the stream, like his own soul to

the bosom of Rose, Evan built sweet fables. It was she that exalted him,

that led him through glittering chapters of adventure. In his dream of

deeds achieved for her sake, you may be sure the young man behaved

worthily, though he was modest when she praised him, and his limbs

trembled when the land whispered of his great reward to come. The longer

he stayed at Beckley the more he lived in this world within world, and if

now and then the harsh outer life smote him, a look or a word from Rose

encompassed him again, and he became sensible only of a distant pain.

At first his hope sprang wildly to possess her, to believe, that after he

had done deeds that would have sent ordinary men in the condition of

shattered hulks to the hospital, she might be his. Then blow upon blow

was struck, and he prayed to be near her till he died: no more. Then

she, herself, struck him to the ground, and sitting in his chamber, sick

and weary, on the evening of his mishap, Evan's sole desire was to obtain

the handkerchief he had risked his neck for. To have that, and hold it

to his heart, and feel it as a part of her, seemed much.

Over a length of the stream the red round harvest-moon was rising, and

the weakened youth was this evening at the mercy of the charm that

encircled him. The water curved, and dimpled, and flowed flat, and the

whole body of it rushed into the spaces of sad splendour. The clustered

trees stood like temples of darkness; their shadows lengthened

supernaturally; and a pale gloom crept between them on the sward. He had

been thinking for some time that Rose would knock at his door, and give

him her voice, at least; but she did not come; and when he had gazed out

on the stream till his eyes ached, he felt that he must go and walk by

it. Those little flashes of the hurrying tide spoke to him of a secret

rapture and of a joy-seeking impulse; the pouring onward of all the blood

of life to one illumined heart, mournful from excess of love.

Pardon me, I beg. Enamoured young men have these notions. Ordinarily

Evan had sufficient common sense and was as prosaic as mankind could wish

him; but he has had a terrible fall in the morning, and a young woman

rages in his brain. Better, indeed, and 'more manly,' were he to strike

and raise huge bosses on his forehead, groan, and so have done with it.

We must let him go his own way.

At the door he was met by the Countess. She came into the room without a

word or a kiss, and when she did speak, the total absence of any euphuism

gave token of repressed excitement yet more than her angry eyes and eager

step. Evan had grown accustomed to her moods, and if one moment she was

the halcyon, and another the petrel, it no longer disturbed him, seeing

that he was a stranger to the influences by which she was affected. The

Countess rated him severely for not seeking repose and inviting sympathy.

She told him that the Jocelyns had one and all combined in an infamous

plot to destroy the race of Harrington, and that Caroline had already

succumbed to their assaults; that the Jocelyns would repent it, and

sooner than they thought for; and that the only friend the Harringtons

had in the house was Miss Bonner, whom Providence would liberally reward.

Then the Countess changed to a dramatic posture, and whispered aloud,

'Hush: she is here. She is so anxious. Be generous, my brother, and let

her see you!'

'She?' said Evan, faintly. 'May she come, Louisa?' He hoped for Rose.

'I have consented to mask it,' returned the Countess. 'Oh, what do I not

sacrifice for you!'

She turned from him, and to Evan's chagrin introduced Juliana Bonner.

'Five minutes, remember!' said the Countess. ' I must not hear of more.'

And then Evan found himself alone with Miss Bonner, and very uneasy.

This young lady had restless brilliant eyes, and a contraction about the

forehead which gave one the idea of a creature suffering perpetual

headache. She said nothing, and when their eyes met she dropped hers in

a manner that made silence too expressive. Feeling which, Evan began:

'May I tell you that I think it is I who ought to be nursing you, not you

me?'

Miss Bonner replied by lifting her eyes and dropping them as before,

murmuring subsequently, 'Would you do so?'

'Most certainly, if you did me the honour to select me.'

The fingers of the young lady commenced twisting and intertwining on her

lap. Suddenly she laughed:

'It would not do at all. You won't be dismissed from your present

service till you 're unfit for any other.'

'What do you mean?' said Evan, thinking more of the unmusical laugh than

of the words.

He received no explanation, and the irksome silence caused him to look

through the window, as an escape for his mind, at least. The waters

streamed on endlessly into the golden arms awaiting them. The low moon

burnt through the foliage. In the distance, over a reach of the flood,

one tall aspen shook against the lighted sky.

'Are you in pain?' Miss Bonner asked, and broke his reverie.

'No; I am going away, and perhaps I sigh involuntarily.'

'You like these grounds?'

'I have never been so happy in any place.'

'With those cruel young men about you?'

Evan now laughed. 'We don't call young men cruel, Miss Bonner.'

'But were they not? To take advantage of what Rose told them—it was

base!'

She had said more than she intended, possibly, for she coloured under his

inquiring look, and added: 'I wish I could say the same as you of

Beckley. Do you know, I am called Rose's thorn?'

'Not by Miss Jocelyn herself, certainly!'

'How eager you are to defend her. But am I not—tell me—do I not look

like a thorn in company with her?'

'There is but the difference that ill health would make.'

'Ill health? Oh, yes! And Rose is so much better born.'

'To that, I am sure, she does not give a thought.'

'Not Rose? Oh!'

An exclamation, properly lengthened, convinces the feelings more

satisfactorily than much logic. Though Evan claimed only the hand-

kerchief he had won, his heart sank at the sound. Miss Bonner watched

him, and springing forward, said sharply:

'May I tell you something?'

'You may tell me what you please.'

'Then, whether I offend you or not, you had better leave this.'

'I am going,' said Evan. 'I am only waiting to introduce your tutor to

you.'

She kept her eyes on him, and in her voice as well there was a depth, as

she returned:

'Mr. Laxley, Mr. Forth, and Harry, are going to Lymport to-morrow.'

Evan was looking at a figure, whose shadow was thrown towards the house

from the margin of the stream.

He stood up, and taking the hand of Miss Bonner, said:

'I thank you. I may, perhaps, start with them. At any rate, you have

done me a great service, which I shall not forget.'

The figure by the stream he knew to be that of Rose. He released Miss

Bonner's trembling moist hand, and as he continued standing, she moved to

the door, after once following the line of his eyes into the moonlight.

Outside the door a noise was audible. Andrew had come to sit with his

dear boy, and the Countess had met and engaged and driven him to the

other end of the passage, where he hung remonstrating with her.

'Why, Van,' he said, as Evan came up to him, 'I thought you were in a

profound sleep. Louisa said—'

'Silly Andrew!' interposed the Countess, 'do you not observe he is sleep-

walking now?' and she left them with a light laugh to go to Juliana, whom

she found in tears. The Countess was quite aware of the efficacy of a

little bit of burlesque lying to cover her retreat from any petty

exposure.

Evan soon got free from Andrew. He was under the dim stars, walking to

the great fire in the East. The cool air refreshed him. He was simply

going to ask for his own, before he went, and had no cause to fear what

would be thought by any one. A handkerchief! A man might fairly win

that, and carry it out of a very noble family, without having to blush

for himself.

I cannot say whether he inherited his feeling for rank from Mel, his

father, or that the Countess had succeeded in instilling it, but Evan

never took Republican ground in opposition to those who insulted him,

and never lashed his 'manhood' to assert itself, nor compared the

fineness of his instincts with the behaviour of titled gentlemen.

Rather he seemed to admit the distinction between his birth and that

of a gentleman, admitting it to his own soul, as it were, and struggled

simply as men struggle against a destiny. The news Miss Bonner had given

him sufficed to break a spell which could not have endured another week;

and Andrew, besides, had told him of Caroline's illness. He walked to

meet Rose, honestly intending to ask for his own, and wish her good-bye.

Rose saw him approach, and knew him in the distance. She was sitting on

a lower branch of the aspen, that shot out almost from the root, and

stretched over the intervolving rays of light on the tremulous water.

She could not move to meet him. She was not the Rose whom we have

hitherto known. Love may spring in the bosom of a young girl, like

Helper in the evening sky, a grey speck in a field of grey, and not be

seen or known, till surely as the circle advances the faint planet

gathers fire, and, coming nearer earth, dilates, and will and must be

seen and known. When Evan lay like a dead man on the ground, Rose turned

upon herself as the author of his death, and then she felt this presence

within her, and her heart all day had talked to her of it, and was

throbbing now, and would not be quieted. She could only lift her eyes

and give him her hand; she could not speak. She thought him cold, and he

was; cold enough to think that she and her cousin were not unlike in

their manner, though not deep enough to reflect that it was from the same

cause.

She was the first to find her wits: but not before she spoke did she

feel, and start to feel, how long had been the silence, and that her hand

was still in his.

'Why did you come out, Evan? It was not right.'

'I came to speak to you. I shall leave early to-morrow, and may not see

you alone.'

'You are going——?'

She checked her voice, and left the thrill of it wavering in him.

'Yes, Rose, I am going; I should have gone before.'

'Evan!' she grasped his hand, and then timidly retained it. 'You have

not forgiven me? I see now. I did not think of any risk to you. I only

wanted you to beat. I wanted you to be first and best. If you knew how

I thank God for saving you! What my punishment would have been!'

Till her eyes were full she kept them on him, too deep in emotion to be

conscious of it.

He could gaze on her tears coldly.

'I should be happy to take the leap any day for the prize you offered.

I have come for that.'

'For what, Evan?' But while she was speaking the colour mounted in her

cheeks, and she went on rapidly:

'Did you think it unkind of me not to come to nurse you. I must tell

you, to defend myself. It was the Countess, Evan. She is offended with

me—very justly, I dare say. She would not let me come. What could I

do? I had no claim to come.'

Rose was not aware of the import of her speech. Evan, though he felt

more in it, and had some secret nerves set tingling and dancing, was not

to be moved from his demand.

'Do you intend to withhold it, Rose?'

'Withhold what, Evan? Anything that you wish for is yours.'

'The handkerchief. Is not that mine?'

Rose faltered a word. Why did he ask for it? Because he asked for

nothing else, and wanted no other thing save that.

Why did she hesitate? Because it was so poor a gift, and so unworthy of

him.

And why did he insist? Because in honour she was bound to surrender it.

And why did she hesitate still? Let her answer.

'Oh, Evan! I would give you anything but that; and if you are going

away, I should beg so much to keep it.'

He must have been in a singular state not to see her heart in the

refusal, as was she not to see his in the request. But Love is blindest

just when the bandage is being removed from his forehead.

'Then you will not give it me, Rose? Do you think I shall go about

boasting "This is Miss Jocelyn's handkerchief, and I, poor as I am, have

won it"?'

The taunt struck aslant in Rose's breast with a peculiar sting. She

stood up.

'I will give it you, Evan.'

Turning from him she drew it forth, and handed it to him hurriedly.

It was warm. It was stained with his blood. He guessed where it had

been nestling, and, now, as if by revelation, he saw that large sole star

in the bosom of his darling, and was blinded by it and lost his senses.

'Rose! beloved!'

Like the flower of his nightly phantasy bending over the stream, he

looked and saw in her sweet face the living wonders that encircled his

image; she murmuring: 'No, you must hate me.'

'I love you, Rose, and dare to say it—and it 's unpardonable. Can you

forgive me?'

She raised her face to him.

'Forgive you for loving me?' she said.

Holy to them grew the stillness: the ripple suffused in golden moonlight:

the dark edges of the leaves against superlative brightness. Not a chirp

was heard, nor anything save the cool and endless carol of the happy

waters, whose voices are the spirits of silence. Nature seemed

consenting that their hands should be joined, their eyes intermingling.

And when Evan, with a lover's craving, wished her lips to say what her

eyes said so well, Rose drew his fingers up, and, with an arch smile and

a blush, kissed them. The simple act set his heart thumping, and from

the look of love, she saw an expression of pain pass through him. Her

fealty—her guileless, fearless truth—which the kissing of his hand

brought vividly before him, conjured its contrast as well in this that

was hidden from her, or but half suspected. Did she know—know and love

him still? He thought it might be: but that fell dead on her asking:

'Shall I speak to Mama to-night?'

A load of lead crushed him.

'Rose!' he said; but could get no farther.

Innocently, or with well-masked design, Rose branched off into little

sweet words about his bruised shoulder, touching it softly, as if she

knew the virtue that was in her touch, and accusing her selfish self as

she caressed it:

'Dearest Evan! you must have been sure I thought no one like you. Why

did you not tell me before? I can hardly believe it now! Do you know,'

she hurried on, 'they think me cold and heartless,—am I? I must be, to

have made you run such risk; but yet I'm sure I could not have survived

you.'

Dropping her voice, Rose quoted Ruth. As Evan listened, the words were

like food from heaven poured into his spirit.

'To-morrow,' he kept saying to himself, 'to-morrow I will tell her all.

Let her think well of me a few short hours.'

But the passing minutes locked them closer; each had a new link—in a

word, or a speechless breath, or a touch: and to break the marriage of

their eyes there must be infinite baseness on one side, or on the other

disloyalty to love.

The moon was a silver ball, high up through the aspen-leaves. Evan

kissed the hand of Rose, and led her back to the house. He had appeased

his conscience by restraining his wild desire to kiss her lips.

In the hall they parted. Rose whispered, 'Till death!' giving him her

hands.

CHAPTER XXIV

THE COUNTESS MAKES HERSELF FELT

There is a peculiar reptile whose stroke is said to deprive men of

motion. On the day after the great Mel had stalked the dinner-table of

Beckley Court, several of the guests were sensible of the effect of this

creature's mysterious touch, without knowing what it was that paralyzed

them. Drummond Forth had fully planned to go to Lymport. He had special

reasons for making investigations with regard to the great Mel. Harry,

who was fond of Drummond, offered to accompany him, and Laxley, for the

sake of a diversion, fell into the scheme. Mr. George Uplift was also to

be of the party, and promised them fun. But when the time came to start,

not one could be induced to move: Laxley was pressingly engaged by Rose:

Harry showed the rope the Countess held him by; Mr. George made a

singular face, and seriously advised Drummond to give up the project.

'Don't rub that woman the wrong way,' he said, in a private colloquy they

had. 'By Jingo, she's a Tartar. She was as a gal, and she isn't

changed, Lou Harrington. Fancy now: she knew me, and she faced me out,

and made me think her a stranger! Gad, I'm glad I didn't speak to the

others. Lord's sake, keep it quiet. Don't rouse that woman, now, if you

want to keep a whole skin.'

Drummond laughed at his extreme earnestness in cautioning him, and

appeared to enjoy his dread of the Countess. Mr. George would not tell

how he had been induced to change his mind. He repeated his advice with

a very emphatic shrug of the shoulder.

'You seem afraid of her,' said Drummond.

'I am. I ain't ashamed to confess it. She's a regular viper, my boy!'

said Mr. George. 'She and I once were pretty thick—least said soonest

mended, you know. I offended her. Wasn't quite up to her mark—a

tailor's daughter, you know. Gad, if she didn't set an Irish Dragoon

Captain on me!—I went about in danger of my life. The fellow began to

twist his damned black moustaches the moment he clapped eyes on me—

bullied me till, upon my soul, I was almost ready to fight him! Oh, she

was a little tripping Tartar of a bantam hen then. She's grown since

she's been countessed, and does it peacocky. Now, I give you fair

warning, you know. She's more than any man's match.'

'I dare say I shall think the same when she has beaten me,' quoth cynical

Drummond, and immediately went and gave orders for his horse to be

saddled, thinking that he would tread on the head of the viper.

But shortly before the hour of his departure, Mrs. Evremonde summoned him

to her, and showed him a slip of paper, on which was written, in an

uncouth small hand:

'Madam: a friend warns you that your husband is coming here. Deep

interest in your welfare is the cause of an anonymous communication. The

writer wishes only to warn you in time.'

Mrs. Evremonde told Drummond that she had received it from one of the

servants when leaving the breakfast-room. Beyond the fact that a man on

horseback had handed it to a little boy, who had delivered it over to the

footman, Drummond could learn nothing. Of course, all thought of the

journey to Lymport was abandoned. If but to excogitate a motive for the

origin of the document, Drummond was forced to remain; and now he had it,

and now he lost it again; and as he was wandering about in his maze, the

Countess met him with a 'Good morning, Mr., Forth. Have I impeded your

expedition by taking my friend Mr. Harry to cavalier me to-day?'

Drummond smilingly assured her that she had not in any way disarranged

his projects, and passed with so absorbed a brow that the Countess could

afford to turn her head and inspect him, without fear that he would

surprise her in the act. Knocking the pearly edge of her fan on her

teeth, she eyed him under her joined black lashes, and deliberately read

his thoughts in the mere shape of his back and shoulders. She read him

through and through, and was unconscious of the effective attitude she

stood in for the space of two full minutes, and even then it required one

of our unhappy sex to recall her. This was Harry Jocelyn.

'My friend,' she said to him, with a melancholy smile, 'my one friend

here!'

Harry went through the form of kissing her hand, which he had been

taught, and practised cunningly as the first step of the ladder.

'I say, you looked so handsome, standing as you did just now,' he

remarked; and she could see how far beneath her that effective attitude

had precipitated the youth.

'Ah!' she sighed, walking on, with the step of majesty in exile.

'What the deuce is the matter with everybody to-day?' cried Harry.

'I 'm hanged if I can make it out. There's the Carrington, as you call

her, I met her with such a pair of eyes, and old George looking as if

he'd been licked, at her heels; and there's Drummond and his lady fair

moping about the lawn, and my mother positively getting excited—there's

a miracle! and Juley 's sharpening her nails for somebody, and if

Ferdinand don't look out, your brother 'll be walking off with Rosey—

that 's my opinion.'

'Indeed,' said the Countess. 'You really think so?'

'Well, they come it pretty strong together.'

'And what constitutes the "come it strong," Mr. Harry?'

'Hold of hands; you know,' the young gentleman indicated.

'Alas, then! must not we be more discreet?'

'Oh! but it's different. With young people one knows what that means.'

'Deus!' exclaimed the Countess, tossing her head weariedly, and Harry

perceived his slip, and down he went again.

What wonder that a youth in such training should consent to fetch and

carry, to listen and relate, to play the spy and know no more of his

office than that it gave him astonishing thrills of satisfaction, and now

and then a secret sweet reward?

The Countess had sealed Miss Carrington's mouth by one of her most

dexterous strokes. On leaving the dinner-table over-night, and seeing

that Caroline's attack would preclude their instant retreat, the gallant

Countess turned at bay. A word aside to Mr. George Uplift, and then the

Countess took a chair by Miss Carrington. She did all the conversation,

and supplied all the smiles to it, and when a lady has to do that she.

is justified in striking, and striking hard, for to abandon the pretence

of sweetness is a gross insult from one woman to another.

The Countess then led circuitously, but with all the ease in the world,

to the story of a Portuguese lady, of a marvellous beauty, and who was

deeply enamoured of the Chevalier Miguel de Rasadio, and engaged to be

married to him: but, alas for her! in the insolence of her happiness she

wantonly made an enemy in the person of a most unoffending lady, and she

repented it. While sketching the admirable Chevalier, the Countess drew

a telling portrait of Mr. George Uplift, and gratified her humour and her

wrath at once by strong truth to nature in the description and animated

encomiums on the individual. The Portuguese lady, too, a little

resembled Miss Carrington, in spite of her marvellous beauty. And it was

odd that Miss Carrington should give a sudden start and a horrified

glance at the Countess just when the Countess was pathetically relating

the proceeding taken by the revengeful lady on the beautiful betrothed of

the Chevalier Miguel de Rasadio: which proceeding was nothing other than

to bring to the Chevalier's knowledge that his beauty had a defect

concealed by her apparel, and that the specks in his fruit were not one,

or two, but, Oh! And the dreadful sequel to the story the Countess could

not tell: preferring ingeniously to throw a tragic veil over it. Miss

Carrington went early to bed that night.

The courage that mounteth with occasion was eminently the attribute of

the Countess de Saldar. After that dreadful dinner she (since the

weaknesses of great generals should not be altogether ignored), did pray

for flight and total obscurity, but Caroline could not be left in her

hysteric state, and now that she really perceived that Evan was

progressing and on the point of sealing his chance, the devoted lady

resolved to hold her ground. Besides, there was the pic-nic. The

Countess had one dress she had not yet appeared in, and it was for the

picnic she kept it. That small motives are at the bottom of many

illustrious actions is a modern discovery; but I shall not adopt the

modern principle of magnifying the small motive till it overshadows my

noble heroine. I remember that the small motive is only to be seen by

being borne into the range of my vision by a powerful microscope; and if

I do more than see—if I carry on my reflections by the aid of the glass,

I arrive at conclusions that must be false. Men who dwarf human nature

do this. The gods are juster. The Countess, though she wished to remain

for the pic-nic, and felt warm in anticipation of the homage to her new

dress, was still a gallant general and a devoted sister, and if she said

to herself, 'Come what may, I will stay for that pic-nic, and they shall

not brow-beat me out of it,' it is that trifling pleasures are noisiest

about the heart of human nature: not that they govern us absolutely.

There is mob-rule in minds as in communities, but the Countess had her

appetites in excellent drill. This pic-nic surrendered, represented to

her defeat in all its ignominy. The largest longest-headed of schemes

ask occasionally for something substantial and immediate. So the

Countess stipulated with Providence for the pic-nic. It was a point to

be passed: 'Thorough flood, thorough fire.'

In vain poor Andrew Cogglesby, to whom the dinner had been torture, and

who was beginning to see the position they stood in at Beckley, begged to

be allowed to take them away, or to go alone. The Countess laughed him

into submission. As a consequence of her audacious spirits she grew more

charming and more natural, and the humour that she possessed, but which,

like her other faculties, was usually subordinate to her plans, gave

spontaneous bursts throughout the day, and delighted her courtiers. Nor

did the men at all dislike the difference of her manner with them, and

with the ladies. I may observe that a woman who shows a marked

depression in the presence of her own sex will be thought very superior

by ours; that is, supposing she is clever and agreeable. Manhood

distinguishes what flatters it. A lady approaches. 'We must be proper,'

says the Countess, and her hearty laugh dies with suddenness and is

succeeded by the maturest gravity. And the Countess can look a profound

merriment with perfect sedateness when there appears to be an equivoque

in company. Finely secret are her glances, as if under every eye-lash

there lurked the shade of a meaning. What she meant was not so clear.

All this was going on, and Lady Jocelyn was simply amused, and sat as at

a play.

'She seems to have stepped out of a book of French memoirs,' said her

ladyship. 'La vie galante et devote—voila la Comtesse.'

In contradistinction to the other ladies, she did not detest the Countess

because she could not like her.

'Where 's the harm in her?' she asked. 'She doesn't damage the men, that

I can see. And a person you can laugh at and with, is inexhaustible.'

'And how long is she to stay here?' Mrs. Shorne inquired. Mrs. Melville

remarking: 'Her visit appears to be inexhaustible.'

'I suppose she'll stay till the Election business is over,' said Lady

Jocelyn.

The Countess had just driven with Melville to Fallow field in Caroline's

black lace shawl.

'Upwards of four weeks longer!' Mrs. Melville interjected.

Lady Jocelyn chuckled.

Miss Carrington was present. She had been formerly sharp in her

condemnation of the Countess—her affectedness, her euphuism, and her

vulgarity. Now she did not say a word, though she might have done it

with impunity.

'I suppose, Emily, you see what Rose is about?' said Mrs. Melville.

'I should not have thought it adviseable to have that young man here,

myself. I think I let you know that.'

'One young man's as good as another,' responded her ladyship. 'I 've my

doubts of the one that's much better. I fancy Rose is as good a judge by

this time as you or I.'

Mrs. Melville made an effort or two to open Lady Jocelyn's eyes, and then

relapsed into the confident serenity inspired by evil prognostications.

'But there really does seem some infatuation about these people!'

exclaimed Mrs. Shorne, turning to Miss Current. 'Can you understand it?

The Duke, my dear! Things seem to be going on in the house, that really

—and so openly.'

'That's one virtue,' said Miss Current, with her imperturbable metallic

voice, and face like a cold clear northern sky. 'Things done in secret

throw on the outsiders the onus of raising a scandal.'

'You don't believe, then?' suggested Mrs. Shorne.

Miss Current replied: 'I always wait for a thing to happen first.'

'But haven't you seen, my dear?'

'I never see anything, my dear.'

'Then you must be blind, my dear.'

'On the contrary, that 's how I keep my sight, my dear.'

'I don't understand you,' said Mrs. Shorne.

'It's a part of the science of optics, and requires study,' said Miss

Current.

Neither with the worldly nor the unworldly woman could the ladies do

anything. But they were soon to have their triumph.

A delicious morning had followed the lovely night. The stream flowed

under Evan's eyes, like something in a lower sphere, now. His passion

took him up, as if a genie had lifted him into mid-air, and showed him

the world on a palm of a hand; and yet, as he dressed by the window,

little chinks in the garden wall, and nectarines under their shiny

leaves, and the white walks of the garden, were stamped on his hot brain

accurately and lastingly. Ruth upon the lips of Rose: that voice of

living constancy made music to him everywhere. 'Thy God shall be my

God.' He had heard it all through the night. He had not yet broken the

tender charm sufficiently to think that he must tell her the sacrifice

she would have to make. When partly he did, the first excuse he clutched

at was, that he had not even kissed her on the forehead. Surely he had

been splendidly chivalrous? Just as surely he would have brought on

himself the scorn of the chivalrous or of the commonly balanced if he had

been otherwise. The grandeur of this or of any of his proceedings, then,

was forfeited, as it must needs be when we are in the false position: we

can have no glory though martyred. The youth felt it, even to the seeing

of why it was; and he resolved, in justice to the dear girl, that he

would break loose from his fetters, as we call our weakness. Behold,

Rose met him descending the stairs, and, taking his hand, sang,

unabashed, by the tell-tale colour coming over her face, a stave of a

little Portuguese air that they had both been fond of in Portugal; and

he, listening to it, and looking in her eyes, saw that his feelings in—

the old time had been hers. Instantly the old time gave him its breath,

the present drew back.

Rose, now that she had given her heart out, had no idea of concealment.

She would have denied nothing to her aunts: she was ready to confide it

to her mother. Was she not proud of the man she loved? When Evan's hand

touched hers she retained it, and smiled up at him frankly, as it were to

make him glad in her gladness. If before others his eyes brought the

blood to her cheeks, she would perhaps drop her eye-lids an instant,

and then glance quickly level again to reassure him. And who would have

thought that this boisterous, boyish creature had such depths of eye!

Cold, did they call her? Let others think her cold. The tender

knowledge of her—the throbbing secret they held in common sang at his

heart. Rose made no confidante, but she attempted no mystery. Evan

should have risen to the height of the noble girl. But the dearer and

sweeter her bearing became, the more conscious he was of the dead weight

he was dragging: in truth her behaviour stamped his false position to

hard print the more he admired her for it, and he had shrinkings from the

feminine part it imposed on him to play.

CHAPTER XXV

IN WHICH THE STREAM FLOWS MUDDY AND CLEAR

An Irish retriever-pup of the Shannon breed, Pat by name, was undergoing

tuition on the sward close by the kennels, Rose's hunting-whip being

passed through his collar to restrain erratic propensities. The

particular point of instruction which now made poor Pat hang out his

tongue, and agitate his crisp brown curls, was the performance of the

'down-charge'; a ceremony demanding implicit obedience from the animal in

the midst of volatile gambadoes, and a simulation of profound repose when

his desire to be up and bounding was mighty. Pat's Irish eyes were

watching Rose, as he lay with his head couched between his forepaws in

the required attitude. He had but half learnt his lesson; and something

in his half-humorous, half-melancholy look talked to Rose more eloquently

than her friend Ferdinand at her elbow. Laxley was her assistant dog-

breaker. Rose would not abandon her friends because she had accepted a

lover. On the contrary, Rose was very kind to Ferdinand, and perhaps

felt bound to be so to-day. To-day, also, her face was lighted; a

readiness to colour, and an expression of deeper knowledge, which she now

had, made the girl dangerous to friends. This was not Rose's fault but

there is no doubt among the faculty that love is a contagious disease,

and we ought not to come within miles of the creatures in whom it lodges.

Pat's tail kept hinting to his mistress that a change would afford him

satisfaction. After a time she withdrew her wistful gaze from him, and

listened entirely to Ferdinand: and it struck her that he spoke

particularly well to-day, though she did not see so much in his eyes as

in Pat's. The subject concerned his departure, and he asked Rose if she

should be sorry. Rose, to make him sure of it, threw a music into her

voice dangerous to friends. For she had given heart and soul to Evan,

and had a sense, therefore, of being irredeemably in debt to her old

associates, and wished to be doubly kind to them.

Pat took advantage of the diversion to stand up quietly and have a shake.

He then began to kiss his mistress's hand, to show that all was right on

both sides; and followed this with a playful pretence at a bite, that

there might be no subsequent misunderstanding, and then a bark and a

whine. As no attention was paid to this amount of plain-speaking, Pat

made a bolt. He got no farther than the length of the whip, and all he

gained was to bring on himself the terrible word of drill once more. But

Pat had tasted liberty. Irish rebellion against constituted authority

was exhibited. Pat would not: his ears tossed over his head, and he

jumped to right and left, and looked the raggedest rapparee that ever his

ancestry trotted after. Rose laughed at his fruitless efforts to get

free; but Ferdinand meditatively appeared to catch a sentiment in them.

'Down-charge, Sir, will you? Ah, Pat! Pat! You'll have to obey me, my

boy. Now, down-charge!'

While Rose addressed the language of reason to Pat, Ferdinand slipped in

a soft word or two. Presently she saw him on one knee.

'Pat won't, and I will,' said he.

'But Pat shall, and you had better not,' said she. 'Besides, my dear

Ferdinand,' she added, laughing, 'you don't know how to do it.'

'Do you want me to prostrate on all fours, Rose?'

'No. I hope not. Do get up, Ferdinand. You'll be seen from the

windows.'

Instead of quitting his posture, he caught her hand, and scared her with

a declaration.

'Of all men, you to be on your knees! and to me, Ferdinand!' she cried,

in discomfort.

'Why shouldn't I, Rose?' was this youth's answer.

He had got the idea that foreign cavalier manners would take with her;

but it was not so easy to make his speech correspond with his posture,

and he lost his opportunity, which was pretty. However, he spoke plain

English. The interview ended by Rose releasing Pat from drill, and

running off in a hurry. Where was Evan? She must have his consent to

speak to her mother, and prevent a recurrence of these silly scenes.

Evan was with Caroline, his sister.

It was contrary to the double injunction of the Countess that Caroline

should receive Evan during her absence, or that he should disturb the

dear invalid with a visit. These two were not unlike both in

organization and character, and they had not sat together long before

they found each other out. Now, to further Evan's love-suit, the

Countess had induced Caroline to continue yet awhile in the Purgatory

Beckley Court had become to her; but Evan, in speaking of Rose, expressed

a determination to leave her, and Caroline caught at it.

'Can you?—will you? Oh, dear Van! have you the courage? I—look at

me—you know the home I go to, and—and I think of it here as a place to

be happy in. What have our marriages done for us? Better that we had

married simple stupid men who earn their bread, and would not have been

ashamed of us! And, my dearest, it is not only that. None can tell what

our temptations are. Louisa has strength, but I feel I have none; and

though, dear, for your true interest, I would indeed sacrifice myself—

I would, Van! I would!—it is not good for you to stay,—I know it is

not. For you have Papa's sense of honour—and oh! if you should learn

to despise me, my dear brother!'

She kissed him; her nerves were agitated by strong mental excitement.

He attributed it to her recent attack of illness, but could not help

asking, while he caressed her:

'What's that? Despise you?'

It may have been that Caroline felt then, that to speak of something was

to forfeit something. A light glimmered across the dewy blue of her

beautiful eyes. Desire to breathe it to him, and have his loving aid:

the fear of forfeiting it, evil as it was to her, and at the bottom of

all, that doubt we choose to encourage of the harm in a pleasant sin

unaccomplished; these might be read in the rich dim gleam that swept like

sunlight over sea-water between breaks of clouds.

'Dear Van! do you love her so much?'

Caroline knew too well that she was shutting her own theme with iron

clasps when she once touched on Evan's.

Love her? Love Rose? It became an endless carol with Evan. Caroline

sighed for him from her heart.

'You know—you understand me; don't you?' he said, after a breathless

excursion of his fancy.

'I believe you love her, dear. I think I have never loved any one but my

one brother.'

His love for Rose he could pour out to Caroline; when it came to Rose's

love for him his blood thickened, and his tongue felt guilty. He must

speak to her, he said,—tell her all.

'Yes, tell her all,' echoed Caroline. 'Do, do tell her. Trust a woman

utterly if she loves you, dear. Go to her instantly.'

'Could you bear it?' said Evan. He began to think it was for the sake of

his sisters that he had hesitated.

'Bear it? bear anything rather than perpetual imposture. What have I

not borne? Tell her, and then, if she is cold to you, let us go. Let us

go. I shall be glad to. Ah, Van! I love you so.' Caroline's voice

deepened. 'I love you so, my dear. You won't let your new love drive me

out? Shall you always love me?'

Of that she might be sure, whatever happened.

'Should you love me, Van, if evil befel me?'

Thrice as well, he swore to her.

'But if I—if I, Van Oh! my life is intolerable! Supposing I should

ever disgrace you in any way, and not turn out all you fancied me. I am

very weak and unhappy.'

Evan kissed her confidently, with a warm smile. He said a few words of

the great faith he had in her: words that were bitter comfort to

Caroline. This brother, who might save her, to him she dared not speak.

Did she wish to be saved? She only knew that to wound Evan's sense of

honour and the high and chivalrous veneration for her sex and pride in

himself and those of his blood, would be wicked and unpardonable, and

that no earthly pleasure could drown it. Thinking this, with her hands

joined in pale dejection, Caroline sat silent, and Evan left her to lay

bare his heart to Rose. On his way to find Rose he was stopped by the

announcement of the arrival of Mr. Raikes, who thrust a bundle of notes

into his hand, and after speaking loudly of 'his curricle,' retired on

important business, as he said, with a mysterious air. 'I 'm beaten in

many things, but not in the article Luck,' he remarked; 'you will hear of

me, though hardly as a tutor in this academy.'

Scanning the bundle of notes, without a reflection beyond the thought

that money was in his hand; and wondering at the apparition of the

curricle, Evan was joined by Harry Jocelyn, and Harry linked his arm in

Evan's and plunged with extraordinary spontaneity and candour into the

state of his money affairs. What the deuce he was to do for money he did

not know. From the impressive manner in which he put it, it appeared to

be one of Nature's great problems that the whole human race were bound to

set their heads together to solve. A hundred pounds—Harry wanted no

more, and he could not get it. His uncles? they were as poor as rats;

and all the spare money they could club was going for Mel's Election

expenses. A hundred and fifty was what Harry really wanted; but he could

do with a hundred. Ferdinand, who had plenty, would not even lend him

fifty. Ferdinand had dared to hint at a debt already unsettled, and he

called himself a gentleman!