i51i^yi!?ii^" Wi. 
 
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(S,axmU Initterattji 2Iibtarg 
 
 Stljara, Nem fork 
 
 FROM THE 
 
 BENNO LOEWY LIBRARY 
 
 COLLECTED BY 
 
 BENNO LOEWY 
 
 1854-1919 
 BEQUEATHED TO CORNELL UNIVERSITY 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PS 2179.K2E8 
 
 Ethel Mlidmay's follies :a story /by the 
 
 3 1924 022 162 162 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924022162162 
 
Ethel Mildmay's Follies. 
 
 A STORY. 
 
 BY 
 
 THE AUTHOR OF " PETITE'S ROMANCE." 
 
 BOSTON : 
 JAMES R. OSGOOD AND iCTpMPANY, 
 
 (Latb Ticknor & Fields, and FjbliTO, Osgood, & Co.) 
 * 1872. ,, V 
 
Stereoty:^ed and frinted by Rand, Avery, &• Co. 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A DEEP cloudless sky, and a shining sea 
 beneath; bold mountains all around, 
 deluged in a wonderful glow, with here 
 and there a snowy peak glistening in the 
 distance ; a white town sparkling like a 
 jewel in the case ; brightness everywhere, 
 shadow nowhere ; sunshine, warmth, and 
 intense color ; the song of birds, and the 
 perfume of flowers. And yet it is mid-win- 
 ter, but winter in Nice, with the Mediter- 
 ranean breaking in opal waves upon the 
 beach, and the southern sun laughing 
 January to scorn, and the great Alps calm- 
 ly looking on. 
 
 It was the afternoon ; and all the world 
 had breakfasted, and dressed itself, and was 
 now sauntering up and down the celebrated 
 "Promenade des Anglais," — a gayly- 
 colored, joyous procession, chattering noisily 
 in various tongues ; and locJung on, and 
 gayly commenting upon the lively panorama, 
 were two men, sitting a little apart, and 
 shading themselves from the scorching sun 
 with the friendly assistance of an enormous 
 white umbrella lined with green. 
 
 They were Frenchmen ; and, of course, 
 they were diverting themselves at their 
 neighbors' expense, — diverting themselves 
 with redoubled vigor and enjoyment when 
 the victim of the moment happened to be 
 an Englishman, — the Frenchman's legiti- 
 mate butt. Nothing, indeed, escaped this 
 sharp-eyed, keen-witted pair ; not the bur- 
 ly paterfamilias with his hands clasping his 
 pockets, as though scenting thieves in the 
 sunny air, and with irascible curses about 
 his mouth, and suspicious gleams in his 
 eyes, — sure tokens of daily tussles with 
 swindling hotel-keepers and dishonest cou- 
 riers ; not the irreproachably " got up " 
 swell tourist, calmly stalking along with a se- 
 rene, ineffable expression of self-content and 
 
 superiority ; not even the British matron, 
 with her virtuous, solid air ; nor the British 
 virgin, with her sealskin jacket and " Gren- 
 adier " march, so different from the dainty 
 pitter-patter of her French sister ; nobody 
 was allowed to pass unscathed. A running 
 fire of light, delightful raillery, such as the 
 French nation, and the French nation alone, 
 thoroughly understands, was skilfully lev- 
 elled at each new, unconscious passer-by, to 
 the apparent intense enjoyment of our 
 friends. 
 
 " And yet, mon cher" presently observed 
 the elder of the two, — a white-headed, 
 parchment-complexioned, s'oldier-like look- 
 ing man, checking himself in the midst of a 
 gay thrust at some British " eccentricity," as 
 he chose to consider it, which had just passed 
 them, — " and yet there are no women like 
 the English in the world, laugh at them 
 as you will. Even I, a Frenchman, confess 
 it. They are well-grown, clear-skinned, 
 fair as lilies ; a little stiff and awkward, 
 I grant you, and with manners rigid and 
 cold to an excess ; nevertheless, there is a 
 ' something ' dislingvie and digne about them, 
 which I, for one, cannot help admiring in 
 spite of myself." 
 
 " Bravo, baron ! I declare that the sub- 
 ject makes you eloquent. What would 
 madame la baronne say to your unpatriotic 
 rhapsodies, I wonder," said his companion, 
 a young man with a brand-new suit of re- 
 markably tight clothes, and dainty lavender 
 gloves. 
 
 " Bah I the baronne is a sensible woman, 
 and does not trouble her head on such 
 matters," said the gay old gentleman, with 
 a laugh. " Besides, she is devote now, and 
 has buried jealousy and all other bad pas- 
 sions long ago." 
 
 " And has given up the task of reforming 
 you, you hoary old reprobate, I suppose ! 
 Well, baron, I disagree with you, and am 
 1 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 ready to back my countrywomen against all 
 other women in the world," replied the 
 young man, complacently tapping his neat 
 bright boots wil h a smart little cane. "I 
 will back them for grace, for beauty, for 
 esprit, for " — 
 
 " For the domestic virtues, mon cher f " 
 suggested the baron ; " eh, count V " 
 
 " For every virtue under the sun. Come, 
 baron, don't de'nigrer your own nation." 
 
 " Nor you yours. My dear O'Neil, I de- 
 clare that I sometimes entirely forget that 
 you are an Englishman. — ha, ha I " laughed 
 the baron, enjoying his retort. 
 
 "But I am not. Irish, which is more 
 French than English, you know, if you will; 
 that is to say ha/f, — only half Irisli." 
 
 " My word of honor I I, for my part, would 
 be whole Irish, or whole Hottentot, or whole 
 any thing under the sun, at the same price, 
 my dear fellow, 1 assure you. Your inherit- 
 ance is large, enormous ; is it not V The 
 world says so, at all events." 
 
 " And, for a wonder, it is right," replied 
 O'Neil. "But then one has to wait, — to 
 wait such an eternity 1 I have been waiting 
 ever since the daj I was born," he concluded 
 dolefully. "The old imbecile! He still 
 persists in living."' 
 
 " Wonderful ! " ejaculated the baron. 
 
 "Yes, wonderfid. That Irish air must 
 contain the elixir of life I " said O'Neil with 
 a melancholy laugh. " And, meanwhile, 
 my dear baron, meanwhile, life is difficult, 
 nay, impossible, a burden I My mother and 
 I subsist on an income so narrow, so mean, 
 such a pittance, that, in short, lite is, as I 
 say, a burden." And the young man really 
 looked overwhelmed by his misfortunes. 
 
 " But your expectations, my friend," 
 suggested his companion, — " surely they 
 are good for something. Money might be 
 raised " — 
 
 " Yes ; but the .fews and all that canaille 
 have got as tired of waiting as I have my- 
 self. Besides, there is this nightmare of 
 another claimant to the property, as you 
 know, — this unlucky uncle of mine, — 
 which makes them rather chary of their 
 kind offices ; though, of course, there is no 
 doubt of the ultimate result." 
 
 There was a little pause after this, which 
 was presently interrupted abruptly by the 
 baron. " If the Jews fail, there remain the 
 women," he said gayly. " Why don't you 
 marry, my friend ? " 
 
 O'Neil shrugged his shoulders. " It does 
 not smile upon me, I confess," he said, laugh- 
 ing. " My mothei is always dinning mar- 
 riage into my ear? ; but, between you and 
 me, I have not much inclination that way. 
 At my age to be fettered " — 
 
 " Bah I The fetters are light enough, mon 
 cher. Chains of roses, to be poetical." 
 
 " Poetical, yes ; truthful, no. You and I 
 know better than that, baron. You see, it 
 should be an heiress " — 
 
 " Indubitably. I am not a fool." 
 
 " And heiresses are so constantly plain ; 
 and plain women, ray dear baron " — And 
 the young man made an expressive grimace. 
 " Provide me with a young, graceful, and 
 pretty one, and puis notis vevrons. Made- 
 moiselle Belfort, upon whom my mother has 
 fixed her eye, is rich, it is true ; but she 
 is hideous, and big as that mountain over 
 there. I am incapable of the sacrifice," he 
 concluded, laughing. 
 
 " The baronne was an heiress certainly," 
 observed the baron, after a thoughtfiil pause ; 
 and perhaps he spoke a little ruefiilly. 
 " Tiens ! " he exclaimed, suddenly starting 
 to his feet : " there go M. le Colonel and 
 his pretty daughter." And the old gentle- 
 man executed a lively pas across the path 
 to the edge of the carriage-road, and stood 
 there, violently flourishing his hat to a lady 
 and gentleman who were riding past. 
 
 " Pray who are your friends, baron ? " 
 inquired O'Neil, when presently the old 
 gentleman had, in a more sober fashion, 
 returned to his side. " Their faces are new 
 to me." 
 
 " Probably. They are recent arrivals." 
 Then suddenly giving him a sharp tap on 
 the shoulder, " An idea strikes me, my 
 (riend, — a wonderful idea," he exclaimed 
 enthusiastically. " Count, you owe me 
 eternal gratitude. You are under an obli- 
 gation to me which you will never, nerer, be 
 able to repay. I have done your besogne 
 already. There is yowr future." And the 
 gay old gentleman pointed with his stick 
 in the direction of the receding figures of 
 the equestrians. 
 
 " My future ! In Heaven's name, what 
 do you mean, baron ? Who is she ? 
 What is she? How?"— 
 
 " She is the ' necessity ' which you have 
 just been so clearly demonstrating to me, 
 mnn cher. She is the wife who is to trans- 
 form the burden of life into a joy. She is 
 the heiress for whom, three minutes an-o, 
 you were asking me. At least, I believe 
 she is an heiress," added the baron, check- 
 ing the flow of his eloquence. " Of course, 
 one would make inquiries, you know, my 
 friend I " 
 
 O'Neil laughed. " Ah I you are afraid 
 of raising my hopes too high, I perceive. 
 Well, but who is she? What is she? 
 At least tell me that." 
 
 "Pestel What more can I tell you 
 than your own eyes can tell you, count? 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 Did you not see that she is young, pretty, 
 charming ? " — 
 
 " I have not seen her at all. I did not 
 look," interrupted O'Neil, with a careless 
 shruo*. 
 
 A remark to which the baron paid no 
 manner of attention. " And she is as 
 good and innocent as she is pretty and 
 charming," he went on enthusiastically. 
 " Miss Ethel is quite a pet of mine. Poor 
 child ! 1 tell it to you in confidence, O'Neil, 
 she will soon be an orphan ; for her father, 
 who is here for his health, will be dead in 
 six months. These Englishmen are rich ; 
 their souls are made of fine gold-dust. 
 Several eminent chemists have assured me 
 of the fact. But to continue, the colonel 
 adores his child. She is the only one, 
 and — lately I have detected it — he is un- 
 easy with regard to her future. They do 
 not seem to nave near relations ; at least 1 
 never hear them mentioned. Were he to 
 find a son-in-law to suit him, he would 
 doubtless die happier and easier, poor 
 devil I Why should not that son-in-law be 
 you, count ? Your family, of the nobility 
 of which you are continually assuring me, 
 and your splendid expectations, would 
 recommend you to the father, and " — 
 
 " And what would be my recommenda- 
 tions to mademoiselle ; eh, baron ? " in- 
 quired -O'Neil, with a conceited little 
 laugh. " I have heard that these English 
 girls are not guided by their parents' 
 leading-strings in such matters." 
 
 "No ; certainly not. Miss Ethel, for one, 
 would not : at all events, I can answer for 
 that," said the baron, laughing. 
 
 " What ! a will of her own ? Sounds 
 troublesome," and O'Neil lay back on the 
 seat with a lazy yawn. 
 
 " What would be your recommendation 
 to her ? " repeated the baron, heedless of 
 the interruption, with a sly smile. " I 
 know what you expect me to say, my 
 modest friend; but I never pay compli- 
 ments to men. What I do say is, ' Audace, 
 audace, et encore de I'audace.' I have not 
 yet met the woman whom it will not, in 
 the long-run, subdue and win. Besides, it 
 is quite in your own line, count," he 
 added, with a gleeful chuckle. 
 
 "Thank you, baron; but is it worth 
 while, I wonder? Le Jeu vaut-il la chan- 
 ddle f Heavens ! What on earth ails you 
 that you can't sit still an instant ? " de- 
 manded O'Neil irascibly, as the baron gave 
 another sudden bound, and prepared lor a 
 second plunge across the pathway. 
 
 " Come along 1 Here they are again," 
 he cried. " At least this time give your- 
 self the trouble to see." And he was gone. 
 
 O'Neil looked after him with a superci- 
 lious smile ; but he did somelhing else 
 besides smile. He stood up and shook 
 himself, and threw away the end of his 
 cigar, and then, slowly and deliberately, 
 followed in the baron's steps, placed him- 
 self beside him at the extreme edge of the 
 pathway, and sticking his glass in his eye, 
 and crossing his arms upon his breast, took 
 up a post of observation. 
 
 " Brava ! " whispered the baron approv- 
 ingly. There was time for no more. At 
 that very instant the riders, now retracing 
 their steps slowly up the Promenade, came 
 to a full stop right in front of the two 
 gentlemen. 
 
 " Good-day, baron," said a fresh, pleas- 
 ant young voice. " And how goes the 
 world with you V " And the speaker bent 
 down in her saddle, and presented the 
 baron with a small, white-gloved hand. 
 
 "Wherever you are, Miss Ethel, the 
 world goes always well," was the prompt 
 and gallant reply, accompanied by a pro- 
 found bow. 
 
 " Does it ? " And Ethel laughed gayly. 
 " The speech sounds pretty, baron ; but I 
 am afraid it is not true. Just now, in 
 spite of my good company, papa is grum- 
 bling. He complains of the sharp wind, 
 and of the hot sun, and of every thing. 
 And he says that he is tired ; and so OTir 
 ride has come to an untimely end, and we 
 have to go home." And the girl glanced 
 regretfully at the bright scene around 
 her. 
 
 " The ^^colonel is right, though. In 
 another twenty minutes, our friend the sun 
 will have set. The change is to be felt 
 alrsady," replied the baron, tightening his 
 great woollen comforter carefully round his 
 throat. " Alas, Miss Ethel, we are not all 
 as young and as strong as you, and for 
 invalids " — 
 
 " But papa is not an invalid," interrupted 
 Miss Mildmay. " Every day he grows 
 stronger. Is it not true, papa, that Nice 
 has done wonders for you already ? " 
 
 " Wonders," replied her father, with a 
 grave, sad smile. "At least, so you say, 
 Ethel." 
 
 " But it is a fact. Now, baron, is it not 
 clear as noonday that he is not the same 
 man as he was a fortnight ago, when we 
 came here first ? " And the young girl 
 gave the baron an appealing glance. 
 
 Of course the old gentleman could not 
 but agree to this, and say, " Yes ; to be 
 sure, it was a fact. But," he added, ' 
 " caution is the better part of valor ; and 
 this afternoon this confounded north wind 
 makes one feel as though one's chest were 
 
ETHEL MILDMAT'S FOLLIES. 
 
 made of paper.'' And he glanced uneasily 
 at Col. Mildmay's drooping figure. 
 
 " Well, we are going, going, gone I " 
 Ethel said. " Au revoir, baron. Come 
 and see me soon, or I shall die of ennui. 
 By the way, where are my violets ? Has 
 madame growa jealous at last, and put a 
 veto upon the sweet little bouquets ? " she 
 inquired, looking over her shoulder with a 
 malicious smile. 
 
 " For shame, Miss Ethel I The baronne, 
 as you know, shares my devoted admira- 
 tion, and sings your praises incessantly. 
 The violets ? Here they are, to be sure. 
 It was this abominable tramontane which 
 put them out of my head. Here is your 
 bouquet, mademoiselle, fragrant and sweet, 
 yet not half fragrant or sweet enough for 
 you." And the gallant old gentleman held 
 out a little bunch of fresh violets, which he 
 had just snatched from the basket of a 
 passing flower-girl, for Miss Mildmay's ac- 
 ceptance. 
 
 " Thank you, baron ! You see I am 
 determined not to let you off. Ah, what a 
 pity 1 " as, just as h«r fingers were clasping 
 the flowers, her horse made a sudden 
 swerve, and they fell to the ground, and 
 were, the next instant, trampled in the 
 dust. " What a pity I " she repeated, 
 looking down at the unlucky little bou- 
 quet, which an instant had despoiled of all 
 its freshness and beauty. 
 
 " They can be replaced. Mademoiselle, 
 will you allow me the honor ? " And Count 
 O'Neil stepped forward suddenly and 
 eagerly, and with another and larger bou- 
 quet. 
 
 Miss Mildmay extended her hand, then 
 half drew it back again, looking surprised 
 and pleased and uncertain all- at once. It 
 was an awkward moment; but the baron 
 came most opportunely to the rescue. 
 "Miss Mildmay; Count Ernest O'J^eil," 
 he said, hastily presenting them. Then, as 
 it were an explanatory, and to the colonel, 
 he added, " My friend the count much de- 
 sires the honor of your acquaintance, 
 colonel." 
 
 Col. Mildmay bowed : so did O'Neil ; 
 and meanwhile the violets had found their 
 way into Ethel's hands. 
 
 " Many thanks, monsieur le comte," she 
 said, with a bend of her pretty fair head, 
 as she followed her father, who had already 
 moved away. 
 
 " Well done, mon cher ! Brava 1 brava 1 " 
 exclaimed the baron as soon as the riders 
 were at a safe distance, and clapping the 
 young man on the back. " Nothing could 
 be better for a beginning. Ha, ha I 
 O'Neil, you did not need my counsel, I 
 
 perceive, — ' Audace, audace, et encore de 
 I'audace!'" And the old gentleman 
 laughed gleefully and approvingly. 
 
 A few minutes later, Ethel and her father 
 had threaded their way through the gay 
 crowds which thronged the Promenade, 
 and were slowly riding along the quiet 
 road towards the villa in which they lived. 
 The baron was right. Already the short- 
 lived brightness of the day had almost 
 faded, the sun was setting in a gorgeous 
 sky, and the sharp evening chill was pene- 
 trating the air. Now and then Col. Mild- 
 may coughed and shivered, and Ethel 
 glanced at him ftu-tively and a little anx- 
 iously. Theywe^'e almost silent. Perhaps 
 they were busy with their thoughts, or per- 
 haps they were influenced by the serene 
 stillness of the quiet country road, which 
 was such a sharp and sudden contrast to the 
 grudy and noisy display of the Promenade. 
 At last they reached home. 
 
 " I wonder who that gentleman is whom 
 the baron presented to us just now, papa?" 
 Ethel remarked, then speaking for almost 
 the first time since they had left it. " Count 
 Ernest O'Neil, I think he called him. An 
 odd name, and — rather a pretty name 
 too," she added thoughtftiUy. 
 
 " It is an Irish name. I once knew 
 people called O'Neil," her father answered. 
 " If this be one of the same family, I shall 
 be glad to know him. We must catechise 
 our friend the baron on the subject." And 
 the colonel dismounted, and hastened into 
 the house to bright fires and well-warmed 
 rooms, — elements which, even in Nice, are 
 very necessary to the comfort and well- 
 being of mankind. 
 
 But his daughter lingered behind him 
 upon the broad stone terrace which ran 
 along two sides of the villa, -leaning against 
 the marble balustrade, and gazing across 
 the valley, filled with the gray olive-trees, to 
 the little rising hills, and, beyond, to the great 
 solemn mountains, purple and beautiful in 
 the evening sun. It was not till the last 
 streak of color had faded from the sky, 
 and the short twilight had settled upon the 
 subdued and quiet earth, that she remem- 
 bered that it was cold, and rousing herself 
 with a short, restless sigh, turned towards 
 the house. The villa was comfortable and 
 well warmed certainly, — at least part of it 
 was, — a big white house, with long rows of 
 green-shuttered windows, and commanding 
 a view not easily to be surpassed ; but then 
 it was more than half empty. Those count- 
 less windows belonged to countless rooms, — 
 bright, airy, meagrely-furnished, uninhabit- 
 ed, desolate rooms. The house could with 
 ease have lodged two or three large families j 
 
ETHEL MILDMAT'S FOLLIES. 
 
 and Ethel and her father and their servants 
 were stowed away in a corner, and were 
 totally out of proportion to the immensity 
 of the place. And then, if it was big, it 
 was also dull, — desperately dull, — Ethel 
 thought, mentally anticipating the long, long 
 evening before her, during which her father, 
 her sole companion,'would cough and shiver, 
 and read the newspapers, and perhaps play 
 a game of chess or backgammon ; and she 
 would yawn, and skim a novel, and fiddle 
 with her work, tind feel herself dreadfully 
 bored and rather aggrieved. 
 
 And meanwhile all the world would be 
 wildly amusing itself a few paces off. Ru- 
 mors of halls, fetes, and amusements of all 
 kinds and descriptions, reached the villa 
 readily enough. The baron, their one 
 acquaintance at Kice, and a sort of local 
 perambulating "Morning Post," never failed 
 to impart his budget of gay intelligence 
 during his almost daily visit ; but that was 
 aU. Ethel heard enough ; but hearing only, 
 when it is unaccompanied by participation, 
 is apt to pall before long, and the girl was 
 beginning to weary of hearing, and to wish 
 for something more, — to wish, indeed, and 
 to want very ardently. 
 
 She wanted to have her sip of the cup of 
 pleasure too. At nineteen, it is decidedly 
 tantalizing to be only in the stage-boxes, 
 when one is longing to be on the stage, and 
 taking part in the fun that is going forward : 
 at least, so Ethel Mildmay was thinking on 
 this bright, crisp January evening,, as many 
 another young lady of her age has thought 
 before her. For Ethel, be it known in due 
 time, though the heroine of a romance, is 
 by no means a faultless or peculiarly heroic 
 sort of personage, as, indeed, will soon be 
 made pretty clear to those who take an 
 interest in her. 
 
 CHAPTER n. 
 
 THE next morning, as, according to his 
 invariable custom, Baron de Ndrac was 
 sunning himself upon the Promenade, he 
 heard an eager step in pursuit ; and, turning 
 round, he was accosted by Count O'Neil. 
 
 " My dear baron, I was sure that I 
 should meetyou I " the young man exclaimed 
 breathlessly. 
 
 " Were you, my dear count ? I can't 
 gay as much to you. Generally you are 
 not such an early bird," replied the baron, 
 passing his arm through that of his young 
 fiiend. 
 " No, indeed I I hold early-rising in just 
 
 abhorrence. But for a motive one does 
 any thing ; and to-day I feel myself capable 
 of wonders. Baron, I have consulted my 
 mother. Her views are mine. We have 
 made up our minds, and now the affair is 
 in your hands. For Heaven's sake carry it 
 through without delay 1 " 
 
 "What? How? What affair? "ex- 
 claimed the baron, his voice growing 
 louder with surprise every instant. 
 
 " That of my marriage, of course. The 
 more I think of the project, the more it 
 smiles upon me. Since yesterday, I seem 
 to myself to have become a different man. 
 In short, baron, my desire is, to proceed to 
 business at once." 
 
 His companion burst out laughing. 
 " Bravo, my young friend 1 " he exclaimed. 
 " So the little god has chosen to play his 
 pranks upon you now. I give you my word 
 of honor that I had not the remotest 
 notion that you were so inflammable, — a 
 volcano, in fact. I declare I am afraid of 
 remaining near you, lest I should catch fire 
 myself! Why, Vesuvius is nothing to you I 
 aa, ha, ha 1 " And the old man went on 
 laughing as though he would presently 
 burst his sides. 
 
 But his hilarity in nowise disconcerted 
 O'Neil. " Laugh away I " he said good- 
 humoredly ; " but you are pledged to assist 
 me for all that." 
 
 " So you like the little English demoi- 
 selle ? " soliloquized the baron presently, 
 when he had somewhat recovered his com- 
 posure. 
 
 "Like her? She is charming, adora- 
 ble ! " interrupted O'Neil impetuously. 
 " Her smile is ravishing; and I always 
 swear by a woman's smile. Baron, I tell 
 you that I am resolved." 
 
 " Softly, softly, my young friend 1 — Poor 
 O'Neil 1 " he compassionated maliciously. 
 " So you have been shot right through the 
 heart. And, pray, what has become of 
 your rooted aversion to English women ? " 
 
 " And does not the exception prove the 
 rule? Miss" — 
 
 " Ethel," observed the baron. 
 
 " Ethel ? Confound it I what a barbarous 
 name I Well, she is, as I say, charming. 
 Such soft, sweet eyes I Such splendid hair I 
 By the way, do you think it is all her own, 
 baron ? " he inquired uneasily. 
 
 "Every bit of it. Of that I have had 
 ocular proof. I caught her one day en 
 robe de chambre." 
 
 " Wonderful ! Delightful 1 And now 
 what of her disposition and temper ? My 
 mother naturally is anxious on that score. 
 But I need not ask. Goodness and amia- 
 bility are written in her face." 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 " Ahem I Miss Ethel is not, I should say 
 a lamb exactly. High spirits, — a will of 
 her own, I fancy. But you are not afraid, 
 count, surely ? A woman who loves is 
 already tamed." And the baron smiled, 
 looking at the young man out of the corners 
 of his eyes. 
 
 "Afraid ? I ? It was on my mother's 
 account I made the question. She — ahem I 
 — requires to be humored a little, you 
 know. Yet I am convinced that a daugh- 
 ter-in-law who was not a, nonentity would 
 suit her better than one who was. She 
 would despise a fool. She will love a clever, 
 amiable girl. For, of course, she is both 
 clever and amiable, and " — 
 
 " Tut, tut 1 Moderate your adjectives, 
 my friend. Miss Ethel is perfect, I grant 
 it all to you. " 
 
 " Well, then, nothing remains to be con- 
 sidered but ways and means. I think, 
 baron, you told me yesterday that her dot 
 is considerable." 
 
 " Don't think : it only wastes time. And, 
 to judge by the pace you are proceeding, 
 time seems to be an object." 
 
 " But you did tell me." 
 
 " I told you what I supposed. I don't 
 know any thing ; but I can make out, of 
 course. Nothing simpler than to ask her 
 lather." 
 
 " Admirable I A thousand thanks I But, 
 of course, you will make the necessary in- 
 quiries cautiously, without compromising 
 me. I leave it all to you. I trust you 
 implicitly. You know that you are a born 
 diplomat." 
 
 " Much obliged for the compliment." But, 
 though it was satirically said, the old man 
 was, nevertheless, flattered. " So you have 
 retained a scrap of your senses, after all," 
 he said, with a dry little laugh. " It is to 
 be a marriage of reason, as well as of in- 
 clination ? " 
 
 " Unfortunately, every thing resolves it- 
 self into necessity," replied O'Neil with 
 perfect simplicity, and either unconscious 
 or heedless of his companion's covert satire. 
 " It is the one great moving power which 
 animates all mortals. Marriage is not a 
 necessity to me ; but, if I once embark in it, 
 money is. Baron, you have it all at your 
 fingers'-ends. Were you not once in the 
 same position yourself? " 
 
 A question which effectually disarmed 
 the baron. Everybody knew that he had 
 been poor, and that the baroness had been 
 rich ; that he had been handsome, and that 
 she had been plain. The baron was roman- 
 tic in theory ; but in practice he was just 
 like the rest of the world. And so, after 
 a little pause, he said, with a good-hu- 
 
 mored laugh, " Well, well, I like candor, 
 at all events. At least, with a candid, per- 
 son one can see without spectacles. Since 
 I am unfortunately responsible for the first 
 suggestion of the affair, — a suggestion 
 which, by the way, I had not the remotest 
 suspicion would have the effect of a lighted 
 match applied to gunpowder, — I will assist 
 you so far as I can. That is to say, I will 
 sound the colonel, and give you the result 
 of my soundings." 
 
 " And after that, for I feel confident that 
 the results will be satisfactory, you will do 
 something more, baron," said O'Neil, wax- 
 ing more and more elated and excited every 
 instant. " We will owe every thing to you. 
 You will bring us together. You will give 
 us opportunities of meeting. You wiU 
 present me at their house — you '' — 
 
 " O Lord 1 give me breathing time I " 
 gasped the baron imploringly. 
 
 O'Neil laughed ; and, while he was laugh- 
 ing, De N^rac fairly made his escape, taking 
 refuge upon the arm of a passing friend. 
 O'Neil could not get another word out of 
 him. The baron sedulously avoided another 
 tete-a-tete, and presently went home, still 
 under safe protection. 
 
 There was nothing for O'Neil to do but 
 to follow his example, which he did, not so 
 ill satisfied, after all, with his morning's 
 work. His project was, at least, put in 
 motion now. A little patience was requisite ; 
 but he knew the baron to be a good-natured 
 old man and an inveterate match-maker, 
 and so felt secure and confident. 
 
 As he had good reason for doing. The 
 baron was better than his word, and the 
 very next day brought him the desired re- 
 port, — a satisfactory one. The figure, if not 
 enormous was high enough. Nobody had 
 been compromised ; no names mentioned ; 
 the baron had been caution itself. " The 
 affair had been quite simple," he told his 
 two listeners ; for it was in Madame O'Neil's 
 tiny salon that he was speaking, and that 
 lady, a handsome, stately woman, with black 
 eyes and hair, and a cold, pale face, was 
 present, as well as her son. " The affair 
 was quite simple," said the baron. " I see 
 the colonel every day. Last evening, I 
 paid him a long visit. Luckily mademoi- 
 selle was absent, roaming about the garden. 
 It seems that she is romantic, and likes the 
 moonlight. Well, the conversation was 
 easily turned in the desired direction. Eng- 
 lishmen are always ready to speak of mon- 
 ey : they like the smell of it, the sound of it. 
 A few discreet questions, carelessly put, eli- 
 cited all I wanted to know. He even became 
 confidential, for him ; that is to say, he is 
 a reserved man naturally. But, from one or 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 two words which dropped from him, I could 
 perceive that I had been correct in my 
 surmises. He is anxious that his daughter 
 should marry soon. Poor devil I He 
 knows that his protection will, before long, 
 be withdrawn from her." 
 
 A little thoughtful pause ensued, which 
 was presently broken by O'Neil. " Then 
 no time is to be lost," he exclaimed impetu- 
 ously. " Mother, you have already consent- 
 ed ; and now what remains but that the 
 baron should crown his kindness by submit- 
 ting our proposals to Col. Mildmay ? " 
 
 " The sooner the better. This very day, 
 this very hour I " 
 
 " Ahem — thank you 1 1 would rather not," 
 responded the baron dryly. " I have no 
 fancy to be kicked downstairs by the colo- 
 nel, or rather, since, in his present state of 
 health, he is incapable of so much exertion, 
 by the tall, broad-shouldered, muscular 
 Briton, his footman." And the old French- 
 man gave a low chuckle of amusement. 
 
 " What do you mean ? " demanded mother 
 and son together; and Madame O'Keil 
 drew herself up. 
 
 " I confess, that, in my opinion, my son is 
 entitled to aspire to " — she began. 
 
 " To a princess of the blood royal," inter- 
 rupted the baron unceremoniously and a 
 little impatiently. " Of course, he is : we 
 all know that. Come, come, madame, I 
 meant no oBfence : but you see, these English 
 are not accustomed to our ways and man- 
 ners ; and were your son a prince himself, 
 yet I fancy that the colonel would listen 
 but coldly to such an off-hand proposition. 
 I am acquainted with the nation ; and, to be 
 candid with you, he would simply consider 
 it a piece of audacious impudence. No, no I 
 when we are in Rome, we do as the Romans 
 do. The count desires to marry an Eng- 
 lish girl. Well, then, let him woo her after 
 the English fashion. He made an excel- 
 lent beginning yesterday. Let_ him but 
 continue in the same path, and in 'a fort- 
 night the battle, doubtless, will have been 
 won. Miss Ethel's ingenuous heart is there 
 to be given ; but not for the asking merely. 
 That fs my advice ; follow it or not, as you 
 please." 
 
 "But how is it to be done? What oppor- 
 tunities have I?" inquired O'Neil in a 
 melancholy yet a flattered tone. " I have 
 met her nowhere. She does not go into 
 Bociety." 
 
 "That could be managed," observed 
 Madame O'Neil thoughtfully ; " at a friend's 
 house, for instance" — And then she 
 paused. 
 
 The baron fidgeted uneasily in his seat, 
 and took up his hat, which he had deposited | 
 
 on the floor, between his legs. But, poor 
 man, there was no escape for him : his 
 meddlesome good nature had doomed him; 
 he was caught in the toils of his own weaving. 
 •' To be sure, nothing simpler 1 " cried O'Nefl. 
 " At a friend's house, of course, — baron " — 
 
 " But Miss Ethel goes nowhere : her 
 father is too delicate, and she has no 
 chaperon, no companion," interrupted De 
 Nerac in all haste. " These Englishmen 
 are " — 
 
 "But she would go to — to your house," 
 interrupted O'Neil. " Considering her in- 
 timacy with you and the baronne, it would 
 be quite convendble, even if her father were 
 unable to accompany her. A small soiree, 
 — twenty people, lemonade, orangeade, 
 cakes, a little music. You know that 
 Madame de Ndrac excels in the sort of 
 thing. Miss Ethel goes — I go — she sees 
 me — I see her — in evening dress, and by 
 candlelight, which is an advantage. My 
 mother, also, would see her, and aprh " — 
 
 " Yes, aprh," put in the baron dryly. 
 
 " Afterwards it is all plain sailing ; at 
 least" — 
 
 " Oh I pray do not allow any misgivings 
 to trouble you, my friend; as you have 
 mounted the high horse, you had better 
 stick to it. Granted that with you to be 
 seen is to have conquered. But where is 
 the scene of the victory laid? in what 
 house " — 
 
 " In yours, of course. You are our sin- 
 gle mutual friend." 
 
 "Ahem I But"— 
 
 Then the baron hesitated, feeling, good- 
 natured creature that he was, that it was 
 difficult to say no, and that yet he would 
 not say yes. But neither mother nor son 
 was abashed by his very apparent discom- 
 fiture. O'Neil's eagerness and ardor made 
 him oblivious of anybody's desires and in- 
 terests but his own ; and Madame O'Neil, 
 though not oblivious, but, on the contrary, 
 very clear-sighted and wide awake, was yet 
 a woman to whom life had been a struggle, 
 and to whom either nature or experience, 
 or perhaps both, had taught the fact that 
 means are of very Uttle importance in com- 
 parison to ends. And so she sat there 
 quite calmly, her great black eyes pitilessly 
 watching the baron's hesitation and em- 
 barrassment, and, as easily as though his 
 countenance were an open book, reading 
 the signs which it betrayed ; reading how 
 he was thinking of the baronne (of whom, 
 by the way, the world gave him credit of 
 living not a little in awe), and of what she 
 would say to the notion of the soiree ; read- 
 ing how he was calling to mind that his 
 wife did not like her, IVuidame O'Neil, and 
 
8 
 
 BTHEIi MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 that an invitation for hor would probably 
 cost the unfortunate man a domestic 
 battle royal; reading how he was trem- 
 bling at the vista of responsibilities and 
 consequences, — the direct result of his 
 bringing the two young people together, — 
 ■which was suddenly presenting itself to his 
 mind's eye ; reading these and many other 
 things as well : but she did not care a rush. 
 The chance of an advantageous marriage 
 had offered itself for her son, and it must 
 not be lightly lost. Besides, the foolish 
 youth was in love, or thought he was, which 
 is the same thing ; and his mother's heart 
 yearned for him, and bled to see him 
 happy, and felt no compassion at all 
 for the possible risks to the baron's 
 peace and composure, whether mental or 
 domestic or social. What, indeed, did 
 they weigh in the balance ? she asked her- 
 self, or rather did not ask herself; for the 
 question never so much as occurred to her. 
 Her convictions were much too firmly 
 grounded to be disturbed by such useless 
 queries. , The meaning of wanting a thing, 
 was to get it ; to wish for, to obtain. It 
 was a trifle which she, or rather her son, 
 wanted now ; but, trifle as it was, it should 
 be his. 
 
 And so she sat surveying the baron, 
 with a half-smile upon her lips, and present- 
 ly she opened them, shrugging her shoul- 
 ders, with, as it were, a compassionate, 
 pitiful shrug. " Poor fellow ! Baron, what 
 it is to be young 1 But you are so kind, 
 so good, so sympathetic to youth ! Surely 
 you will help him ; will you not ? " 
 
 An appeal which, made as it was, very 
 softly and sweetly, it was beyond the baron's 
 strength altogether to resist. 
 
 " X es, madame, of course I am willing to 
 assist our young friend, — in reason, that is. 
 And, after all, a soiree may be given at my 
 house, and a young man may meet a young 
 lady there, and it does not follow that the 
 host is answerable for the consequences. 
 Not that I say a soMe shall be given," he 
 said, suddenly checking himself; " that is the 
 baronne's province, in which I never inter- 
 fere. Her house is her own. She sees her 
 friends when she chooses, and those whom 
 she chooses," he added, with meaning 
 emphasis and a dignified wave of his 
 hat. 
 
 " Of course, of course," said Madame 
 O'Neil suavely; "but she is too devoted 
 a wife not to follow your desires. Baron, 
 we all know, that, to the baronne, your 
 wishes are laws." 
 
 A statement, which, if not perfectly true, 
 was at least adroit and diplomatic. "She 
 adores you," put in O'Neil, following his 
 
 mother's lead fervently. "Poor woman! 
 Baron, you know that she is a great, great 
 deal too fond of you for her own peace of 
 miud. Poor, poor woman I " 
 
 " Ah, you sly rogue, what do you mean ? " 
 demanded De N^rsfc, looking delighted; 
 for, indeed, nothing pleased him better than 
 such harmless, gallant insinuations. That 
 the baronne adored him, and was wildly 
 jealous, was one of the pleasant little 
 chimeras of his life, in which nobody, not 
 even himself, except in imaginative mo- 
 ments, believed. " You sly rogue I wait till 
 you have been married forty years yourself, 
 and see what you'll have to say for your- 
 self. The baronne and I make a model 
 menage. We have lived since our marriage- 
 day in unity and concord. To obviate 
 ennui, we now and then seek a little variety, 
 each in his own sphere. She is devote, goes 
 to church, rates the servants, retires to rest 
 at nine o'clock, and rises at five. I am not 
 devout, and I do not go to church, except 
 on Christmas Day and Easter Sunday, for 
 example's sake." 
 
 " O baron, how naughty I " said Madame 
 O'Neil with playful reproach. 
 
 " What will you, madame ? I am a good 
 Christian ; but I am devoid of superstition. 
 Doubtless it is a good custom to go to church 
 — for women. As to men" — And here an 
 expressive shrug completed the sentence. 
 " In fine, I do, as I say, go to church twice a 
 year. One owes that- much to one's self, 
 one's family, to society. My hours also are 
 difi'erent from the baronne's, — a good 
 deal later. I have my friends ; she hers. 
 Occasionally they happen to be the same. 
 Towards one another," concluded the baron 
 with a flourish, and in an emotional tone, 
 " our mutual conduct has been, I am proud 
 to say it, without reproach." 
 
 A speech which was received with gentle 
 applause. 
 
 " But to return to the soiree," suggested 
 O'Neil, so soon as the baron had recov- 
 ered his breath. "Baron, you will not 
 leave me in the lurch ? " 
 
 " To the soiree ; ah, yes I " And he de- 
 liberately walked to the door and opened 
 it. " We will think what is to be done. 
 The baronne must be consulted. As I have 
 said, that is her province. However, I will 
 do what I can. Adieu, my friends ; or, 
 rather, au revoir. It is never ' good-by ' in 
 Nice. Madame, I have the honor to salute 
 you." And, with a low bow, the baron 
 was gone. 
 
 " A small affair, only fifteen people, tea, 
 cakes ! " O'Neil was shouting alter him 
 down the stairs. But in vain: he either 
 did not or would not hear ; and mother and 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 son looked at each other and laughed, and, 
 though almost, were not quite sure whether 
 tbey had gained their point or not. 
 
 CHAPTER m. 
 
 BUT it soon appeared that they had. 
 The -baron's promises, though vague, 
 were, after all, to be better trusted in 
 than many more definite ones. Within a 
 week. Col. Mildmay was sitting alone 
 one evening in the big drawing-room of the 
 villa, listlessly cutting the pages of some 
 magazine lately arrived fi'om England, 
 looking pale and grave and sad, and im- 
 patiently listening for the sound of his 
 daughter's footsteps. She was in her room 
 dressing, — dressing for her first foreign 
 party, to which, three days ago, an invita- 
 tion had reached her in the prim, minute 
 handwriting of Madame de N^rac. The 
 colonel had not very long to wait. The 
 hour mentioned was an early one. Pres- 
 ently the footsteps were heard, — light, 
 swift steps, — bringing her quickly to him ; 
 and then the door was opened, and she was 
 standing before him, a pleasant vision of a 
 fair Saxon girl, dressed in a pale, gleaming 
 silk, and with soft flowers in her wavy, 
 bright hair. 
 
 " Do I look nice, papa ? do you like 
 me ? " Eth'el inquired, coming up to his 
 easy-chair, and making him a low, playful 
 courtesy. 
 
 Her father smiled. He was her father, 
 and he doated upon her; but even an 
 impartial judgment could not help being a 
 favorable one. And so he replied, after a 
 careful, critical survey, " Yes : you do look 
 nice, Ethel, — very nice. That pale, uncer- 
 tain pink laecomes you exactly, and so do 
 the roses in your hair. Of course, I like you, 
 darling." 
 
 Ethel loved compliments ; and, to do her 
 justice, she loved her father's compliments 
 better than those of most other people. 
 His genuine, hearty admiration made her 
 flush and sparkle with pleasure. " It is a 
 pretty dress," she said, stroking the rich, 
 soft silk complacently, and glancing at her 
 reflection in the opposite mirror. "I am so 
 
 flad I decided on the shade I Madame 
 'auline was right, you see, papa. She 
 said it was the right shade for me." 
 
 " Those Parisian dressmakers are witches, 
 I think," said the colonel, laughing. Then 
 he looked at his daughter again. " I hope 
 that you are not overdressed, dear," he said 
 
 a little uneasily. "I thought the baron 
 said that it was quite a small party." 
 " Yes, that is true ; but — but is it not a 
 
 Sity not to wear the dress even once ? 
 lost likely it will be my sole opportunity," 
 replied Ethel in a somewhat melancholy 
 tone. 
 
 " What a desponding view I " laughed 
 her father. " But it doesn't signify. Even 
 if you are a little too grand for the occa- 
 sion, the men will admire, the women will 
 envy you. At all events, your dress is in 
 perfect taste ; there can be no second 
 opinion about that." 
 
 " I suppose I had better think of going," 
 said Ethel, buttoning her gloves, and look- 
 ing at the clock. " It is past the hour 
 already. Papa, I wish — oh, how I do wish 
 that you were coming too 1 " 
 
 " What, love I do you feel shy ? I did 
 not think you knew what the sensation 
 was." 
 
 " No, not shy exactly. What is there to 
 be shy about ? But I feel a little lonely." 
 
 " So do I; or, rather, so shall I when 
 you are gone." 
 
 Ethel kissed him affectionately ; but, truth 
 to tell, she was more occupied by her own 
 sensations than by his. 
 
 " Upon my word, now that I think of it, 
 I believe it is a little shy that I feel," she 
 said, laughing. " Madame de Nerac seems 
 to consider my going alone such a wonder- 
 ful business. She wrote four pages on the 
 subject. And the baron, too, — do you re- 
 member ? — made as many promises and as- 
 severations about the care which would be 
 taken of me, as though it were a journey to 
 Australia that was proposed, instead of a 
 mild little tea-party half a mile away. 
 Such ridiculous nonsense I They evidently 
 don't consider me a young lady to be trust- 
 ed, — very difierent from you, papa, who 
 would trust me, I know, to the end of the 
 world." 
 
 " And back again. Of course I would, 
 love. Why not ? You have never deceived 
 me, nor caused me a moment's pain, in your 
 life." 
 
 A commendation which thrilled Edith 
 through with a very difierent and sweeter 
 satisfaction than even his compliments had 
 produced a few minutes ago. But she was 
 too proud to betray all, or indeed any thing, 
 of what she felt. " You stupid old papa I " 
 she said, laughing. " You have got a goose 
 for a daughter, and you think her a swan ; 
 but so much the better. Even one's father's 
 good opinion is better than nobody's." 
 
 A piece of sauciness to which there was 
 no time to reply. The carriage was an- 
 nounced for the third time (it having been 
 
10 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 waiting at least half an hour) ; and Miss 
 Mildmay's prim English maid, who, in def- 
 erence to Madame de Ndrac's feelings of 
 propriety, was to assist the tall British foot- 
 man in the task of protecting her during 
 her drive, appeared at the door to remind 
 her that it was nine o'clock. 
 
 " Oh, my goodness ! And I was invited 
 for eight, and told to come early on pur- 
 pose," Ethel cried in great dismay. " Good- 
 night, papa I Good-night I " And she was 
 really gone at last. 
 
 True enough, she was a little late. The 
 diminutive antechamber was crowded with 
 hats and coats and cloaks, — sufficiently 
 clear tokens that most of the company had 
 arrived. Ethel fancied that the smart 
 bonne, with the rose-colored ribbons in her 
 coquettish cap, who was assisting her own 
 Hannah in divesting her of her wraps, look- 
 ed astonished and curious, as though some- 
 thing unexpected and odd were occurring. 
 Sounds of music were coming from the 
 drawing-room ; and when the door was 
 thrown open, and she found herself stand- 
 ing upon the threshold, in full view of a 
 ■well-filled room, every eye in which, she 
 was distinctly conscious, was fixed either 
 upon herself or her pink silk gown, then, in- 
 deed, for a brief but most terrible moment, 
 she felt altogether overcome. It was a 
 short moment, but one in which there yet 
 was time for two or three clear sensations. 
 One of them was — one in which all women 
 will sympathize — a sudden, swift, and pro- 
 found conviction that she was absurdly 
 overdressed. Not that she was so quickly 
 able to take in the details of the toilets 
 around her (that, of course, had to be de- 
 ferred till later on) ; but a: general impres- 
 sion of sober colors and covered necks 
 reached her, adding not a little to her dis- 
 may and confusion. 
 
 But every thing comes to an end : that 
 moment came to an end, thank goodness ! 
 The music, which had paused at her entry, 
 went on again. The baron, who was sing- 
 ing — or rather grimacing ; for his voice had 
 taken leave of him long ago — a comic 
 song, could not of course come to her rescue ; 
 but Madame de Nerac, a wiry, tart-looking 
 old dame, made a fussy little rush to meet 
 her, whisperiu" vociferations which Ethel 
 could only half comprehend, but which con- 
 veyed to her a vague impression that she 
 had been the cause of frightful anxiety to 
 everybody, and that they had quite given 
 her up, and also, alas I though this was not 
 expressed, except by the baronne's peering 
 little eyes, that the abominable pink silk 
 dress was the subject of much amazement, 
 a little amusement, and close examination, 
 
 such as a Frenchwoman's single glance 
 can accomplish. 
 
 Indeed, poor Ethel winced beneath that 
 comprehensive glance, one which seemed to 
 take in the smallest detail, such as whether 
 her gloves had one button or two buttons 
 or three, as well as whether her silk was 
 worth ten francs or twenty or thirty the 
 yard. And all the time the baronne was 
 chattering away under her breath. At last 
 she paused. " Mademoiselle would like a 
 seat, of course. What part of the room 
 would she choose ? " 
 
 " Oh I anywhere," Ethel said a little des- 
 perately. 
 
 " But of course mademoiselle would join 
 the j'eunes Jilles," proceeded madame with- 
 out heeding her. " Of course, of course ! " 
 
 And, before she knew where she was, our 
 heroine found herself in front of a group of 
 white muslin figures, who were all rising 
 and courtesying, and to whom she supposed 
 that she was making some sort of a courtesy 
 too. Then one of the muslin damsels pre- 
 sented her with a chair; the baronne 
 hissed six or seven names in rapid succes- 
 sion in her ears, and bustled away ; and 
 Ethel with a sigh, which was more like a 
 groan, sat down at last. 
 
 Of course, all this took only a minute or 
 two to happen. The comic song was still 
 proceeding ; and, when it was over, the kind 
 old baron came to her with one of his gal- 
 lant speeches, and a look in his eyes as 
 though, in his opinion, whether she was 
 overdressed or not, she was looking remark- 
 ably well. 
 
 But, somehow, the group of jeunes Jilles 
 seemed to be a sacred group, — a sort of 
 vestal virgin affair. Even the white-haired 
 baron did not long profane it by his proxim- 
 ity ; and not another man (of whom, by 
 the way, there was a decided numerical in- 
 feriority in the room) so much as came near 
 it. The men clustered together ; the young 
 girls clustered together; and the married 
 ladies sat, for the most part, with their backs 
 to the wall. Here and there an odd man in- 
 truded himself into their ranks ; but glances 
 alone, and very few even of them, reached 
 ces demoiselles. 
 
 Ethel thought it odd and rather dull. 
 It was her first French party ; and her hosts 
 belonged to the old regime, into which none 
 of the modern innovations of fashion had 
 yet penetrated. 
 
 The fashion of flirting, for instance, — at 
 least so far as the young ladies were con- 
 cerned, — seemed utterly unknown to these 
 regions. One or two sprightly-looking 
 dames, who, to judge from thetr more elab- 
 orate style of dress, wene married, were, she 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 11 
 
 fancied, mildly practising the rudiments of 
 the art ; but the lamps of the virgins burnt 
 away in placid, if somewhat dull serenity, 
 undisturbed by the faintest breath of a mas- 
 culine temptation. 
 
 Having thus come to some swift and 
 rather desponding general conclusions. Miss 
 Mildmay began to survey immediate objects. 
 It was evident that her single chance of 
 amusement depended upon the jeunes filles ; 
 and accordingly to them she turned, with, it 
 must be confessed, a little sinking at her 
 heart. For the matter of that, in tlieir nar- 
 row, skimpy muslin skirts, their colored 
 sashes, and their plainly-dressed hair, they 
 looked like school-girls, and nothing more. 
 School-girls 1 Not a bit of it. Ethel was 
 quite mistaken. They were young ladies 
 on their promotion, just like herself; some 
 of them a little younger, most of them a 
 little older, than she was. • All were of an 
 age to be married, and were probably per- 
 fectly well aware that husbands existed for 
 them at this very moment in the mind's 
 eye of their parents. But for the present 
 they were young girls, and as young girls 
 comported themselves, clinging together, 
 twittering together, giggling together, mod- 
 estly veiling their merry bright eyes, dress- 
 ing in gowns worth a few francs apiece, 
 and dreaming of the luxe and freedom which 
 marriage was to pm-chase for them. 
 
 Ethel, turning round upon them sudden- 
 ly, found that these same bright eyes were, 
 for the moment, intent upon her. Her un- 
 fortunate pink silk dress again — how she 
 wished it were at the bottom of the sea I 
 She felt as though she were a sort of foolish 
 bird-of-paradise straying about in a hen- 
 yard. 
 
 But it was necessary to think of conversa- 
 tion. The demoiselles, as in duty bound, 
 began. " Mademoiselle was English. Ma- 
 demoiselle was a stranger in Nice. It was 
 hoped that mademoiselle enjoyed the beau- 
 tiful climate, and found that it suited her 
 health," — observations to which they gave 
 expression, with some' others equally in- 
 teresting and appropriate, and to which 
 Ethel vouchsafed monosyllabic replies. In 
 fact, conversation did not flow just at first ; 
 but, luckily, a fillip was given to it by the 
 fact of a chance announcement of Ethel's, 
 that she was fond of walking, and had al- 
 ready taken several long walks ; " though," 
 she added, " I do not always venture as far 
 as I should like, as I generally am alone." 
 
 " Alone ! " And all the black eyes 
 opened wide, and the word was repeated in 
 various tones of horrified amazement. 
 
 " Yes, alone of course," said Miss Mild- 
 may, bridling up. " -Why not ? What is to 
 
 happen to one ? At all events, it is unavoid- 
 able, since papa is not able to walk, and I 
 detest the company of a maid, and — and I 
 have nobody else to come with me," she 
 concluded a little defiantly. 
 
 The young ladies exchanged demure 
 smiles, and murmured something about 
 " Wonderlul courage I Surprising enter- 
 prise I " &c. 
 
 " But why ? " demanded Ethel a little 
 sharply. " I did not know that the neigh- 
 borhood of Nice was infested by brigands 
 or murderers or wild beasts ; is it ? " 
 
 " Oh, no I of course not." And the group 
 giggled frantically. 
 
 " But with us it is not the custom, you 
 see. In France, we do not think of going 
 out alone, — even across the street. It 
 would be thought odd. It would occasion 
 remark. In fact, such a wild proceeding 
 was never heard of or thought of." 
 
 " Well, I hope that it is not rude to say 
 it ; but, in that case, I am glad I am not a 
 French girl," said Ethel bluntly. 
 
 " / go out alone ; that is, I go to church 
 two streets oflT alone," here interposed an 
 unexpected ally, whose lively brown eyes 
 h.td been silently observing the stranger. 
 " People make remarks, 1 believe ; but, 
 for my part, I consider our French notions 
 absurd and exaggerated. At all events, 
 when one has ceased to be in one's first 
 youth, a little liberty is allowable," she con- 
 cluded with a little decisive nod. 
 
 She was a short, clever-looking girl, with 
 a pleasant face ; and, though she too wore 
 a white muslin gown, it was relieved by 
 trimmings and ornaments, which betrayed 
 aspirations beyond the unadorned simplicity 
 of her companions. 
 
 " One's first youth 1 " Ethel repeated with 
 a smile. "You do not look so very old, 
 mademoiselle'." 
 
 " Do I not ? I feel it then. I am six 
 and twenty." , 
 
 " But that is not old." 
 
 " In France it is considered so for those 
 who are unmarried, — in fact, nearly an old 
 maid." 
 
 And she smiled and laughed, — a little 
 dryly and a little sadly. Ethel felt interest- 
 ed. Her new acquaintance's name was, she 
 presently discovered, Christine Delneuve; 
 and in Christine there was, she fancied, 
 something more than the inanity and tire- 
 some prudery of the other girls. In five 
 minutes they had fraternized ; in ten they 
 had become familiar, and had discovered 
 several mutual points of sympathy. 
 
 Suddenly Ethel became conscious of a 
 sort of flutter, which all at once seemed to 
 pervade the knot oi' jeunes files ; and Chris- 
 
12 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 tine, who was shortsighted, put up her eye- 
 glass in quite a little flurry. 
 
 " Ah I the Countess O'Neil and her son," 
 she observed. " What wind brings them 
 here, I wonder ? " And she spoke with un- 
 wonted eagerness. 
 
 " O'Neil I " repeated Ethel, marvelling at 
 the subdued twitter of excitement which 
 the new arrivals had produced. " AVell, I 
 am glad that I am not quite the last, at all 
 events. O'Neil I Who is he ? Who are 
 they?" 
 
 " You do not know ? Yet they are half- 
 compatriots of yours. Count O'Neil is, as 
 you may perceive, a handsome young man. 
 I take an interest in him because I know a 
 namesake of his, — probably a relation, — 
 for whose sake I will always feel interested 
 in any one who bears the name. Of this 
 young man I don't know much. They are 
 new-comers here. They say that he is rich, 
 — immensely rich, — the parti of the sea- 
 son, in fact. All the mothers are tearing 
 each other's eyes out about him." 
 
 " And thedaughters V " 
 
 " Of course, they know nothing. At 
 least, that is understood. On such subjects 
 they are supposed to be kept in the 
 dark." 
 
 " A -darkness in which, however, they see 
 remarkably well," Ethel thought, perceiv- 
 ing how busily all thfe lively black eyes 
 were following the young count's move- 
 ments. 
 
 Christine saw her smile. " What will 
 you ? " she said. " After all, we are not 
 blind nor deaf. Since we cannot pursue 
 the young men as it is said you do in Eng- 
 land, at least we may look at them ; may we 
 not ? " 
 
 " And is he so very rich, then ?" Ethel, not 
 caring to notice this little thrust, inquired 
 with apparently a grand indifiFerence. 
 
 "Very, — at least he will be one day. 
 For the present, he is poor ; and his mother 
 wishes him to marry," added Christine con- 
 fidentially. 
 
 "Indeed I Poor little fellow! So the 
 mothers manage the sons as well as the 
 daughters in " — But there was no time 
 to finish the sentence. The flutter which 
 has been already mentioned, and which, up 
 to this, had been of a subdued and gentle 
 character, suddenly seemed to reach a 
 climax. The jeunes Jilles colored and fidg- 
 eted, and smiled and sparkled. Count 
 O'Neil was actually approaching them, 
 making his way in a certain unusual, deter- 
 mined fashion, straight towards the little 
 froup. He had reached it now, and was 
 owing before it with a delightful, easy 
 comprehensiveness and grace, with, indeed, 
 
 a pleasant sort of condescension and self- 
 possession, which betrayed that he felt 
 pretty sure of his welcome. The young 
 ladies were bowing, too, — not condescend- 
 ingly, however, but glad, eager, excited 
 little bows, accompanied by modest glances 
 of pleasure, but alas, alas I glances which 
 were utterly and entirely wasted. Count 
 O'Neil never so much as saw them. His 
 glances were directed towards one object 
 alone, and he had eyes for no other. His 
 general salutations resolved themselves at 
 last into a very particular and marked one ; 
 and, perhaps, even Christine Delneuve ex- 
 pei'ienced a momentary pang when she per- 
 ceived that her new friend was the magnet 
 of attraction. Five minutes ago the Eng- 
 lish girl had been wondered at, criticised, 
 tolerated. Now, if the secret of those virgin- 
 al hearts had been laid bare, it would have 
 been discovered that she was suddenly de- 
 tested. Count O'Neil had placed himself 
 before her chair, and had eyes and ears 
 for her alone. 
 
 " Ah ! so you do know him," Christine 
 observed in a whisper : " why did you 
 make me so many questions, then ? " 
 
 " Yes, I know Count O'Neil a little ; but 
 I hardly thought that he would have re- 
 membered me," Ethel replied, speaking to 
 Christine, but at O'Neil, and giving the 
 young man one of her most radiant and 
 captivating smiles. 
 
 " Not have remembered you I " And the 
 words were said in a tone which produced 
 a general sinking of heart and a keen feel- 
 in" of irritation all around. 
 
 No doubt about it, the Jeunes filles were 
 badly treated ; and, to increase their aggra- 
 vation. Count O'Neil and Ethel, after the 
 first few words, took refuge in the English 
 tongue, and were incomprehensible. It 
 was adding insult to injury. What the 
 young ladies saw was, however, more than 
 enough for them, poor things I 
 
 Presently Miss Mildraay rose ; and the 
 young man presented her with his arm, and 
 led her in, as it were; a triumphal manner, 
 her beautiful dress trailing yards behind her, 
 across the room, to the spot where the 
 Comtesse O'Neil was seated. All the com- 
 pany — mothers, daughters, fathers, sons — 
 were now, indeed, staring in right earnest. 
 Yet it was a simple business enough ; though, 
 apparently, they thought it significant in 
 the extreme. 
 
 " Is she, then, a fiancee already ? " de- 
 manded one stout, belligerent-looking ma- 
 tron of her neighbor. " Truly, such sang 
 froid and boldness are marvellous I " 
 
 " It is the manner in which these Eng- 
 lish are brought up," replied her friend 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 13 
 
 tartly ; " I have often heard that they had 
 no self-respect or propriety of manner. 
 And even if it were only manner " — 
 
 And she sniffed the air vrith her sharp, 
 thin nose. 
 
 " That girl cannot be young, though, 
 she concluded malevolently, — " approach- 
 ing her thirty years, I should say. What 
 do you think, madame ? " 
 
 But madaitte's reply is unimportant ; for, 
 by this time, Ethel, happily quite uncon- 
 scious of these and the many other criticisms 
 to which she was bein" subjected, had been 
 presented to Madame O'Neil, and was seat- 
 ed by her side, with Count O'Neil in a. pose 
 of devotion, and witl» admiration beaming 
 &om his handsome blue eyes, before her. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 OUCH a handsome woman as she is, 
 lO papa !" Ethel said, describing Madame 
 O'Neil to her father, as they were, next 
 morning, seated over their late breakfast. 
 " And so young-looking, too 1 If it were not 
 for her son, one could not believe that she 
 was more than thirty or thirty-five years 
 old." 
 
 " And what of this same son ? " inquired 
 the colonel at this point. " Was he at the 
 party too ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, of course I What about him ? 
 Well " — And she paused, smiling thought- 
 fully, yet merrily. 
 
 Her father saw the smile. " Yes : what 
 about him ? " he said a little quickly and 
 anxiously. . " Do you like him ? and — does 
 he like you?" . 
 
 "How do I know? Well, I think he 
 does, rather," said Ethel with demure frank- 
 ness. 
 
 " Does he, indeed ? He is quite a foreign- 
 looking fellow," he said a little contemptu- 
 ously. 
 
 But, though the remark was meant to 
 provoke a reply, it was met by silence. 
 Ethel was in a thoughtful, not a talkative, 
 mood this morning. 
 
 " Perhaps Madame O'Neil will expect us 
 to call upon her," she observed presently. 
 " You know, papa, that it is the foreign 
 custom for new-comers to call first." 
 
 But Col. Mildmay declined the pro- 
 posal. " I have no desire to rush into doubt- 
 ful acquaintanceships," he said with British 
 nervousness. 
 
 " She is a countess, papa." 
 
 " Pooh, pooh ! These foreign titles are 
 
 worth nothing, — worse than nothing fre- 
 quently. However, O'Neil is a good name ; 
 and, if they have any thing to say to the 
 O'Neils of Mount Druid, I shall be glad to 
 know them. I will ask the baron about 
 them, or, better still, I'll write to my old 
 friend Mrs. O'Neil on the chance of finding 
 her alive still. But is it worth while, 1 
 wonder ? " he added, half aloud, and with 
 a short, sad sigh. 
 
 Ethel heard the words and. the sigh ; but, 
 absorbed in her own reflections, she failed 
 to read their meaning. 
 
 " Count O'Neil's father was Irish, and he 
 is to be very rich some day, and there is a 
 title in the family ; at least, I think that I 
 heard something of the sort," she added a 
 little confusedly, perceiving that a grave 
 smile was crossing her father's lips. 
 
 " In that case, it is the same family," he 
 said. " I.knew them very well once, years 
 and years ago. I will tell you a secret, 
 Ethel, if you like. Five and twenty years 
 ago, before I married your poor mother, I 
 wanted to marry Nora O'Neil. Her brother 
 Bernard was a school-fellow of mine ; and I 
 met her at his place in Ireland, — Mount 
 Druid. Well, I fell in love with Nora ; but 
 she liked somebody else, and would not 
 look at me. Poor Nora I I believe the fel- 
 low whom she cared for, and married in 
 opposition to her mother and brother's 
 wishes, killed her, at last, by slow tortures of 
 unkindness. She is dead these many years." 
 
 " Papa 1 " And Ethel could say no more. 
 These reminiscences of bygone times, these 
 memories of wasted and lost affections, 
 sounded strangely and sadly in her ears. 
 Her father was speaking calmly, coldly even, 
 of what once had been a cruel and painful 
 grief; but now it was dead and gone. It 
 had become a pale, harmless ghost of the 
 past. She was young and ardent ; and the 
 composed, passionless way in which he 
 alluded to the lost love of his youth smote 
 discordantly upon her heart. She could 
 not understand it. She hoped never to be 
 able to understand it. It startled and dis- 
 mayed her, and filled her with a sort of sor- 
 rowful indignation. 
 
 " The family consisted, in those days, of 
 two sons a«d two daughters and their mo- 
 ther, — the most charming woman I ever 
 met," went on Col. Mildmay musingly. 
 " They are all dead now except Arthur, the 
 youngest, who was quite a lad when I knew 
 them. Mrs. O'Neil is, I believe and hope, 
 alive still ; but I have not heard any thing 
 of her for a long, long time. I really 
 think that I will write to Mount Druid on 
 the chance. I should like to hear some- 
 thing of the dear old lady again." 
 
14 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 Next day, Miss Mildmay was inclined to 
 rejoice that she had not tried to induce her 
 father to make the first advance towards 
 the O'Neil acquaintanceship. It is just as 
 pleasant to be sought as to seelt ; and, the 
 loUowing afternoon, Madame O'Neil and 
 her son appeared at the villa, accompanied 
 by the inevitable baron as master of the 
 ceremonies. 
 
 "Madame la Comtesse," he explained, 
 "being well acquainted with English cus- 
 toms, nad permitted herself the pleasure 
 of calling first. She was most desirous of 
 making the colonel's acquaintance, and, 
 having the felicity of already knowing his 
 charming and interesting daughter " — 
 And a suitable flourish of compliments 
 completed the presentation. 
 
 In five minutes, Col. Mildmay had elicit- 
 ed the information he wished for. 
 
 It was a fact. Madame la Conitesse was 
 certainly Bernard O'Neil's widow. "Was 
 it indeed possible that Col. Mildmay was 
 an old friend, — a schoolfellow ? How de- 
 lightful I What a touching coincidence ! " 
 And Madame O'Neil's black eyes beamed 
 softly. 
 
 Had she heard from her mother-in-law 
 lately ? " No : she had not. The poor old 
 lady had of late years become" — And 
 here she tapped her forehead significantly. 
 " Not surprising, considering her age," 
 Madame O'Neil continued, with a little 
 sigh. " She was not in Ireland now. She 
 and her second son were travelling for 
 health-sake ; change of air and scene hav- 
 ing been recommended by the doctors. 
 She was not quite sure of their where- 
 abouts just at present. In the south of 
 Spain perhaps, or in Sicily." 
 
 And here Madame O'Neil's information 
 came to a conclusion, and she seemed to 
 have no more to say on the subject. 
 
 But this was quite enough to dissipate 
 the colonel's defiance, and to throw his 
 usual reserve into something like real re- 
 gret, when his visitor presently rose rather 
 abruptly, having suddenly remembered an 
 appointment at four o'clock, which must be 
 kept. But she was not gone yet. As in a 
 lady's letter, the pith seemed to be con- 
 tained in the postscript. Perhaps it was 
 her son's appealing glauce which served as 
 a reminder ; or perhaps she considered it 
 more diplomatic to keep it in reserve to 
 the last : at all events, out it came now. 
 
 " By the way," she said, holdinw Ethel's 
 hand as she bade her farewell, and looking 
 kindly into the young girl's bright face, — 
 "by the way, I have a request to make, 
 which, I trust, you will not refuse, colonel. 
 The Duchesse de Saint-Hilaire is, as I dare 
 
 say you have heard, giving a grand /eie on 
 Monday evening. It i.s to be the ball of the 
 season. AH the world is longing to go. It 
 is a pity that mademoiselle should not see 
 a something of our Nice gayeties ; and, if 
 you will trust her to my chaperonage, I 
 shall be delighted to bring her." 
 
 " O papa I But I am not asked 1 " ex- 
 claimed Ethel with mingled delight and 
 despair. 
 
 " Pardon me : indeed you are. Madame 
 de Saint-Hilaire, knowing that I have no 
 daughter of my own, has kindly begged me 
 to bring the prettiest young girl of my 
 acquaintance. So you see you are invited, 
 mademoiselle.'' • 
 
 " O papa I " cried Ethel again, confused 
 yet enchanted ; and her father laughed, and 
 said, — 
 
 " Come, come, madame 1 the child is silly 
 enough as it is. She is capable of taking 
 your French compliments seriously." 
 
 "But they are meant seriously," every 
 one assured him all round, — the baron, 
 and Madame O'Neil, and her son. 
 
 And, though Col. Mildmay hesitated and 
 demurred a little fqr form's sake, it was 
 not difficult to guess that he had already 
 consented. Indeed, it would have been 
 difficult, nay, downright impossible, to re- 
 sist Ethel's pleading, rapturous face. 
 
 " What will you wear ? " she was amazed 
 at hearing young O'Neil's voice anxiously 
 inquiring, when the colonel had pronounced 
 the final " yes." " What is your color ? — 
 the one which suits you best ? " Ethel 
 could not conceal her amusement. But 
 O'Neil was quite serious and unconscious. 
 To the French male mind, a woman's dress 
 is of equal importance as it is to herself; 
 in some cases, perhaps, even as herself, — 
 no detail or trifle is too insignificant to be 
 discussed. " Wear 1 " she repeated : " I 
 don't know, I am sure. I must get a ball- 
 dress, I suppose." 
 
 " Ah I then your milliner will advise you. 
 White, I should say. A young girl never 
 looks so well as in white. White tulle, 
 trimmed with snowdrops. Ah, that would 
 be adorable I " 
 
 "Would it, indeed?" with a slightly 
 scornful laugh. "Well, then, it shall be 
 white and snowdrops," she added, de- 
 murely satirical. 
 
 " A thousand thanks I You will look 
 charming, delightful I Your ddbut will be 
 a sensation. Delisle, in the Rue St. Vin- 
 cent de Paul, is the best florist. His flow- 
 ers seem almost to smell. All the fashiona- 
 bles go there when they have not time to 
 send to Paris." 
 
 And then, at last, his mother having al- 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 15 
 
 ready left the room, Count O'Neil was 
 compelled to tear himself away. 
 
 liEss Mildmay's scorn and satire notwith- 
 standing, the young man's wishes seemed 
 to merit some attention, as, indeed, they 
 deserved to do. When Monday evening 
 came, and Ethel emerged from the myste- 
 ries of the toilet, ramant in white tulle 
 and innocent-looking snowdrops, her father 
 thought, though (becoming charier of his 
 compliments in proportion as they seemed 
 likely to increase from other quarters) he 
 did not say, that probably she would be 
 one of the prettiest girls at Madame de 
 Saint-HUaire's ball. Nor did his anticipa- 
 tion turn out false. The English girl, 
 white tulle, snowdrops, and all, did decid- 
 edly produce — as it had been prophesied to 
 her that she would — a sensation. Per- 
 haps it was because she was a novelty; 
 perhaps because rumors of high birth and 
 a large fortune were in circulation con- 
 nected with her name ; perhaps because 
 she really was pretty at least, if not beauti- 
 ful, fresh, and beaming, and embellished by 
 the spirit of thorough and simple enjoy- 
 ment, which is a rare element in ball-rooms ; 
 or perhaps it was on account of all these 
 causes combined ; but, whatever the cause 
 was, Ethel did enjoy what O'Neal, as he tri- 
 umphantly carried her away for the third 
 time from a host of aspiring partners, told 
 her was a succes fou. 
 
 " All the men are inquiring who you 
 are," he assured her in eager tones. 
 
 " Nonsense 1 " Ethel said a little breath- 
 lessly (for they were waltzing), but think- 
 ing it very agreeable nonsense all the while. 
 
 " It is a fact ; on my honor it is ! If you 
 only heard what the Due de Saint-Hilaire 
 said about you I I will spare your blushes, 
 and not repeat; but this I may tell you, 
 that poor Madame D'Erfort is green with 
 jealousy." 
 
 « Madame D'Erfort ! Who is she ? " Ethel 
 inquired, opening her eyes. 
 
 "You don't know? She is almost the 
 handsomest woman in the room ; and the 
 duke is her — ahem — admires her exces- 
 sively. He is a connoisseur on such mat- 
 ters. Hush I This is Madame D'Erfort 
 passing by now." 
 
 " She is charming 1 " Ethel said warmly, 
 as Madame D'Erlbrt, one of the well-known 
 beauties of the season, swept by, casting 
 over her white shoulder a glance of mingled 
 curiosity and irritation at the English girl, 
 who was already beginning to cause her 
 qualms of uneasiness. '■ Charming 1 And 
 what a lovely dress ! " added Ethel a little 
 despondingly. 
 
 " So it ought to be. It cost fifteen hun- 
 
 dred francs, and has only just arrived from 
 Paris. Madame Mirecourt, the empress's 
 modiste, dresses her. By the way, did you 
 see the look with which she favored you, 
 Miss Mildmay ? It is the best compliment 
 you have received this evening. She de- 
 tests you already." 
 
 " Detests me I Why ? What in the 
 world have I done to her^?" 
 
 "A great deal. Saint-Hilaire admires, 
 you. Quite enough, I can tell you," said 
 O'Neil, laughing. 
 
 " But is not Madame D'Erfort married? 
 Is she a widow?" inquired Ethel inno- 
 cently. 
 
 " A widow I Not at all. She has a hus- 
 band ; indeed, so far as that goes, she has 
 two, some people say. I can certify to the 
 eidstenee of one, at all events." 
 
 " But " — and Ethel looked half-shocked, 
 half-puzzled. " Ah I you are jesting," she 
 said then, perceiving that her companion 
 was laughing still. 
 
 " Jesting 1 I never was more serious in 
 my life. But will you not have another 
 turn ? " And the next instant Ethel's per- 
 plexity was driven out of her head by find- 
 ing herself in the midst of the maze of 
 dancers. 
 
 " What are your engagements ? " O'Neil 
 inquired when they paused again. " You 
 will give me another dance ; will you not ? " 
 
 "Another! But this is already the 
 third. Count O'Neil. Look at my card ; " 
 and she showed him the long list of names, 
 — one, sometimes even two, before every 
 dance." 
 
 " There only remains the cotillon, then. 
 Of course that " — 
 
 " Oh, the cotillon I I have promised to 
 dance that with M. de Saint-Hilaire." 
 
 O'Neil's countenance fell in a ludicrous, 
 fashion. 
 
 '' Oh, no I Impossible 1 " he exclaimed. 
 
 Ethel was almost at her wits'-ends by 
 this time. " Why is it impossible ? " she 
 inquired breathlessly. 
 
 " Because — I was sure that you would 
 dance the cotillon with me. I took it as a. 
 matter of course," he said reproachfully. 
 
 Ethel nearly laughed in his face; and,, 
 indeed, it was hard enough to remain seri- 
 ous, the young man's confidence had been; 
 so genuine, nis disappointment was so- 
 opemy and simply expressed. He was and 
 looked to be such a thorough bon enfant, 
 and he was evidently so aggrieved and hurt 
 by her unconscious unkindness, that, in 
 spite of her gayety, she felt quite sorry and. 
 remorseful. 
 
 " It is very provoking ; but " — she be- 
 gan. 
 
16 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 " And there is another reason too," in- 
 terrupted O'Neil excitedly. "Excuse me 
 for saying it, but you must not be made the 
 dupe of one of Saint-Hilaire's caprices. 
 He has had some silly, passing quarrel with 
 Madame d'Erfort, and, to annoy her, has 
 noticed you." 
 
 "Noticed me I " 
 
 But O'Neil was talking too eagerly and 
 ivolubly to be even conscious of the inter- 
 ruption. " He is not tired of Madame d'Er- 
 fort yet," he went on ; " and to-morrow 
 he will be as thick as ever with her, and 
 will have forgotten you. But, if you dance 
 the cotillon with him to-night, she will not 
 forget or forgive you in a hurry ; and she is 
 not a safe women to offend, Miss Mild- 
 may " — 
 
 " I am not afraid of her, I am sure," 
 Ethel interposed, looking flushed and dig- 
 nified. 
 
 "But will you not take a friend's ad- 
 vice, — a true friend, one who knows ? 
 Ask my mother if you wish : she will tell 
 you just the same. Saint-Hilaire is a low 
 fellow, without respect or esteem for women. 
 He is not hampered with scruples, and 
 would blast a young girl's name as readily 
 as he would a married woman's. He and 
 Madame d'Erfort may do as they like, but 
 you " — 
 
 " My goodness I Pray stop," — ex- 
 claimed Ethel, half frightened, half amused, 
 by this earnest adjuration. " What a fuss 
 about nothing, about a dance I I tell you. 
 Count O'Neil, I do not care a straw for 
 Madame d'Erfort or for M. Saint-Hilaire, 
 either : they can't hurt me, I assure you, 
 no matter what they say or do." 
 
 " But the world will talk. Saint-Hilaire 
 will boast of his conquest. You know all 
 the women do fall in love with him," he 
 added in a melancholy tone. "It has 
 come to this, that actually his notice makes 
 celebrities. And to-night, above all, in his 
 mother's house. Miss Mildmay " — 
 
 "Well, Count O'Neil" — 
 
 " If you will not listen to me, at least" — 
 
 " But I am listening to you ; am I not ? " 
 and Ethel smiled ri^ht into the young 
 man's eloquent, beseeching eyes. 
 
 " Well then, will you ; will you not ? Ah, 
 yes I you will get out of your engagement to 
 'Saint-Hilaire," O'Neil cried delightedly. 
 
 " Give up my partner I But then who 
 am I to dance with ? " 
 
 " With me, of course. I have heen look- 
 ing forward to it for weeks, — for days I 
 mean," as Ethel shook her head and 
 laughed. 
 
 The young girl pretended to hesitate. 
 " With you, Count O'Neil ? But " — 
 
 " But. Why should there be any ' but ' ? 
 Do not, you cannot, be so cruel as to 
 refuse." 
 
 " Well," said Ethel, " supposing I do, not 
 because I am the least afraid of Madame 
 d'Erfort, you understand, but just to oblige 
 you, since you are foolish enough to care, — 
 how is it to be done ? What excuse can I 
 make to M. de Saint-Hilaire ? You must 
 take it all upon yourself, Count O'Neil, and 
 get me out of the difficulty." 
 
 The young man looked profoundly- 
 thoughtful. After all, it was a serious busi- 
 ness, and not to be so lightly despatched as 
 Ethel seemed to think. 
 
 " It will come better from yourself," he 
 said at last. " If I were to interfere openly, 
 Saint-Hilaire might consider it an affront. 
 The consequences might be terrible. 
 Heaven only knows what would be the 
 result." 
 
 " A duel perhaps. Are you afraid ? " 
 and Ethel's dark eyes opened wide. 
 
 " Afraid I " And the fiery young man 
 colored angrily, — so angrily that she felt 
 quite ashamed of her unworthy little taunt. 
 
 " Come, you know that I am only jest- 
 ing," she said soothingly. " But I hate 
 fudging ; and we have been fudging over 
 this silly business for this last naif-hour. 
 I will settle it somehow with M. de Saint- 
 Hilaire, to obliM you," she concluded with 
 a gracious little nod, which magically ap- 
 peased O'Neil. 
 
 " I would gladly fight a hundred duels 
 for your sake," he whispered in her ear, — 
 an observation to which Ethel found it 
 more convenient to feign deafness than to 
 reply. 
 
 However, she kept her word, and threw 
 over the duke, — an act which not a single 
 other woman in the room would have per- 
 petrated. History does not record what 
 means she adopted to gain her end ; but, at 
 all events, they were successful, for Saint- 
 Hilaire, though much astonished, was not 
 offended. Perhaps he had already re- 
 pented of his temporary infidelity to Mar 
 dame d'Erfort, and was not sorry to be free 
 to return to his allegiance to her ; or per- 
 haps he considered that English eccen- 
 tricity explained every thing. The former 
 hypothesis is most probable, since Madame 
 d'Erfort occupied the place of honor as his 
 partner in the cotillon which Ethel had 
 vacated ; and she, — of course, she danced 
 it with O'Neil. 
 
 The young man was elated and delighted 
 and grateful, — touchingly, enthusiastical- 
 ly grateful ; and his mother, who was a 
 clever woman, and who was with interest 
 watching the threads of the game which 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 17 
 
 her son was playing, thought it looked a 
 promising little game of which the begin- 
 nings at least were most auspicious. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 ~]^T"EXT day, as Ethel and her father were 
 1 \ sitting in the sun, and listening to the 
 baron's gossip, and to the band which was 
 playing in the public gardens, Christine 
 Delneuve, passing by with her mother, 
 joined the little group. 
 
 " And so you are lancde,'' she said, ad- 
 dressing Ethel in her usual abrupt fashion. 
 " The impatient bird has escaped from its 
 cage. I heard of you last night at the 
 Saint-Hilaires'." 
 
 " Did you ? I was looking out for you.'' 
 
 "A useless labor. That is not our 
 monde. But a gay young cousin of mine 
 was there, and told me of your success. 
 Receive my congratulations, mademoiselle," 
 Christine said gayly. 
 
 " Not your monde t What do you mean 
 by that ? " Ethel laughed with a blush, and 
 a laugh at the compEment. 
 
 " Mon Dieu ! 1 mean what I say. We 
 are neither lively enough nor rich enough 
 for it. Madame de Saint-Hilaire is utterly 
 unconscious of the existence even of such 
 slow folk as we." 
 
 "Slow! but is she fast, then?" Ethel 
 inquired a little uneasily. 
 
 " Heavens I don't look so solemn. Every- 
 body is fast at Nice, more or less, — every- 
 body, that is, who is anybody. But may I 
 not present you to my mother, mademoi- 
 selle ? " 
 
 Madame Delneuve was a gentle, quiet 
 woman, with an anxious, patient face, which 
 now smiled kindly upon Ethel. " You 
 have been filling Christine's head-ever since 
 she met you the other night," she told her. 
 
 " Have I ? And I, too, have thought of 
 her, madame. " 
 
 " Charitably, or uncharitably, which ? " 
 Christine inquired, laughing. '"But you 
 have not yet made up your mind on the 
 subject, — confess, mademoiselle, that is it. 
 By the way, how is our friend the hand- 
 some count ? " 
 
 In vain Ethel tried to look unconscious. 
 " I mean Count O'Neil, of course," Chris- 
 tine galloped on. " His mother chaperoned 
 you last night ; did she not ? " 
 
 "You know every thing apparently," 
 Ethel observed. 
 
 " To be sure. We are in a nest of gossip, 
 2 
 
 and there is no such thing as a secret at 
 Nice. Well, you could not have a better 
 chaperon thai^ Madame In Comtesse ; for 
 for her son's sake, if not for her own, she 
 has the entree to all the fashionable salons." 
 
 Ethel could not resist a thrust. " So you 
 French girls do know a thing or two, after 
 all," she said a little maliciously. 
 
 Christine laughed, and shrugged her 
 shoulders ; and her mother sighed. " Don't 
 mind Christine, mademoiselle," she said : 
 " she is not half so wise as she pretends, 
 nor does she always mean what she says. 
 She is a spoilt child." 
 
 " Of yours, mother, if not of fortune's," 
 Christine put in with a sudden softness of 
 voice and manner. Then she turned to 
 Ethel, " You mean that I am not so inno- 
 cent or so ingenuous as ces demoiselles. 
 But you see there is a ilifference : I am 
 twenty-six, and a person of experience, — 
 of great experience," she repeated with a 
 short and not quite comfortable little laugh. 
 
 " Of great experience ! " said her mother 
 with a smile, and gently sti'oking her daugh- 
 ter's head. " Poor little girl 1 " she added 
 with a sort of sad, tender pleasantry. 
 
 Ethel looked curiously at the pair. 
 Around them was a busy hum of conver- 
 sation^ The band was playing a noisy 
 milftary march. Within a yard, the old 
 baron was revelling over some tid-bit of 
 scandal," and Col. Mildmay was listening 
 with languid indifference. Across the road, 
 the blue, limpid waters were making a music 
 of their own. But, in tht! midst of all this 
 pleasant brightness and gayety, a shadow 
 seemed suddenly to have crept over the two 
 Frenchwomen, and, for a minute or two, 
 they were thoughtful and silent. 
 
 But only for a minute. Just as Ethel 
 was wondering what the cause of it could 
 be, Christine's face brightened ; and, with 
 true French lightness of heart, she was 
 herself again, and rattling away as volubly 
 as before. " Come," she said, " it is too fine 
 a day for any thing but pleasant souvenirs. 
 Though I look strong," she explained in an 
 off-hand way to Ethel, " I have been very 
 ill, and am only now getting to be quite 
 myself again; and illness, as you know, 
 leaves traces behind, and-is apt to affect 
 one's spirits. What were we talking about ? 
 Ah I your gayeties. You do not know what 
 is before you : in a week you will be swal- 
 lowed up in a vortex. ] t is I who tell you 
 so. Now that you know Madame de Saint- 
 Hilaire, and that the Comtesse O'Neil has 
 adopted you " — 
 
 " But she has not ado]ited me." 
 
 " We shall see ; we shall see. By the 
 way, I may as well give you a piece of in- 
 
18 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 formation. It is doubtful, to say the least 
 ot it, that the count is the great heir which 
 the Nice world chooses to take for granted 
 that he is. There are two sides to the 
 story, and another claimant to the property. 
 There I be grateful for the warning," she 
 added with a laugh. 
 
 " 1 do not acknowledge any particular 
 cause for gratitude," Ethel replied sharply. 
 " It is a matter of perfect indifference to me." 
 Col. Mildmay was rising at the mo- 
 ment, complaining of the heat of the sun. 
 " Shall we get into the carriage, love ? " he 
 proposed to his daughter; and she was not 
 sorry to assent. 
 
 Christine gave her a keen look as they 
 shook hands. " I have offended you, 1 
 know I have," she said ; " but how ? " 
 
 " You have not offended me, — not in the 
 least," Ethel protested. " Only don't sup- 
 pose me to be quite so mercenary as you — 
 you French people seem to be," she added, 
 laughing. 
 
 ''I deserve that," Christine acknowl- 
 edged ; " and I beg your pardon. Prove 
 that you have granted it by promising to 
 come to see us ; that is to say, if you have 
 time, and can remember in the midst of all 
 your gayeties." 
 
 " Of course I shall have time ; of course 
 I shall remember," Ethel protested ; and 
 Christine thanked her with a little incredu- 
 lous smile, which made her the more de- 
 termined to keep her promise. 
 
 Part, at least, of Mademoiselle Delneuve's 
 prediction turned out to be correct : Ma- 
 dame de Saint-Hilaire's ball was, in fact, for 
 Ethel, the signal of quite a steeple-chase of 
 amusements and pleasures. It was the car- 
 nival ; and, as everybody knows, the carnival 
 in Nice is only another name for a sort of 
 temporary insanity which seems to seize 
 indiscriminately upon all — young and old, 
 grave and gay — who have the strength and 
 will to enjoy it. Day and night, the race 
 goes on, with as little intermission of repose 
 as nature absolutely requires ; and the 
 knowledge that the holiday is a short one, 
 and that it is to be followed by the enforced, 
 comparative quiet of Lent, enables most 
 people to go through an amount of fatigue, 
 of which, were the season a longer one, 
 they would be quite incapable. Ethel was 
 young, and, moreover, she was strong : at 
 all events, she was indefatigable ; and night 
 after niiht, and day after day, she dressed 
 and danced and flirted, flitting, under Ma- 
 dame O'Neil's ever willing chaperonage, 
 from one gay gathering to another, till she 
 was fairly exhausted both in mind and 
 body, and till her head was nearly, if not 
 entirely, turned by the new regime of ad- 
 
 miration and flattery to which she was sub- 
 jected. 
 
 It was all very pleasant and delightful. 
 Any young girl would have enjoyed it as 
 keenly as did Ethel, and be, as she was, a 
 little intoxicated by the atmosphere into 
 which she had been so suddenly transplant- 
 ed. It was a great and abrupt change. 
 For the last eighteen months, ever since she 
 was supposed to be grown up, and to have 
 escaped from governesses' hands, her fa- 
 ther's health had been failing, and their 
 life necessarily secluded and quiet. Her 
 home had been a happy one, and of it she 
 had been the petted darling and absolute 
 queen ; but it had been retired and monoto- 
 nous. Of balls and parties she knew little 
 or nothing ; and her experience of gayety 
 and of the world's pleasures had been con- 
 fined to a few mild croquet-parties and af- 
 ternoon teas. 
 
 And now they had come upon her with 
 a rush. Suddenly she found herself court- 
 ed, admired, flattered. All at once she 
 made the wonderful discovery that she was 
 pretty, attractive, fascinating, — at least that 
 people found her so, and told her so too ; 
 for in foreign society compliments are more 
 volubly and openly spoken than at home. 
 Day after day, she listened to sweet speech- 
 es, — none the less sweet in her inexperi- 
 enced ears because they were sometimes fool- 
 ish and extravagant. Day after day, too, 
 Count O'Neil's handsome eyes became 
 more eloquent, and his manner more ardent. 
 No wonder, then, that what between lover 
 and admirers, and dancing and flirting, and 
 late hours, and providing the necessary toi- 
 lets tor the various occasions for which 
 they were needed, Ethel had but little time 
 to think about, or even to see, facts which 
 were, nevertheless, clear as noonday. 
 
 To-day, for instance, she might have seen 
 that her father was looking wretchedly pale 
 and ill ; and she might have observed that 
 his invalid habits were becoming more and 
 more confirmed ; that he was weaker and 
 more languid, and in lower spirits, than he 
 had been a fortnight ago. The kind old 
 baron was with him, paying his daily visit, 
 which never failed now. The day was cold, 
 though bright, and the colonel was afraid 
 of venturing out ; but Ethel was going for 
 a walk, '• to recover her roses," her father 
 said, with a loving anxious look at her face, 
 which two or three successive nights of dis- 
 sipation had robbed of its color. 
 
 " They are but a little faded. The fresh 
 air will make them bloom again more beau- 
 tiful than ever," the baron, who never lost 
 the opportunity of making a gallant speech, 
 observed. 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 19 
 
 Ethel laughed gayly. She was young, 
 and confident enough to feel no anxiety on 
 the subject. 
 
 " I think that I will go to see Madame 
 Delneuve and her daughter," she an- 
 nounced. " It is ten days or more since I 
 promised to call upon them, and I have 
 never gone yet. What a wretch I am, to 
 be sure ! " 
 
 " Poor little Christine ! " said the baron 
 good-naturedly. " Do go, mademoiselle, by 
 all means, and brighten up those two poor 
 women a little." 
 
 "Brighten them up? Do they require 
 to be brightened up, baron? I am sure 
 that Christine is unhappy 1 " she exclaimed, 
 all at once remembering the little episode 
 of the other day. 
 
 " Hum 1 " said the baron ; " to be sure she 
 is unhappy, since she is not married. But 
 we will remedy that, never fear. I have 
 got my eye on the futur. One husband 
 does as well as another, in the admirable 
 order of Providence and of young ladies' 
 hearts, God be praised for it ! " he concluded 
 devoutly. 
 
 Ethel was nearly choking ; but she was 
 curious too. 
 
 " Has Mademoiselle Delneuve had a — 
 disappointment, then ? " she inquired eager- 
 ly- 
 
 " A disappointment I To be sure, since 
 she is five and twenty, and still unmarried. 
 But what know I of such matters ? Do 
 young ladies make confidences to old sinners 
 like me, who believe in nothing, — not even 
 in love ? Come now, mademoiselle 1 Would 
 you, under the circumstances, make a father 
 confessor of me ? " he inquired gayly. 
 
 Soon, we may be sure, Ethel had wormed 
 it all out of him, — all that there was 
 to extract. A commonplace little story 
 enough, — a young girl, and a false and 
 fickle lover, and blighted affections, and the 
 old, old rigmarole of a story which is as 
 ancient as the world itself. 
 
 " In England you do not think much of 
 these trifles, I am aware," proceeded the 
 baron with some sly malice. " The hearts 
 of you British maidens are fabricated out 
 of some strong, tough material, and can, 
 without injurious consequences, stand sev- 
 eral little shocks of the sort. With you, 
 besides, public opinion tolerates such things, 
 while with us it does not. In France, a 
 fiancee who does not in due time become a 
 maride, is a marked girl. Men fight shy of 
 her. Her mother finds her heavy on hands, 
 — difS-Cult to dispose of. Then misfortunes 
 never come alone. Her father, who, entre 
 nous, was a mauvais sujet, and a perpetual 
 thorn in his wife's side, selected the moment 
 
 to die, leaving his aifairs in disgaceful 
 confusion. The poor creatures suffered 
 much. Christine, /lOMr comble de malheur, 
 fell ill of what romantic people call a broken 
 heart. Luckily, a friend or two remained. 
 One of them, chancing to hear that the 
 doctors considered change of scene and 
 climate the girl's best chance, sent her and 
 her mother to Nice last year, and was so 
 pleased with the experiment that he repeated 
 it this year. As you see, it has succeeded 
 perfectly. The girl is as strong — as wf 11 
 as ever. Not only that. A remedy for the 
 heart-disease has been found as well : at 
 least, I hope it has. In these matters one 
 must never be premature. One must be 
 cautious and prudent. However, I may 
 say," concluded the old gentleman with a 
 reflective nod, "that I hope that I touch 
 with my finger the right man at last." 
 
 Even Col. Mildmay laughed heartily. 
 
 Ethel, however, still looked scornful. 
 " And so Mademoiselle Delneuve is allowing 
 herself to be consoled,"she observed shortly.. 
 
 " Pooh, pooh ! my dear young lady ; and j. 
 why should she not ? Ah ! you see with the 
 eyes of eighteen ; but wait till — But I 
 must not reveal a young lady's age." 
 
 " I know Christine's age ; and, when I am 
 five or six and twenty myself, 1 will hold 
 just the same opinion as I do now," Ethel 
 asserted stoutly. 
 
 The baron shrugged his shoulders, and 
 laughed, — a cynical laugh. "It all de- 
 pends," he said. "If the first man you 
 happen to fall in love with be the right 
 man, well and good. Marry him by all 
 means, and swear that one can love but 
 once. But, if he is the wrong man, my 
 dear young lady " — 
 
 But Ethel put her hands to her ears, and 
 declared that she would not listen to him. 
 " I will not argue the question with you," 
 she said. " As you say yourself, you are a 
 sceptic, and do not believe in love at all, 
 whether it be for the right or the wrong 
 person. Au revoir, baron I Good-by, papa ! 
 lamofi'!" 
 
 But the baron detained her. " I retract 
 that sentiment, if I ever expressed it," he 
 protested. " When I hear of all the hearts 
 which your sweet eyes have wounded, Miss 
 Ethel, I am forced into faith in spite of 
 myself Only this morning, a young man 
 of my acquaintance" — 
 
 But Ethel, with a laugh and a conscious 
 blush, had made her escape from the room ; 
 and the baron's gallant speech was inter- 
 rupted midway. 
 
 He did not, we may be sure, complete it 
 for the colonel's benefit ; but, unfinished as 
 it was, its meaning was clear enough. 
 
20 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 " Who is this fooUsh young man to whom 
 you allude, baron?" he inquired with 
 assumed carelessness, ailer a moment's 
 pause. 
 
 " Mon Dieu ! there are shoals of them. 
 Everybody admires your charming daugh- 
 ter, colonel." 
 
 The colonel looked delighted, but depre- 
 cating. " She is a pretty little thing ; 
 though notliing so wonderful, after all, 
 baron. Is she so much admired really ? " 
 he inquired with a proud smile. 
 
 " Indeed, yes. I wish you could accom- 
 pany her at least once into society, and see 
 for yourself." 
 
 " Impossible, quite impossible I " said the 
 colonel with a short sigh. " I should not be 
 able — I am not able for any thing." 
 
 " No, of course not, — not yet ; but you 
 soon will be," said his kind old friend 
 consolingly. " Don't lose heart, colonel 1 
 Meanwhile you have the best chaperon in 
 the world for mademoiselle. Madame 
 O'Neil is a thorough woman of the world, 
 a charming person." 
 
 " Yes ; but — I do not like to give her the 
 trouble of" — 
 
 " Bah I my dear fellow. It is a pleasure 
 and pride, instead of a trouble " — 
 
 " Besides, I — I wish that 1 knew more of 
 tiiese O'Neils,'' said the colonel uneasily. 
 
 " The comte is to be a millionnaire one 
 day. He is looked upon as the greatest 
 parti in Nice. His family is ancient, noble ; " 
 and the baron gave him a look which said, 
 " And what more do you want 7 " 
 
 " Well, and how, do he and Ethel get on ? " 
 inquired Col. Mildmay lightly. 
 
 " Ask mademoiselle. I am not going 
 to tell tales out of school," said the baron, 
 laughing. " Seriously, though, colonel, it 
 seems to me that he is smitten." 
 
 " What a match-maker you are, to be 
 sure ! " said the colonel, with slightly-con- 
 temptuous carelessness. But, for all that, he 
 betrayed himself the next moment. "I 
 knew some relations of theirs once ; and I 
 have written, —just to make inquiries, you 
 know, baron. 'The letter may never reach ; 
 but it was as well to " — And then, per- 
 ceiving that a faint shadow of amusement 
 was lurking round the corners of the baron's 
 mouth, he broke off, and abruptly changed 
 the conversation. 
 
 Ethel's visit was in vain. Madame Del- 
 neuve and her daughter were out. Thought- 
 fully, perhaps even a little sadly, she turned 
 homewards again. Christine's story, like 
 the one, which, the other day, her father 
 had told her of his own first love, was ring- 
 ing in her ears with a melancholy twang. 
 Was it true, then, — was it really true, that 
 
 the world was filled with the graves of 
 these lost and wasted loves ? — that we are 
 constan^tly and unconsciously treading upon 
 the faded, perfumeless, and dead flowers 
 and leaves of what were once vigorous and 
 living plants of affection ? 
 
 The thought pained her : she could not 
 bear it; she put it away from her with 
 a shudder, — no such difficult matter. The 
 world was laughing beneath a blaze of sun- 
 shine. There were no signs of sorrow or 
 mourning around. Nice is essentially a 
 gay place, notwithstanding the hosts of 
 invalids who throng there year after year 
 to die. For the most part, they are invisi- 
 ble : at all events, they are overlooked and 
 forgotten in the midst of the lively, busy 
 crowd. Ethel was soon swallowed up in it, 
 and as merry and as thoughtless as her 
 neighbors. She had met Madame O'Neil 
 by chance, and Madame O'Neil had insisted 
 upon a stroll up and down the Promenade. 
 
 " But papa will be waiting for me," 
 Ethel had objected, faintly, it is true, — so 
 faintly, that she had been quickly over- 
 ruled. 
 
 " It is such a lovely afternoon 1 " Madame 
 O'Neil had said ; " and you have got on 
 such a pretty new dress, it would be a pity 
 not to show it ; and your father — ah, the 
 colonel is so good, so kind I he would not 
 have you hurry back for his sake ; I know 
 it well." 
 
 It was a lovely afternoon, and she was 
 well dressed, and the crisp air had fulfilled 
 the baron's prediction, and had already 
 recalled brightness to her cheeks and eyes. 
 Admiring glances were following her ; glad 
 smiles were greeting her. Other causes, 
 too, were contributing, perhaps, to the girl's 
 deepened color and sparkling eyes. Madame 
 O'Neil was improving the rare opportunity 
 of a tete-a-tete, and was singing the song of 
 her son, — of this beloved and incomparable 
 Ernest, who was every thing a mother's 
 heart could desire. He was a young man 
 among a thousand : she who should not say 
 it could yet not help saying it. " Not to 
 speak of his prospects, certain prospects " — 
 And here Midame O'Neil paused, and, 
 giving Ethel a sidelong glance, "A propos," 
 she said with a studied indifference, "do 
 you know, do you happen to have heard, 
 what Ernest's prospects are, dear child ? " 
 
 Then she smiled. Ethel was too sincere, 
 and her face was too honest, to be capable 
 of a deception. She might look, as she did 
 on the present occasion, a little guilty and 
 embarrassed; but the truth would out on 
 all occasions. " Yes, I do know ; I have 
 heard," she answered bluntly, yet with a 
 blush. "But is all they say quite true, 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 21 
 
 madame ? There is some doubt, some diffi- 
 culty ; is there not ? " 
 
 It was now Madame O'Neil's turn to be 
 disconcerted by this frank question. " Ah 1 
 so you know all about it. Our affairs are 
 at your fingers'-ends ; are they V " she said 
 sharply, and with an uncomfortable laugh. 
 
 "I beg your pardon. I do not know 
 any thing, madame," Ethel protested. " I 
 have only heard what rumor says." 
 
 " So your father has not " — Then she 
 interrupted herself: "Dear child, rumor 
 has many tongues. Nevertheless, it is 
 slander to say that it does not oflen speak 
 the truth, — at least, part of it. In the 
 present case, for instance " — 
 
 "But I have no wish — I do not want to 
 intrude, to hear family secrets," Ethel 
 interrupted hastily. 
 
 " And I, on the contrary, am most anxious 
 that they should be no secrets from you. 
 There is, in fact, another claimant to the 
 property to which Ernest is heir ; but his 
 claim is founded upon a chimera, a lie : it 
 exists in the imagination ; and it can never 
 be put forward, since it is incapable of 
 proof. Ernest is as certain of succeeding 
 to his grand-uncle Lord O'Neil's wealth 
 and title, as that the sun is above our heads 
 to-day. Dear child, you may believe me." 
 
 Ethel drew herself up. {'It is nothing 
 to me, madame, of course ; but still, for 
 your sake, I am glad." 
 
 Then she paused. A hasty and familiar 
 step had overtaken them, and Count O'Neil 
 was by her side. 
 
 CHAPTER "VT. 
 
 DIFFIDENCE was not one of the 
 young man's failings^ and he joined 
 the ladies with the air of one who is sure 
 of his welcome. Perhaps he was right. 
 Certainly Miss Mildmay did not look sorry 
 to meet him ; though she laughed saucily at 
 the extravagant compliments with which 
 he greeted her. A laugh was, indeed, her 
 usual reply to his ardent glarifts and sweet 
 speeches. If his devotion disconcerted her 
 now and then, it did not seem much to 
 embarrass her. Madame O'Neil, keenly 
 watching, felt both puzzled and irritated 
 by the girl's slightly-mocking, self-possessed, 
 yet evidently flattered and well-pleased de- 
 meanor. 
 
 Life consists, however, of other things 
 besides the intricate mysteries of love-mak- 
 ing. Presently O'Neil paused in the midst 
 of the delightful occupation of causing 
 
 Ethel to laugh and to sparkle and to blush, 
 and turned to his mother. 
 
 " By the way, I had forgotten ! " he ex- 
 claimed ; " or, rather, mademoiselle had - 
 driven all other thoughts but those of her- 
 self out of my head. Mother, I have a 
 piece of news for you. Just look at what, 
 by chance, I saw in the lisle des etrangers 
 to-day. What a place this Nice is ! AU 
 the ends of the earth seem to meet in it." 
 
 His mother carelessly took the paper 
 which he handed to her, and glanced at 
 the name to which he was pointing. Then 
 she suddenly stood still. "O'Neil!" she 
 exclaimed breathlessly. "Ernest, is it — 
 can it be he ? " 
 
 The young man shrugged his shoulders 
 and laughed. 
 
 " On my word, it looks rather like it," 
 he said. " ' M. et Mme. O'Neil, Rentier, 
 Irlande.' Why, it must be my uncle, of 
 course. I declare I am delighted. Here 
 we are face to face with this unprincipled, 
 ill-behaved uncle at last. And madame — 
 who can madame be ? My ancient and 
 venerable grandmother. But let us trust 
 that he has buried her at last, and that this 
 is his wife. Heaven knows that it is high 
 time he had a wife. Then there will be 
 children, — another heir, — and matters 
 will become inextricably complicated." 
 And O'Neil rattled along as gayly as 
 though the whole business were the best 
 joke in the world. " Let us go call upon 
 them at once, mother. H6tel des Anglais. 
 Just imagine if Madame O'Neil turns out 
 to be a young and lovely bride," he con- 
 cluded enthusiastically. 
 
 But his mother viewed things from an 
 altogether different point of view. 
 
 "What & farceur you are, Ernest I " she % 
 said sharply. " Can you not be serious for 
 a single five minutes of your life ? " 
 
 " For ten, if it did anybody any good. 
 If it were to please you, my mother, I 
 would never laugh again," he assured her 
 dramatically. 
 
 Madame O'Neil was serious enough, at 
 all events. It was evident that the intelli- 
 gence which her son had brought her was 
 a shock, and a very severe one. She was 
 even overcome, — pale and disturbed and 
 strangely altered, all at once. 
 
 " No : it is his mother," she said. " Your 
 uncle will hardly have married. If he had, 
 I should doubtless have heard of the event. 
 Well, let them come, and go too," she added 
 angrily. " Nice is a small place, hardljL 
 large enough to hold usi)oth, I fancy." 
 
 O'Neil was subdued and grave now. Hi» 
 mother's displeasure seemed, in spite o^' 
 himself, to influence him. Perhaps he saw 
 
22 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 surprise in Ethel's eyes ; for the young girl 
 was amazed at the sudden emotion which 
 this usually cold, impassive woman was 
 betraying, and she was looking on at the 
 painful uttle scene with wondering curi- 
 osity. 
 
 " Come," he said, drawing her away : 
 " we will leave my mother alone for a little. 
 She is pained and worried. She will sit and 
 rest herself — will you not, dear mother? 
 — till we return." 
 
 The answer was taken for granted ; and 
 the young people walked on, Ethel nothing 
 loath to cease intrusion upon her friends' 
 concerns. So soon as they were out of 
 hearing, O'Neil seemed to feel it incum- 
 bent on him to offer some explanation. 
 Not a very lucid one, however, did he give. 
 Indeed, he began by a slightly impatient 
 observation, to the effect that " dirty linen 
 ought to be washed in private," and that to 
 him these family differences and disputes 
 were the most wearisome things in the 
 world. Why fate should have burdened 
 him with a scelerat of an uncle was more 
 than he could in the least understand, he 
 protested with a comical mixture of pathos 
 and irritation which made Ethel laugh in 
 spite of herself. 
 
 " But is he a real scelerat ? " she inquired, 
 
 somewhatf awe-struck, in spite of her gayety. 
 
 " Yes : a thorough one," O'Neil assured 
 
 her, waxing warm. " He .is a slanderer, a 
 
 robber, an insulter of my mother's " — 
 
 " O Count O'Neil I what dreadful things 
 you are saying I " 
 
 " Forgive me : I was forgetting myself. 
 These revolting subjects are not fit for your 
 ears. Forgive me," he repeated, looking 
 eloquently into her eyes. " Let us talk of 
 '' something else. My mother's quarrels are, 
 of course, mine ; but I protest that I wish 
 she had no quarrels. I don't think any 
 amount of wealth is worth being compelled 
 to detest one's relations for. I wish the old 
 imbecile and all his money-bags had never 
 been, or were at the bottom of the sea. 
 My own inclination would lead me to pre- 
 fer peace and amity, and a modest suffi- 
 ciency, and — but, of Course, were I to 
 marry, it would be different," he said, sud- 
 denly altering his tone. " Were I to marry, 
 I would desire to possess the wealth of 
 Croesus, that I might have the pleasure of 
 offering it to my wife." 
 
 A sentiment which effectually diverted 
 the course of the conversation from the 
 ^family differences of the O'Neils. They 
 were young and^happy, and they were 
 playing at being in love ; and life was be- 
 tore them, — a bright, interminable vista 
 of pleasant things to come. | 
 
 Presently they had found seats, and had 
 forgotten all about Madame O'Neil, who, 
 poor lady 1 was left to solitary and dis- 
 turbed meditations a little way off; and 
 they, contemplated the blue se'a, and they 
 felt sentimental and spoony, and they spoke 
 in subdued tones, and, in short, they looked 
 and behaved themselves remarkably like a 
 pair of lovers. 
 
 Every thing, however, has an end. The 
 interruption to .this, no doubt, delightful 
 tete-h-iete came but too quickly, — a very 
 abrupt, and by no means a pleasant one. 
 A great Newfoundland A)g, fresh from his 
 bath, suddenly bounded into Ethel's close 
 proximity, shaking violently, and to the 
 great ruin of her tender " toilet," his 
 immense, shaggy body, and, in the most 
 friendly manner, proceeding to lay his big, 
 wet paws upon her knees. Needless to say 
 that considerable excitement ensued. Miss 
 Mildmay was frightened; but that was a 
 lesser evil. Her pret^ new dress was 
 ruined : at least, she thqbght that it was ; 
 seeing which, Ethel, for * moment, nearly 
 lost her temper. As to O'Neil, he quite 
 lost his. In an instant he was on his feet, 
 breathing fire and vengeance, his smart 
 cane raised to inflict summary vengeance 
 upon the offender ; but his arm was caught 
 in the very act, and before the blow fell. 
 
 " Don't strike him, pray I Down, Max I 
 Don't strike him, sir I " the owner of the 
 dog, who had been, unnoticed by the young 
 people, sitting for the last few minutes on 
 the same bench with them, called out in 
 Ei^lish. 
 
 But O'Neil was excited and angry ; and, 
 shaking his arm free, the cane went up 
 again. " The brute must be taught man- 
 ners I " he exclaimed. " He shall not ter- 
 rify a lady another time." 
 
 " Yes, he shall be taught manners, but 
 not by you," said the stranger, again inter- 
 posing to save the dog ; but he did so by 
 receiving the blow on his own arm. The 
 next instant he had wrested the cane out 
 of O'Neil's hands. 
 
 "Down, Max! Behave yourself I" he 
 said, as the dog, who had been cowering 
 beneath the<lxpected punishment, jumped 
 up on him with gleeful and affectionate 
 demonstrations. " There, be off I Get 
 out of the way of any more blows I " he 
 added, half laughing, — a command which 
 the sagaciouA,nimal obeyed with an intelli- 
 gent wag of his tail. 
 
 Then the stranger presented O'Neil with 
 his cane again, but he looked at and sppke 
 to Ethel. " I am sorry for my dog's mis- 
 behavior," he said politely. " I hope he did 
 not frighten you." 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 23 
 
 " The fright is nothing ; but he has 
 spoilt my dress," she replied a little sharp- 
 ly. But she was ashamed of herself the 
 next minute. "It does not signify," she 
 added more sweetly ; " and — and — I am 
 sorry — I hope that you are not hurt ? " 
 she went on, apologetic in her turn, and 
 feeling suddenly ashamed of* the foolish 
 fuss about nothing, and of O'Neil's passion 
 and rudeness. ^ 
 
 " Hurt ! Oh, dear 1 not at all." And 
 O'Neil, cool again now, though chafing 
 under the degradation of having been 
 taken unawares and deprived of his cane, 
 muttered something to the effect that he 
 had meant to strike the dog ; but that, if 
 any satisfaction were required — 
 
 " Oh ! " deprecated Ethel in an agonized 
 tone. '^Pray say no more about it! It 
 does not matter in the least. It was all 
 my fault." And her face was ludicrous in 
 its extreme dismay. 
 
 The stranger laughed. " Do not alarm 
 yourself," he said : " I am not of a blood- 
 thirsty disposition, and your friend's expla- 
 nation is quite sufficient. Here is my card, 
 sir, however, in case you wish to hear any 
 more of either me or my dog. Perhaps 
 you would like to summon us for — for 
 injury to a lady's dress," he said, looking at 
 Ethel again. "I hope that it is not really 
 seriously injured," he added anxiously, with 
 a glance at the pretty dress. 
 
 " Oh, no I it is nothing," Ethel assured 
 him with one of her beaming smiles. 
 And then the stranger whistled to his dog, 
 lifled his hat, and wished them both 
 " Good-morning ! " 
 
 When he was fairly gone, Ethel and 
 O'Neil looked at one another a little fool- 
 ishly. After aU, it had been rather an 
 absurd little episode ; and now, in the light 
 of calm reflection, it wore the aspect of a 
 storm in a teakettle. What had it been all 
 about ? About a few stains upon a silk 
 dress, which were even now almost faded, 
 and which would not, it appeared, inflict 
 permanent injury. 
 
 " He must think us a pair of fools," Miss 
 Mildmay observed half crossly, half dis- 
 consolately, breaking the silence first, — a 
 remark in which O'Neil agreed too fully 
 to be able to contradict. 
 
 But all disagreeable misgivings were cut 
 short in an instant. The next moment, 
 Ethel believed that her companion had 
 suddenly parted with his senses. He sank 
 back on the bench, clasping his forehead 
 wildly, and looking as if he had been shot. 
 
 " My goodness ! What is the matter ? 
 what has h£*t)pened ? " Ethel cried in great 
 alarm. 
 
 O'Neil was blankly gazing at the card 
 which had just been given him ; and now 
 he handed it to her in silence. She could 
 hardly believe her eyes. 'On it were 
 written the magical words, — 
 
 " Mr. O'Neil, 
 
 Hotel des Anglais.'' 
 
 Needless to say, after this discovery, 
 Ethel's one anxiety was to md her friends 
 of the gene of her companyTS© much, too, 
 for her own sake as for theiij. The day 
 had been an eventful one ; and she wanted 
 to be al(|ne, and to think over it all. For 
 the first time in her life, it had brought her 
 face to face with that, to youth, delightful 
 episode, — a stirring, thrilling mystery. 
 These O'Neils were, one and all of them, 
 a mystery. Madame O'Neil's sudden and 
 angry emotion was mysterious; her son's 
 guarded reticence on the subject of the 
 family quarrel was mysterious ; and 
 crowning mystery of all was this hand- 
 some, well-bred uncle, whom such an odd 
 chance had, for the first time to-day, 
 brought across his unknown nephew's patb. 
 In short. Miss Mildmay felt as though a 
 new and thrilling page of life were being 
 opened to her amazed eyes ; and, as these 
 new and thrilling pages are likely to make 
 us forget such commonplace facts as hours, 
 it is not astonishing that she was a little 
 late for dinner that evening. So entirely, 
 indeed, had recent events put such sublu- 
 nary matters out of her mind, that, long 
 after she had been left by her friends at 
 the gate of the Villa Balbi, she remained 
 wandering about the picturesque, uncared- 
 for garden, in a sort of dream-mood, rehears- 
 ing in her mind all that she had been see- 
 ing and hearing, her brain busy inventing 
 theories and explanations, and so absorbed 
 that she was oblivious of the passing-away 
 of time. 
 
 Such an evening as it was ! — an ideal 
 evening even amongst the beautiful even- 
 ings of Nice. The air crisp and clear; 
 the earth sweetly smelling of lowly, 
 unseen violets, of orange and lemon 
 groves, of a wild profusion of aromatic 
 shrubs and plants, of the fast-coming 
 spring, which was all but ready to burst 
 into me, and, with its magic touch, to con- 
 vert it into a garden of paradise. And the 
 sky, — such a pale, tender sky I Such 
 graceful clouds tinged with a hundred 
 shades I Such a blinding flood of orange 
 light fading in the west into delicate pinks 
 and greens and violets, such as are both the 
 delight and despair of an artist's eye 1 
 and the big, bright stars one by one tak- 
 
24 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 ing thtiir appointed places, and sparkling 
 like diamonds in a bed of wonderful color I 
 and then the glistening, unruffled sea, and 
 the purple mountains, and distant peaks of 
 crimsoned snow, pointing like fingers from 
 earth to heaven ! — ah 1 these ai-e things 
 which we cannot describe, but only feel ; and 
 before which one bows down, confounded, 
 overwhelmed, and enchanted all at once. 
 
 Ethel, for one, felt something of all this. 
 By degrees, and insensibly, the excited 
 dreams. of the last few weeks, the anxious 
 rivalries, the petty triumphs, the gratified 
 vanities, even the all-absorbing O'Neil mys- 
 tery, faded from her mind, and af sudden 
 feeling of disgust and self-reproach came to 
 her, How changed she seemed to have 
 become ! how seltengrossed and silly, and 
 unkind and neglectful I — unkind and neg- 
 lectful to her own father too ; forgetful 
 of his wishes, impatient of his company, 
 unsympathizing with his sufferings. Ah I 
 Nature was preaching to her then, as it 
 often does to all of us, a more eloquent 
 sermon than words, and, with her serene 
 and thi'illing beauties, was whispering a 
 heart-lesson to which it was impossible to 
 turn a deaf and careless ear. 
 
 One little simple leSson she whispered to 
 Ethel just then. The sun had disappeared ; 
 the sky was deepening with the coming 
 night. Dinner must be waiting, and, for 
 dinner, her father. From the sublime to 
 the ridiculous 1 Ethel herself actually be- 
 came conscious of an appetite, and hurried 
 towards the house with a sudden eagerness. 
 On the terrace she met the servant starting 
 in search for her. It was very late. The 
 colonel was uneasy, and had ordered him 
 to go and make inquiries at Madame 
 O'Neil's house. 
 
 Ashamed and confused, Ethel hastened 
 to the drawing-room ; but, when she opened 
 the door, her protestations and excuses died 
 away on her lips. 
 
 A big dog, which had been lying on the 
 rug, jumped up with a friendly, familiar 
 bark, at the sound of which, a gentleman, 
 seated near her father's sofa, rose suddenly, 
 and, seeing her, stared at her blankly. 
 Ethel gave him his change, and stared too ; 
 but she was not so astonished as he was. 
 The dog was Max, and the gentleman was 
 Max's master. 
 
 Col. Mildmay introduced her. "This 
 is Ethel," he said shortly, but with a glance 
 and smile which told who Ethel was. 
 
 And then they shook hands ; and Mr. 
 O'Neil told her that he was very glad to 
 see her " again," he said meaningly. " But 
 are you red.ly Miss Mildmay? " he inquired, 
 looking at her with an incredulous smile. 
 
 " Yes, I really am myself," she answered, 
 laughing. 
 
 It took a few minutes to elucidate mat- 
 ters, and to satisfy Col. Mildmay's curi- 
 osity. Mr. O'Neil related the history 
 of the famous encoiinter; despatched it 
 quickly and rather carelessly Ethel noticed 
 with a slight sense of mortification, as 
 though it were a small business, already 
 half forgotten. The only matter which 
 seemed to have left any impression on his 
 ^nd was the damage done to the dress. 
 
 " How are the stains ? " he inquired. " I 
 assure you. Miss Mildmay, that, though I 
 saved Max from your — your friend's ven- 
 geance, I gave him a great lecture myself. 
 Look at him I He is quite well aware that 
 he behaved very badly, and has promised 
 never to do it again. Won't you forgive 
 him this time, before I turn him out of the 
 room; for he knows very well that he has 
 no business to be in a lady's drawing-room 
 without her leave ? " 
 
 " Oh 1 he may remain. Please let him 
 remain. Of course, I have forgiven him 
 long ago," Ethel protested. And, to prove 
 that her forgiveness was sincere, she Iknelt 
 down by the dog, and put her arm round 
 his neck, and pinched his jetty ears with 
 her small white hand. They made a pretty 
 picture, the girl and the dog ; and, luckily, 
 Ethel was quite unconscious that her father 
 and Mr. O'Neil were both contemplating 
 it with smiling, well-pleased eyes. Her 
 thoughts were otherwise engaged. 
 
 "By the way, you did not know your 
 nephew just now, Mr. O'Neil," she said, 
 suddenly looking up at him. "What an 
 odd chance it was that made you meet 
 him I " 
 
 " My nephew, who — pray whom do you 
 mean ? " Mr. O'Neil inquired, looking mys- 
 tified. 
 
 " Count O'Neil, to be sure. Your nephew." 
 " Is it possible ? Do you mean to say — 
 He is not my nephew, though," he added 
 quickly. 
 
 " Not your nephew 1 " 
 " Do you mean to say that it was really 
 he,'' proceeded Mr. O'Neil, without heed- 
 ing her. " Well, it is an odd chance cer- 
 tainly." 
 
 Then he laughed. " And to think that 
 we might actually have fought a duel, and 
 about you. Miss Mildmay, — about your 
 dress. You know that you were greatly 
 alarmed, and afraid that we really did mean 
 to fight ; were you not? " 
 
 "Count O'Neil was quite ready, I am 
 sure," Ethel replied, flushing up angrily 
 beneath his raillery. 
 But at this, not only Mr. O'Neil. but her 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 25 
 
 father, laughed too. " Come, come, you silly 
 child I let us hope that he is not such a 
 fool," Col. Mildmay said, patting her fair 
 head as she still knelt on the floor. 
 
 And then, luckily for Ethel's dignity, 
 dinner was announced, and no more was 
 said about the duel. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 " /^'NEIL has kindly consented to stay 
 W for dinner, Ethel," Col. Mildmay 
 told his dauochter ; and there was nothing 
 left for Miss Mildmay to do but to accept 
 Mr. O'Neil's proifered arm, and to allow 
 herself to be led into the dining-room. 
 
 It was an uncomfortable meal : at least 
 Ethel found it so ; and, in a party of three, 
 it is difficult for one to be ill at ease, with- 
 out making the two others feel ill at ease 
 too. 
 
 It must be confessed that Ethel did not 
 do the honors of her father's table particu- 
 larly well that evening. She was silent, 
 Unstrained, stiff, ungracious even. All 
 her guest's efforts could hardly win a smile 
 from her. He tried to amuse her, but 
 failed : he tried to interest her, but was re- 
 pulsed. She would not for a single instant 
 allow herself to forget that Count O'Neil 
 had called him a " villain," and that, for 
 some mysterious reason or other, he was the 
 natural enemy of her friends. 
 
 So Mr. O'Neil gave it up at last, and de- 
 voted himself to her father. Ethel was 
 thankful when the meal was over, and she 
 was at liberty to make her escape, and to 
 
 Euzzle out her perplexities, and to indulge 
 er meditations in solitude. Not another 
 word had been dropped about Count O'Neil 
 all through dinner. Whether through acci- 
 dent or design, the conversation had been 
 confined to general subjects, and not a 
 single allusion to family affairs made. Mr. 
 O'Seil had talked of his mother, and Ethel 
 had been made aware that she was travel- 
 ling with him; but no other member of 
 this strange family had been mentioned; 
 and Ethel's curiosity was keener and more 
 at a loss than ever. 
 
 And keener and keener it was destined 
 to grow. The fact was, that the girl was 
 rather to be pitied that evening, and fate 
 treated her with some unkindness. It was 
 one of the very few evenings upon which 
 she was not going out; there being no 
 great temptation contrariwise, she had made 
 up her mind to be a dutiful daughter, and 
 
 to devote it to her father. She had been 
 quite looking forward to it, and had meant 
 to make it a pleasant evening for him, — as, 
 indeed, she knew very well that she could, 
 — to read to him, to talk to him, to play 
 chess with him, to sing to him, — any thing, 
 every thing ; in short, to have one of the old 
 dull, happy tete-h-tete evenings again. 
 
 But " Man proposes, and God disposes." 
 Here were all her loving anticipations 
 put at nought, and her dutiful services dis- 
 pensed with. Of all evenings it was the 
 most unfortunate one she could have chosen 
 for her little piece of self-sacrifice, if sacri- 
 fice it was. Hour after hour went by ; and 
 Ethel was left alone in the drawing-room, 
 while her father and his friend remained 
 over their wine and coffee in the diniig- 
 room. 
 
 It was certainly provoking. The clock 
 struck eight and half-past eight, and nine 
 and half- past nine, even ten ; and still, 
 though Ethel had sent to remind them that 
 tea was ready, they never came. She 
 heard the subdued sounds of their voices 
 through the closed doors, scarcely pausing 
 for an instant, but that was all ; and the 
 reflection that most probably the conversa- 
 tion related to the very subject on which of 
 all others she was burning to be enlightened, 
 and that the famous mystery was, in all 
 likelihood, under discussion, did not, we 
 may be sure, tend to lessen her sense of 
 exasperation and aggravation. 
 
 At last, at ten o'clock, her patience fairly 
 worn out, she made up her mind that she 
 would wait no longer, but go to bed ; and 
 at that very moment the door was opened, 
 and the two gentlemen made their appear- 
 ance. 
 
 Mr. O'Neil had only come to say good- 
 night. " I am afraid that I have tired your 
 famer out. Miss Mildmay," he said, shaking 
 hands. " The time went so quickly, that I 
 had no notion that it was so late." And then 
 he told her that he must run away. " My 
 mother is old and fanciful, and will imagine 
 all sorts of misfortunes if I am late." 
 
 " We will call upon Mrs. O'Neil to- 
 morrow," Col. Mildmay said : " at what hour 
 shall we be Ukely to find her 'i Two, or 
 half-past, I suppose ? " 
 
 " At any hour that suits you, my mother 
 would be very glad to make your acquaint- 
 ance," he said to Ethel. 
 
 But Miss Mildmay's principles would not 
 allow her to give any thing but a short 
 reply to this. Her father had, by his eager- 
 ness, to make up for her frigidity. 
 
 "We will certainly call to-morrow. I 
 am most anxious that Ethel should know 
 Mrs. O'Neil," he said warmly, and giving 
 
26 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 his daughter a surprised, almost displeased 
 look. And then Mr. O'Neil said good- 
 night, and departed. 
 
 " Well, papa ? " inquired Ethel, so soon as 
 the door had closed behind him. 
 
 " Well, dear ? " and he lay back on the 
 sofa and closed his eyes, which was more 
 than mortal forbearance could stand. 
 
 " Oh, but, papa ; please tell me ! " Ethel 
 entreated, coming over and kneeling down 
 by his side. 
 
 " Tell you what, love ? Oh ! about O'Neil. 
 It is odd, is it not, how things turn out ? I 
 believe that you know that I wrote to his 
 mother about a fortnight or three weeks 
 ago. I wrote to their Irish address ; but the 
 letter was sent to them to Mentone, where 
 they had been within an hour or two of us 
 for the last six weeks. Now they have 
 come to stay at Nice for a little ; and Mr. 
 O'Neil very kindly brought me the answer 
 to my letter himself to-day." 
 
 " And " — inquired Ethel as he paused. 
 
 " And I am very glad that you should 
 know them, dear. They are the oldest 
 friends I have," replied the uncommunica- 
 tive colonel. 
 
 " But how can I know them on account 
 of the other O'Neils, papa, since they are 
 not friends ? " 
 
 " Oh ! " and Col. MUdmay was silent : then 
 he said, " It is unpleasant and rather awk- 
 ward certainly ; but these things will hap- 
 pen, and they must be made the best of. I 
 do not wish you to be guilty of any rude- 
 ness, Ethel. There are two ways of doing 
 every thing ; and a clever girl like you will 
 always select the right way. By degrees, 
 and with a little tact, you can manage to 
 see less of Madame O'Neil without mortally 
 affronting her ; can you not, love ? In fact, 
 I may as well tell you at once that the 
 acquaintance is not a peculiarly desirable 
 one, and the sooner it is dropped the better." 
 
 Ethel jumped to her feet, flushing crim- 
 son. " I'll do nothing of the sort I " she 
 exclaimed vehemently. "I am not going 
 to give up my friends for the sake of — at 
 the first slanderous word which that horrid 
 Mr. O'Neil chooses to say of them. Papa, 
 what a shame I Surely, you could not 
 expect me to do such a mean, unkind 
 thing^? " 
 
 " Ethel I " And Col. Mildmay rose too, 
 and looked at her in amazement. For the 
 first time in their lives, father and daughter 
 stood confronting one another, angry and 
 excited. It was a painful and not easily-to- 
 be-forgotten moment. Col. Mildmay was 
 the first to recover himself. 
 
 " I am sorry that I was so abrupt," he 
 said. " It is unfortunate ; but — but, after 
 
 all, you cannot care so very much, dear," 
 he added with a half-smile: "you know 
 Madame O'Neil barely three weeks : the 
 friendship cannot be so very close." 
 
 " It is not Madame O'Neil only," began 
 Ethel impetuously ; and then she checked 
 herself. 
 
 But her father heard the words, and 
 looked very grave all at once. " It is 
 unfortunate," he repeated after a little 
 pause, and with one of his frequent, weary 
 sighs, — " very unfortunate. I have been 
 much to blame. But d, mistake must be 
 repaired, and not increased. Ethel, in this 
 instance, you must — you will trust in me 
 and obey me." He spoke very quietly, and 
 in an almost exhausted voice, but in a tone 
 of decision and sharpness such as his daugh- 
 ter had never heard before, and which, 
 unfoi'tunately, angered her more than it 
 impressed her. 
 
 " I will not do a mean or disloyal thing 
 to please anybody," she said passionately. 
 "Madame O'Neil and her son are my 
 friends. I like them. Why should I not 
 like them ? " she demanded tremulously. 
 
 But Col. Mildmay's temper was fairly rous- 
 ed now. " It ought to be enough to you to 
 know that I do not choose you to like themif 
 he said ; " and, in your present state of mind, 
 it is useless giving you reasons. To-morrow 
 we will talk about it ; to-night I am both 
 too ill and tired to say another word. 
 
 In spite of herself, Ethel was subdued by 
 this, and by her father's unusually haggard 
 and worn face. The staring signs of disease 
 and pain are a sort of last appeal, — a rock 
 against which the waves of human passions 
 and interests beat and storm in vain ; and 
 Ethel, blind as she was and wished to bei 
 could not but see something at least of 
 these signs now. And so she checked the 
 quick words which were but too ready to 
 come, and was silent ; but that was all. 
 She was neither convinced, nor softened, 
 nor remorseful, nor penitent. She was 
 angry still, and on pins and needles of 
 irritation and aggravation, and of defeated, 
 long-enduring curiosity; for, after all, she 
 found herself now to be just as much in the 
 dark as ever ; and, owing to her own want 
 of temper, the wished-for explanation was 
 again deferred. There was nothing to be 
 done, however. The moment of grace had 
 gone by ; the opportunity for a contrite 
 word or look, and for a reconciliation, had 
 been allowed to pass. Her father had 
 already left her with a cold, constrained 
 " good-night," such as never in their lives 
 before had passed between them ; and she 
 found herself alone in the big, silent room, 
 with a dull, sickening pain at her heart, of 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 27 
 
 which this was her first, and not easily- 
 forgotten experience. 
 
 But youth is youth ; and, in spite of every 
 thing, it generally manages to sleep. In 
 spite of remorse and bewilderment, and 
 anxiety and excitement, Ethel, after a few 
 hours' restless tossing and unhappiness, 
 slept to awake to a bright exhilarating 
 burst of sunshine, and to see the aspect 
 of things in general from a more placid and 
 less melodramatic point of view. Sleep is 
 one of our kindest friends. His gentle 
 touch works many a miracle of change of 
 heart and feeling between night and morn- 
 ing, and the mortal over whom it still holds 
 an influence cannot be utterly miserable. 
 
 Ethel slept soundly, and it was her maid's 
 voice which awoke her. " A letter, miss," 
 the smart English voice was saying, " and 
 it is nine o'clock. The colonel will be 
 wanting his breakfast immediately." 
 
 Nine o'clock ! and Ethel was generally 
 up at seven. In an instant she was out of 
 bed, and hurrying over her toilet, while 
 the letter lay on the table unthought of. It 
 was not till the last moment, when she was 
 leaving her room, that she remembered it ; 
 and it was on the stairs, on her way to her 
 father's room, that she read it. It was from 
 Madame O'-Neil, and covered four pages ; 
 yet it only contained a request that Ethel 
 should come to see her that morning. She 
 was not well, it said, and could not venture 
 out herself The day was long and dull, 
 and her young friend was kind and amiable, 
 and would help her to pass an hour. This 
 was the pith of the letter ; but there were 
 many professions of affection, and nice, 
 well-turned compliments and sweet things, 
 such as Frenchwomen know so well how 
 to write, in it besides. Ethel skimmed it all 
 through hastily, and then thrust it into her 
 pocket as she knocked at her father's door 
 for leave to enter. Twenty-four hours ago 
 she would have shown it to him, or told him 
 about it, as a matter of course ; but now, 
 instinctively, she concealed it from him. 
 
 And some similar instinct prevented her 
 from mentioning the name of O'Neil during 
 breakfast. Perhaps she was waiting for her 
 father to begin, or he for her. At all events, 
 neither did, in fact, begin ; and by mutual 
 consent last night's quarrel was never even 
 alluded to. It was in the colonel's room 
 that they breakfasted. By degrees he was 
 falling into invalid habits ; and often Ethel 
 was sent for, as he was unable to come 
 down stairs. However, this morning he did 
 not complain, but, on the contrary, seemed 
 cheerful and well. They talked of a 
 hundred things. They laughed and jested. 
 Apparently all was right between them 
 
 again. The colonel's spirits were generally 
 best in the morning ; and, if the truth were 
 to be known, neither he nor his daughter 
 was more anxious than the other to avoid 
 any subject which might disturb them. 
 
 It was not "till breakfast was quite over, 
 and that she was leaving, him, that the 
 word was at last said, which, with a sort of 
 feverish expectation, she had been waiting 
 for. " Order the carriage at two o'clock 
 to-day, love, and make yourself pretty and 
 smart," her father called after her. " Re- 
 member, we are to go to see old Mrs. 
 O'Neil." 
 
 And Ethel answered, " Yes ! " and went 
 her way with a downcast, thoughtful look. 
 Presently she paused upon the staircase, 
 standing quite still. The sun was pouring 
 down through the glass dome of the villa 
 upon her wavy fair hair, turning it all into 
 a bright gold. She was so quiet that she 
 might have been a statue ; though her heart 
 was beating fast, and her bi'ain was busy 
 at work. The girl was making a choice, 
 such as, now and then, we all make as we 
 journey on through life, — a choice be- 
 tween the safe old beaten track to which 
 we are accustomed, and of which we are 
 growing a little tired, and the new and 
 dangerous one, which, at least, has the 
 charm of being unfamiliar, — a choice 
 between old friends and habits, and new 
 ones; between — though this we do not 
 admit even to ourselves — right and wrong. 
 Ethel was debating whether she would go 
 back to her father and hear Madame 
 O'Neil's story from him, or go to Madame 
 O'Neil and hear it from herself 
 
 Trivial causes are frequently the causes 
 of great events. A little bunch of flowers 
 was the straw in the balance of the girl's 
 decision. They were faded and perfume- 
 less ; but what did that matter ! When 
 they had been given, they had probably 
 been but lightly valued, to judge li-om the 
 careless faSiion In which they had been 
 stuffed into her pocket, — Ethel's receptacle 
 for many queer odds and ends. But all 
 this was nolUing. O'Neil had given them 
 to her, accompanying them, probably, by 
 one of his ardent compliments, which had 
 most likely been rewarded by a mocking 
 laugh at the time. But all this signified 
 nothing. By chance, the flowers were 
 drawn out from the pocket now, with 
 Madame O'Neil's letter, which the girl 
 wished to look over again; and, withered 
 as they were, they must have spoken an 
 eloquent and mischievous language of their 
 own. At all events, they made up her 
 mind for her ; and in ten minutes she was 
 dressed and on her way to Madame 
 
28 
 
 ETHEL MtLDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 O'Neil's house ; and in another ten or fifteen 
 she found herself tete-hriele with that lady 
 in the tiny drawing-room of her pleasant 
 little apartment. 
 
 Madame O'Neil, it is true, occasionally 
 wrote long-winded and ornate letters ; but 
 her speech was generally direct and plain- 
 spoken enough. This morning, at all 
 events, she went to the point at once. 
 " So Arthur O'Neil spent the evening at 
 the villa," she remarked after the custom- 
 ary embrace, and seating Ethel in a de- 
 li^tful easy-chair right opposite to her. 
 " i)o tell me all about him, dear child. I 
 am dying of impatience to know." 
 
 Ethel was taken aback. " How do you 
 know that he spent the evening with us, 
 madame ? " she inquired, opening her frank 
 eyes wide. 
 
 " Mon Dieu ! one knows every thing at 
 Nice. All the houses are provided with 
 invisible glasses, which reflect the doings of 
 their inhabitants for the benefit of the 
 outside world. What does it signify how I 
 know, if I know ? And what do you think 
 of him ? How do you like him V " she 
 went on. " It is years since I have seen 
 him ! " 
 
 " He is good-looking and gentlemanlike. 
 I don't care much about him," Ethel an- 
 swered in short, indifferent tones, and lean- 
 ing back in her chair. 
 
 Madame O'Neil laughed, feeling that she 
 had come across a rather tough bit of 
 British nationality. But it was by no 
 means too tough for her digestion. She 
 had been in a hurry, and had wanted to 
 save time ; but, if her young friend needed 
 a little coaxing, by all means she must 
 have it. So she said, changing her tone, 
 and drawing her chair closer to that of the 
 young girl, " Come, dear child, you are pro- 
 voked and put out, I know, at what you 
 imagine to have been a prying-into, an 
 intrusion upon, your domestic privacy. 
 But you are mistaken. To me nothing is 
 more intolerably wearisome than the petty 
 annals of my neighbors' affairs. My own 
 are more than sufficiently interesting and 
 absorbing. It was by the merest chance — 
 your cook, I believe, who met mine at 
 market, or some equally trivial accident — 
 that I heard that my brother-in-law dined 
 with your father last night. Having heard 
 it, however, I confess that I am curious to 
 know your impressions of him ; curious, 
 and a little anxious too, dear Ethel," she 
 said with a deprecating sort of smile, 
 "since, it may be that you will have to 
 choose between him and me, — between 
 him and us, rather," with a meaning em- 
 phasis upon the little word. " There is a 
 
 quarrel between us, as you know ; and 
 somehow I hardly think that Arthur O'Neil 
 will be very well pleased to discover that 
 you are — almost as a child to me, and — 
 1 hope I may say it — that you like me." 
 
 A speech which, spoken as it was with 
 an unusual sweetness and softness, molli- 
 fied Ethel at once. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, madame, I was 
 cross just now, I know," she said impetu- 
 ously ; " but I was worried and tormented. 
 Mr. O'Neil's pleasure — what he likes, or 
 what he does not like — is nothing to me ; " 
 and she flushed and sparkled. 
 
 Madame O'Neil looked at her attentively. 
 Then she said with a quiet smile, " bo 
 Arthur has told you the story ; has he ? — 
 his side of it I mean, of course. Truly, 
 he does not let the grass grow beneath his 
 feet." 
 
 " He has told me no story. Papa knows 
 it, I believe ; but I know nothing. Ma- 
 dame, I have come to you to hear it. Will 
 you tell me?" and Ethel spoke breath- 
 lessly, and looked pleading .and excited. 
 
 "You are a noble girl," said Madame 
 O'Neil, with an admiring glance ; " and I 
 wish that I were not the only one to hear 
 you and see you now. Yes, I will tell you, 
 since it is from me that you wish to hear 
 it, — since I am a friend to whom you pre- 
 fer to come for the truth, rather than listen 
 to the slanderous, cruel tales of my enemies. 
 For my part, I have no desire to keep you 
 in ignorance ; and yet — and yet — how can 
 I tell you I " and her voice faltered. 
 
 " Madame, I can, I will, believe nothing 
 against you ; " and, with one of the sudden 
 impulses which were her greatest charm, 
 Ethel threw her arms round Madame 
 O'Neil's neck, and kissed her warmly. 
 
 Madame O'Neil returned her embrace, 
 and thanked her. It was quite a little 
 scene. There were tears and emotion, and 
 kisses and promises, an outburst of feminine 
 effusion and tenderness, and excitement. 
 As Madame O'Neil had said a moment ago, 
 it was a pity that there were no witnesses 
 to it; for Ethel's warm feelings became 
 her, and might well have enkindled other 
 hearts besides her own. But it was early, 
 and the count was hardly awake yet : rub- 
 bing his eyes and sipping his morning cup 
 of coffee a couple of rooms off, he was quite 
 unconscious of the pretty tableau which was 
 going on in the drawing-room. Presently 
 the two ladies had recovered themselves, 
 and were calm again; and then, at last, 
 Madame O'Neil began, in a voice which 
 was painfully cold and constrained, — 
 
 " Twenty-four years ago circumstances, 
 which I have not time now to relate, 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 29 
 
 brought my sister Marianne and me to 
 Ireland. We were not there six months 
 before we were both married, — I, into a 
 position which was higher than I had a 
 right to expect; she, into one that was 
 beneath her. I married Bernard O'Neil, 
 Lord O'Neil's nephew, and heir to his 
 enormous wealth. Marianne marl'ied the 
 steward or bailiff or agent — I know not 
 what they call it — of Lord O'Neil's estates. 
 My husband's family was furious. From 
 the day of my marriage, they began a perse- 
 cution against me which has never ceased, 
 and to which their intentions, I believe, are 
 before long to put the crowning stroke. 
 But fortune has been and is against them, 
 and they will never succeed. For a Uttle 
 while I was happy. My husband and I 
 went abroad and travelled, and left the 
 O'Neils to rage and rail at home ; but soi> 
 row came but too quickly. Bernard died 
 suddenly of a fever, caught in Borne ; and, 
 after a few months' marriage, I found myself 
 a widow. But, though happiness was dead, 
 hope was alive still; and I was, thank 
 Heaven I able to look forward to the time 
 when I should become a mother. Resolved, 
 for reasons that you can guess, that my 
 child should be bom in its father's country 
 and in the midst of his family, I returned 
 to Ireland ; and there I found my sister also 
 expecting the same happiness as myself. 
 The O'Neils would not receive me, and so 
 I remained with her. Within a month or 
 six weeks of one another, our children were 
 born. Hers died ; but mine lived. They 
 were both boys — Ethel, must I go on? 
 Can you guess nothing? Have you no 
 suspicion of the cruel lie which the O'Neils 
 have invented against me ? " 
 
 The girl shook her head. Then a gleam 
 of light darted right into her brain. " O 
 madame 1 I can't understand. I do not — 
 oh! ia it. that?" she exclaimed, breathless 
 and dismayed. 
 
 Madame O'Neil half smiled. " No wonder 
 that you are horror-struck," she said. " As 
 to me, I have borne the weight of calumny 
 so long that I am almost accustomed to it. 
 Yes ! It is that. It is that I am an ' impos- 
 tor, an adventuress. It is that Ernest is 
 not my son, but that of my sister. It is, 
 that, instead of being Lord O'Neil's heir, he 
 is the child of Lord O'Neil's steward. It 
 means that his uncle, Arthur O'Neil, has 
 done, and will do, his best to defraud him 
 of his rights, — rights which Ernest, in 
 spite of them all, is well able to assert and 
 protect." 
 
 The painful tension of self-restraint had 
 almost given way, and excitement had 
 raised Madame O'Neil's voice to a pitch 
 
 which made the silence that followed her 
 words seem doubly still. As to Ethel, she 
 was too shocked and bewildered, almost 
 indeed terrified, to speak. Madame O'Neil 
 waited in vain for a remark upon her nar- 
 rative. Ethel was incapable of uttering a 
 single word. 
 
 " Lord O'Neil persists in living," her 
 companion went on, after a painful and 
 breathless pause. " His life is but a burden 
 to himself and to others ; still he lives. At 
 his death, which cannot be now long 
 delayed, Ernest will, of course, take pos- 
 session of his property. His uncle threatens 
 much, — a lawsuit, — Heaven knows what 
 not ; but in my opinion, and, better still, in 
 the opinion of those with whom I have con- 
 sulted, he will be able even to attempt but 
 little." 
 
 " What a shame I how cruel I what a 
 pity I " Ethel exclaimed, recovering her 
 breath at last. " O Madame O'Neil ! it is 
 not true V — of course, it is not true ? " she 
 said in a sudden tone of distress and doubt. ' 
 
 " What is not true '' — that I am an im- 
 postor, and that Ernest is not my son? 
 What a strange question to make to me I " 
 and Madame O'Neil tried to laugh. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, — I beg your pardon 
 a hundred times : of course, I did not mean 
 that, — I meant — oh, how terrible it all 
 is I " she said, clasping her hands with a 
 quick, painful gesture, and looking quite 
 white and dazed. " And to think that 
 papa " — 
 
 " Ah 1 so the colonel is on the other 
 side," observed Madame O'Neil, as Ethel 
 paused abruptly. " Arthur O'Neil has con- 
 vinced him of my wickedness; has he?" 
 and she looked at the young girl closely. 
 
 Ethel winced. "Mr. O'Neil and his 
 mother are old friends of papa's, I believe," 
 she faltered, half crying. 
 
 " His mother I ah, a charming old lady," 
 said Madame O'Neil, with a thoughtful, un- 
 comfortable smile. "I believe that she 
 detests me twice as much as her son does ; 
 which is, after all, natural," she added, 
 laughing. " The crime of marrying a son 
 against a mother's wish is, beyond a doubt, 
 one of the unforgivable sins." 
 
 " But why ? " began Ethel ; and then she 
 stopped, feeling that, in such a moment, 
 curiosity was indiscreet. " It is terrible 1 " 
 she repeated, drawing a long breath. It 
 was all that she could say. And, indeed, 
 the future was looming before her, dark, 
 involved, complicated, strewn with difficul- 
 ties without end or escape. 
 
 Madame O'Neil contemplated her dis- 
 turbed and anxious face for a little. Then 
 she said kindly, " Come, at all events you 
 
30 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 muat not distress yourself: it will be all 
 right, take my word for it. I feel no fear 
 for Ernest ; why should you ? " 
 
 " It is not that exactly," said Ethel has- 
 tily and with a blusli : " I am not thinking 
 of the future, but of the present." 
 
 " You mean the difficulties of the mo- 
 ment ? " said Madame O'Neil quickly. 
 " Poor child 1 yours is a difficult position, 
 certainly, — between the two cross-fires, as 
 it were. But if you wish to sacrifice 
 us" — 
 
 " No, no, no I " protested Ethel ; and 
 her companion smiled, and stroked her 
 hand. " Dear child I " and then, in a half- 
 whisper, she added, "I wish Ernest had 
 heard that ! " 
 
 " Nonsense I " said the girl very shortly ; 
 and she looked so distressed, that Madame 
 O'Neil was puzzled, and half regretted her 
 words. " Cfome I " she , said, laughing, " I 
 am stupid, silly, and bungling, as old 
 mothers often are. We will not think of 
 that vaurien of an Ernest, but of more 
 important matters. Do not distress your- 
 self, dear child : you will see that things 
 will right themselves. In the first place, 
 Mrs. O'Neil, you may be sure, will not 
 long remain in Nice. She is a confirmed 
 oddity, if not worse ; '' and she tapped her 
 forehead significantly. " It is in the family, 
 you know ; and then her great age " — 
 
 " I wish that they would go away at 
 once, to-morrow, to-day I " exclaimed Ethel 
 fervently. 
 
 " Well, they will not stop long, you will 
 see. I believe that one of her peculiarities 
 is to fancy that every place she is in dis- 
 agrees with her health, poor old creature I 
 While they are here, we shall probably see 
 each other a little seldomer, voila tout. 
 We will naturally avoid them, and they 
 us ; and this will render your intercourse 
 with us more constrained. But it will be 
 but for a little while." 
 
 "But, papa! " — began Ethel. 
 
 " Ah, your father 1 — yes, to be sure ; " 
 and Madame O'Neil looked contemplative. 
 Then she shrugged her shoulders. " Even 
 that difficulty may be solved sooner and easi- 
 er than we expect," she said half aloud. But 
 she did not explain in what manner ; and 
 Ethel was spared the pang of guessing at her 
 meaning. At the moment, Che clock on 
 the mantlepiece struck. " Ob, how late it 
 is I " she cried, jumping up. " Papa will 
 wonder what has become of me." 
 
 Madame O'Neil did not press her to 
 stay. " I will not be guilty of causing you 
 to be late for your father's ddjeunSr," she 
 said, smiling. " If it were not for that, I 
 would ask you to remain to share ours. 
 
 But we must be cautious and prudent now ; 
 must we not ? " she added playfully. 
 
 Ethel said " Yes ; " though the saying of 
 it made her heart feel sore. That'" yes " 
 seemed, somehow, to be the sealing of a 
 compact, — a compact of deceit and dissim- 
 ulation. 
 
 Then she put on her hat, and Madame 
 O'Neil kissed her, and they exchanged 
 farewells. " Not farewell, but ' au revoir' " 
 remarked Madame O'Neil. " As the baron 
 says, there are no farewells in Nice." 
 
 "ylM revoir," repeated Ethel ; and then 
 she went away, hurrj'ing on the homeward 
 road in silence, — a silence so deep and 
 absorbed that her maid, after two or three 
 useless efforts to disturb it, gave up the 
 attempt in despair. 
 
 CHAPTER Vm. 
 
 ETHEL reached the villa in good time 
 for luncheon ; and, jcither from lack of 
 curiosity or on principle, her father made 
 no inquiry as to where the morning had 
 been spent. It was not till the meal was 
 over, and they were actually on the way to 
 pay the promised visit at the H6tel des An- 
 glais, that Col. Mildmay made the first 
 allusion to the subject which was secretly 
 embarrassing them both. 
 
 " I may as well tell you,'' he began 
 rather abruptly, "what O'Neil told me 
 last night. You will have to know it, of 
 course." 
 
 " I do know it," Ethel replied. 
 
 " How ? " and her father turned round 
 in the carriage sharply. 
 
 Ethel hesitated for half a second ; but 
 of course she told the truth. 
 
 " Madame O'Neil told me this morning. 
 I went to see her, and she told me every 
 thing, — the horrid, cruel lie I " 
 
 " I do not consider it a lie ; and, what is 
 more, you will not, either, in a little while," 
 replied her father. Then, after a short 
 silence, he went on, " If your acquaintance 
 with Madame O'Neil is to continue, Ethel, 
 either she or we must leave Nice." 
 
 His daughter's only reply was an indig- 
 nant flush. The short drive was over, and 
 they had already reached the hotel. Mrs. 
 O'Neil was at home ; and they were ushered 
 up the broad staircase and into the star- 
 ing, gaudily-furnished salon. It was a 
 large room ; and in it was a very little 
 woman, — such a trim, dainty, tiny woman, 
 that for an instant Ethel forgot the realities 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 31 
 
 of life, and ima<;ined her to be a fairy. 
 It was Mrs. O'Neil. And Mrs. O'Neil, 
 when her visitors appeared at the door, 
 ran forward to meet them with all the im- 
 
 Eetuosity of youth; and, before Kthel or 
 er father quite knew what was happening, 
 she had kissed them both, with, consider- 
 ing their respective heights, an extraordi- 
 nary dexterity and grace. 
 
 It was a comic situation ; but the ma- 
 noeuvre was so rapidly executed that there 
 was no time to laugh at it. 
 
 '• I am so glad to see you ! " she chirruped 
 gleefully, as she took each by a hand, and 
 looked up at them with beaming eyes. 
 " Why did you not come earlier ? It was 
 a shame for Arthur to mention such a late 
 hour. I have been longing for you all the 
 morning, and only for you I would have 
 left this horrible place long ago. Bless my 
 soul I what a great girl you are 1 " she 
 concluded, drawing a long breath, and 
 with her bright brown eyes scanning Ethel 
 from head to foot. 
 
 " Am I ? " inquired Miss Mildmay, look- 
 ing down at the diminutive figure from the 
 serene height of fiVe feet four in her stock- 
 ings, and smiling in spite of herself. 
 
 " Immense, child, — immense ! Where 
 in the world did you get such a tall daugh- 
 ter, Henry ? " 
 
 " Her mother was tall," replied the colo- 
 nel with a laugh and a sigh. 
 
 " Ah I " and Mrs. O'Neil looked thought- 
 ful. " I ddn't admire tall women," she said, 
 then tossing her head, and looking a little 
 vicious. 
 
 Ethel was laughing outright now. Evi- 
 dently Mrs. O'Neil had no objection to be 
 a subject of hilarity ; for she contemplated 
 the young girl with a kind smile. 
 
 " And you are a pretty girl too, my 
 dear," she pursued approvingly, — " very 
 pretty indeed, as girls go nowadays. In 
 my time it was dififerent, but" — Then 
 she got up on tiptoes, and somehow or 
 other succeeded in getting her mouth close 
 to Ethel's ear. " I said I did not like tall 
 women, my dear, because my daughter 
 Nora was short," she whispered; "and 
 your father went and married somebody 
 else, though, to be sure, Nora would not 
 have him." And she looked into Ethel's 
 eyes, and nodded significantly, as much as 
 to say that now she knew all about it. 
 
 Such a pretty little woman as she was I — 
 prejudiced Ethel could not help seeing it 
 and acknowledging it, — such a delicate 
 pink-and-white complexion 1 such soft, 
 tender, Irish eyes I such silky snowy curls 
 all round the small well-shaped head ! 
 and then such a perfect and suitable dress 
 
 of rich, comfortable, black-figured satin, 
 with soft lace collar and cuffs, and a cap 
 to match with a steady yet faintly-co- 
 quettish bow of warm, bright ribbon I In 
 feet, it was perfect, — a perfect picture of 
 serene and joyous old age. 
 
 After this confidential communication, 
 they salt down, and Mrs. O'Neil heaved a 
 sigh of relief. 
 
 " It cranes my neck to look up at you," 
 she remarked ; " but on chairs we are all 
 pretty much of an equality, and can talk 
 at our ease. Well, Henry, and how are 
 you? What have you been doin^? and 
 how have you been ever since ? " 
 
 " I have not been doing much good, as 
 you may see, Mrs. O'Neil," said Col. Mild- 
 may with a sad little laugh. 
 
 " Ah, well 1 " and her kind eyes surveyed 
 him anxiously. " Nonsense, child I You 
 must keep a heart, whatever you do. 
 Never fear but that you will get well 
 enough once the summer comes and you 
 are home again. Talk of climate, indeed 1 
 To my mind, the> climate of Ireland' is as 
 good as any other. You will just come 
 over and pay us a visit this year, and we 
 will see what wonders the Atlantic breezes 
 will do for you." 
 
 " Blow me off the face of the earth alto- 
 gether, I am afraid," replied Col. Mildmay, 
 smiling. 
 
 "Not at all. Why, they are like a 
 baby's breath in comparison to the cut- 
 ting winds to which we are exposed in 
 these parts. It is my firm belief that the 
 doctors are tired of us, and want to get rid 
 of us, when they send us to foreign coun- 
 tries, — all except Dr. O'Toole, who is the 
 only sensible and honest man of the pro- 
 fession I know. If I had minded him, I'd! 
 be at 'home now in a comfortable house? 
 well warmed with bright turf-fires, and withi 
 good wholesome food, instead of paddjng; 
 about the world in search of a climate,, andl 
 getting my death of cold from draughts^ 
 and ill-aired beds. They call this the best; 
 hotel and the best room in the hotel, and I' 
 give you my word that through every win- 
 dow there blows a hurricane." And she' 
 shuddered and held up her hands. 
 
 " I thought the room felt very comforta- 
 ble," observed Ethel with a half-groan ; the- 
 truth being, that, owing to a hot sun and a' 
 lighted stove, it was almost unbearably- 
 warm. 
 
 " Too comfortable for you, I am afraid," 
 said a voice behind her. " You find it too> 
 warm ; don't you ? " And turning round 
 she found herself being shaken hands withi 
 by Mr. O'Neil. 
 
 '• Ah, my dear 1 young ears and eyes and 
 
32 
 
 ETHEL MILf)MAT'S FOLLIES. 
 
 teeth and bones never feel any thing. 
 How old are you, child ? " she demanded 
 abruptly. 
 
 " Nineteen and a quarter, about," replied 
 Ethel gayly. " I was counting it all up this 
 morning." 
 
 " My goodness 1 is it possible ? Why, I 
 thought you were a baby, and you turn out 
 to be a young woman. Bless me, Henry I 
 is she as old as that? How on earth did 
 you manage ? What a hurry time is in, to 
 be sure 1 Why, I almost forget that you 
 are not a boy yourself, like Arthur over 
 there. But you are a good bit older than 
 Arthur; are you not ?" she inquired anx- 
 iously, and putting on her spectacles for a 
 close observation and comparison. 
 
 " There is no denying the fact. Bernard 
 and T were contemporaries," said the Colo- 
 nel, laughing. 
 
 " Ah, yes I that was it. And then 
 came Nora ; and then Ellen, who died ; and 
 tlien — a good while afterwards — Arthur. 
 But . he might as well have been first as 
 last, for the matter of that," added Mrs. 
 O'Neil disconsolately. " He is getting as 
 gray as a badger already." 
 
 An announcement which was received 
 with much amusement. Ethel glanced at Mr. 
 O'Neil. He was looking into the opposite 
 mirror ; and, though he laughed, his coun- 
 tenance wore a slightly rueful expression. 
 
 " Yes, indeed," pursued the old lady 
 vivaciously. " And he will never be 
 persuaded to try the simplest remedies. 
 Ah I you may laugh ; but for all that it is no 
 joke. Such a disadvantage as it is to a 
 man — to a young man — to be gray I " 
 
 " But I am not a young man," observed 
 Mr. O'Neil. 
 
 " Stuff and nonsense 1 you are young. A 
 man is young till he marries : a woman is 
 young so long as she can manage to look it. 
 And, Arthur, though you say that you 
 don't intend to marry, you know it is all 
 moonshine. Everybody marries sooner or 
 later. Look at the colonel there, who 
 vowed and declared that he would never 
 marry any one but Nora; and yet he 
 changed his mind, you see, and " — 
 
 " You find the room too warm ; don't you ? 
 Come out on the balcony, and let us leave 
 my mother and your father to talk over old 
 times together," Mr. O'Neil said hastily to 
 Ethel at this point of the conversation. 
 " They are not old times to her," he added, 
 as, having no sufficient reason to refuse, she 
 rose, and approached the window. " She 
 lives in them, and sometimes forgets that it 
 did not all happen yesterday.". 
 
 " Poor thing ! " said Ethel, with a touch 
 of compassion in her voice. 
 
 " Why ' poor thing ' ? " demanded Mr. 
 O'Neil a little sharply. " My mother ia 
 the last person in the world to be pitied, 1 
 assure you." 
 
 Ethel was silent, and looked embarrassed. 
 " You don't mean to say," pursued Mr. 
 O'Neil, "that — you have quite misunder- 
 stood my meaning. Miss Mildmay. My 
 mother's mind is quite as sound, and her 
 memory every bit as good, as yours or 
 mine." 
 
 He spoke sharply, almost angrily; and 
 Ethel felt nearly ready to cry with shame 
 and vexation over the awkward predicament 
 in which she had placed herself 
 
 " I beg your pardon," she said : " I did 
 not mean to hurt your feelings, or to offend 
 you. I only heard something, and then I 
 thought that — You are so hasty! You 
 frighten me," she concluded, knowing with 
 a woman's instinct that deprecation was 
 her best chance. 
 
 " Do I ? I am so sorry 1 " and she felt at 
 once that he was appeased. " Forgive me. 
 I am hasty, I know ; but the fact is that on 
 that subject I am sensitive, and apt to lose 
 my temper. I have been worried by reports 
 and insinuations about it, which I know 
 have been spread by — persons who do not 
 wish us well exactly," he said with a short 
 laugh. 
 
 Ethel said nothing ; but she was conscious 
 that her face was a tell-tale one, and that 
 her companion was studying it closely. 
 They were out on the balcony now. Before 
 them was the shining blue sea, and beneath 
 the usual gay crowd assembling on the 
 Promenade for its afternoon stroll. 
 
 " There is Count O'Neil," said Ethel a 
 little breathlessly, after a moment or two of 
 silence ; and she leant quite eagerly over 
 the balcony. The young man could not 
 have heard the exclamation, yet chance 
 made him at the moment raise his eyes and 
 see her. He was sauntering past with some 
 other men, who all bowed, and waved their 
 hands, gesticulating in true French fashion ; 
 Count O'Neil's expressive eyes conveying 
 even from that distance a volume of mean- 
 ing, — surprised and angry meaning too, — 
 as she saw very well. She drew back has- 
 tily, and blushed crimson. 
 
 " What a horrid place this Nice is ! " she 
 exclaimed impatiently. 
 
 " Do you think so ? I rather like it," 
 replied Mr. O'Neil coolly. 
 
 " Then will you remain ? How long do 
 you mean to remain ? " she inquired more 
 anxiously than graciously. 
 
 " Oh I I have not ttie remotest idea. 
 Twenty-four hours perhaps — three days 
 — four days — a week. We never make 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 up our minds on these matters till the last 
 moment. For your consolation, Miss Mild- 
 may, my mother does not find this hotel 
 comfortable : so I do not think it will be for 
 long." 
 
 "There are other hotels," suggested 
 Ethel. 
 
 " Yes, and perhaps we may try one. I 
 think myself — I am afraid — that tjie place 
 is likely to agree with her, so that we may 
 perhaps be compelled to remaia," he said 
 with a smile. 
 
 " So you do not like it," she observed. 
 
 " Yes, I do, rather. For a little while it 
 would amuse me. After that, no doubt it 
 would bore me. But it is of^-ou I am 
 thinking, not of myself." 
 
 "Oh ! pray don't think of me. I am quite 
 well able to manage my own affairs," said 
 Miss Mildmay, kindling. 
 
 Mr. O'Neil laughed. " You are rather to 
 be pitied certainly," he said ; " and I am 
 very sorry for you." 
 
 " Why are you sorry ? I don't under- 
 stand. I — I tell you that I am quite well 
 able to take care of myself and my friends 1 " 
 she exclaimed, stamping her foot pettishly. 
 
 " But are they your friends really ? " in- 
 quired Mr. O'Neil rather gravely. 
 
 " You mean Count • O'Neil and his 
 mother V Yes, certainly they are ; and I 
 am not one to throw over my old friends 
 for the sake of" — 
 
 " New ones ? " he suggested. " There 
 you are quite right. Nobody could find 
 fault with that sentiment." 
 
 " Papa does," said £thel in a melancholy 
 tone. 
 
 "But are they such very old friends? 
 How long do you know them ? " inquired 
 Mr. O'Neil, after a pause. 
 
 " Oh ! about three weeks. It is not the 
 time exactly. People ought not to measure 
 friendship by time. I like them, that is all ; 
 and nothing will make me believe that 
 Madame O'Neil is an impostor," she said 
 warmly, perceiving that her companion was 
 suppressing a smile. 
 
 " I don't want you to believe it," he said 
 rather coldly. " Everybody is at liberty to 
 hold his own opinions. It is an open ques- 
 tion." 
 
 "Yes; but why — why did you invent 
 such a cruel story ? Surely all the property 
 in the world is not worth believing such a 
 horrible thing as that ? " And Ethel looked 
 quite desperate and earnest. 
 
 " Miss Mildmay," then he half laughed, 
 " where is the use of discussing the ques- 
 tion 'I Even if I chose to persuade you, I 
 niio-ht perhaps not be able to succeed. But 
 I do not choose. Much as I would like to 
 
 have you on our side, I prefer not to be the 
 one to gain you over. Illusions — even 
 foolish ones — are dangerous things to 
 dispel. Cobwebs of distrust generally hang 
 about the hand that does the nasty work. 
 Hear every thing, and judge for yourself. I 
 don't ask any thing more." 
 
 Ethel shook her head. Though she 
 hardly knew it, she was a little piqued at 
 Mr. O'Neil's apparent indifference to her 
 opinion. Still there was an earnestness in 
 his manner which mollified her in spite of 
 herself. 
 
 "I don't understand it all," she said. 
 " Of course, I don't know the ins and outs 
 of the question yet ; but — could you not 
 divide the property, and be friends?" she 
 exclaimed suddenly and with a delighted air. 
 
 " Certainly not 1 " he replied shortly ; 
 though he laughed. 
 
 " I am sure Count O'Neil would agree," 
 went on Ethel eagerly. 
 
 " That is to say he might if I " — 
 
 " If you asked him. Well, very likely 
 he would ; but " — 
 
 " Arthur, Arthur ! " called out Mrs. 
 O'Neil's voice at this moment. " Come 
 here ! I want you. Bring the child in. 
 What on earth have you two been doing 
 out there in the cold for the last half-hour r 
 There, shut the window. Both Henry and 
 I are shivering and shaking with that 
 dreadful draught." 
 
 They obeyed her, and came in. Half an 
 hour and more had indeed sped away, 
 working a change which struck both Ethel 
 and Mr. O'Neil at once, in the two they had 
 left. Mrs. O'Neil's pink-ajid-white com- 
 plexion had faded. She looked twenty 
 years older than before. It was as if she 
 had got a sudden and painful shock. Traces 
 of tears were on her cheeks, and were 
 dimming her sofl, tende;* eyes. Even her 
 erect little figure seemed to have bent be- 
 neath the blow. And Col. Mildmay, too, 
 was paler than usual, though he was smiling, 
 and sitting bolt upright in his chair. 
 
 " Arthur," began Mrs. O'Neil, as her son 
 approached. , 'Then she looked at the 
 colonel, and stopped. 
 
 " O'Neil," he said pleasantly, " your 
 mother and I have been making a little 
 arrangement ; and now we only want you 
 and Ethel to agree to it. You rather ; fcff 
 Ethel will of course be delighted. This 
 hotel is uncomfortable. Why worry your- 
 selves trying another when we have rooms 
 without end to spare at the villa? Ethel 
 and I are quite lost and lonely in it all by 
 ourselves. Come and stop with us for a 
 little, and you will oblige me more than I 
 can say." 
 
34 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAT'S FOLLIES. 
 
 The request was, after all, a simple one, 
 and made simply ; but Col. Mildmay 
 spoke with an eagerness that gave it 
 significance, and checked the ready refusal 
 which rose to Mr. O'Neil's lips. 
 
 There was an awkward silence, which 
 Mrs. 0"Neil broke at last. 
 
 "I have promised already. I mean to 
 go," she said, nodding her head with decis- 
 ion : " so, Arthur, you may as well say yes 
 at once." 
 
 " But," — and then there followed a 
 string of objections, — "but I did not think 
 you meant to remain at Nice. How do you 
 know it will agree with you, mother ? " 
 
 " Oh ! as to that, most places agree with 
 me if I like them," answered Mrs. O'Neil 
 naively. 
 
 " Yes ; but how do you know you will 
 like it ? And are we not very comfort- 
 able here ? And why should we intrude ? 
 And" — 
 
 " Oh, don't bother 1 " said Mrs. O'Neil : 
 " I have made up my mind." 
 
 •' O'Neil — to oblige me," said Col. 
 Mildniay imploringly. 
 
 Mr. O'Neil looked from one to the other, 
 fairly puzzled and perplexed. 
 
 " \Vell, we will think about it and let you 
 know," he said at last. 
 
 " Yes. But meanwhile I have made up 
 my mind, you know, Henry," with a nod at 
 the colonel. 
 
 Ethel had been standing by in mute, and 
 it must be confessed indignant, amazement, 
 during this animated little discussion. She 
 had been ignored. Nobody thought of her. 
 Mr. O'Neil was the first to remember, or 
 at least to notice, her presence. 
 
 " But," he said, " Miss Mildmay may not 
 — Mother, you forget to hear what Miss 
 Mildmay says." 
 
 " It is not the least matter what she says," 
 was Mrs. O'Neil's curt rejoinder. 
 
 Ethel's eyes opened wide, and her lip 
 curled ominously. But her father inter- 
 posed, stretching out his hand and drawing 
 her towards him. 
 
 " Ethel is too hospitable* not to wish 
 exactly as 1 wish," he said gently. 
 
 Tlie girl's face betrayed a sharp struggle 
 between anger and amiability ; but fortu- 
 nately the good angel prevailed. A sun- 
 shiny smile broke suddenly through her 
 cloudy eyes, and she bent down and gave 
 her father a hasty kiss. 
 
 Tears were trickling down old Mrs. 
 O'Neil's cheeks again, and she bobbed her 
 head approvingly. " Good girl, good 
 girl ! " she murmured ; and even her son 
 looked interested and pleased over the odd 
 little scene. Then, without further conver- 
 
 sation, the colonel and his daughter went 
 away. Explanations were imperatively 
 needed ; and explanations could only be 
 given in private. 
 
 " Remember, you have promised," were 
 the colonel's parting words. And MrB. 
 O'Neil, wringing his hands with all her 
 might, said, " Yes, she had ; and that she 
 meant to keep her promise too." 
 
 A few minutes later her son, having seen 
 the Mildmay 8 to their carriage, returned in 
 all haste to the drawing room. 
 
 " Mother, what in the world are yon up 
 to? " he began indignantly. Bvit the little 
 woman was in his arms, sobbing as though 
 her heart would break. 
 
 " O Arthur 1 it is dreadfiil, terrible ! " she 
 gasped. " Poor, poor fellow ! Poor, poor 
 child 1" 
 
 "What is it? What on earth is it? 
 Mother" — 
 
 " O Arthur 1 don't you see ? Don't you 
 know ? Where are your eyes V Oh, what 
 dunderheads men are, to be sure ! Arthur, 
 the poor boy is dying, — dying as fast as 
 ever he can die. He knows it ; he told me 
 so. The doctors have given him a few 
 weeks at most, it may be less. He says 
 himself that it will be less. Oh, good God 1 
 How dreadful it all is ! " And the kind 
 old lady's tears nearly choked her. 
 
 Her son was thunderstruck and silent. 
 
 " Providence has sept us here," went on 
 Mrs. O'Neil after' a {janse. " It is as clear 
 as noonday. Oh, just think, Arthur, of 
 the poor fellow dying in a foreign country 
 without a friend near him 1 And that poor 
 girl I — to be left without a soul to comfort 
 her ; but I will comfort her. I will be a 
 mother to her. I have given Henry my 
 solemn word that I will. He said that he 
 could die happy now, — now that he knows 
 that I am at hand. Oh, poor fellow, poor 
 tellow 1 " 
 
 " But " — But olgections died away 
 upon her son's lips. And Mrs. O'Neil, 
 thoroughly overcome, lay down on the sofa, 
 and cried herself to sleep. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE next day the O'Neils, luggage and 
 all, arrived at the villa ; that is to say, 
 old Mrs. O'Neil did ; for her son was obsti- 
 nate, and refused to quit his quarters at the 
 hotel. 
 
 " I shall go up and see you every day," 
 he promised hb mother. " It will be just 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 35 
 
 as if I were staying there. But I do not 
 choose to give up my liberty, and to bind 
 myself to hours. Above all, I do not choose 
 to intrude." 
 
 " Intrude ! Fiddlesticks 1 " interrupted his 
 mother curtly. 
 
 " But it is intruding. His daughter " — 
 
 " I don't care a straw about his daught€r. 
 Is it not for her sake that I am doing it ? 
 The case is a desperate one, poor dear 
 child 1 " 
 
 " But she does not know. She suspects 
 nothing." 
 
 " No. God is merciful to the young, and 
 
 blinds them to sights which break other 
 
 people's hearts. And Heaven help me! 
 
 How shall I ever be able to . break it to 
 
 ^her ? " 
 
 "Do not; there is time enough. She 
 will guess it herself perhaps. She ought 
 to be happy so long as she can." 
 
 A sentiment in which Mrs. O'Neil et»- 
 tirely coincided. " After all, it may be 
 longer than we think, perhaps," she said, 
 with an attempt at hopefulness. " O Ar- 
 thur ! if you had heard poor Henry yester- 
 day, when he was telling me about it all, it 
 would have given you a pain at your heart. 
 So serene! so courageous ! so simple! His 
 one sorrow was for the child. And to think 
 that she has fallen into those dreadful peo- 
 ple's hands ! That she knows them ! " 
 cried Mrs. O'Neil, crimsoning suddenly. 
 
 " Ahem ! It is unfortunate, certainly." 
 And Mr. O'Ncil half smiled. 
 
 " Unfortunate ! I should think it is. It 
 is nothing short of awful. I would not re- 
 main half a day in the same town with 
 them if I could help it, — if I could be cruel 
 enough to refuse poor Henry's dying prayer. 
 But, please God, I shall never lay my eyes 
 upon them. If I did, I don't think I could 
 hold my tongue. Arthur, do you think it 
 possible that they would presume to come 
 near the child so long as I am ■»vith her ? " 
 
 Arthur laughed, and said he did not 
 think such presumption was possible. 
 "Your cards will be difficult to play, 
 though," he added. •' They are Miss Mild- 
 may's fHends ; and she is a girl of deter- 
 mination, — temper even, I might say. 
 Mother, as I told you • a hundred times 
 last night, you ai-e undertaking more than 
 you think. What is to happen when — if " — 
 
 " Oh, don't speak of it, don't 1 " cried 
 Mrs. O'Neil, putting her hands to her ears. 
 " I can't bear to think of it, to hear of it. 
 God will help us. He knows that it is out 
 of kindness I am acting. I could not re- 
 fuse poor Henry, for the sake of his love 
 for Nora, if for nothins else. Arthur, you 
 know that I could not." 
 
 O'Neil was silent. Indeed, his mother, 
 running out of the room to make her final 
 preparations, gave him no opportunity of 
 replying ; but, even if he could, he would 
 not have spoken. All his arguments hnd 
 been exhausted last night, and perhSps 
 overruled. Two hours had he and his 
 mother spent discussing the alTiiir; and the 
 end of it was that Mrs. O'Neil, at least, 
 was as positive in her opinion, when the 
 conversation was over, as when it had 
 begun. 
 
 And, after all, how could he seriously 
 oppose himself to the dictates of hpr warm, 
 generous heart ? The case was, as' she had 
 said, a desperate one. Col. Mildinay was 
 an old, old friend. Time and separation 
 had, it is true, made him a stranger ; but 
 some of the dearest memories of the past 
 were clinging round him, and binding him 
 to them. ' And now, fast dying as he was, 
 he had thrown himself, as it were, on theii* 
 mercy. How was it possible to refuse such 
 a prayer ? He had no near relations, — none 
 at least who were available now. With his 
 dead wife's family he had long ceased to 
 hold intercourse ; and his only brother, 
 who would at his death be Ethel's natural 
 guardian, had been for years with his regi- 
 ment in India, and was, of course, useless. 
 
 It seemed, indeed, really as though Provi- 
 dence had brought his mother here at this 
 precise moment, when, dying in a foreign 
 country and in the midst of strangers, poor 
 Col. Mildmay had with despair been con- 
 templating his young dau'rhter's lonely, 
 unprotected position when he should have 
 left her. As Mrs. O'Neil had asked, how 
 could she possibly refuse to be a mother to 
 the girl so long as she needed a mother ? 
 How could she pass on her way like the 
 priest or the Levite, and turn a cold, deaf 
 ear to l;hi8 poor man's entreaty that she 
 would delay a little while, just so long as it 
 would take him to die, in order that he 
 might have the comfort of knowing that his 
 child would have one friend, at least, whom 
 he could trust to help her through her hour 
 of darkness and grief? Whether she could 
 or not, at all events one thing was certain, 
 — she would not. Mrs. O'Neil's heart, she 
 often said, was too much for her : once 
 that was touched, no undertaking was too 
 heavy, no sacrifice too great. Her heart 
 was touched now ; and from this final court 
 her son well knew there was no appeal. 
 And so after, for form's sake, a certain 
 amount of opposition, he resigned himself 
 to circumstances, and made the best of 
 them. 
 
 The very next day the old lady proved 
 herself true to her word, and took up her 
 
S6 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 abode at the villa. To please her son, she 
 had, meanwhile, made an attempt to pacify 
 the colonel with a promise to remain at 
 Nice, but accompanied with a prayer to be 
 excused residing in his house. 
 
 "It is a sick man's fancy," Mr. O'Neil 
 had urged. '■ You will put them all out, 
 and give trouble. Besides, you will be 
 more comfortable in your own jiied a terre." 
 
 ''Not at all. The villa is sheltered from 
 these abominable winds, and one is never 
 comfortable in a hotel," Mrs. O'Neil had 
 replied ; then she added, — 
 
 " There is another reason, too, Arthur. 
 Up there I shall be more out of the way of 
 those dreadful people, you know. Imagine 
 seeing them pass by on the Promenade, 
 perhaps several times a day 1 It would kill 
 me, you know it would ! " 
 
 Nevertheless, Mr. O'Neil had insisted, 
 and the note of excuse to the colonel had 
 been despatched ; but it had been answered 
 by the colonel in, person, so disappointed, 
 so put out, so worflcd and depressed, that 
 there was no resisting or refusing any 
 longer. ^ 
 
 It was, to sSy the least of it, a peculiar 
 " situation." But, like many another pe- 
 culiar situation, people somehow fitted 
 tnemselves into it with a greater amount 
 of e.ise and philosophy than might have 
 been expected. Ethel for one, after the 
 first, submitted to it with tolerable grace 
 and equanimity. Curiosity helped her 
 through. The oddity of the whole ar- 
 rangement tickled her fancy. Youth can, 
 in general, accommodate itself to any thing 
 better than dulness or flatness ; and cer- 
 tainly there was nothing either dull or flat 
 about Mrs. O'Neil or her visit. On the 
 contrary, the gay, vivacious little woman 
 enlivened the whole house ; and, since her 
 father's extraordinary caprice (as sKe con- 
 sidered it) had to be humored, Ethel by 
 no means found the humoring of it so 
 totally unpleasant, and, indeed, was rather 
 pleasurably excited by it than otherwise. 
 Of course, she would not of her own will 
 have committed the treason of allowing 
 Mrs. O'Neil to pass the threshold of the 
 house ; but as the crime was unavoidable, 
 and, moreover, node of her doing, there was 
 something perhaps pleasantly exhilarating 
 in thus being brought to close quarters 
 with the enemy's Camp, and in being put 
 upon her mettle for the defence of her 
 friends. Poor Col. Mildmay I His clear 
 stratagem was destined to work exactly in 
 the wrong direction. As to Ethel, she 
 chose to accept it as a signal of war, and 
 to persuade herself that she was at full 
 liberty to take her own measures to defeat 
 
 it; and the necessities of the case re- 
 quired that these measures should be secret 
 ones, so long as Mrs. O'Neil's politeness 
 and courtesy would not, of course, admit of 
 open battle. So far, the colonel had ma- 
 noeuvred well. But what could not be done 
 in public might be done in private ; and 
 Ethel was resolved not to be cheated or 
 " done " out of her friends. Her father 
 was not behaving openly by her ; and why 
 should she behave openly by him? She 
 would not willingly deceive him ; for she 
 bated and scorned deception : but, if he 
 himself put such weapons into her hand, 
 what could she do but make use of them ? 
 
 And thus it was that a great and cruel 
 mistake was made, and that good motives 
 were misconstrued and good intentions, 
 defeated, and that a horrid shadow crept in 
 between father and daughter, and that 
 Miss Mi'.dmay, with a proud, sore heart, 
 said to herself that she was being badly 
 treated, and had, therefore, earned the right 
 to treat others badly in return. 
 
 Externally, however, things wore a 
 cheerful aspect. The colonel was better, 
 — decidedly better. Perhaps it was the 
 weather, — weather so soft and bright ; and, 
 better, such a wealth of luxuriant sprin;;, 
 that it seemed as though it must renew 
 life, and keep disease and death at bay. 
 
 He said himself, however, that it was not 
 the weather, but ease of mind, which made 
 him better, — ease of uiind, which, as he 
 gratefully assured Mi-s. O'Neil, he owed to 
 her. "Not that 1 am better really," he 
 added with one of his quick, painful sighs : 
 " it is, after all, merely a question of time." 
 
 Whereupon the kind old lady told him 
 not to talk nonsense, and stoutly asserted 
 that he only needed Dr. O'Toole's care and 
 the Atlantic breeze to make him as sound 
 and as strong as ever. 
 
 " Wait till you are a couple of months 
 with us at 'Mount Druid,'" she said cheer- 
 fully ; " you will not know yourself at the 
 end of them." 
 
 " If I were ever able to get there," re- 
 plied the colonel, shaking his head ; " if I 
 were only able to leave this place I But it 
 is not warm enough to think of turning 
 homewards yet, even if I could travel. I 
 wish to Heaven that we could leave Nice," 
 he added earnestly. 
 
 " So you can in a couple of weeks. 
 This sun will bake us through and through 
 in no tim6, never fear. You mean on ac- 
 count of those odious people V " she in- 
 quired, drawing herself up. 
 
 " Yes ; on account of them. It may 
 be awkward and unpleasant for Ethel." 
 
 " They will not trouble her much so long 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES, 
 
 37 
 
 as I am with her, I fancy," said Mrs. O'Neil 
 in a flutter. 
 
 " No ; I suppose not : but have you had 
 any talk with Ethel on the subject ? " he 
 inquired uneasily. 
 
 "Not a word. It is a subject which 
 makes me ill," she added in a tone of pro- 
 found disgust. 
 
 " I am half afraid that she has a fancy 
 for the young man," said the colonel after a 
 little pause. 
 
 " Fancy for him 1 Fancy for Denis Ir- 
 win's son ! Colonel, are you mad 1 " 
 exclaimed Mrs. O'Neil excitedly. 
 
 " Of course it is nothing ; a girl's freak. 
 She believes him to be Madame O'Neil's 
 son, and a count into the bargain, you 
 know," he said with a half-smile. 
 
 "My goodness, my goodness! What a 
 man you are, colonel, to have charge of a 
 girl I " cried the old lady, holding up her 
 hands : " how on earth did you fall into 
 such a trap '/ " 
 
 " I don't know, I'm sure," he replied dole- 
 fully. " I suppose I was a fool. But, after 
 all, all the world believes it too, Mrs. 
 O'Neil, you know, with the exception of 
 yourself and Arthur and Dr. O'Toole, and 
 — and me of course," he added hastily, 
 detecting an ominous flash in Mrs. O'Neil's 
 bright eyes. 
 
 He regretted the words the next mo- 
 ment, half jokingly spoken as they had 
 been ; for it was easy to see that they had 
 pained the old lady. 
 
 "It is true enough, true enough," she 
 said with a groan. " They have got every 
 thing on their side but right. Every 
 thing I " she repeated despairingly. " Ar- 
 thur will be wronged, and the lands of the 
 O'Neils will pass to strangers, and — oh, 
 my God ! My God, you will never per- 
 mit it 1 Surely you will, in your justice, 
 never permit it I " 
 
 She covered her face with her hands, 
 quite overcome. Col. Mildmay was aghast 
 at this sudden and unexpected display of 
 emotion, and began to murmur words of 
 consolation. 
 
 But Mrs. O'Neil recovered her self-pos- 
 session as quickly as she had lost it. 
 
 " What an old idiot I am, to be sure ! " 
 she exclaimed, looking up, and smiling 
 through her tears ; " a uiorough old idiot 1 
 As I say' twenty times a day to myself, ' All 
 is not lost yet ; ' and, until it has actually 
 become a fact, I never will believe, that, if 
 justice still exists on earth, such an iniquity 
 Tidll be countenanced. At all events, I am 
 resolved that we will fight the battle to the 
 last." Mrs. O'Neil concluded with a de- 
 termined nod and kindling eyes. "God 
 
 will spare me, I know he will, to fight it 
 out." 
 
 She was a brave old lady ; and so the 
 colonel, with smiling admiration, told her. 
 But he was thinking more of his daughter 
 than of the O'Neils' great family feud. 
 
 " I wish I could be sure that Ethel has 
 not a hankering for that young fellow," he 
 observed, musing aloud, and in anxious 
 tones. 
 
 Mrs. O'Neil said nothing ; but she took 
 the hint which the colonel meant to convey 
 to her. Doing things by halves was not in 
 her line ; and, having obliged the colonel by 
 coming to stay with him, she was also will- 
 ing to oblige him by assisting his daughter 
 out of the scrape in which he had allowed 
 her to entangle herself. So upon the next 
 opportunity, which was an hour or two 
 later, she made up her mind, animated per- 
 haps by a little curiosity as well as benevo- 
 lence, to approach the odious subject. But 
 it was a little difficult. Ethel was prudent, 
 and upon her guard. In vain did Mrs. 
 O'Neil inquire the names of her friends 
 and acquaintances, and with kindly sym- 
 pathy attempt to elicit confidences on the 
 delicate topic of partners and admirers. 
 The young girl, generally so talkative and 
 communicative, was now reserved and cau- 
 tious, and totally uninteresting. 
 
 Whereupon Mrs. O'Neil very quickly 
 lost patience, and abandoned the tortuous 
 ways. 
 
 " There is no use hiding it from me," she 
 exclaimed abruptly in the midst of a dreary 
 pause ; " not the least. You know those 
 dreadful people, Ethel : I know you do. 
 Of course you do not like them : nobody 
 could. But how can you bear even to 
 know them ? " she inquired pathetically. 
 
 Miss Mildmay looked a little confused. 
 
 " What people ? " she asked, to gain 
 time : then she added hastily, " You mean 
 your relations, — Madame O'Neil and her 
 son Count O'Neil ? Yes, I do know them." 
 
 " Her son 1 Count I Pshaw ! Don't be a 
 goose, child, — don't be a goose ! He is no 
 more a count than you are a countess ; and 
 his name is not O'Neil, but Irwin ; and he is 
 not that woman's child, but her sister's, — 
 wife to Denis Irwin, the steward at Castle 
 Garvagh. There ! you know all about it 
 now." And the old lady looked delighted, 
 as though she had got rid of a disagreeable 
 job. 
 
 But Ethel smiled scornfully. 
 
 " I may know it ; but I certainly do not 
 believe it," she said shortly. 
 
 " Bless me I Do you suppose that I am 
 telling lies, then ? " demanded Mrs. O'Neil 
 ashast. 
 
38 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 " Oh, no 1 you are prejudiced, mis- 
 taken. It ia easy to be credulous where 
 our interests are concerned," she added in 
 a low voice. 
 
 Which, however, did not escape the old 
 lady's quick ears. " Upon my word, con- 
 sidering your years, you are outspoken 
 enough, my dear," she said sharply, though 
 she laughed. 
 
 " I beg your pardon. I am sorry ; but 
 they are my friends," said Ethel yrith 
 tremulous dignity. 
 
 " Your friends, child ! — your friends I 
 O Ethel 1 whatever you are, don't be 
 silly," she said imploringly. 
 
 " Being told one is silly does not con- 
 vince one," observed Miss Mildmay 
 shortly. 
 
 There was a pause. Both ladies were 
 recovering breath after this preliminary 
 skirmish ; both were sharpening their weap- 
 ons tor the fray which now seemed immi- 
 nent. Ethel was young and rash, and, 
 now that she was excited, had lost her 
 self-restraint, and .forgotten her prudence. 
 She was the first to rush to the attack. 
 
 " Yes ! " she cried warmly, " it is easy to 
 assert, but not so easy to convince. Any- 
 body can tell a story ; but everybody can't 
 •prove it. Can you prove your story, Mrs. 
 O'Neil ? Will you be able to prove it 
 when it comes to the test ? Until you 
 have done so, it seems to me hard to expect 
 us to take for granted that Madame O'Neil 
 and her son are adventurers and impos- 
 tors." 
 
 Mrs. O'Keil listened to this impassioned 
 harangue with great calmness. 
 
 " Ha, ha 1 " she laughed when it had 
 come to an end. " It is not difficult to per- 
 ceive that the lady's maid has been prim- 
 ing you well." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " inquired Ethel, 
 turning a little pale. 
 
 " Oh 1 so she did not inform you of that 
 little fact ? Yes, my dear, the lady who is 
 at present my daughtor-in-law used, in the 
 good old times, to be my maid. Ernestine 
 Duroc was her name ; and a very clever 
 maid she was too, to do her justice, — too 
 clever by half. God forgive her 1 " con- 
 cluded the old lady, wringing her hands. 
 
 Ethel was, no doubt about it, a little 
 shocked ; but she would not have betrayed 
 it for all the world. " She married your 
 son I " she observed in a hard, constrained 
 tone. 
 
 " Don't I know she did ? don't I know it 
 to my cost ? Bid she not repay my good- 
 ness and kindness by ingratitude and the 
 Slackest deceit ? Do you know the story, 
 or do you not 1 " she demanded sharply. 
 
 " Not all I — only vaguely : please tell 
 me," said Ethel, whose curiosity was get- 
 ting the better of her pride. 
 
 "Well, I will, child, — I will; I must, 
 I suppose, to prevent you making a fool of 
 yourself; though, if I were to listen to my 
 conscience, I would not go within a mile of 
 the hateful subject, which is altogether too 
 much for my charity and forgiveness. 
 Well, the woman was my maid. I took a 
 fancy to her handsome face on an unlucky 
 foreign tour I was making. They (slie and 
 her sister) got round me with a sad story 
 of distress and misery ; and I was younger 
 than I am now, and I believed them. 
 They were twins, and devoted to one 
 anotier, so they said ; and I was good- 
 natured and credulous and rich. The end 
 of it was, child, that I brought them both 
 back with me to Ireland, — Ernestine as 
 my maid, Marianne as — well, I don't know 
 as what, — as Ernestine's companion, I 
 suppose ; " and the old lady made a rueful, 
 hali^omical grimace. " They were clever 
 young women, — at least, Ernestine was ; 
 Marianne I always thought a poor crea- 
 ture, — and they did not allow the grass to 
 grow under their feet. How they took nie 
 in, and threw dust in my eyes, and de- 
 ceived me, is more than I can say ; but do 
 it they did, and to a purpose. In six 
 months the mischief was done : Bernard, 
 poor foolish boy 1 had been entrapped and 
 wheedled and married — married 1 — the 
 heir of the O'Neils married to his mother's 
 waiting-maid 1 " 
 
 " How dreadful I " escaped involuntarily 
 from Ethel. 
 
 " Ay, child, dreadful indeed 1 Of course, 
 I nearly died of it, but not quite. One 
 dies of nothing so long as one can help. 
 Poor Bernard could not help dying before 
 long. He caught a fever in Rome; and 
 there, far away from me, unforgiven ao^ 
 estranged (for I knew nothing of his ill- 
 ness), my boy — my eldest-born — died. O 
 child 1 that was suffering worse than all. 
 For that I never can forgive that woman, 
 — that cruel, wicked woman. Oh I I would 
 have flown to him ; I would have taken him 
 in my arms ; I would have pardoned him all, 
 every thing I I would have received his 
 last breath ; he would have died with his 
 mother's blessing. But as it was, I was 
 thinking of him in anger and coldness 
 and contempt and resentfulness ; and — 
 O child I ho was dead, — dead ! " 
 
 There was a silence. Ethel did not know 
 
 it; but her eyes were filled 'with tears. 
 
 " He knew that you would have gone to 
 
 him if .you could — there was not time 
 
 I perhaps," she said gently, after a little. 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 39 
 
 " Perhaps not : his wife said there was 
 not. But how can I forgive her being 
 there, and I, his mother, away ? O 
 child, child ! may you never be a mother, 
 if your heart is to be torn as mine was 
 then I " 
 
 Ethel looked at her wonderingly. Who 
 would ever have thought that this frail lit- 
 tle woman could have gone through so 
 much? that these soft bright eyes could 
 Lave shed so many and such bitter tears ? 
 that this erect, slender figure could have 
 borne such a heavy, galling burden ? 
 
 " I am sorry for you," the young girl Said 
 simply and warmly; 
 
 " I dare say you are, child ; I dare say 
 you are : you would be made of stone if 
 you were not. But listen to the end of the 
 story: the sad 'part -is over now, and the 
 wicked part begins. Bernard's wife had a 
 child a few months after his death. There 
 was no denying the fact : Dr. O'Toole him- 
 self attended her. It was the only quarrel 
 we ever had in our lives, and I did quarrel 
 with him theui I was angry with him for 
 going to her." I believe I was wrong. At 
 all events, it all turned out for the best. A 
 son and heir to the O'Neils was born : I 
 went to see Hfinyself when the mother was 
 asleep, — I did/indeed, — for the life of me 
 I could not help it ; and a fine and splendid 
 baby it was, — a true O'Neil, with Ber- 
 nard's own eyes and smile and hair. I 
 kissed him; poOr little fellow, and blessed 
 him for his° dead father's sake. Still I 
 could not forgive her yet. I could not take 
 the mother'and^' child home with me, — it 
 was too soon,' — I meant to do it perhaps 
 later on. J could never have allpwed my 
 grandchild to grow up a stranger to me. 
 Oh 1 if I had only done it at once ;■ theurif 
 I had had the courage, the generosity, to 
 conquer myself, what happened^ afterwards 
 could never have happened;, and I-have 
 often thought since that God sent it to- me 
 as a punishment for having resisted his 
 grace. The child died of convulsions ; but 
 they managed cleverly, and no suspicions 
 were raised. It was not a difficult matter. 
 Bernard's wife was staying with her sister, 
 who had been a year ago married to Irwin, 
 Lord O'Neil's steward, and whose baby had 
 been born a little while before Ernestine's. 
 One of these children died and was buried. 
 They say it was Irwin's child. We say it 
 was Bernard's. God knows the truth." 
 
 " But what made you suspect such a hor- 
 rible fraud ? " asked Ethel eagerly. 
 
 " We did not suspect it at first, nor for 
 some months afterwards. Dr. O'Toole had 
 been called in to attend Bernard's child. 
 Ernestine herself had sent for him, but, 
 
 unfortunately, he was away ; and when, in 
 three days, he returned, he was told that 
 Bernard's infant had recovered, but that his 
 little cousin was dead. On thatjpccasion 
 he saw neither child, and suspec^d noth- 
 ing ; and it was not till three months had 
 passed, that a rumor reached him, nobody 
 knows how, that some deceit had- been 
 practised. I was too ill at the time of the 
 child's death to know or to care about any 
 thing; and I hadjeft Ireland shortly after- 
 wards for change of scene and air.^ While 
 I was away, Dr. O'Toole wrote tp. me of 
 the vague rumor which had beei) spread 
 about the country, but warned me' tJiat it 
 was only vague ; that he could get hold of 
 nothing clear or definite. He had been to 
 see the child which was still living, and 
 had found Madame O'Neil,, a^ she .styled 
 herself, on the point of leaving Castle Gar- 
 vagh, and going to live in France. As to 
 the child, what could he say ? - It was like 
 every other baby of a few months old ; smjl. 
 whether it was the baby which he'liad 
 helped to bring into the world or not, jpoor 
 Dr. O'Toole, with the best will, in ._the 
 world, was incapable of deciding. .TlTere 
 was no birth-mark, no sign, by which he 
 could identify it. I hurrieS back, but^too 
 late : they were gone. I went aft^r^liem ; 
 but it was a year b?f bre_ I. s.ueceeiied jji. find- 
 ing them. She was, afraid to conceal "the 
 child from me., I saw it. My instin'ct,. my 
 heart, told me that it was not .Befnawi's 
 child, TT- not the little one that'.I hajkissed 
 and fondled when it was a week old ; but I 
 had no'pfoof, and in common j\istioe ,1- was- 
 compeUe4<to distrust my own; feelings -and 
 suspicions, and to return home as wise, as 
 when I had left. For some yeaTS,.notmng 
 more happened^ The suspicion, rerhaijied 
 alive ; all sorts, of strange stories were cir- 
 culated in the country ; and the wild peopTe 
 in the midst ^of whom we lived, and^.who 
 have for centuries known and loved the 
 O'Neils, took part with us against the foi> 
 ■eigners, and alWays asaerted that Arthur 
 was Lord' O'Neil's r^htful heir. Time 
 passed. Dr. O'Toole and I were growing 
 old ; but we kept our eyes and ears open 
 nevertheless. There was a servant-girl af 
 Deiiis : Irwin's, a wild, bad girl, who -had 
 been in his service at the time of the chil- 
 dren's birth. The Irwins and she were 
 always quarrelling, and at last they sentier 
 about her business ; that is tosay, the^got 
 her a husband somehow, though her^tjhar- 
 acter was none of the best, and shipped her 
 off" to America, with hgr pockets well filled. 
 It was a queer business, and sejt.people talk- 
 ing. They said in the country that Bridg- 
 et knew more than her prayers, and that 
 
40 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 the Irwin s* were afraid of her. But this, 
 like eveV thing else, was only talL Dr. 
 O'Toble had over and over again tried to 
 sound Bridget, but had got nothing out of 
 her ;. though the girl's ways and man ners 
 betrayed more than she chose to tell. Well, 
 ofi' she went to America; but even ;there 
 we managed to -keep our eyes on her still, 
 and nev^r quite lost sight of her. Some- 
 thing was always telling me that Bridget 
 would serve usone.day ; though how, Heav- 
 en only knew. Well, childtf-ehe has served 
 us, or rather she will serve " — 
 
 MrsrO'Neil broke oiF suddenly. « Child, 
 what T am telling you now is only between 
 you and .me," she said, giving the -girl a 
 quick, startled glance. " Of course, you 
 will not tattle, or repeat, or " ^ — 
 
 Ethel flushed' up. " I suppose thkt I 
 haver honor enough to keep a secret Y " she 
 said, in her most^ dignified tone. 
 
 "^md it is a Secret, a dead secret," pro- 
 ce^OTiU Mr#.t)'Neil, lowering her voice, and 
 giyiifg" a cautious look around. " Arthur 
 wOutd "never forgive me if he thought that 
 I 'sD'inuch" as breathed a word of it to 
 you — ... . 
 
 "Then don't, -Mrs. O'Neil," interrupted 
 Ethel 'ihortly, with a mighty effort, gulping 
 doT^h'her curiosity. 
 
 "It is my duty to tell you, child : it is 
 my duty^o do every thing I can to prevent 
 your being""iriade a fool of — a silly, ridicu- 
 lous Ibol-^. by that bad, scheming, clever 
 woman. .Not tjiat there is so much to tell 
 as yet^ though, please God, one day there 
 will be." The old lady went on~ shaking 
 her head, and looking unutterably toystc^ 
 rious. " But Bridget is ill now, dying, I 
 believe, — dying by inches, — of some ter- 
 rible, cruel disease ; and God is just, and' 
 will not, -^ no, he can not, allow the poor, 
 wretched creature to die with the secret 
 which, we know, we are morally certain, is 
 on her" conscience unconfessed." 
 
 "You know, you are certain, — are you 
 really certain, Mrs. O'Neil ? " 
 
 The old'Ia'dy's pink cheeks flushed, and 
 her voice ■ .faltered. "Yes, child, I'am; 
 and I am certain, too, that. God is good, and 
 that he will not break my heart. But it is 
 weary,' weary work to wait, and I am oldj 
 and -r- oh, my God ! — who knows but that 
 the , end may come when I am no longer 
 there to see it." And little Mrs. O'Neil 
 br6kei'd6wn ajl at once, and burst into tears. 
 
 Eth3 was a traitress. She kissed herj — 
 took her in her arms, and kissed her tears 
 away. But-S-^eat perplexing pain was in 
 her heart,' artd clouds dimmed her sweet 
 violet eves as they gazed absently out into 
 the sunfit gardenr. 
 
 And then an interruption came ; and 
 perhaps both ladies were glad, that, for the 
 present, further confidences were impossi- 
 ble. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 SOMETIMES time seems to stand still, 
 sometimes to rush in a violent hurry. 
 It is hard to say which of these operations 
 suits us best or worst. We get impatient 
 of its slowness ; but we get frightened of its 
 speed. On the whole, however, impatience 
 is a lesser evil than fear ; and, if we were 
 wise, we would always select the slow mode 
 of progression rather than the fast. 
 
 Ethel for once was wise to-day, and -was 
 sorry that time seemed to be going at rail- 
 road speed, and bringing her fiice to face 
 with difficulties, which, when, it came to the 
 point, she would rather have deferred a 
 little longer. Luncheon was just over at 
 the villa. The heat was making everybody 
 drowsy and lazy ; and even the flies were 
 buzzing languidly. yTithin doors, all was 
 quietness and darkness and -sleepiness ; but 
 without, the world was blazin« away pitiless- 
 ly, and the white houses and while streets 
 and white roads of Nice were all glaring 
 painfully beneath the brazen tnid-day sun. 
 
 Ethel was dressing herself to go out, 
 notwithstanding, — and, for the first time in 
 her life, to go out to keep a secret appoint- 
 ment. More than aweek had passed, and she 
 had- not met Count O'Neil. The gay, hap- 
 py oamival was over, and gloomy, austere 
 Lent had begun. Balls and parties were 
 at an end. There had been no excuses for 
 chance . and unpremeditated meetings. 
 Ethel's time, had been taken up, and her 
 movements controlled ; and it had been 
 impossible ibr her to join Madame O'Neil 
 in the gardens or on the Promenade in the 
 pleasaljt old fashion, or to go to see her at 
 an hour when she would be likely to find 
 her at home : in short, Col. Mildmay's 
 manoeuvre had succeeded admirably ; and, 
 without a word or a single overt'act, he had 
 all at once put an end to"' the undesirable 
 intercourse. 
 
 The girl would not have cared, or perhaps 
 have even noticed, the change, except for 
 one reason. She liked Mrs. O'lJeil. The 
 old lady diverted and amused her, and 
 helped to make the long evenings short. 
 She enjoyed doing the honors of the house 
 to her,, and winning her heart by looking 
 after her comforts and the careful e-xclusion 
 of draughts. Mrs. O'Neil's vivacity had 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 41 
 
 cleared the atmosphere of ennui, and Arthur 
 O'Neil's daily visits were rather pleasant 
 breaks than otherwise. Her father was 
 more cheerful, and better than he had been 
 for a long time. In fact, there was only one 
 drawback to it all ; and that was an impor- 
 tant one, a very important one, Ethel grave- 
 ly decided : she could not see her admirer 
 or lover or — whatever he was. On that 
 latter point she had not yet quite made up 
 her mind; but on the former, viz., the 
 necessity of seeing him, she had no doubt 
 in the world. 
 
 But how was it to be done ? More than 
 once the angry question had risen to her 
 lips, and she had almost made it to her 
 lather ; but something had always checked 
 her. She knew very well what his answer 
 would be : at least, she knew that it certainly 
 would not be one according to her wishes. 
 Perhaps it would be a peremptory command, 
 or perhaps — and this was the best she 
 could hope for — it would be an entreaty 
 that she would be guided by him, and break 
 off the acquaintanceship to which he ob- 
 jected; and in anticipation she shrank from 
 wilfully disregarding either. Therefore 
 Ethel listened to prudence, and was silent. 
 Speech would certainly not make matters 
 better, and might easily make them worse. 
 So long as wishes were only implied, they 
 might with a tolerably safe conscience be 
 evaded. After all, she was only defending 
 herself with the same arms which were 
 being used against her ; and why should she 
 scruple to do so ? But she did scruple it, 
 nevertheless, and was miserable. 
 
 There are, however, a hundred ways of 
 being miserable ; and Ethel was miserable 
 after an excited, not thoroughly depressing 
 fashion. Young girls of eighteen or nine- 
 teen are not often made utterly and -hope- 
 lessly miserable by receiving letters from 
 handsome and fascinating young men, in 
 which they are informed that these same 
 young men are dying of love for them, and 
 will soon be altogether dead if some kind- 
 ness be not shown to them. Some such 
 letter had Ethel received from Count O'Neil 
 that morning. The young man wrote 
 ardently and eloquently, even reproachfully. 
 Days had gone by, and he had not seen her. 
 He had watched and waited for her at home, 
 in public places, everywhere ; but in vain. 
 She had not come ; she was avoiding him ; 
 she was allowing herself to be prejudiced 
 by slanderous stories, which he called 
 Heaven to witness were false. At the first 
 ill-natured breath which reached her ears, 
 she was faltering. " What was her friend- 
 ship worth," he asked, " if she was ready to 
 believe every thing that his enemies chose to 
 
 say against him ; if she was ready, without 
 an effort at resistance, to sacrifice him, to 
 make him miserable, to drive him to de- 
 spair?" His mother was too proud to 
 utter a reproach, or to take any step which 
 might embarrass her position, or to attempt 
 to influence her (it was against Tier will 
 that he was writing thus) ; but poor devils 
 who love, as the count observed pathetically, 
 are not proud. He was not proud, but 
 only wretched. He loved — and he Was not 
 ashamed to confess it — devotedly; . madly. 
 She had made him love her with all bis 
 heart ; and now he would not, could not, 
 believe that the first trial would prove her 
 to have been making a jest of his most 
 sacred feelings. 
 
 A wild, passionate composition, which 
 would have taken Col. Mildmay's breath 
 away had he seen it, and was very star- 
 tling even to the object of its protestations. 
 Ethel's cheeks burned and her hpart'beat 
 as she read it. It was her first lovt;4etter, 
 and was sufficiently ardent to satisfy tlje 
 most fastidious taste. Poor fellow! tt^was 
 evident that he really was despe.rate^ in 
 love, and with her, — with her, Etheii-Milft- 
 may 1 Perhaps it had been \pl&y up to 
 this, at least on her side ; but certainly, a^«r 
 this declaration, it could be so" no lohg'Sr. 
 She had never in her life seen a lby#-.tetter 
 before, except in books ; and no\^ thaj_ here 
 was one addressed to her, actually meant 
 for her, the girl felt dazed and bewildered, 
 and, to tell the truth, a little frightenied. 
 What was she to do with it? To keep it, 
 of Course. How could such a silly thought 
 as" to tear it up and let it fly in the- wind 
 have -occurred to her? Of course she 
 would keep it, and treasure it, and hide it 
 away in some safe, secret drawer, aS all 
 young ladies do with their love-letters. 
 And perhaps another would come, — two 
 er three more; and they would be tied 
 up with a blue ribbon: a faded flower 
 would be put with them ; and together they 
 would make a sentimental little bundle, to 
 be found after death, to be wotidered over 
 ^nd wept over. Ah, such fooUsh, foolish 
 thoughts 1 such silly, silly little bundles 1 
 Such absurd scraps of romance I What is 
 the use of them all, dangerous playthings 
 and poisoned sugar-plums to youth as they 
 are, leaving so little beliind? Perhaps a 
 contemptuous, incredulous smile which we 
 vouchsafe them in after-years, when our 
 horizons are widened, and we have learned 
 to know what " all that sort of stuff and 
 nonsense" means; perhaps a hard laugh 
 when we have seen our dreams dispelled 
 and our idols demolished; and perhaps a 
 heartache, and a sharp regret which lasts 
 
42 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 through a lifetime; little good, indeed, 
 and much harm, as all sensible people must 
 see at a glance. 
 
 However, what was to be done with the 
 letter was not the most important question 
 to be «onsidered just at present. What 
 was "to be done with the request it con- 
 tained was really the matter in hand. 
 Ethel did not make up her mind at once; 
 did not make it up — at least she pre- 
 tended not — till the last moment; and, 
 when the last moment came, she put on her 
 hat, -as we have seen, and went out to meet 
 her- lover. No use in going over all the 
 old arguments and reasons with which she 
 excused her conduct to herself; no use in 
 reminding the reader that she was behav- 
 ing- perfectly openly, and without any 
 attempt at concealment, and that it was 
 Brood daylight, and that all the world 
 might see her if it only chose to look. 
 
 All the world was, as a matter of fact, 
 however, .-safely out of the way just now, 
 as she could not help remembering with a 
 sensation of relief as she left the house. 
 Hel' father* was in his room. Since the 
 hot weather bad come, he always rested 
 for a couple of hours in the middle of the 
 day. "ilrs. O'Neil was asleep. She also 
 iBdulged ' in - repose after luncheon. In 
 short, adilong as this burning sun remained 
 high in tiie heavens, the coast was clear 
 frotil ot)66rvers "feither at home or abroad ; 
 aHdi ilihel ' felt, that, so far as concerned 
 " beinw seen-," she might apt with impunity. 
 
 ■ Aiid so "she went. It was only a little 
 way. Coun^ ' O'Neil had said that ■ he 
 would wait for her at a little roadside 
 chapel which was but a couple of hundreds 
 yards from the gate of the villa, — a pictu-; 
 resque, shady spot, very well suited for. a 
 lover's tryst. The young man was trute to 
 his word. At Ethel's approach, he rushed 
 to meet her with such grateful, delighted, 
 ardent words and looks, that she stopped 
 short, suddenly, and for the first time dis- 
 tinctly realized what she was about. 
 
 " r have come to — to " — she began 
 when he paused at last, and gave her a 
 chance of uttering a word. " Count 
 O'Neil, this is very 'wrong : you know it 
 is. You should not have asked me to do 
 it I " she burst out then, half crying, half 
 laughing. 
 
 " Wrong or right, it is remarkably pleas- 
 ant," was the young man's reply. " I can 
 never thank you enough. I could remain 
 here in this blessed spot forever, and be 
 "happy — with you." 
 
 "Nonsense ! I am only going to stay five 
 minutes ; not an instant more ; " and she 
 drew out her tiny watch, and showed it to 
 
 him. " See I it is a quarter-past two. At 
 twenty minutes past, I shall say good-by 
 to you. Yes, count — really," as he be- 
 gan an eager protestation. 
 
 She laughed ; he laughed. Perhaps 
 they both knew what an idle threat it 
 was. They had left the chapel now, and 
 were wandering up a narrow side-path 
 which led into a shady valley carpeted 
 with violets and garlic, and with steep 
 wooded banks on either side. It was a 
 perfect solitude. Nobody would ever have 
 guessed that this verdant, quiet nook was 
 so close to a busy and populous town. 
 
 " How beautiful it all is 1 " Ethel ex- 
 claimed, drawing a long breath of enjoy- 
 ment. And beautiful it was, smiling gladly 
 beneath the strong yet gentle touch of 
 spring — the dark trees and the intense blue 
 sky above; and, beneath, this peaceful, 
 pleasant valley filled with the gay hum of 
 insects and the joyous song of birds, and 
 enamelled with countless wild flowers and 
 tender verdure. 
 
 Love, however, is a blasphemer of every 
 thing but itself. O'Neil had no eyes for 
 the beauties of Nature just then. " It is 
 beautiful because you are here," he said. 
 
 An assertion which Ethel flatly informed 
 him was silly in the extreme, thus provok- 
 ing many more equally silly ones. Then 
 followed a quarrel ; then a reconciliation. 
 The five minutes had past and gone, and 
 many other five minutes besides, before a 
 single word of common sense had been 
 spoken by either of them. 
 
 After all, they were little more than chil- 
 dren ; and, moreover, they were children in 
 love. It would have been too much to ex- 
 pect them to talk solemnly and seriously 
 under- the circumstances. Now that they 
 were together, difficulties seemed to have 
 vapished, or were happily ignored. 
 
 When, after a while, O'Neil alluded an- 
 grily to his relations, Ethel put her hands 
 to her ears, and begged of him to stop. 
 
 "I am sick of the O'Neils and their 
 quarrels," she said with playful petulance ; 
 " and I wish all the O'Neils' were at the 
 bottom of the sea," she added^politely. 
 
 " Do you ? — then I wish to Heaven that I 
 were not one. On my honor, I am often 
 inclined to desire it," he said with a sudden 
 earnestness. " "There are moments when 
 I detest the sound of my own name, and, 
 remembering what a stone of dissension I 
 am, wish that I had never been born. 
 There are moments when I feel, that, if it 
 were not for my mother, I would will- 
 ingly pitch their money and their name in 
 their faces, renounce my claims and pros- 
 pects, and prove myself as proud as them- 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 43 
 
 selves, — too proud to belonj; to a family 
 T/hose accursed pride malices them ashamed 
 to own me." 
 
 Ethel was thunderstruck, and delighted 
 too. She had never suspected that the 
 young man was capable of such an out- 
 burst of genuine' and proper feeling, and 
 she looked at him with furtive admiration. 
 
 " It is a shame I " she exclaimed indig- 
 nantly, — "a cruel shame 1 " But then she 
 remembered old Mrs. O'Neil's piteous tale, 
 and her face of anguish and her tears ; and 
 she was racked, and did not know what to 
 say or think. 
 
 " Oh ! " she exclaimed, " if it could only 
 be all pleasantly and amicably arranged ! 
 
 — if you could but divide this dreadful 
 property between you 1 Oould you not 
 manage it ? " she inquired eagerly. It 
 was her one remedy, — the single panacea 
 she could devise wherewith to heal the 
 family feuds of the O'Neils. 
 
 Count O'Neil received the suggestion in 
 a more amiable spirit than his uncle had 
 done. " I am sure I should be delighted," 
 he said. " I should like nothing better. 
 So far as I am concerned, these famous 
 family lands and estates are — or rather 
 would be — a burden to me. What shall 
 I do with them when I possess them? To 
 live in such a miserable, savage, uncivil- 
 ized country as Ireland, is, of course, an 
 imposi=ibility. Castle Garvagh may be 
 magnificent, — a palace ; but it is situated 
 in the midst of a desert upon which the 
 Ijin never shines and the rain never ceases 
 TO pour. Peste I All the magnificence in 
 the world would not make up to me for the 
 loss of a fine climate, society, gayety, — all 
 that makes life tolerable, in short. A 
 week's residence in my 'ancestral halls,' 
 as my mother chooses to call them, would 
 infallibly lead to suicide. To you I may 
 speak freely," he went on confidentially, 
 " and tell every thing. Once, not long ago, 
 
 — unknown to my mother, of course, — I 
 actually did make a proposal of the sort, — 
 threw out hints, through men of business 
 who interest themselves in the family 
 afiairs, that I might not be unwilling to 
 listen to an arrangement; that a large 
 income, ready money — in fact yoa under- 
 stand." 
 
 " Do you mean that for money you were 
 ready to say that you were not the heir ? " 
 inquired Ethel, opening her eyes. 
 
 " No, no ! I only meant that an arrange- 
 ment might be made, that my uncle might 
 enjoy the property during his life, and that, 
 after his death, I should come in for it. In 
 short, that, for a consideration, I might 
 consent to be his heir, — his son, as it were. 
 
 Now, would not that have been a delight- 
 ful way of pleasin" everybody ? " he in- 
 quired naively. " Poor fellow 1 It is im- 
 possible not to acknowledge that my birth 
 was a terrible disappointment to him," 
 observed Count O'Neil compassionately. 
 
 "But Mr. O'Neil may wish to marry,'' 
 suggested Ethel, afler a pause of reflection. 
 
 " To marry I Why should he wish to 
 marry ? " and he gave her a quick, keen 
 glance. 
 
 " I don't know, I am sure. People do 
 sometimes," replied Ethel innocently. 
 
 Count O'Neil looked re-assured. " My 
 mother thinks he will never marry," he 
 said ; " and I believe that he himself says 
 he will not, until the day comes when he 
 knows that his son will be heir to Castle 
 Garvagh. My constitution is excellent, 
 and, for the present, I see no signs of being 
 able to accommodate him," went on O'Neil 
 with a laugli : " so the poor creature is con- 
 demned to celibacy. My word of honor, I 
 pity him from the bottom of my heart : I 
 really do." And the young man twirled 
 his mustache complacently. " He is let- 
 ting the precious moments pass, — has let 
 them pass, indeed. My uncle is no longer 
 in his first youth ; and I, I am robuster and 
 stronger than ever I was, unfortunately. 
 When that old imbecile, who is, without 
 scruple, keeping us all waiting on him such 
 an infernal time, dies at last, I shall be 
 there, never fear, to take my father's place." 
 
 " So Mr. O'Neil refused to listen to your 
 delightful proposition ; did he ? " inquired 
 Ethel, with some irony in her voice, when 
 he paused. 
 
 " Of course, ho did, — refused with scorn, 
 impudent scorn," replied the young man 
 reddening. " It was reported to me that 
 he declared that he would make no condi- 
 tion with the son of — ah 1 why should I 
 repeat the insulting words? Why should 
 I pollute your pure ears with that infamous, 
 slanderous tale with which, doubtless, 
 others less scrupulous than I am, have 
 already poisoned them ? Ah I it is their 
 accursed pride which is at the bottom of it 
 all. They cannot forget or forgive the fact 
 that one of them made a mesalliance ; that 
 my mother — I am not ashamed to say it 
 — was of humble birth and poor, and that 
 yet she is one of themselves, — their near 
 relative. Where they have sinned, they 
 have been punished. They have sinned 
 through pride. They are proud of their blue 
 blood, and of their ancient descent — royal, 
 as they call it — from the kings of Ireland, 
 forsooth I " And the young man laughed 
 satirically, and shrugged his shoulders. 
 " I, it is true, am not descended from kings. 
 
44 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 My grandfather kept a shop in the Rue St. 
 Antoine. His father before him probably 
 sold cheap drinks on the Boulevard. My 
 mother earned her bread in service ; yet I 
 am hedd of the family, and heir of the 
 O'Neils, kings as they were. It is a just 
 retribution.V but they cannot accept it. It 
 is a bitter,- bitter pill, and, rather than 
 swallow it,, they have recourse to falsehood 
 and calumny. They have hesitated, 
 stopped, at nothing." 
 
 '• But — but — perhaps they are de- 
 ceived. You surely do not suppose that 
 they are intentionally — that, in short, Mr. 
 O'Neil wishes to rob you of what he knows 
 to be rightfully yours? I cannot believe 
 it," said Ethel in a tone of pain. 
 
 " Why not ? Other men have done as 
 much. There is intentional wrong some- 
 where. Is he guilty of it, or am I ? " And 
 O'Neil stopped short in his walk, crossed 
 his hands on his breast, and looked at her 
 as though he meant to get an answer. 
 
 Ethel wrung her hands. It was the ever 
 recurring cul-de-sac, — whom to believe, 
 and whom not to believe : where to find 
 the truth, where to detect falsehood. 
 
 " I don't know. How should I know ? " 
 she began petulantly. And then, as 
 O'Neil's brows contracted, and his hand- 
 some eyes flashed, " Of course, I know 
 that whatever you say is true," she went on 
 with hasty eagerness. " Of course, I be- 
 lieve you : I trust you jusqu'aux bouts des 
 doigts. But don't look at me with such a 
 terrible expression. You frighten me ; you 
 do indeed," she said, pouting. " What have 
 I said? What have I done? You look 
 exactly like the wolf who is going to eat up 
 poor little Red Riding Hood. Ah, me I 
 How unfortunate I am between you all I " 
 
 No doubt about it, if Ethel was some- 
 what to be pitied in the midst of so many 
 conflicting interests and sympathies, she 
 was not totally inexpert in the art of getting 
 nimbly out of difficulties. O'Neil was 
 reduced to abject contrition at once. 
 
 " Do I frighten you ? What a brute I 
 am I and what an angel you are I " he ex- 
 claimed. " Do I frighten you ? — I, who 
 would give worlds, did I possess them, to 
 save you an hour's grief I am a fool ; 
 I know I ara ; but I cannot help it. I love 
 you to distraction ; and it is a torture to me 
 to know that these wretched family differen- 
 ces have raised a barrier between us, — the 
 barrier of your father's mistrust and dislike. 
 It is a torture to me to know that while, 
 for the present at least, I am denied the 
 entree to your home, other men enjoy it 
 freely ; and that, while I can only snatch a 
 rare short hour of your society, others may 
 
 see you when and where they please. It is 
 a torture " — 
 
 " But," interposed Ethel with a demure 
 smile, " nobody sees me. This last week 
 we have received scarcely a single visitor, 
 except the poor old baron. Surely you are 
 not jealous of him, count ? " 
 
 " I am capable of any thing, I believe. 
 But it is not to the baron that I allude. 
 I am alluding to my uncle, who does not 
 allow a single day to pass without finding 
 his way to the villa, — to my uncle, who has 
 it in his power, and whose interest it is, to 
 poison your mind against me." 
 
 " He never speaks of you," put in Ethel 
 simply. "Besides, he comes to see his 
 mother, not me, count. And, besides — oh, 
 dear me 1 how funny it is for a man to be 
 jealous of his own uncle ! " 
 
 And Miss Mildmay laughed a merry, 
 provoking laugh. 
 
 " Remarkably funny 1 — very amusing, no 
 doubt I " said O'Neil grimly. " It has come 
 to that, I believe I could be jealous of my 
 great-grandfather, if I happened to own 
 such a relative. No doubt I am an object 
 of ridicule in your eyes, mademoiselle, — a 
 laughing-stock, an idiot. The thing is 
 quite conceivable. Men who love women 
 are always fools for their pains. But I care 
 not. I feel desperate, callous. Laugh 
 away I you cannot make me more miserable 
 than I already am." 
 
 Cutting^ words, which yet did not seem 
 to affect Ethel as deeply as they ought. 
 
 " Mr. O'Neil is certainly not in his first 
 youth, as you have just now remarked," sA 
 observed demurely, after a thoughtful pause. 
 " He is even gray, very gray. Some per- 
 sons have a passion for gray hair, though. 
 I knew a young girl once who. declared she 
 would never marry a man whose hair was 
 not gray. To tell the truth, I rather like 
 it myself. It looks distingue'. Don't you 
 agree with me, count ? " 
 
 A question which made the young man 
 writhe. But luckily his wrath was appeased 
 in time. Ethel's violet eyes were looking 
 at him with soft deprecation firom beneath 
 her hat, and she was smiling a smile so 
 sweet and arch, and altogether irresistible, 
 that it fully made up for the malice of her 
 words. O'Neil, at all events, was satisfied, 
 and forgave her, coquettish little tricks at 
 once. After all, his jealousy was not as 
 great as his lamentations just now would 
 have made her believe. It troubled him 
 with momentary little attacks, but was very 
 far from chronic. His nature was a san- 
 guine one, and he had full confidence in 
 himself, and never doubted but that Ethel 
 found him charming ; and, when a man 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 45 
 
 rejoices in this pleasant conviction, a woman 
 can, for the most part, do with him as she 
 chooses, — worry him, torment him, get 
 what she likes out of him. Gratified vanity 
 is a more important element of the tender 
 passion than people of the romantic school 
 would like to confess. 
 
 O'Neil was a vain man, and his vanity 
 was flattered now. Ethel might discharge 
 her quiverful of arrows at him with perfect 
 impunity. He wore a coat of mail of her 
 ovvn manufacture, from which they glanced 
 oiT triumphantlj^ and harmlessly. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 § 
 
 MEANWHILE, five minutes after five 
 minutes were running away, and 
 Ethel suddenly discovered with a shock 
 how fast they had gone. The young peo- 
 ple had walked right through the valley, 
 and had been unknowingly led farther than 
 they had supposed. There were two ways 
 of getting home now, — the one by which 
 they had come, which was secluded, but 
 a much longer one than the other, which 
 passed through a suburb of the town. 
 Ethel looked at her watch, and was dis- 
 mayed. 
 
 " The carriage is ordered at half-past 
 four, and it is a quarter to four now," she 
 exclaimed. " I must hurry home. There 
 is not a moment to lose. This is the 
 shorter way; is it not?" and she began 
 walking at a fast pace along the public 
 road. 
 
 " Yes, it is shorter ; but it offers inconve- 
 niences," suggested O'Neil, who was too 
 thorough a Frenchman ever, under any 
 circumstances, to forget the convenances. 
 
 " What inconveniences-? Oh I we may 
 be seen," and Ethel stopped short. " Well, 
 and what matter if we are ? " a little defi- 
 antly, as she resumed her walk. 
 
 To tell the truth, O'Neil, flattered as he 
 ought to have been, and was, no doubt, by 
 his lady-love's superb indifference to public 
 opinion, was a little dismayed by it too. 
 He was deeply in love, and he was thor- 
 oughly imbued with strict notions regard- 
 ing the prudence and circumspection which 
 ought, in the world's eyes, to guide a young 
 unmarried lady's every action, needless to 
 say, those of the lady with whom he wag 
 in love, more than anybody else's. Nice 
 would just be rousing itself now. Closed 
 jalousies and eyes would open. Carriages 
 would pass. Friends and acquaintances 
 
 would nod and stare, and wonder and talk. 
 For himself he did not care ; pothing they 
 chose to say could injure him ; but for this 
 young girl beside him, for whom he felt a 
 lover's chivalrous devotion, and a lover's 
 jealous desire .that her name should be 
 sacred, and not bandied about from mouth 
 to mouth, he did care very much indeed. 
 For her to be seen in the company of a 
 young man, alone, unchaperoned, on the 
 public road, seemed to him to be an un- 
 paralleled catastrophe. In such an idle, 
 wicked place as Nice, scandals had often 
 been invented on less serious grounds. 
 There was a delicacy, however, in men- 
 tioning the fact, unless Ethel could see it 
 for herself. 
 
 " Of course, of course,'' the young man 
 said, with difficulty keeping pace with her 
 hasty steps. " What does it matter, after 
 all ? These little trifling infractions of the 
 usages of society only assume importance 
 in the eyes of — Confound it ! " he ex- 
 claimed, in accents of extreme provoca- 
 tion, as a handsome barouche rolled past, 
 nearly stifling them with a cloud of dust. 
 " Confound it ! If that is not Madame de 
 Vergenne's carriage, the greatest gossip and 
 most ill-natured woman in society 1 Thank 
 Heaven, however, I think it is only her 
 blind old husband who is in it. Yes. How 
 fortunate I " and he heaved a sigh of relief. 
 " I wonder whether the servants recog " — 
 
 For the second time, Ethel came to a 
 dead stop, turning round upon her com- 
 panion with some disdain. " How afraid 
 you are of being seen with me. count ! " 
 she said with a light laugh. " Which is it, 
 — for your own reputation, or for mine, 
 that you feel so desperately nervous ? " 
 
 " For neither," replied the count, a 
 little abashed. " It is only because I am 
 anxious that you should be spared the 
 annoyance of hearing your actions com- 
 mented upon, that I am sorry we did not 
 return by the road we came." 
 
 " Who will dare to comment upon 
 them ? " began Ethel, kindling. Then the 
 ludicrousness of the situation struck her, 
 and she burst out laughing. " Oh, dear 
 me I what a storm in a teakettle I Count, 
 I always knew you were a terrible fudge. 
 However, perhaps you are right ; and, as I 
 would not compromise you for all the 
 world, here we must separate. Provi- 
 dentially we are provided with two roads. 
 I will pursue this one, which will bring me 
 home in a quarter of an hour. You can 
 take that to the left ; which, after all, is, I 
 think, your direct one to the Cercle, where 
 doubtless you are going." 
 
 " But — but you will be alone. That is 
 
46 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 not convenable either," remonstrated O'Neil, 
 gradually growing excited. 
 
 _" Solitude is better than bad company," 
 rejoined Ethel saucily, and looking over 
 her shoulder with a malicious smile. " I 
 am an unprotected female. Let any one 
 insult me who dares." 
 
 She was gone with a farewell wave of 
 her hand. O'Neil did not attempt to fol- 
 low her. Another carriage passed, from' 
 which ladies saluted him. More equipages 
 were appearing in the distance. The road 
 was becomina; livel}' and crowded. The 
 young people had not separated an instant 
 too soon. It had been a close shave ; and 
 • beads of perspiration started to O'Neil's 
 forehead as he gracefully returned his pass- 
 ing friends' bows and smiles, and reflected 
 how close it had been, and what an escape 
 Ethel had had. Not so the young lady 
 herself, who was pursuing her way filled 
 with scornful amusement at her late com- 
 panion's panic. " After all, how superior 
 a thorough-bred Englishman is to any thing 
 else on earth I " she was saying to herself; 
 " and what a miserable thing it is to be a 
 slave to public opinion I " 
 
 Nevertheless, five minutes later she could 
 not help experiencing a sensation of relief 
 at finding herself alone. It is all very well 
 to entertain magnificent notions of the un- 
 importance of public opinion in the 'ab- 
 stract; but, when it comes to practical and 
 personal applications, few of us are strong- 
 minded enough to be quite proof against 
 its strictures and censures. Eihel, for one, 
 was not; and, as has been said, when, five 
 minutes later, she heard her name called, 
 and found herself face to face with Chris- 
 tine Delneuve and her mother, she felt 
 actually grateful to Count O'Neil for his 
 timely prudery. But she was alone, and 
 that was sufficiently embarrassing. More- 
 over, she felt that she was looking flushed 
 and conscious, and that Christine's clever 
 eyes were scanning her face closely. After 
 all, Christine had_ been right in her half- 
 mocking prophecy, that their acquaintance- 
 ship was not destined to make much prog- 
 ress. They had not met for two or three 
 weeks, — since that day, indeed, on the 
 Promenade, when the prophecy had been 
 uttered. Their paths had diverged, and 
 neither had wandered from her own to 
 seek the other. Ethel, in the midst of her 
 gayeties and amusements, had lost sight of 
 the Delneuves, and, to tell the truth, had 
 almost forgotten them. 
 
 " I went to see you, however, which is 
 more than you did to me," she said with 
 deprecating eacrerness when they met. 
 
 Christine acknowledged the truth of the 
 
 remark. " But we have been busy lately," 
 she said, — " very busy indeed. You have 
 visitors, besides, at the villa; have you 
 not?" 
 
 " Yes : old Mrs. O'Neil, whom you know. 
 She went to call upon you the other day ; 
 but, as usual, you were out. Why have you 
 not come to return her visit ? " 
 
 Christine laughed quietly. " I dare say 
 that she will excuse us. We are only 
 slightly acquainted with her ; though we 
 know her son very well. He was once at 
 
 ^ where we used to live. However, we 
 
 must return Mrs. O'Neil's visit ; must we 
 not, mother? " she said. 
 
 " Certainly, dear child. So soon as 
 every thing is arranged, and we have time. 
 You will make our excuses to her, made- 
 moiselle ; will you not ? In a day or two 
 we shall do oursel^s the honor of calling." 
 
 They had turned back with Ethel a little 
 way, and had now reached the foot of the 
 hill which led 'up to the villa. Madame 
 Delneuve paused, saying that she was not 
 ycung enough to go up a hill for the pleas- 
 ure of coming down it again. But " — ami 
 she looked hesitatingly at Ethel, " we 
 ought not to leave you alone. You are too 
 young and too pretty, my child, for these 
 solitary walks." 
 
 " I have not been alone exactly," Ethel 
 began in some confusion. 
 
 " Ah I your maid follows you, or you have 
 sent her on in front, perhaps," Madame 
 Delneuve supposed ; and Ethel did not 
 know how to contradict her. Her con- 
 science gave her a little twinge. She 
 scorned a lie; and yet — and yet — had 
 she not been just betrayed into one? 
 " But how can I help it ? " she asked her- 
 self angrily. " How can I tell her that I 
 have been walking with Count O'Neil ? " 
 
 Diflicult, no doubt. And Ethel was 
 already beginning to discover that it is 
 easier to take the first step in the wrong 
 road than to retrace it when once taken. 
 
 " But why will you not come up to the 
 villa now ? " she inquired abruptly, ner- 
 vously anxious to change the subject. 
 " Pray do. Come up, and have a cup of 
 tea, and rest a little." 
 
 Christine looked pale and tired, and as if 
 she needed a rest; but the proposal was 
 declined, nevertheless. " We have an en- 
 gagement at home, — a particular engage- 
 ment," Madafne Delneuve said with a sig- 
 nificant smile. 
 
 Ethel saw the smile ; and she saw, too, a 
 faint flush rising to Mademoiselle Del- 
 neuve's face. Suddenly the baron's gossip 
 darted to her mind. 
 
 " A particular engagement," she repeated, 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 47 
 
 laughing. " That sounds ominous, ma- 
 dame." 
 
 " We may tell mademoiselle ; may we 
 not, man coeur," Madame Delneuve said 
 with a doubtful look at her daughter. " It 
 is no longer a secret." 
 
 " Is it possible V What ? O Christine I 
 are you really going to be married? " Ethel 
 cried breathlessly, curiosity getting alto- 
 gether the better of discretion. 
 
 "I believe so," Mademoiselle Delneuve 
 replied, with a calm shrug of her shoul- 
 ders. " And I am making my own Iroun- 
 seau," she added a little more eagerly. 
 
 " To be married I Oh, tell me all about 
 it, please do I " Ethel entreated. 
 
 " There is so little to tell. M. Barbier is 
 neither young nor handsome ; but he is an 
 excellent person, and very well off. He is 
 good enough to like me; and I am, of 
 course, very grateful and fortunate," Chris- 
 tine replied in cold, unmoved tones, and 
 drawing figures with the top of her parasol 
 upon the dusty road. 
 
 Never did a young lady announce her 
 approaching nuptials in a more matter-of- 
 fact, prosaic fashion, and Ethel could hardly 
 conceal her disgust. 
 
 "Well, I congratulate you," she said 
 dryly. Then she paused. Something in 
 Christine's face stopped her. The girl 
 was smiling gayly and bravely ; but there 
 was a suffering, cloudy look in her eyes, 
 which touched Ethel's heart. "I hope 
 that you will be very happy," she added in 
 a softer tone. 
 
 "I hope so. I suppose I shall. He is 
 very kind to me. It pleases my mother 
 that I should marry, you see," she added in 
 a whisper, and with a little laugh. 
 
 Ethel would have liked to have heard 
 more ; but she suddenly, and with a shock, 
 remembered the flight of time. 
 
 " Oh I I must go. I shall get into a 
 scrape at home I " she exclaimed. " But 
 I want to see more of you, Christine. 
 When can I see you again ? When will 
 you come to see me V " 
 
 Christine hesitated. Only a vague 
 promise could be got out of her, that she 
 would come up to the villa some evening 
 soon. 
 
 " The marriage was to take place at 
 Easter, and there was much to be done 
 beforehand. However, she would certainly 
 not let the week pass without coming." 
 
 " Very well. As soon as you can, then. 
 I am always at home in the. evening now, 
 and our garden is delightful by moonlight," 
 Ethel cried, hurryin" away. 
 
 But there was little use in hurrying 
 now. Already she was hopelessly behind 
 
 time. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortu^ 
 nately, young ladies who possess parents 
 and guardians are seldom at liberty to defy- 
 all rules of punctuality, and to absent them- 
 selves unaccompanied from home for several 
 hours, without exposing themselves to re- 
 mark. Fortune was against Ethel that day. 
 Visitors had chanced to call while she was 
 out, and she had been searched for high 
 and low in vain ; and now, when she at last 
 reached the villa, the carriage had been 
 waiting at the door for half an hour. The 
 colonel was uneasy and out of all patience. . 
 His daughter's unpunctuality, so far as 
 it concerned himself, he forgave readily 
 enough ; but her discourtesy to their guest 
 pained and provoked him. 
 
 They were all in the drawing-room wait- 
 ing for her, when she reached home at last. 
 The colonel looked angry, Mrs. O'Neil 
 aggrieved, and Arthur O'Neil too I Ethel 
 was dismayed to find that he was a member 
 of this family conclave. Ethel's quick eye 
 took it all in at a glance, and we may be 
 sure resented it all too : they had been sit- 
 ting in council upon her, wondering, com- 
 menting, finding fault, discussing her ac- 
 tions. And Ethel was at the moment ner- 
 vous, excited, irritated, and, moreover, in 
 the wrong. It irritated her that she should' 
 be controlled ; it irritated her that she 
 should be found out ; more than all, did it 
 irritate her to find the O'Neils sitting in 
 judgment upon her, — those O'Neils who 
 had been forced upon her against her will, 
 and to whom she was indebted for all the 
 annoyance and unhappiness which had so- 
 suddenly come into her life. Till they had 
 come to Nice, all had been well. Till Mrs.. 
 O'Neil had stolen in between her and her 
 father, there had been nothing but perfect: 
 confidence and affection between theou 
 Till they had come to poison his ears witlb 
 cruel imputations against her friends, sic- 
 had been free as air to see whom she chose, 
 to do as she pleased. And now, owing toi 
 them, she was forced to have recourse to 
 expedients which she hated, — to stoten in-; 
 terviews, to secret appointments, to perhaps, 
 a whole system of deceit and scheming. It 
 was too bad, too bad. And now, -when she! 
 saw her father's grave face, and hieard the- 
 unusual sounds of fault-finding faUing from, 
 his lips, the last straw was pat upon the- 
 camel's back, and all Ethel's wrongs and 
 grievances rushed to her mimd. 
 
 And so it was, that, instead of being sorry 
 and deprecatory, the girl was lous^ and 
 angry. 
 
 " Am I late ? " she inquired -with the 
 most aggravating coolness, in answer to. 
 Col. MiTdmay's snort remark that she hadi 
 
48 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 kept them waiting more than half an hour. 
 " Am I late ? But surely it does not mat- 
 ter. The later it is, the pleasanter and the 
 cooler." And Miss Mildmay threw her- 
 self down in an easy-chair, and fanned her 
 flushed face violently with her hat. 
 
 Her father colored. 
 
 " It does matter," he said sharply : " it 
 matters extremely that you should be out 
 alone for three hours, and that you should 
 behave with so little politeness towards 
 Mrs. O'Neil. At least, you might have the 
 good manners to apologize to her." 
 
 His voice trembled, and it was evident 
 that the words cost him a great deal. 
 
 Mrs. O'Neil interposed hastily. 
 
 " Colonel, pray say no more about it. 
 She is a good child, and will not do it 
 again. She forgot the time, I suppose ; 
 did you not, love ? Bless me, how red you 
 look I You have been walking too fast and 
 too far, child." 
 
 Ethel tried to smile carelessly. 
 
 " Yes : I am very warm, and very tired 
 too," she said. " I don't think I'll drive at 
 all, papa. What a pity you waited for 
 me I " and with this Miss Mildmay rose, 
 and prepared to leave the room. 
 
 This was a little too much. Even little 
 Mrs. O'Neil drew herself up, rustled her 
 silk dress, and looked belligerent. 
 
 " Ethel I " Col. Mildmay said sharply. 
 
 " Well ? " and the young lady paused with 
 her hand on the handle of the door, and 
 looked round over her shoulder. 
 
 " Ethel, you owe Mrs. O'Neil an apology. 
 Make it to her at once." 
 
 There was a pause. Ethel was not red 
 now, but very white. 
 
 " What am I to apologize for ? " she in- 
 quired presently with a light laugh. " For 
 keeping her waiting ? But why did she 
 wait ? Why did you wait ? Why did any- 
 body wait ? Surely you are quite enough, 
 and don't want me. I am not a person of 
 30 much importance ; am I ? " 
 
 " You are my daughter ; and my guests 
 are yours, and I expect you to treat them 
 with common courtesy. Ethel, come over 
 ihere 1 " 
 
 " What for ? Papa, I am tired, and want 
 to rest. Pray go out to drive, and don't 
 make matters worse by keeping the horses 
 waiting longer. Dear me! what a fuss 
 about nothing I " 
 
 " Ethel, come over here 1 " repeated her 
 father, as she opened the door. 
 
 " What for ? " and the girl did not move. 
 
 " Come over here I You must apologize 
 to Mrs. O'Neil." 
 
 " O colonel, pray don't I The child is 
 not well. She looks as though she had 
 
 caught a fever. Pray, say no more about 
 it : I can go away. Lideed, it is high time 
 for me to be thinking of going home," said 
 Mrs. O'Neil with mingled dignity and an- 
 ger and amazement, which, under any other 
 circumstances, would have been entertain- 
 ing. But the situation was much too tragi- 
 cal a one to laugh at. Something resem- 
 bling a suppressed smile was upon Mr. 
 O'Neil's lips, it is true ; but as he had re- 
 tired into a far corner, and was discreetly 
 looking out of the window, nobody per- 
 ceived it. 
 
 Every one else was grave enough. 
 
 " Nonsense I " said the colonel. " Surely, 
 Mrs. O'Neil, you will pay no attention to 
 the freak of a silly girl. Are you not well, 
 darling ? " he inquired quickly, and with an 
 anxious glance. 
 
 " Oh, dear I yes ; quite well," responded 
 Miss Mildmay airily. 
 
 " Then, love, come over here, and explain 
 it all to Mrs. O'Neil. Tell her that you are 
 sorry, — that it is a mistake." 
 
 " Sorry for what V What is a mistake ? 
 But it was no mistake : I could not manage 
 to get back earlier. But I am sorry that you 
 waited for me, of course, since it put you 
 all out so much, and I did not mean to drive 
 at all." 
 
 And with this Miss Mildmay left the 
 room. What happens on such occasions as 
 these V Nobody knows. They are occa- 
 sions upon which the cleverest and readi- 
 est-tongued people often find themselves 
 lamentably at a loss, and when the wisest 
 thing to do is generally to do and say as 
 little as possible. Never was man more 
 distressed and embarrassed than was poor 
 Col. Mildmay then. Women are much bet- 
 ter equal to these emergencies than men. 
 Family life is their sphere ; and they are 
 accustomed to its ups and downs, to its 
 calms and storms. When a tempijst' breaks 
 forth, they do not immediately suppose that 
 all is lost, and irretrievable ruin and havoc 
 made in the domestic circle : on the con- 
 trary, they know that it will pass by, leav- 
 ing things pretty much as they were before, 
 and having served its purpose of purifying 
 the atmosphere, and clearing the air. 
 
 Col. Imldmay was overwhelmed and 
 distressed ; but Mrs. O'Neil would not listen 
 to his explanations and lamentations. 
 
 " The child isn't well. Don't say another 
 word about it, Henry. She will come to 
 her senses in half an hour, never fear. But 
 I don't think I'll drive, thank you 1 I feel 
 just a little flurried and nervous, and would 
 rather rest till dinner-time," she said, inter- 
 rupting his apologies, and speaking in a 
 very snaky, uncertain voice, which betrayed 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 49 
 
 that the old lady felt more than her kind 
 heart and her loving pity for Col. Mildmay 
 would let her show. 
 
 But when presently, to everybody's relief, 
 he had left the room, her suppressed wrath 
 burst forth. 
 
 " My goodness 1 " she exclaimed, drawing 
 a long breath. "Was there ever a more 
 impudent, ill-mannered girl ? " 
 
 " Well, her manners are certainly not the 
 best," said Mr. O'Neil, emerging from his 
 retirement in the window, with a dry little 
 laugh. " But she was provoked to it. Now, 
 mother, did I not tell you that " — 
 
 " Arthur, don't you know that ' did I not 
 tell you ' is the most aggravating form of 
 speech men or women can use ? " interrupted 
 bis mother pettishly. 
 
 " Well, then, I did not tell you. But, 
 whether I did or not, I certainly need not 
 tell you now that this state of things can- 
 not go on. Mother, you must come away. 
 You are not welcome here, and you are 
 doing no good," said O'Neil in a decided 
 tone. 
 
 " No good I Of course, I am doing good. 
 Why, poor Henry is a different man since 
 I came," replied Mrs. O'Neil indignantly. 
 
 " Yes, I know that ; but " — 
 
 Then followed the old arguments over 
 again, by which he had at first in vain 
 attempted to dissuade her from coming to 
 the villa, and which were now stronger 
 than before. Col. Mildmay was better ; 
 there seemed no very immediate cause for 
 fear ; he would soon be well enough to leave 
 Nice himself. 
 
 " Let him come over to Ireland to see you 
 if he likes," said Mr. O'Neil. " Receive him 
 and his daughter in your own house; let 
 them stay as long as they please : but for 
 Heaven's sake don't intrude any longer in 
 theirs." 
 
 To all of which entreaties the old lady 
 would only half listen. She was annoyed 
 and offended with Ethel ; but she did not 
 look upon the recent little outbreak in the 
 same serious light as did her son. She 
 was well and comfortable at the villa, and 
 she was not in such a great hurry to leave 
 it. It agreed with her, and she was fond 
 of the colonel ; and she had given him a 
 solemn promise to remain with him so long 
 as he remained at Nice. 
 
 " On account of those dreadful people, 
 Arthur, you know," she explained. '' They 
 mifht be troublesome if I were not here to 
 protect her." 
 
 Mr. O'Neil smiled. 
 
 " It is on their account that it annoys her 
 that you should be here, mother," he said. 
 ' Do you think so ? But what is to be 
 4 
 
 done ? It would be a sin and a shame to 
 allow the poor child to fall into the hands 
 of such people. Nobody but yourself could 
 think of such a thing, Arthur." 
 
 Further remonstrance was useless. Mr. 
 O'Neil, like a wise man, did not attempt 
 it. 
 
 " Well, as you like," he said. " I hoped 
 that I might be able to induce you to come 
 with me ; but I see that I must give it up. 
 For my part, I am thinking of starting the 
 day after to-morrow." 
 
 Mrs. O'Neil was dismayed. 
 
 " What ? " she inquired anxiously. 
 
 It was a constant subject of dispute be- 
 tween them. Mr. O'Neil wanted to leave, 
 Mrs. O'Neil to stay. For the last fortnight, 
 he had been threatening to go every day; 
 and now it appeared as though long threat- 
 ening must come at last. The old lady 
 was in despair. She adored her son, and 
 could not bear him out of her sight ; and 
 though she did not choose to leave the 
 villa, yet she did choose to have the option 
 of doing so at any moment that she should 
 discover that it really was too hot to hold 
 her. But, for once, Mr. O'Neil was obdu- 
 rate, and would not give in. 
 
 " After all, maybe I am a fool to put ray- 
 self out on their account." she said in a 
 tone of melancholy indecision, after having 
 in vain tried first by coaxing, then by 
 scolding, to shake his determination, — 
 " maybe I am an -old fool for my pains, 
 and nothing more." 
 
 " At all events, I can't flatter myself 
 that / am of much use to Miss Mildmay," 
 observed Mr. O'Neil, smiling. " She did 
 not deign to say ' Good-morning ' to rne 
 just now." 
 
 He spoke gayly ; and yet it was easy to 
 see that he was piqued. 
 
 " The saucy cnit ! " exclaimed Mrs. 
 O'Neil indignantly. 
 
 Then she looked at her son, and groaned. 
 
 " Arthur, why are you growing so gray ? " 
 she inquired with mingled perplexity and 
 despair. 
 
 He laughed, and threw back his head 
 with a quick gesture of indifference, and he 
 colored slightly too. The fact was, that 
 he plainly read the thought which was 
 passing through his mother's mind. 
 
 " What a silly old lady you are ! " he be- 
 gan playfully, and then he stopped. The 
 door had suddenly opened ; and Ethel was 
 standing on the threshold, looking in. 
 
 She paused, and hesitated for a second, 
 with her eyes upon Mr. O'Neil. He was 
 looking at her, and thinking how pretty she 
 was, — very pretty just then, with a shy, 
 doubtful expression in her face which be- 
 
50 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES, 
 
 came it well, and with a bright flush still 
 lingering upon her cheeks. Seeing him, 
 she seemed at first inclined to go away ; but 
 after a second she came forward, looking at 
 him still, truth to tell, a little defiantly. 
 
 " Mrs. O'Neil," she said, walking straight 
 up to the old lady, and standing before her 
 chair in a childish, graceful attitude, half 
 of disdain, halfof humility, — "Mrs. O'Neil, 
 I was very rude to you just row, and I am 
 quite ashamed of myself. I hope you will 
 forgive me ; please do I " And then, with 
 one of her sudden impulses, she bent down 
 and gave her a hearty kiss. 
 
 Beyond a doubt, the gods have favorites. 
 To some they give fortune, to others tal- 
 ents, to these lutk, to those beauty ; but, 
 to those they love best, they give something 
 better than all these things, — the gift of 
 fascination, that gift which can neither be 
 acquired nor bought nor imitated, but 
 which is a subtle, innate charm, hard to 
 define, but impossible to resist. 
 
 Ethel possessed this magical gift to per- 
 fection. She was charming then, — very 
 charming. If she had been downright 
 cruel to Mrs. O'Neil, instead of only rude 
 and saucy, she would have had to be for- 
 given all the same. But, as it was, the 
 tender old lady yielded at once, melting like 
 snow in sunshine, and, taking the girl in 
 her arras, told her that she was the best 
 child in the world. 
 
 It was precisely one 'of those feminine, 
 emotional little scenes over which men 
 laugh so cynically. To them a quarrel has 
 but the one part, — the quarrel. To women 
 it has two, — the quarrel and the making- 
 up. Ethel and Mrs. O'Neil made it up 
 then ; and Mr. O'Neil looked on with a 
 slightly satirical smile, and a curious, half- 
 interested, halimisdainful expression in his 
 eyes. 
 
 Presently he seemed to tire* of it, how- 
 ever, and, opening the glass door, stepped 
 out upon the terrace. But his mother 
 called him back. 
 
 " Where are you going to ? What a fid- 
 get you are ! " she remarked. " Now, Ar- 
 thur, you surely are not going away the 
 day after to-morrow ; are you ? " she in- 
 quired coaxingly. "Just think, child, he 
 wants to carry me away with him in some- 
 thing like thirty-six hours. Did you ever 
 hear any thing so unreasonable ? " she 
 appealed to Ethel. 
 
 The clever old lady had chosen her mo- 
 ment well. Miss Miidmay, penitent and 
 ashamed, was horrified at the thought of 
 her want of hospitality and courtesy being 
 the cause of Mrs. O'Neil's sudden depar- 
 ture, and made up for all her sliortcomings 
 
 by an eager declaration that she would not 
 let her go. Mr. O'Neil contemplated the 
 pair sitting amicably and affectionately 
 together on the sofa, and knew quite well 
 that he was defeated, and that his mother 
 would remain on at the villa. 
 
 " Very well," he said, smiling a half- 
 provoked smile : " I will come back, then, 
 and fetch you, whenever you like." 
 
 Mrs. O'Neil groaned. "Well, if men 
 are not the most obstinate and fidgety 
 creatures I " she exclaimed impatiently. 
 
 And again she appealed to Ethel to 
 know whether there was common sense in 
 her son's insisting upon travelling all the 
 way to London for the mere pleasure of 
 travelling back in a fortnight. 
 
 " For, of course, I could not think of tak- 
 ing such a journey without you, Arthur," 
 she said with naive egotism. 
 
 But as, a little while ago, Mr. O'Neil had 
 declined to enter into the question as to 
 whether his mother was bound to remain 
 at Nice for Ethel's sake, so did she now 
 decline to express an opinion as to whether 
 he was bound to delay his journey for his 
 mother's sake. 
 
 "It seemed foolish, a pity," she said 
 coldly and indifferently ; " but she supposed 
 that he had reasons, — business, perhaps." 
 
 " Business, humbug I " interrupted his 
 mother impatiently. 
 
 And then an interruption came, and the 
 matter rested for the present. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THAT evening the baron made his 
 appearance at the villa. It was two 
 or three days since they had seen him ; for 
 his visits were no longer as frequent as 
 before Mrs. O'Neil's arrival. "Now that 
 the colonel had such charming society close 
 at hand," the old gentleman said, " he no 
 longer was in need of his." But the fact 
 was, that the baron did not very keenly 
 appreciate the "charming society " himself; 
 and, as in duty bound to his own friends, 
 he entertained some hostile sentiments to 
 the colonel's. 
 
 Perhaps it was curiosity more than any 
 thing else which brought him this evening. 
 Affairs did not seem to wear a very flour- 
 ishing aspect at the villa. The storm of 
 the day had been succeeded by the dulness 
 of re-action. Col. Miidmay looked even 
 more ill than usual. Mrs. O'Neil was 
 depressed and tired, and a little cross. 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 51 
 
 Her son was smoking a lonely cigar upon 
 the terrace. Ethel was invisible ; and when, 
 at last, she did make her appearance,' she 
 was pale and grave, and altogether unlike 
 herself. She came out upon the terrace, 
 where the baron — having found Col. 
 Mildmay languid, and disinclined for con- 
 versation, and Mrs. O'Neil curled up upon 
 the sofa, and resolved not to be disturbed 
 in the enjoyment of her after-dinner nap 
 (a sacred haliit which could never be 
 departed from without the most disastrous 
 results to the old lady's welfare and happi- 
 ness) — had just accepted a cigar from 
 Arthur O'Nei'l. " Why should I not ? " he 
 had said to him-jelf when the offer had been 
 made hiui. " To be sure, the man is the 
 enemy of my friends ; but am I, therefore, 
 bound to be his enemy, also ? Bah ! I wilt 
 see what he is made of before I take the 
 trouble to detest him." 
 
 And so the two gentlemen smoked the 
 pipe of concord together. It was the first 
 time they had met ; but they were both men 
 of the world, and, though well aware that 
 each one was probably prejudiced against 
 the other, neither seemed to consider the 
 reason n sufficient one to disturb the mu- 
 tual good will of the passing moment. Yet 
 it was not long before their conversation 
 wandered upon delicate ground. The 
 biiron was the soul of discretion and polite- 
 ness ; but he was excessively curious too. 
 From the resei-ved and taciturn colonel he 
 had been able to elicit but little. Between 
 his friends and this new importation of 
 O'Neils he knew that a quarrel existed. 
 From Madame O'Neil and her son he had 
 heard their version of the affair ; and, of 
 course, he believed it firmly. Nevertheless, 
 he felt anxious to hear some account from the 
 other side too; and now, finding himself 
 tSte-Ortete with the rival uncle, of whom he 
 had heard so much, the opportunity was 
 too good to be lost. 
 
 Perhaps his companion was as well in- 
 clined as himself to broach the topic which 
 was uppermost in both their minds. At all 
 events, when the baron had with profound 
 but well-concealed dexterity given him an 
 opening, he seized upon it ea^rly. " What 
 is this young fellow like 1 " he inquired, as 
 Count O'Nuil's name was casually men- 
 tioned. " Of his mother I know enough, — 
 more than enough ; but I am quite in the 
 dark about this — this fascinating young 
 charmer," he said with a constrained little 
 lau^h, and a quick glance towards the far 
 end of the terrace. Ethel was standing 
 there, her white dress glimmering in the 
 moonlight. Perhaps she was in a romaniic 
 mood, or a cross one, or a sad one : at all 
 
 events she was unsociable, and had only 
 joined the gentlemen for a minute or two, 
 just to say " good-evening " to the baron. 
 The baron's eyes followed Mr. O'Neil's, and 
 he laughed too. 
 
 " Ah I the count is a beau garfon," he 
 said ; " as you say, a charmer, handsome, 
 agreeable, — a lady-killer, in short." His 
 conquests are innumerable, I believe. 
 
 " And is that really one of them ? " Mr, 
 O'Neil inquired incredulously, and looking 
 at Ethel still. 
 
 " My dear sir, do you make me such a 
 question ? Were you to put the converse 
 of it to me, I might, perhaps, be able to 
 answer it. The count is certainly made- 
 moiselle's devoted slave : ,of that, at least, 
 I can assure you." 
 
 " Count ! " said Mr. O'Neil impatiently. 
 " He seemed to me a coxcomb, — nothing 
 more nor less." 
 
 The baron smiled, and gave him a furtive 
 glance. " He is jealous, — on my word of 
 honor, he is jealous," he said to himself. 
 " His heart is touched too." And the small 
 amount of malice that was in the baron's 
 nature was delightfully .tickled- 
 
 "It is a foolish business," Mr. O'Neil 
 went on after a little pause, — "a foolish 
 business. Miss Mildmay might do better 
 for herself than that." 
 
 " That depends," observed the baron 
 laconically. 
 
 " Ah ! you mean that every thing depends 
 upon the end. Well, you are right. She 
 would certainly make a charming mistress 
 of Castle Garvah," said Mr. O'Neil, laugh- 
 ing. 
 
 " A painfully commercial way of putting 
 it. Perhaps I meant something else, — that 
 the young people liked and suited one 
 another. It would be natural were it so. 
 Their ages " — 
 
 " Oh, yes 1 quite natural, of course. Her 
 father would never allow it, though." 
 
 " Would he not ? " 
 
 " I should think not, unless he were a 
 madman," said Mr. O'Neil shortly. 
 
 "Indeed? Are you so very sure of 
 success, then ? Pray forgive me if it is an 
 indiscreet question," he added hastily : " it 
 slipped from me." 
 
 " There is nothing to forgive. Am I so 
 sure of success V Well, I will be frank 
 with you, baron, and you are at liberty to 
 repeat my words if you choose. No : I am 
 not sure of success, — far from it, indeed ; 
 but I am sure of attempting success, and 
 winning it if I can. The prize is worth 
 fighting for ; and I mean to fight for it to 
 the end." He spoke warmly, and his eyes 
 flashed. It was evident that he was a man 
 
52 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 of determination, and that his words were 
 not a mere idle boast or threat. 
 
 The baron gave a low whistle, " You 
 are quite right, of course ; quite right, my 
 dear sir. It is impossible not to applaud 
 your determination. I believe, however, 
 that — ahem — my friends feel very secure : 
 they experience no apprehension at all — 
 at least, so they tell me — of ultimate 
 results," he added, in the pleasantest way 
 imaginable. 
 
 Mr. O'Neil laughed. If the baron wanted 
 to provoke him, he failed miserably. " I wish 
 that I could say as much for myself," he said 
 good-humoredly ; " but I confess I cannot ; 
 I know that there are some chances against 
 me." 
 
 " Are there really ? " inquired a soft but 
 eager voice at Ms elbow. " Well, then, if 
 that is the case, could you not " — 
 
 " Could I not what. Miss Mildmay ? " as 
 Ethel, who had joined them unperceived, 
 paused and hesitated. 
 
 " Settle — arrange — compromise, I be- 
 lieve you call it. O Mr. Neil ! could you 
 not really ? " she inquired with breathless 
 eagerness. 
 
 He loooked at her with a thoughtful 
 smile. " Since you are such a lawyer, per- 
 haps you could suggest a possible compro- 
 mise," he said courteously. 
 
 " I can, indeed : can't you divide the 
 property ? " 
 
 " Impossible I Another one ? " 
 
 " Well, then, — but perhaps you would 
 not do it. — Count O'Neil told me that he 
 did propose it, but that you refused," she 
 said in a melancholy tone. 
 
 " Proposed what ? " 
 
 " Oh ! that it should be yours as long as 
 you live; but after that — you are older 
 than he is, you know," she added hur- 
 riedly, her voice suddenly faltering. 
 
 Mr. ONeil had turned from her with a 
 quick, sudden movement. He was angry 
 with her — she knew that he was — for her 
 audacious proposition ; and, when she saw 
 the baron's look of mingled amusement and 
 surprise, she felt ready to sink into the eaiah. 
 
 There was an awkward little pause, 
 which Mr. O'Neil broke at last. Perhaps, 
 after all, he was not angry : at all events, 
 he spoke quite gently and quietly. " There 
 are two reasons against your proposal," he 
 said : " the first is, that I may marry ; the 
 second is, that under no circumstances will 
 any willing act of mine ever countenance 
 the claims of a man who is an impostor, — 
 who is not what he pretends to be." 
 
 " Count O'Neil is not an impostor ! I 
 will never believe it, — never 1 " exclaimed 
 Ethel indignantly. 
 
 " Possibly not a willing one : he may be 
 but the tool." 
 
 " Nor Madame O'Neil either : I will not 
 believe a single word against either of 
 them. Baron, why don't you stand up for 
 your friends V " 
 
 The baron coughed uneasily : he was a 
 brave man in the battle-field, and one to 
 die at his post ; but, in social affairs, he was 
 not inclined needlessly to knock his head 
 against stone walls. ''More Dieu ! mademoi- 
 selle," he said, " where is the use ? Mr. 
 O'Neil is a sensible and reasonable man ; 
 and he is aware that, as is natural, my sym- 
 pathies and inclinations are — ahem ! — not 
 with him exactly in this unpleasant affair ; 
 but, for all that, I do not consider it neces- 
 sary to render myself odious to him by con- 
 stantly reminding him of the fact. Ah I I 
 see scorn in your eyes, — those beautiful 
 eyes, which " — 
 
 " Come, baron, leave my eyes alone : 
 they are not beautiful, but at least they 
 are true," said Ethel, half laughing, though 
 she was angry still. 
 
 But the conversation was successfully di- 
 verted from a disagreeable subject. Every- 
 body felt that it had gone far enough, that, 
 indeed, there was no use in pursuing it. 
 Presently the baron made his escape. 
 The evening was going by, and he was 
 not enjoying it. At the villa, there was 
 no enjoyment to be found ; every thing 
 and everybody there were at sixes and sev- 
 ens ; a pleasant chat with any one was im- 
 possible. Family differences and troubles 
 do not promote sociability, and snug socia- 
 bility was the baron's clement. Suddenly 
 he remembered an engagement. " A little 
 musical reunion at my friend Madame de 
 Courcelles'," he explained. " They would 
 never forgive me if I failed them : I am 
 promised there for a week, and they are 
 counting upon me. My compliments to 
 your fauier, mademoiselle ; I will come to 
 see him to-morrow ; to-night my company 
 only fatigues him." And the old gentle- 
 man made his bow, and took his departure 
 with a suspicious eagerness and haste. 
 
 Ethel seemed inclined to follow his ex- 
 ample. " It is chilly," she said so soon as 
 he had left them, and she made a step 
 towards the house. 
 
 " I will fetch you a shawl. That muslin 
 dress, though very pretty, is no protec- 
 tion." 
 
 " Thank you, but — I would rather go in." 
 
 " Because I am here. Generally you re- 
 main out much later than this. Perhaps 
 my cigar annoys you 'i " he suggested po- 
 litely : " there it goes." And he pitched it 
 away." 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 53 
 
 " It does not annoy me in the least. I — 
 I rather like it. Where are you going ? " 
 
 But Mr. O'Neil had already gone, and 
 had almost come back too. At all events, 
 he was back before she had had time to 
 leave the terrace, carrying a soft, warm 
 shawl. In an instant it was on her shoul- 
 ders. " You will not be chilly now," he said. 
 
 Ethel did not know how to resist him. 
 It was evident that he seemed to take it as 
 a matter of course that now she would re- 
 main out. And so she did, walking up and 
 down the terrace by his side, and saying to 
 lierself, at the end of each turn, that she 
 would go in after the next. But for all 
 that she remained. Mr. O'Neil was a 
 pleasant companion. He had travelled 
 much, and could make himself agreeable. 
 Intuitively Ethel felt that he was trying to 
 make himself agreeable to her, — that he 
 was giving himself pains to amuse and en- 
 tertain her. She was flattered first, then 
 interested. There was a certain piquancy 
 in the situation which she enjoyed. With 
 inward amusement she recollected Count 
 O'Neil's jealous complaints that very day. 
 Random complaints of the sort are often 
 dangerous : they suggest foolish notions. 
 Even when they are quite groundless, they 
 may work mischief in silly heads. Imagi- 
 nary wrongs sometimes become real ones 
 by sheer force of imagination ; and lovers 
 would do better to control their feelings 
 and their tongues than to give expression 
 and form to every vague phantom which 
 crosses their brain. For the first time this 
 evening, it occurred to Ethel that Mr. 
 O'Neil could be any thing but a middle- 
 aged, uninteresting man, old enough to be 
 the count's father, upon whom she would 
 have as little thought of throwing away a 
 coquettish thobght as upon the baron him- 
 seh'. For a long time they talked on indif- 
 ferent subjects ; but suddenly Mr. O'Neil 
 said, half laughing, — 
 
 " You were taken in this afternoon, Miss 
 Mildmay : you know you were. You 
 would have done better not to 'make it 
 up.' You will never get rid of my mother 
 now. You have made her too fond of you. 
 I cannot induce her to come away." 
 
 Ethel was silent. It was hard to make 
 an honest reply. " We shall all soon be 
 leaving Nice, I suppose," she said at last. 
 
 " And you will owe us the grudge of 
 having spoiled your visit," he went on. 
 " Miss Mildmay, I am very sorry ; but it was 
 not my fault." 
 
 " It was nobody's fault, I suppose." 
 
 She spoke in a sad, provoked tone ; and, 
 truth to tell, a sudden feeling, of sadness 
 had come upon her. Her own words had 
 
 caused it, — " They would soon all be leav- 
 ing Nice." And then what was to happen 
 after that ? What was to be the end of it 
 all y Perhaps her companion guessed her 
 thoughts. " At least, you will give me the 
 credit of not having attempted to influence 
 your father," he said. 
 
 " Your mother influenced him. Till 
 she — till you came, Madame O'Neil and 
 her son were his friends as well as mine. 
 And now " — 
 
 " But what would you have had us do '! 
 How could we have been silent when your 
 father applied to us to know the truth? 
 We told him merely what we believed to 
 be the truth. He was at liberty to judge 
 for himself whether it was the truth or 
 not." 
 
 " But your mother never ceases to preju- 
 dice him against them. Papa used always 
 to see with my eyes ; but now he sees with 
 hers," said Ethel bitterly. • 
 
 " Mothers are partial : mine wishes me to 
 be Lord O'Neil's heir," said Mr. O'Neil 
 quietly. 
 
 Ethel paused in her walk, and, leaning 
 over the marble balustrade of the terrace, 
 looked down upon the moonlit valley at 
 her feet. There was not a solitary cloud 
 in the dark blue heavens ; but they were 
 thickly spangled with' bright, splendid 
 stars. It was all very beautiful and peace- 
 ful ; but Ethel saw, or rather felt, «othing 
 of it. Her thoughts were far away. 
 
 " And what is this famous Castle Gar- 
 vagh like ? " she inquired suddenly, with a 
 sort of contemptuous wonder, — " this mar- 
 vellous bone of contention between you all ? 
 Count O'Neil, for one, does not seem to con- 
 sider it such an Elysium," she added with a 
 short laugh. 
 
 " Nor is it an Elysium exactly. Yet it is 
 a fine place, though going fast to ruin. 
 But it has natural beauties which can 
 never be destroyed. It is beautiful 1 " 
 
 Ethel glanced at him. There was enthu- 
 siasm in his voice, and ardor in his face. 
 
 " Yes, it is beautiful," he went on ; 
 "wild, but picturesque in the extreme. 
 The house is immense, — a palace. It 
 stands upon the shores of what seems to be 
 a lake, but is in fact an arm of the sea, and 
 which is studded with many wooded islets. 
 It is the .third house which has been built 
 upon the estate. The two former ones, 
 were burnt down, — one in James II.'s time ^ 
 the other in '92. The story goes in the 
 country that, till it has been burnt for the 
 third time, peace will not be restored tO' 
 the family," he added, lai)ghing. 
 
 " The sooner it is burnt the better,, 
 then," Miss Mildmay said gayly and giddily. 
 
u 
 
 ETHEL MiLDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 Her companion gave her a dry look. 
 " Let us rather trust that natural means 
 will answer your end as well," he said. 
 " My uncle cannot live much longer : the 
 thing is impossible." 
 
 Ethel had the grace to blush at the 
 thrust. " It is nothing to me how long he 
 lives," she said rather confusedly. 
 
 Mr. O'Neil laughed. "You are very 
 young, you know," he went on, half satiri- 
 cally, half banteringly. " There is plenty of 
 ti me. It would be a foolish mistake to make. 
 Take my advice, and have a little patience." 
 
 •'Miss Mildmay was fairly roused now, 
 and turned on him indignantly. 
 
 " You mean to insinuate that I have a 
 SL'lfish motive for wishing my friends to 
 win," she said, flushing rosily red. " Does 
 one always think of one's self? I for one do 
 not. I was not thinking of myself in the 
 least. What is Castle Garvagh to me? 
 What is it to me to whom it belongs, or to 
 whom it does not ? " 
 
 She looked very pretty and very grace- 
 ful in her otfended pride, standing before 
 him like an insulted goddess. 
 
 " Is it nothing really ? " he inquired, 
 looking down at her with a keen, smiling 
 glance. 
 
 " No." And at the moment she thought 
 she was speaking the truth. If she liked 
 Count O'Neil at all, of course she liked 
 him equally well, were he rich or poor. 
 And if she did not like him — Even on 
 this point this provoking, wayward Ethel 
 did not seem to have come to any irrevo- 
 cable or definite conclusion as yet. 
 
 They had been near a quarrel again ; but 
 it had been again staved oflF. Mr. O'Neil's 
 disagreeable, satirical mood passed away 
 suddenly, as it had come. Once more he 
 was the pleasant, courteous companion of 
 a few minutes ago, whose conversation and 
 manner were somehow a more subtle com- 
 pliment than many an ardent, extravagant 
 speech. 
 
 And Ethel, as we know, dearly loved 
 compliments of any kind, and had, to do 
 her justice, the good taste to prefer the 
 fragrance of the most delicate ones, vain 
 and silly child as she was. 
 
 It was late when they entered the house 
 at last. The colonel and Mrs. O'Neil had 
 revived, and were quarrelling over a game 
 of draughts ; but, when their children came 
 in through the glass door from the terrace, 
 Mrs. O'Neil looked up at them with a 
 smile, nodded her pretty white head, gave 
 the colonel a gentle kick under the table, 
 and made a wrong move, which she had 
 Tseen determined to avoid, and which lost 
 lier the game in a twinkling. 
 
 But she bore her defeat good-humoredly. 
 " Where is that chattering old baron 'I " 
 she inquired. " I thought he was with you 
 all this time." 
 
 " Oh, dear, no I He has gone half an 
 hour ago," Ethel said. 
 
 " Indeed, indeed, child I " And Mrs. 
 O'Neil nodded her head again, and looked 
 smilingly wise. " He showed his sense," 
 she observed : " nobody wanted him, I am 
 sure." 
 
 " I did not," said her son, with a laugh ; 
 " though the baron is good company 
 enough, and a pleasant fellow, provided 
 one don't see him too oiten, I imagine," he 
 added. 
 
 Mr. O'Neil spoke gayly ; and his eyes, 
 which were his mother's over again, were 
 sparkling. 
 
 " You are looking very well to-night, 
 Arthur," Mrs. O'Neil observed, contem- 
 plating him thoughtfully. " What on earth 
 have you been doing to yourself? " 
 
 It was true. He was looking well, — 
 young and handsome and animated, 
 instead of grave and pale and com- 
 posed. 
 
 "Doing to myself? Nothing. I have 
 been looking at the moon, and feeling ro- 
 mantic out on the terrace." 
 
 Ethel glanced at him, and perceived the 
 change of which his mother spoke. Per- 
 haps, with a woman's quickness, she felt 
 that she had had something to do with it, 
 and, with a woman's vanity, was pleased. 
 Perhaps, too, she was amazed at the novel 
 colors in which Mr. O'Neil was coming 
 out. At all events, for the rest of the 
 evening she was in the best of humors, — 
 gay, gracious, amiable ; the life of the little 
 party, to which she imparted the bright- 
 ness of her mood. The colonel's weary, 
 suffering face relaxed as he watched his 
 pretty daughter's smiles, and heard her 
 laughter, and submitted to her tender little 
 cares, grown, alas ! somewhat remiss of 
 late. Any little lurking irritation or of- 
 fence caused by Ethel's conduct during^ the 
 day, which still might linger in Mrs. 
 O'Neil's gentle bosom, was now com- 
 pletely routed by the girl's sunshiny ways. 
 In short, the sky was serene and peace- 
 ful as though it had never known a 
 storm. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 TBUE to his promise, the baron came 
 next day ; but the colonel, who had 
 had a bad night, was still in his room. 
 
KTHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 55 
 
 Ethel received him alone ; and in five inin- 
 nutes she perceived that the old man had 
 some special piece of gossip on his mind 
 which he was longing to impart. 
 
 " I have just come from my friends the 
 Delneuves," he said fussily ; " and " — 
 
 " Christine is going to he married," 
 Ethel said with a laugh. " Ah, baron I 
 you see, I know the secret." 
 
 He looked disappointed. " So you know 
 it; do you? Mon Dieu! What sieves 
 women are ! Yes, she is goinj to be mar- 
 ried." ° ° 
 
 " And what sort is he, — M. Barbier, I 
 mean ? Baron, I am convinced he is 
 odious." 
 
 " A bad compliment to me, since the 
 marriage is one of my making. No, made- 
 moiselle : M. Barbier is not odious. He 
 is, on the contrary, an excellent person." 
 
 " Yes ; but he is not young or hand- 
 some or nice, or — tell me all about it, 
 baron," she said coaxingly. " What is he 
 like really ? " 
 
 " Well," said the baron with a little 
 hesitation, "to begin with, he is between 
 fifty and fifty-five, — a nice, steady, sensi- 
 ble age, mademoiselle," as Ethel shuddered 
 saucily. " And he is bald and stout, and 
 rather red in tlie face. No: you would 
 not call him handsome certainly," he 
 added, shaking his head, and smiling 
 .thoughtfully. 
 
 "How dreadful! But why does she 
 marry him ? " 
 
 " Woman's vocation is marriage," said 
 the baron oracularly. " To accomplish it, 
 a husband is necessary ; but a husband is 
 n6t always the easiest thing in the world to 
 find. M. Barbier has been found. The 
 conclusion is evident." 
 
 "Horrible I" Ethel ejaculated. "Poor 
 Christine ! But why does she marry 
 him ? " she repeated indignantly. " And 
 to think that she once cared for some one 
 else I Oh, how sad it all' is I " 
 
 " Ah, yes 1 there it is. She did once care 
 for somebody else ; but that somebody else 
 was useless so far as helping her to fulfil 
 her vocation went. He did not marry her, 
 you see." 
 
 Ethel was silent. The baron's some- 
 what coarse outspokenness offended her. 
 " He is rich, I suppose," she said presently, 
 and with some scorn. " Is that it, bar- 
 on ? " 
 
 The old gentleman chuckled, and rubbed 
 his hands. " Ha, ha I How wise we are. 
 Miss Ethel I Well, I believe it has some- 
 thing to say to it, certainly. Barbier is 
 not rich exactly ; but he is well off". His 
 wife will have every thing necessary, every 
 
 thing agreeable to her, even. It will do 
 very nicely, — very nicely indeed," he re- 
 peated complacently. 
 
 Ethel turned away in disgust. " I won- 
 der at Christine : I do indeed I " she broke 
 out warmly. " I did not think she was the 
 commonplace, weak sort of girl to do such 
 a thing as this." 
 
 " She is not commonplace, neither is she 
 weak," observed the baron composedly. 
 " Come, come. Miss Ethel : don't be hard 
 on her. What is she doin^, after all ? " 
 
 " She is selling herself: I am sure she is. 
 She does not care for the man. I know she 
 does not." 
 
 " Selling herself I Granted. What is 
 marriage but a sale, a bargain ? The 
 highest bidders win the prizes. You, for 
 instance, mademoiselle, may reasonably 
 believe yourself sure of a prize," with a 
 gallant little bow. " Doubtless my fi-iend 
 Barbier, were he to aspire to the honor of 
 your fair hand, would be an imbecile, a 
 lunatic. It is all a matter of relative value. 
 Christine, you see " — 
 " Well, and what of Christine ? " 
 " Though an excellent, charming, clever 
 little girl, has not the same pretensions. In 
 the first place, her appearance " — 
 " She is very nice looking, baron." 
 " Hum 1 Passable, if you will. Elle 
 n'est pas belle comme vous, mademoiselle." 
 
 Ethel liked compliments, as we know ; 
 but this one, at the expense of her friend, 
 was distasteful to her. 
 
 " Comparisons are odious, baron," she 
 said shortly. 
 
 " Then," he continued, in nowise discon- 
 certed, " her age " — 
 " Her age 1 " 
 
 " Yes ; for an unmarried girl, it is some- 
 what advanced. What will you have ? It 
 is the notion of the country. She is five 
 or six and twenty ; and men naturally in- 
 quire why, since she is not in a convent, 
 she is not already the mother of a family. 
 You look astonished. Our French ideas 
 surprise you, then ? " 
 
 '■ Indeed they do," Ethel confessed. 
 He shrugged his shoulders, and laughed. 
 " It is all a matter of custom," he %aid. 
 " But to terminate. My young friend has, 
 unfortunately, no dot. Raison supreme for 
 not being too particular in the choice of a 
 husband." 
 
 Ethel looked disgusted. " Horrible 1 " 
 she said. " I condemn Christine, and de- 
 clare that I have lost all interest in her." 
 
 But the baron only laughed at her for 
 her pains. " Condemnation comes quite 
 naturally and readily to youth," he observed 
 composedly. " Age possesses at least one 
 
58 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 virtue, — that of toleration. I may not 
 always approve of what my neighbors do; 
 but at least I am willing to admit that they 
 may possibly have excellent reasons of 
 their own for their conduct. For instance," 
 
 — and he smiled slyly, — " when I see a 
 . young lady torturing two lovers at the 
 
 same moment, if I were given to rash 
 judgments, I might possibly suppose her to 
 be of a wantonly cruel disposition. But I 
 do, in fact, nothing of the sort. I merely 
 say to myself that it is her way, — a little 
 roundabout way, perhaps, — yet a way of 
 practising charity to her neighbors " — 
 
 "Baron!" And Ethel grew as red as 
 fire. 
 
 " Come, mademoiselle. After all, you 
 must acknowledge that our French cus- 
 toms possess some advantages. Simplicity 
 of arrangement is one of them. Two lov- 
 ers at a time is one too many. At least, 
 the old love is dead and decently buried 
 before the new one intrudes itself upon our 
 notice." 
 
 " What ? " as Ethel's eyes fliam.ed indig- 
 nantly. 
 
 " Well ; but is it not.true, mademoiselle ? " 
 he inquired with one of liis gay chuckles. 
 " Is it not a fact, that the handsome Irish- 
 man vousfaisait la cour lust night, and that 
 you — ahem — did not quite dislike it ? 
 You are displeased at my insinuations? 
 Yet I aiu the soul of discretion ; and you 
 have reason to be grateful to me, — great 
 reason. Just think that I met the count 
 half an hour afterwards at Madame de 
 Courcelles', and I never breathed a word, 
 
 — not a single word. Ah the poor fellow 1 
 
 — the poor little fellow I " 
 
 " Baron, how provoking you are I " Then 
 she laughed, rather a piqued laugh. " And 
 so he went to Madame de Courcelles' after 
 all," she said ; " and yet he vowed that 
 nothing would induce him to go since I 
 could not. Baron, I tell you that all men 
 are wretches, and that it is a right and 
 proper thing to torture them as much as 
 possible, otherwise they would never get to 
 heaven." 
 
 "^Ha, ha ! And it is a woman's mission 
 to give them tlieir purcjatory in this life. 
 Brava, mademoiselle 1 Come now, though : 
 why should not the poor count go to 
 Madame de Courcelles'? Why should he 
 not amuse himself after his fashion as you 
 do after yours. Not that he did amuse 
 himself, though, poor little fellow I He 
 assured me that he was miserable, and, 
 needless to say, was ea^er in his inquiries 
 after you. But be easy, mademoiselle. 
 As I tell you, I was discretion itself, and 
 took good care not to mention that I had 
 
 left you tetB'h-tele upon a moonlit terrace 
 with " — 
 
 "Baron, for shame 1 Can you never be 
 serious ? It is no subject for jesting, I nra 
 sure,'' she said half crossly, half playfully. 
 
 " Alphonse Karr says somewhere," pro- 
 ceeded the baron with mock gravity, " ' II 
 y a une chose dont il sferait dangereux que 
 les femmes s'aper(;ussent, — c'est qu'il n'est 
 pas d'amants aussi aimables que ceux 
 qu'elles rendent malheureux.' You wish to 
 make the experiment, mademoiselle ; do you 
 not?" 
 
 " Baron, you are very cruel. I don't 
 want to make anybody unhappy. I am 
 sure that I am unhappy enough myself be- 
 tween them all 1 " exclaimed Miss Mildmay 
 petulantly. 
 
 The baron looked sympathetic in a mo- 
 ment. To tell the truth, he was curious, 
 and well inclined to receive a confidence ; 
 but there was no time for one then. A 
 quick step made itself heard outside upon 
 the terrace. " Peste 1 " muttered the baron, 
 and then, with a little satirical laugh, 
 •' Here comes Don Juan in person. Be- 
 ware, mademoiselle, beware 1 " 
 
 " As if " — began Ethel indignantly. 
 " Mr. O'Neil is coming to see his mother," 
 she said hurriedly : " he always comes at 
 this hour. I will go and tell her." 
 
 But she either could not or did not 
 make her escape before Mr. O'Neil had 
 entered the room. Then it was impossible 
 to run away without saying " good-morn- 
 ing " to him. Even after that, she lingered 
 a little still. A book of photographs was 
 upon the table before her, and she was 
 turning over the leaves absently. The two 
 gentlemen were discussing the weather. 
 
 " The sun is becoming troublesome," the 
 baron was saying. " Hot for railway jour- 
 neys. That is a confoundedly warm journey 
 you have before you to Paris, monsieur. 
 When are you thinking of starting ? " 
 
 " To-morrow, I believe," Mr. O'Neil said. 
 But he said it like a. man who had not 
 quite made up his mind ; and his eyes were 
 fixed upon Ethel's grave profile as it bent 
 over the book. 
 
 " To-morrow, eh I And madame, your 
 mother — does she also accompany you ? " 
 he inquired with would-be carelessness. 
 
 Mr. O'Neil gave him a keen glance. " I 
 think not," he said shortly. " Colonel and 
 Miss Mildmay have asked her to remain ; 
 and she insists upon doing so, against my 
 wishes." 
 
 " Ah ! " repeated the baron, contempla- 
 tively rubbing his shining hat. " You have 
 business, perhaps, which forces you to de- 
 part." 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 57 
 
 " Yes, I have business ; but " — 
 
 Perhaps it was that " but " which made 
 Ethel look up from her book at the moment, 
 and smile one of her most distracting smiles. 
 
 " Fabulous business I " she said gayly. 
 " The fact is, baron, Mr. O'Neil finds Nice 
 dull, and can't stand it any longer." 
 
 " Hum," said the baron rather dryly ; and 
 Mr. O'Neil said nothing. 
 
 The colonel and Mrs. O'Neil came in at 
 the moment, producing a diversion. But 
 the observant old baron had made a note 
 in his mind for all that. Later on, when he 
 was going away, and Ethel was accom- 
 panying him down the avenue, — 
 
 " Could you not have been content with 
 the nephew, and have left the uncle alone ? " 
 he inquired. " But you want to have two 
 shafts to your %ow, perhaps. Eh I Miss 
 Ethel ? " 
 
 The girl turned two indignant, flaming 
 violet eyes upon hiui. "What do you 
 mean, baron V what do you mean ? " she 
 demanded angrily. 
 
 " The poor little count ! — the poor little 
 count ! " teased the baron. • 
 
 Ethel frowned ; then she laughed: Life 
 was too bright and pleasant a thing just 
 then for her to be out of sorts with any- 
 body or any thing. 
 
 " Well, and what about the ' poor little 
 count,' as you call him ? " she said with a 
 sudden softness of voice. " Did he speak 
 of me last night, baron ? " 
 
 " Yes, he did." 
 
 " And what did he say ? " 
 
 " Mon Dieu ! Can I remember the en- 
 amoured jargon? Not a word of it. I do 
 recollect one thing he said ; but I protest 
 I don't understand a word of it, — not a 
 single word. He told me to remind you 
 that the little chapel of Sainte Barbe is a 
 delightful spot these fine mornings. Where 
 the chapel of Sainte Barbe is, or, for the 
 matter of that, who Sainte Barbe is or was, 
 I have not the faintest idea," concluded the 
 baron, looking mystified. 
 
 Ethel crimsoned, and bit her lip. These 
 underhand dealings, these stolen interviews, 
 were sorely against her grain. To her open 
 and frank nature any thing like conceal- 
 ment was a burden ; and she felt provoked 
 and wounded at the apparent little boast 
 which Count O'Neil was making of them. 
 
 " I do not know much about Sainte Barbe, 
 either," she said shortly. And then she 
 looked at the baron hesitatingly and doubt- 
 fully. His face was impenetrable as a 
 mask. Yet she intimately felt that he per- 
 fectly well knew the meaning of the foolish 
 message which he had j ust transmitted. If, 
 however, she had a momentary inclination 
 
 to take him into her confidence, and to seek 
 aid from him, it passed away; or rather, 
 perhaps, the opportunity failed. They had 
 reached the villa gate now, and the baron 
 was in a hurry to be gone. As usual, 
 Madame Somebody or other was expecting 
 him. The baron always had a convenient 
 engagement on hands. The truth was, 
 that a sudden terror of Ethel's confidence 
 had seized upon him. If he was a curious 
 man, he was also a prudent one. Too 
 good-natured ever actually to refuse to be 
 of use where to be of use was possible, he 
 yet had a nervous shrinking of needlessly 
 burning his fingers with his neighbors' 
 afiairs. At present, he had one marriage 
 on hands, — that of Christine ; and that was 
 enough. The rich English girl's matrimo- 
 nial projects belonged to a different order 
 of things altogether. Something whispered 
 to him that they might be ticklesome and 
 troublesome projects to meddle with ; and ho 
 was even beginning to regret the part he 
 had already played in them. He was her 
 father's friend ; and though he might, 
 could not indeed help, winking at, he could 
 not openly encoui-age, proceedings of which 
 Col. Mildmay did not see fit to approve. 
 Madame O'Neil and her son were his 
 friends, too, it is true ; and the baron was 
 willing to serve them so far as he was able. 
 He had served them up to a certain point ; 
 he had brought about the introduction ; he 
 had sought for and given them any in- 
 formation he had been able to procure on 
 the subject of the young lady's fortune. 
 Even still, he was, as we have seen, doing 
 his best in a mild, safe way to serve the 
 young man's interests. More than this could 
 not be justly expected from a man whose 
 role in life was to stand well with everybody, 
 and never unnecessarily to lose a friend or 
 even an acquaintance. To the baron, society 
 was a stage upon which the actors were 
 perpetually passing to and fro : this year, 
 this set ; next year, that. Many and many 
 had been the dramas, the playing-out of 
 which he had watched in his life. He was 
 watching with interest the present little 
 drama that was going on betbre his eyes ; 
 he was watching with interest the dying 
 father, and the high-spirited pretty girl, 
 and the jealous lovers, and the anxious 
 mothers, and the daily fast-growing intri- 
 cacies; and he, like everybody else, was 
 puzzling his brain over what the end of it 
 all was going to be. Of course, he had his 
 sympathies and his inclinations, and his 
 private wishes upon the subject. He had 
 not put the notion of falling in love with 
 Ethel into young O'Neil's head for nothing, 
 and to be able to witness with complete un- 
 
58 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 concern the collapse of his protdge's hopes 
 and aspirations. If he could, without harm 
 and without compromising his conscience, 
 have given events a friendly push In the 
 right direction, he would have been only 
 too happy to do so ; but more than this 
 he had taken a firm resolve not to do. 
 Common sense was loudly warning him ; 
 and common sense he had made up his 
 mind to obey. 
 
 And so he conveniently recollected his 
 musical appointment with the charming 
 madame la comtesse, and announced with 
 an anxious look at liis watch, that he had 
 not an instant to spare. 
 
 " As it is I shall be ten minutes late," he 
 said. " Au revoir ! Mademoiselle, au revoir ! 
 Do not expose your tender complexion to 
 these burning rays any longer. Without a 
 parasol, either I Return to shelter at once ; 
 pray do ! " with which parting recommenda- 
 tion the old gentleman, himself safely shel- 
 tered by his huge white umbrella, trotted 
 down the hill away. 
 
 But Miss Mildmay paid little attention 
 to his advice. On the contrary, she stood 
 motionless in the same spot, listening to the 
 sound of his jaunty step upon the hard, 
 sun-scorched road. And, even after it had 
 ceased, she stood there still, thinkiu", — 
 thinking of many things; thinking of now 
 remarkably pleasant it was to be young and 
 pretty, and admired and loved; thinking 
 of how very amusing it was to have two 
 lovers, an uncle and a nephew, whom a 
 mortal feud divided, and yet who both met 
 and mingled in a common love for her; 
 thinking of what an irresistible and charm- 
 ing young lady she must be ; thinking, too, 
 of Sainte Barbe's chapel, and marvelling 
 much whether, when to-morrow came, she 
 would feel inclined to go and discover for 
 herself whether early morning made of it 
 such a delightful spot as Count O'Neil had 
 said that it did. Yesterday, when she had 
 met him there, she had forgotten to look at 
 the poor little chapel at aJl, and had in- 
 deed, to tell the truth, been oblivious of its 
 existence. But to-morrow, if she went — 
 But would she go to-morrow ? Why need 
 she think about it yet ? Time enough. 
 
 " Enough for the day was the evil there- 
 of" was a favorite maxim of Ethel's. Sud- 
 den resolves were more to her liking than 
 long ponderings, after which people invaria- 
 bly did precisely the same as though they 
 had not thought at all : at least, such was her 
 experience. And of late she was getting, in 
 consequence, into rather a fatal habit of not 
 thinking ; of letting herself be drifted on 
 by the current ; of holding on to straws, so 
 long as they would let her, and then clutch- 
 
 ing at something else. The current was 
 rushing along rather fast now, and Ethel 
 could not precisely see where it was lead- 
 ing her. " Somewhere," she supposed, 
 rashly confiding in her strong youth and 
 in the happiness which has as yet known no 
 shadow or cloud. Other people could see 
 the hovering cloud, day by day, sinking 
 lower and lower, coming nearer and near- 
 er ; but she could not. Other people could 
 see the Damocles' sword, which might so 
 easily cut all involved knots, solve au puz- 
 zled questions, suspended above her head ; 
 but she alone was blind. Every one 
 around her knew that her father's life was 
 a mere matter of time ; that, though to-day 
 he was better, to-morrow he might be 
 worse ; that, in short, his doom was sealed. 
 And everybody, too, was calculating upon it 
 in his heart, as people must calculate upon 
 such coming events as these, taking it into 
 account tor the future. Ah, it was a strange 
 state of things ! — death hovering visibly 
 over busy life ; sorrow stealthily stealing 
 in and sitting down, side by side, with joy : 
 but its cold shadow had not yet touched 
 Ethel's heart. Unfamiliarity with grief 
 makes us strangely blind. She was stand- 
 ing in the bright, warm sunshine still. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 ''pH AT afternoon Ethel went to see Made- 
 X moiselle Delneuve. 
 
 " If only I had the luck of meeting the 
 bridegroom elect there I " Miss Mildmay 
 thought. 
 
 And, as it chanced, her wish was granted. 
 M. Barbier was certainly not at aU hand- 
 some. The baron's description was pretty 
 exact : he was stout and short ; and he wore 
 a pair of tight trousers with a stripe on 
 them, and a very bright tie. 
 
 A large bouquet of flowers, probably his 
 offering, was in the centre of Uie table, il- 
 luminating the dark little room. It was 
 easy to see that great events were impend- 
 ing ; for different articles of dress in vari- 
 ous stages of making were strewn about the 
 apartment. 
 
 Christine looked a little pale, but not at 
 all embarrassed. She would not hear of 
 Miss Mildmay's running away, as Ethel, 
 fearing that her visit was mal a propos, 
 seemed half inclined to do. 
 
 "Mamma will show you some of my 
 things," she said, adding, in a whisper, 
 " Don't be in a hurry : he will go soon now ; 
 the time is nearly up." 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 59 
 
 And so Madame Delneuve, leaving the 
 door open for propriety's sake, carried 
 Etbel off to the next room, which was her 
 bedroom, and where a fierce-eyed, black- 
 haired Niooise was hard at work over the 
 trousseau. 
 
 " We are making it at home," Madame 
 Delneuve explained ; " and, though we are 
 not rich, Christine shall have every thing 
 that is needful. M. Barbier is most gen- 
 erous, and is giving her a handsome cor- 
 beille. But, of coui-se, we are anxious to 
 do our part too," she added with gentle 
 pride. 
 
 Before long, a ponderous step passed the 
 window. The clock had struck five, and 
 M. Barbier had departed. 
 
 " He has gone," Christine announced, 
 appearing from the other room ; " and now 
 I am yours." 
 
 And undoubtedly the announcement was 
 made in a tone of relief. 
 
 " I am afraid that I interrupted — that 
 I hurried M. Barbier away," Ethel said. 
 
 " Oh, dear, no I He went because it is 
 five o'clock, and for no other reason. 
 When the clock strikes ten to-morrow, he 
 will come again. That is the rule. He 
 pays me two visits a day, — morning and 
 evening." 
 
 " Two visits a day ! What a devoted 
 admirer ! So, if you quarrel in the morn- 
 ing, you -can make it up in the evening," 
 Ethel said rather satirically. 
 
 " Yes. But we never are foolish enough 
 to quarrel, — not like some other people 
 I know," retorted Christine, laughing. 
 " From what I hear, mademoiselle " — 
 
 " Well, and what do you hear ? " Ethel 
 interrupted with a sudden flush. " Qui se 
 dispute s'adore, you know, Christine." 
 
 It was the French girl's turn to color 
 now. 
 
 " M. Barbier and I do not adore one 
 another certainly," she said frankly ; " yet 
 I dare say that we shall jog along the 
 road of life tolerably comfortably to- 
 gether." 
 
 Then they discussed the trousseau, — a 
 safer subject. That necessary adjunct to 
 marriage is a special godsend, a peculiar 
 dispensation of Providence. To all wo- 
 men it is, if nothing more, a grateful dis- 
 traction from graver concerns. In a 
 Frenchwoman's mind, it occupies at least 
 as much place as the marriage itself. 
 Christine was eager and voluble on the 
 subject. Over her silk dresses she grew 
 quite excited ; and her eyes lit up when she 
 informed Ethel that her corbeiUe was to 
 contain an Indian cashmere. 
 
 "It belonged to M. BarWer's mother," 
 
 she explained ; " but it is very handsome 
 and tolerably fresh, and now it is to belong 
 to me. Am I not a lucky girl 'I " 
 
 " Very," replied Ethel rather dryly. 
 " And you are perfectly happy, mademoi- 
 selle, of course ? " 
 
 " To be sure I " 
 
 Christine was peering anxiously at a little 
 stain which she fancied she detected in one 
 of the new gowns ; but now she looked up 
 suddenly, with a nervous little laugh. 
 
 " Ah 1 it is all Greek to you, I know," she 
 said. " You can't understand it. M. 
 Barbier is not young nor elegant like your 
 admirers, — like Count O'Neil, for instance. 
 Don't I know he is not ? But he is fond of 
 me, and I am grateful ; and — there. That 
 is all about it," she concluded with a shrug. 
 
 Ethel was mystified. 
 
 " You are a strange girl, Christine," she 
 said frankly. " I don't know whether to 
 like or detest you ; " and she began 
 gathering her things together as though 
 she were about to leave. 
 
 Christine looked at her with a smile, — 
 rather a tremulous one. 
 
 " Like me," she said a little pleadingly. 
 " Please do ! " 
 
 " I do like you. But " — 
 
 " And don't judge too rashly. I do not 
 pretend to love M. Barbier; but he is kind 
 and good, and I like him. Besides, this 
 marriage presents many advantages. It 
 will give me a home, and my mother too. 
 She is always to live with us. That is 
 agreed." 
 
 "A home?" 
 
 " Yes. Of course, you know that we are 
 poor, — very poor ; but what you don't know 
 as I do by experience is, what a hard, 
 difficult thing it is to accept the charitable 
 kindnesses even of friends." 
 
 " Christine ! " 
 
 " You don't know it ? To be sure not. 
 Mr. O'Neil is not a man to boast of his 
 good deeds ; but don't you remember that 
 the first time I told you a propos of your 
 admirer the count, that I would always take 
 an interest in any one of the name of 
 O'Neil ? Then I did not know that he was, 
 or pretended to be, thev nephew of our 
 friend and benefactor ; for Mr. O'Neil is 
 our benefactor. Some years ago, chance 
 
 brought him to , where we lived. Papa 
 
 had met him once before in Paris, and had 
 been able to render him some trifling ser- 
 vice. My mother and I were also able to 
 
 be of use to him; for at he caught a 
 
 fever, and we nursed him through it. And 
 amply has he repaid us for any kindness 
 which it was in our power to show him. 
 When days of sorrow and trouble came 
 
60 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 upon us, he stood by us when older friends 
 failed. To his goodness and bounty I owe 
 my life ; for I fell into bad health, and would 
 certainly have died, but that he forced us 
 to accept the means of seeking a change 
 of climate. Ah ! mademoiselle, since ever 
 I have known Mr. O'Neil, I have always 
 loved,and I will always love, the Irish nation." 
 
 Ethel was amazed. 
 
 A little of this she had already known ; 
 for Mrs. O'Neil had told her of the origin 
 of her son's friendship for the Delneuves. 
 But the old lady had always been rather dry 
 and uncommunicative upon the subject ; the 
 fact being, that she was a little jealous of 
 this same friendship, and of her son's 
 stanch and steadfast gratitude to the two 
 ladies. 
 
 " They were very kind to him, my dear," 
 she had told her ; " and no doubt I am 
 uncommonly obliged to them. But then 
 this romantic enthusiasm about — The 
 father was in trade, little better than a shop- 
 keeper, my dear, you know," she had ex- 
 plained with a mysterious nod. 
 
 And Ethel knew that it had cost the old 
 lady a little effort to pay the Delneuves 
 the civility of a call. 
 
 " But Mr. O'Neil owes you much. It is 
 only right that he should try to repay a 
 little of it," she said after a pause of 
 thoughtful astonishment. 
 
 " Ah I but how has he repaid it I — how 
 delicately and generously ! " replied Chris- 
 tine warmly. " I often think that there is 
 more goodness in the world than people 
 ever dream of or suspect. The baron has 
 been good to us too, — after his fashion," 
 she went on with a little laugh. "M. 
 Barbier is a friend of hig; and he introduced 
 him to us, and has brought about the mar- 
 riage. I am grateful to all my friends, — to 
 Mr. O'Neil for my life, and to the baron for 
 my husband. But it will be a comfort to 
 have one's husband only to be grateful to in 
 the future," she added in a lower tone. 
 
 Ethel had on her gloves now, and was 
 ready to go. Suddenly she gave Christine 
 a warm kiss on both cheeks. 
 
 " I can understand, at least half under- 
 stand now," she said. " Yet, Christine, I 
 would never, never, do as you are doing. I 
 could not. " 
 
 " Bah 1 Wait till you are tried, But 
 you never will be tried. Lovers — the 
 genuine article, I mean — will never fail 
 you : your only difEculty will be to pick and 
 choose between them. Ah I you are a lucky 
 girl. Do you know, that if I were in- 
 clined to hatred and envy, — which, thank 
 Heaven I I am not, — 1 might perhaps hate 
 and envy you ? " 
 
 " Me I And I sometimes believe that I 
 am the most miserable creature on earth." 
 And Ethel began with a sigh, and ended 
 with a laugh. 
 
 Christine laughed too ; but all at once she 
 grew grave. 
 
 " Yes, you are a lucky girl," she repeat- 
 ed ; " and if you were a sensible one, — which, 
 by the way, I strongly doubt, — you would 
 thank God for your good fortune." 
 
 " Good fortune ! What good fortune, 
 pray ? " Ethel inquired, opening her eyes. 
 
 " I hear that Mr. O'Neil admires you," 
 Christine said abruptly, and giving her a 
 keen look. 
 
 " Admires me — what nonsense ! The 
 baron's foolish tattle." But Ethel blushed 
 furiously. 
 
 " Not the baron's tattle only. Mr. 
 O'Neil talked of you the other day, — often 
 talks of you, in short. My mother and I 
 both think — but I will not say what we 
 think." 
 
 " Say away ; " and Ethel tried to look su- 
 premely careless and indifferent. 
 
 " No, no ! I have no desire to betray 
 confidence, or to penetrate secrets. My 
 own affairs are enough for me." 
 
 " I have no secrets," Ethel asserted 
 stoutly ; but her conscious looks belied her 
 words. ^ 
 
 " At all events, I have no desire to know 
 them. Nevertheless, I have, as you are 
 aware, a turn for preaching; and I must 
 
 five you a word or two of advice. I know 
 Ir. O'Neil, and can give him a character. 
 He is good and charming, and " ^- 
 
 " Well ? " Ethel was at the door now, 
 indeed half out of it ; but she popped her 
 head in with a mocking, yet slightly anx- 
 ious smile. 
 
 " Well, don't be a fool 1 There is my ser- 
 mon for you," Christine said. 
 
 " Thank you I You think the advice 
 necessary ; do you? " And Ethel was gone 
 with one of her merry laughs. 
 
 It was late, almost dinner-hour already, 
 and there was no time to lose. Ethel hast- 
 ened homewards. The sun was setting in 
 a golden, quivering sea. In the distance 
 snowy peaks were blushing in the crimson 
 glow. The daily-recurring pageant of Na^ 
 ture's lavish splendor was taking place in 
 serene magnificence, all careless and dis- 
 dainful of the puny, busy world's coldness 
 and indifference. The world was indeed 
 occupied after its usual fashion, sauntering 
 in gayly-bedizened groups up and down the 
 eternal Promenade. Ethel, only accom- 
 panied by her maid, avoided the crowded 
 path, where acquaintances might be met, 
 and took the less frequented side of the 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 61 
 
 road ; but her eyes wandered across now 
 and then ; and once the sound of familiar 
 voices made her pause. 
 
 They were laughing very pleasantly and 
 merrily. One of the voices belonged to 
 Count O'Neil, who stood in the midst of a 
 little knot of lively ladies and gentlemen. 
 Amongst the ladies Ethel recognized the 
 pretty and perfectly dressed Madame de 
 Courcelles, the hostess of last night, who, 
 report said, counted Ernest O'Neil as one 
 of her many courtiers and admirers. It 
 was an idle and meaningless report, as 
 Ethel knew very well. The young man 
 had, it is true, followed the fashion of the 
 moment, and had in the beginning of the 
 season affiche himself as one of the beauti- 
 ful and fashionable Madame de Courcelles' 
 adorers. But it was a harmless, conven- 
 tional sort of adoration, — one of those little 
 practices which are as a matter of course 
 allowed in, and even necessitated by, foreign 
 society, and had never caused Miss Mild- 
 may so much as a qualm of displeasure. 
 Yet this evening, somehow or other, she did 
 experience a momentary pang ; and a sud- 
 den chill and tightening came to her heart 
 as she hurried past unseen out of reach of 
 the sound of that gay, careless laughter, 
 and remembered the half-promised meeting 
 at Ste. Barbe's chapel next morning. 
 
 Mrs. O'Neil came into her room as she 
 was changing her dress for dinner. 
 
 " Arthur insists upon going away to-mor- 
 row," she announced. " Did you ever hear 
 of any thing so ridiculous and provoking ? " 
 
 " Very ridiculous," Miss Mildmay re- 
 plied. " And so I am not to see him again ; 
 am I ? " she inquired after a little pause. 
 
 " Not if you are always gadding about, 
 and never at home when he comes, child," 
 replied the old lady shortly. 
 
 "I was at home to-day," Miss Mildmay 
 replied, opening her sunny eyes. 
 
 " But you had not a word to say to him, 
 or to anybody but that cackling old baron. 
 And then you ran away and hid yourself: 
 you know you did, child ! " 
 
 " I thought Mr. O'Neil came ^o see you," 
 Ethel said demurely : " he always says he 
 does, at all events." 
 
 " And why should he not, child ? Why 
 should a young man be ashamed of coming 
 to see his old mother? To be sure he 
 comes to see me ; but — You look very nice 
 in that white gown, child, — very nice in- 
 deed. You ought always to wear white, I 
 think. Ah I there is the dinner-bell. By 
 the way, Arthur said that he would perhaps 
 drop in this evening. Perhaps he will, and 
 perhaps he won't. But if he really is going 
 to-morrow, of course it is natural that he 
 
 should wish to see as much of me as he 
 can," the. old lady said, giving Elhel a sly, 
 searching look. 
 
 "Of course; quite natural," Miss Mild- 
 may responded innocently. 
 
 And then the two ladies went down ami- 
 cably, arm in arm, to dinner. 
 
 CHAPTER XT. 
 
 AND of course Mr. O'Neil did come. 
 Ethel was, as usual, wandering about 
 the avenue, looking like a white spirit in 
 the moonlight, when he came upon her, 
 disturbing her meditations rather abruptly ; 
 for, though she fully expected him to come, 
 he was rather earlier this evening than 
 usual. 
 
 " He is good and charming. Don't be a 
 fool ! " 
 
 The odd, abrupt words of Christine's 
 sermon were ringing in her ears at the 
 very moment that she saw him within a 
 yard or two of her. Miss Mildmay was 
 not, as we know, addicted to the prudent 
 habit of weighing her words before utter- 
 ing them ; and when Mr. O'Neil smilingly 
 inquired the cause of her grave, puzzled 
 looks, and what her thoughts were about, 
 she told him frankly. 
 
 " I wonder why on earth you let Chris- 
 tine Delneuve marry that horrid M. Bar- 
 bier," she said. 
 
 With great deliberation Mr. O'Neil lit a 
 fresh cigar before replying. 
 
 "Do you ¥ " he'said then, rather dryly. 
 " You are wrong to call poor Barbier ' hor- 
 rid,' though. He is a very good fellow." 
 
 " But she does not love him, Mr. O'Neil, 
 — not the least bit." 
 
 " Oh 1 that is it ; is it ? " with a calm 
 puflf. 
 
 Ethel stopped short, turning round on 
 him suddenly. 
 
 " Mr. O'Neil, you don't mean to say that 
 you do not believe in love ? " she demanded 
 with a withering look. 
 
 He burst out laughing. "I suppose I 
 do. I have not thought much about it." 
 Then, with a half-smothered sigh, " I have 
 had other things to think of in my life," he 
 added quickly. 
 
 " Other things I — money, I suppose, and 
 hatred and revenge and " — 
 
 " And justice," he said quietly, as she 
 paused breathless, and a little frightened 
 at her own audacity. 
 
 There was a brief silence. They were 
 
62 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 both standing quite still, listening to the 
 night-breezes shivering gently through the 
 trees. They were chill breezes, and sud- 
 denly Ethel shivered from head to foot 
 herself. 
 
 " You are cold. Why do you come out 
 with your head uncovered ? " Mr. O'Neil 
 inquired, perceiving that her hair was 
 gleaming in the moonlirfit. 
 
 " Is it uncovered ? I forgot my hat. I 
 had better go in, I think." 
 
 But he would not hear of it. " Make a 
 turban of this," he pleaded eagerly. " It 
 is an Indian shawl of my mother's, which I 
 found amongst my traps. I was bringing 
 it up to her." 
 
 Ethel shrugged her shoulders and 
 laughed ; but she obeyed, for all that, wind- 
 ing the soft blue -and -gold -embroidered 
 stuff with careless grace round and round 
 her head. It became her well, as she saw 
 clearly enough in his eyes. 
 
 " And so you really do not believe in 
 love, Mr. O'Neil ? " this incorrigible young 
 lady inquired abruptly, yet very demurely. 
 " Do you know that I actually do ? " 
 
 They had turned away from the house 
 again, and Mr. O'Neil was secure of one 
 other turn at all events. Perhaps it was 
 this that made him reply with considera- 
 ble dryness, " I dare say you do. Most 
 young ladies of your age do, — or fancy 
 they do," he added with a little laugh. 
 
 " Fancy they do I " with extreme indig- 
 nation. "Mr. O'Neil " — 
 
 "Well!" 
 
 " You are a heathen, Mr. O'Neil ; and I 
 do not care what you say or think. But 
 for my part I pity Christine Delneuve from 
 the bottom of my heart," she said, becom- 
 ing suddenly shy, and nervous of personal 
 observation. 
 
 " Pity is a cheap form of benevolence. 
 I seldom indulge in it." 
 
 Perhaps he only wanted to rouse her, and 
 to enjoy the pleasure of seeing her eyes 
 fliish lightning at him. They did literally 
 flash at this. 
 
 " People who have no heart find it easy 
 to sneer at every thing," she observed in a 
 cutting tone. 
 
 All at once his manner changed again. 
 " Forgive me ! I was only jesting," he said 
 with sudden gravity. " I am very fond of 
 the Delneuves, — very fond indeed ; and 
 am, too, a great deal more interested in 
 their happiness and welfare than you can 
 be. Miss Mildmay. They are old friends 
 of mine ; and once they were very kind to 
 
 me, — when I chanced to fall ill at . It 
 
 was a fever I had, which, but for their good 
 nursing and care, would probably nave 
 
 killed me. I had met Delneuve in Lon- 
 don some years before ; and when chance 
 
 brought me to , when I was making a 
 
 tour through France, the acquaintance was 
 renewed. As I tell you, I caught a fever 
 there, through which his wife and daughter 
 nursed me with a kindness which I can nev- 
 er forget. So you see that I have reason to 
 be grateful to them, and to take their affairs 
 to heart ; which indeed I do. But I cannot 
 see with your eyes. I confess to you, Miss 
 Mildmay, that I was very glad to hear that 
 Christine was about to make a good mar- 
 riage." 
 
 " A good marriage 1 " Ethel repeated dis- 
 dainfully. 
 
 " Well, it is an unroraantic term, I know ; 
 but consider they are very poor, and, though 
 I grant that Barbier is not handsome, I 
 know him to be a thoroughly good fellow, 
 and very fond of her. Don't be alarmed. 
 Christine is a sensible girl, and a free 
 agent; and what she is doing will turn out 
 to be the right thing in the end." 
 
 "Perhaps so." 
 
 " You are not convinced, I see," he wen t 
 on, laughing. " But perhaps experience will 
 convince even you, some day, that the ro- 
 mance of life is one thing, and the working 
 part of it another." 
 
 " I hope not," Miss Mildmay replied with 
 considerable scorn. 
 
 Her companion gave her a keen, curious, 
 smiling glance. All at once his face and 
 manner changed then completely. 
 
 " You consider me a heathen ; do you, 
 Miss Mildmay ? " he said quickly and with 
 a sudden earnestness. " Well, you are quite 
 in the wrong. I do beheve in all good 
 things, — love amongst them. I believe in 
 it with all my heart. But you are nineteen, 
 you see, and I am forty ; and naturally we 
 contemplate the same object from a some- 
 what different point of view," he concluded 
 a little vaguely. 
 
 It was a strange and uncalled-for pro- 
 fession of faith ; and it seemed rather to 
 disconcert Miss Mildmay, who again an- 
 nounced her intention of entering the 
 house. This time Mr. O'Neil made no 
 opposition, though he remained behind 
 himself to finish nis cigar. 
 
 Mrs. O'Neil was just rousing herself from 
 her nap as she entered the room. 
 
 "Bless my soul I " she exclaimed, rub- 
 bing her eyes, and staring. " What has 
 the child got on her head ? " 
 
 " Oh I I forgot. It is a shawl of yours. 
 Mr. O'Neil made me put it on." 
 
 And they would not allow her to take it 
 off in a hurry. 
 
 " Come over, child I " the old lady ordered. 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 63 
 
 "Let us have, a look at you. Does she 
 not look nice, colonel, — quite like a sul- 
 tana, or something of that sort? Upon 
 my word, you are a pretty girl," she con- 
 cluded, with an approving nod. 
 
 "Ami?" 
 
 And Miss Mildmay contemplated the 
 sultana head-dress in the opposite mirror. 
 It was a fact. She was a pretty girl. 
 
 " And so Arthur is here ; is he ? " pro- 
 ceeded Mrs. O'Neil. " Where on earth can 
 he have found that old shawl, I wonder? 
 I have not laid Bjy eyes on it for a hundred 
 ytearg." 
 
 Presently Mr. O'Neil himself appeared 
 to explain. 
 
 " It managed, somehow, to get amongst 
 my things," he said. " I was packing up, 
 and found it, and this box also, — trinkets I 
 believe they are. I thought you might like 
 to have them." 
 
 " Show them to me. Ah, yes ! They 
 were given to me on my wedding-day," 
 sajd the old lady, opening the case ten- 
 derly. " They are old-fashioned, to be 
 sure, but pretty things in their way. Ro- 
 coco I believe they call them. Blue, too, 
 like the scarf. I used to wear them, I 
 remember, when 1 was young. What can 
 Flaherty have been thinking about to bring 
 them away with us ? I thought they were 
 all safe at home at Mount Druid." 
 
 " A wedding-present I — were they real- 
 ly ? " Ethel asked curiously. 
 
 " Yes. They were my mother's, and she 
 gave them to me. Let me put them on 
 you, child, and see how they look. The 
 color matches the scarf exactly." 
 
 Ethel had no objection to allowing her- 
 self to be decked out. Gayly she knelt 
 down before the old lady, and let her fas- 
 ten the quaint, heavy chains upon her neck, 
 and put the long pendent ear-rings into her 
 ears. 
 
 " They look very nice," Mrs. O'Neil said 
 complacently, when she had finished her 
 work, and the girl had stood up again, — 
 " very nice indeed. All they want is a 
 good cleaning. Do you know I have a 
 mind to give them to you, child ? they suit 
 you so well. I always intended to give 
 them to Arthur's wife, when he got one ; 
 but, upon my word, I am tired of waiting 
 for that," she said in a melancholy tone, 
 and with a reproachful glance at her son. 
 " And so you may keep them, child, if you 
 like." 
 
 " Oh, no I I must not deprive Mr. 
 O'Neil's," — Then she paused suddenly, 
 with a constrained little laugh. 
 
 Looks of admiration were nothing novel 
 to Ethel ; but the quick flame which had 
 
 darted into Mr. O'Neil's eyes at his moth- 
 er's words startled her for an instant. She 
 was standing in the midst of them all, 
 with her white dress and fantastic turban 
 and ornaments, and the little pause which 
 followed was an awkward one. Mr. 
 O'Neil broke it at last. 
 
 " Pray keep them. Miss Mildmay," he 
 said, smiling. " I renounce all claims in 
 your favor." 
 
 She made no reply, but slowly, and 
 with a sudden gravity, proceeded to take 
 off" her gay trappings one by one. 
 
 " I'll nave them cleaned and brightened 
 up for you, child," said Mrs. O'Neil, who 
 evidently considered the matter settled. 
 
 " But " — began Ethel doubtfully. 
 
 "Don't say another word," interrupted 
 Mrs. O'Neil, puckering her fair, creaseless 
 forehead. " They are mine to do with as 
 I like ; are they not ? and I choose to give 
 them to you. To be sure, I had always 
 intended them for Arthur's wife ; but, bless 
 me ! I will be in my grave before " — 
 
 " That personage is a myth," interrupted 
 Mr. O'Neil with a quick, impatient laugh. 
 " For Heaven's sake, mother, do not wait 
 for her appearance to dispose of your orna- 
 ments." 
 
 " Well, you know, Arthur, that, if you 
 liked, you could " — she began plaintively; 
 and then, as her son frowned and gave 
 unmistakable symptoms of displeasure — 
 " What were you saying about packing 
 up? " she demanded sharply. " You don't 
 mean to say that you are really going away 
 to-morrow 1 " she said, affecting a tone of 
 as much aggrieved astonishment as if he: 
 had not, twenty times over, informed her of 
 his intentions. 
 
 " Yes, to-morrow ; " but he said it it 
 little faintly. 
 
 " Wait another day, Arthur," she said": 
 coaxingly. " Now, is it not aggravating of 
 him, Ethel, to insist upon going ? And 
 Heaven knows what may happen," she 
 broke out plaintively, " when you are gone. 
 Somebody may die, or " — And then sud- 
 denly remembering the colonel, and the 
 significance which might be given to her 
 words, " At my age one never knows the 
 moment," she said hurriedly and in a mel- 
 ancholy tone. 
 
 But her son only laughed at her; and 
 Ethel shuddered and shivered, and begged 
 of her not to suggest such gloomy ideas. 
 " Partings are gloomy things, though," she- 
 said. "Why do you leave your mother,, 
 Mr. O'Neil ? " she inquired curiously. 
 
 " Heaven only knows, child," broke in. 
 the old lady. " My firm belief is, that he 
 is going because he said he would go, and. 
 
64 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 he is ashamed to change his mind. But 
 perhaps if you would ask him," she said, 
 as though a bright idea had struck her. 
 " Irishmen can never refuse a lady, you 
 know." 
 
 « Oh I but " — and Ethel's eyelashes 
 drooped over her violet eyes. " Irishmen 
 are gallant, then ; are they ? " she inquired 
 playfully. 
 
 " Gallant I — they are the bravest, finest, 
 most chivalrous men in the wide world," 
 cried Mrs. O'Neil, enthusiastically. "If I 
 were a young girl again — if I were you, 
 child, I would not marry any man but an 
 . Irishman 1 — no, not for twenty thousand a 
 year." 
 
 They all laughed at the old lady's patri- 
 otism. 
 
 "I — I rather like Irishmen certainly," 
 Miss Mildmay observed with a demure, 
 shy smile ; thinking, no doubt, of Sainte 
 Barbe's chapel and of Count O'Neil. 
 
 But she was thinking of somebody else 
 too, -^ of Count O'Neil's uncle, — wonder- 
 ing with a half-flattered, half-frightened 
 flutter of her silly heart, what that odd 
 look she had seen five minutes ago in his 
 eyes could possibly have meant. What 
 did it mean ? Nobody could say, not even 
 himself. For was she not nineteen, and he 
 forty ? And was she not a silly, beautiful, 
 gay, distracting butterfly, and he a grave, 
 sober, sensible, practical mortal, who had 
 other things to think of besides love and 
 romance ? Why or wherefore was a mys- 
 tery. But after all Mrs. O'Neil triumph- 
 antly gained her point. Before he left 
 the villa that evening, he had consented 
 to delay his journey a little longer. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 BUT there were transient gleams of 
 sunshine, uncertain intervals of calm- 
 ness, in spite of which the villa was in a 
 chronic state of disquiet, and threatening 
 storm. Everybody knew it and felt it, from 
 the master down to the last servant. 
 Everybody knew and felt, that, beneath the 
 calm surface of the monotony of daily life, 
 an under-current of troubled waters ex- 
 isted, and that the air was heavy with 
 domestic thunder. 
 
 The storm broke the very next morning. 
 It was early still when Mrs. O'Neil knocked 
 at Ethel's door, looking fluttered and anx- 
 ious. " My dear, I want to speak to you," 
 ^e began. 
 
 Miss Mildmay knew at once what was 
 coming. " Well ? " she demanded, meta- 
 phorically speaking, donning her armor for 
 the fray. 
 
 " My dear, don't look so terrible, — just as 
 if you were going to eat me up. It is noth- 
 ing, only — your dear papa is a little anx- 
 ious about you, my love. He saw you 
 going out early, and now you have only 
 just come in ; and — you look so hot and 
 excited, child." And the old lady was 
 quite nervous and excited herself. 
 
 " Yes, it is true. I have been out, and I 
 have only just come in. Well, and what 
 of it ? " Miss Mildmay inquired loftily. 
 
 " My dear, your papa is delicate ; and 
 delicate people worry themselves, you see." 
 And then it all came out with a rush. " 
 Ethel 1 surejy you are not silly enough to 
 want to keep friends with those people, — 
 those dreadful people ? " she inquired with 
 a gasp. 
 
 "What people?" 
 
 But Ethel knew as little how to beat 
 about the bush as Mrs. O'Neil herself. 
 
 " You mean your daughter-in-law and 
 her son, I suppose," she went on tremu- 
 lously. " Did papa tell you to speak to me 
 on the subject ? " she inquired with sup- 
 pressed anger. 
 
 " Come over here, child j come over here ! 
 Yes, he did. He says, that, unless you can 
 be got to see things sensibly and reason- 
 ably, he must leave Nice at once. And 
 just think what a pity that, would be," she 
 added coaxingly, " when the place agrees 
 with him so well." 
 
 Ethel colored. " Papa has never yet 
 made plans without consulting me," she 
 said bitterly. 
 
 " My dear, he has not made any plans. 
 He only — child, what were you doing this 
 morning, what were you doing the other 
 day, when you stopped out such an age, and 
 kept us all waiting? Ethel, that woman 
 is a clever woman, but she is a bad woman 
 too ; and if she is trying to make a fool of 
 you " — 
 
 " A fool of me I But she is not. I have 
 not seen her this lon^ time, if you mean 
 Madame O'Neil," Etnel interrupted with 
 a slightly scornful laugh. 
 
 "You have not? Then it was all 
 imagination 1 " cried Mrs. O'Neil in a tone 
 of delighted relief. "I knew your poor 
 papa was fretting and worriting himself 
 about nothing at all. I knew that you were 
 a good, sensible girl, and that — I will run 
 and tell him this very minute ; " and she 
 rose from her seat, and began bustling out 
 of the room. 
 
 Ethel let her reach the dpor. PerhapS| 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 65 
 
 the girl was struggling with a momentary 
 temptation to deceit ; perhaps Mrs. O'Neil's 
 vivacity confused her, and deprived her for 
 an instant of the power of speech. But, if 
 so, it was a short struggle, a brief hesitation. 
 Deception was as foreign to Ethel's nature 
 as want of words was to her tongue. 
 
 "Mrs. O'Neil," she said, following her, 
 " wait a moment. What is it that you are 
 goin^to tell papa? " 
 
 " Not to worry himself, child. I am 
 going to tell him that you are a good girl, 
 and that you have not seen those people 
 lately, and that he need not be uneasy 
 about " — 
 
 "But that would not be true," Ethel 
 interrupted shortly. " It so happens that I 
 have not seen Madame O'Neil very lately ; 
 but I have met her son two or three times. 
 I met him this morning." 
 
 Mrs. O'Neil's sudden change of counte- 
 nance was ludicrous. 
 
 " Her son, her son 1 Bless me, child 1 " 
 She was speechless. 
 
 ■' Yes. I had a walk .with him this 
 morning. It was very pleasant," Ethel 
 said in her coolest tones. 
 
 Mrs. O'Neil held up her hands. " My 
 goodness, my goodness ! " she exclaimed. 
 " What are girls coming to ? Upon my 
 word, child, I am astonished at you, — quite 
 astonished; and with a foreign coxcomb 
 of the sort too ! They say he is quite a 
 foreigner," she added, half' curiously, half 
 indignantly. 
 
 "Well, he is something of a foreigner 
 certainly," Ethel acknowledged with a half- 
 laugh. " But that is nothing against him 
 surely. Your grandson speaks English 
 perfectly." 
 
 " My grandson ! Hold your tongue, 
 child I He is no more my grandson than 
 you are my grandmother 1 " cried Mrs. 
 O'Neil, growing quiet red and excited. But 
 she cooled down at once. 
 
 "Ethel," she said reproachfully, "you 
 are a giddy, foolish girl ; and you ought to 
 know better than to displease your poor 
 papa, when — when " — ' But she had not 
 the courage to finish the phrase. " And 
 now," she went on hurriedly, after a brief 
 hesitation, " even if he were my grandson, 
 — which he is not, — but even if he were — I 
 wonder at you, child, upon' my word I I 
 wonder at you, for having any thing to say 
 to such low people. Why, don't you know 
 that the woman was my maid, — my 
 servant ? Don't you know, that, at the 
 present moment, her ' sister, the mother of 
 this young fellow with whom you think fit 
 to walk and make appointments, — don't 
 you know, child, that she is a servant too, 
 6 
 
 — Lord O'Neil's housekeeper, — his own 
 keeper rather, and married to his stew- 
 ard?" 
 
 Ethel winced. These blunt questions 
 reminded her, indeed, of nothing new ; but 
 they reminded her vividly of what were at 
 least unpleasant facts, which, somehow, she 
 gave herself pains to keep out of sight, and 
 forget. But the very pain which they 
 caused her made her the more determined 
 to conceal that they caused her any pain 
 at all. 
 
 " 1 don't know any thing," she' replied 
 with quick rising temper, " except that I 
 am not a person to change like a weather- 
 cock ; and, if I am prevented seeing my 
 friends at home, what can I do but see them 
 elsewhere ? " 
 
 And so no good resulted from this ex- 
 plosion ; indeed, much harm. Mrs. O'Neil 
 was totally unfit for, and unequal to, the 
 task her kind heart had so rashly under- 
 taken, and was about as capable of curbing 
 a wild young prairie-horse as of reducing 
 Ethel to a tame submission to her father's 
 wishes. She was abruptly beginning to 
 suspect something of the sort herself now, 
 and, poor old lady ! left the girl's room, 
 wringing her hands with a, feeling of im- 
 potent despair. 
 
 " Did ever a prettier, gentler face belong 
 to a more audacious, headstrong young 
 woman ? " she asked herself over and over 
 again during the next half-hour, while 
 holding painful debate what was the right 
 thing to do next. It was a difficult question ; 
 and, with the best intentions, Mrs. O'Neil 
 answered it badly. She could not bring 
 herself to go back at once to the colonel, 
 and tell him the result of her mission. 
 She could not bear to inflict pain a moment 
 too soon upon him. She feared for his 
 health. She dreaded the anger which she 
 might arouse, and the determination to 
 leave Nic6 at once, — than which nothing 
 would be, perhaps, more injurious to him, 
 
 — which his daughter's behavior would very 
 probably provoke. Like all good-natured 
 people, Mrs. O'Neil was inclined to pro- 
 crastination. She could not bear to evoke 
 a hurricane. She could not bear to 
 drive either people or events to extremities. 
 " Thank goodness I Arthur has not gone 
 yet," she thought, catching eagerly in her 
 perplexity at any straw of help. " At all 
 events, I need do nothing till I see him. Dear 
 me, dear me ! What an old fool I am, to 
 be sure I Last night I actually fancied that 
 the saucy minx was condescending to take a 
 fancy to him ; and now to think of her , 
 galivanting about the country with that im- 
 pudent young fellow, Denis Irwin's son I 
 
66 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAT'S FOLLIES. 
 
 She will tell us that she wants to marry him 
 next! What on earth ever induced me to 
 meddle in the business at all ? " she inquired 
 of herself with a rueful groan. 
 
 What, indeed? Ethel was pondering 
 over the same query in her own room, wait- 
 ing in tremulous, excited expectation for 
 what was to happen next. There was but the 
 one thing to happen, she supposed ; and for 
 this she was nerving herself as best she 
 could. Of course, Mrs. O'Neil would at 
 once tell her father what had occurred, and 
 he would come to her, or send for her, and 
 there would be an angry scene, and sharp 
 words and recriminations, and stormy ex- 
 planations, and after this — But imagi- 
 nation could carry her no farther. Ethel 
 loved her father with her whole heart ; and 
 the thought of seriously offending him, of 
 going in direct opposition to his will, was as 
 yet only lurking in her mind, and had not 
 assumed a definite or tangible shape. In 
 her heart she felt, though for all the world 
 she would not, even to herself, have ac- 
 knowledged it, that if, in the end, he would 
 not give in, she must do so ; and that though 
 up to a certain point resistance was pos- 
 sible, — nay, even for the sake of her own 
 self-respect and pride; necessary, — re- 
 sistance in the long-run must yield. 
 
 There it was. Things were going badly ; 
 but all was not lost. She was not in earnest, 
 — in downright earnest yet. She liked Count 
 O'Neil : at least she believed that she did ; 
 but, for all that, this morning she was by no 
 means prepared to make a deliberate choice 
 between him and her father. It was one 
 thing to amuse one's self, and to flirt, and 
 even to make and to keep secret appoint- 
 ments, and to play the part of heroine in a 
 kind of little sensational drama, and to 
 protest against the injustice and caprice of 
 which she considered herself the victim ; 
 and quite another seriously to defy her 
 father's authority, and to refuse positively 
 to obey him. It was the critical moment 
 of her life; and a timely counsel, or a 
 judicious counsel, or a loving word, would 
 have saved her. But, alas ! they did not 
 come ; and the girl was left to fight her 
 battle alone. 
 
 Or rather, not alone ; far worse, indeed, 
 than alone : for Ethel had giddily played 
 with and sought temptation and danger, 
 and to-day temptation and danger turned 
 upon her, and played with and sought for 
 her. 
 
 What was to happen next ? Miss Mild- 
 may was quite wrong, as we have seen, in 
 her surmises ; and, her father, in ignorance 
 still of the reality of his anxiety and fear, 
 did not come to seek her, and give her the 
 
 opportunity of repairing the mistakes of 
 the past, for which, perhaps, she was wait- 
 ing. Ethel was prepared for a conflict ; but 
 none came. She was ready for a " scene," 
 and the consequences of a scene, — tears, 
 submission, reconciliation ; but alas, alas I it 
 seemed as though her father was avoiding 
 and distrusting her, and, by his cold dis- 
 pleasure and distrust, was resolved to drive 
 her to extremities. 
 
 Where was she to turn? That very 
 morning Count O'Neil had implored of her 
 to turn to his mother. Madame O'Neil was 
 longing to see her and to help her, he had 
 only an hour or two ago told her, during 
 that pleasant walk the young people had 
 taken together. 
 
 Not, indeed, that they had spoken very 
 much or very seriously of the future. 
 Count O'Neil had, it is true, once or twice 
 attempted to approach the subject ; but his 
 fair companion had been more or less dis- 
 couraging. She would not hear of the 
 future. It bored her, she said. Could it 
 not be let take care of itself ? and could they 
 not enjoy the present, and be content? 
 What more did they want ? She, for her 
 part, wanted nothing more ; and when 
 Count O'Neil told her that he wanted to 
 marry her, and to see his way towards 
 accomplishing that object, this provoking 
 but strangely attractive damsel assumed a 
 total want of comprehension of his meaning, 
 and assured him, that, if he would persist in 
 talking of such unpleasant topics, she would 
 go home on the spot. 
 
 And so the young man, nothings loath 
 perhaps, let her have her own way. Lovers 
 proverbially affect the clouds, and are apt 
 to find common sense — in talk at least — 
 too earthy by half The truth was, that 
 Count O'Neil's eyes, as little as Ethel's own, 
 were capable of piercing the future ; and 
 though readily enough he could make vague 
 projects, and fervent declarations, and 
 belligerent threats, he really did not know 
 how to make a single practical suggestion, 
 or to throw any efficient light on the 
 situation. It was his mother who was to 
 do all that. In her resources he had un- 
 limited confidence. She could find the key 
 of any difficulty ; she could surmount any 
 obstacle ; and though an uncomfortable 
 instinct warned him that he had better 
 conceal from his lady-love how entirely he 
 leant upon, and, indeed, was still in all im- 
 portant matters tied to his mother's apron- 
 strings, he had yet succeeded in impressing 
 upon her mind that her good oflices might 
 well be of some avail in smoothing the 
 difficult path which lay before them, and 
 of suggesting to her that Madame O'Neil 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 67 
 
 might possibly find the clew of extrication 
 from the present imbroglio. 
 
 Ethel recollected this now. She had 
 given Count O'Neil a sort of half-promise 
 that she would, if possible, go to see his 
 mother soon. And now the thought 
 occurred to her to go to her at once, — this 
 very day, this very hour. She felt in a 
 defiant mood, and ready to brave the worst. 
 She had been prepared for a Jjassage of 
 arms with her father ; and, since he had 
 shirked the encounter, an autlet must be 
 found for her superfluous energy and excite- 
 ment. And yet when she had actually 
 dressed herself and gone out, and found 
 herself close to the house in which -Madame 
 O'Neil dwelt, a strange hesitation and 
 reluctance seized upon her, and she paused 
 and almost turned away again. Something, 
 she was ashamed to say what, was deter- 
 ring her. An unpleasant thought, which 
 she could not silence, was forcing itself upon 
 her mind. She struggled against it, and 
 tried to despise it, but it was there still ; 
 and while she was struggling and hesitat- 
 ing and debating whether to go forward, or 
 to retrace her steps, decision came upon 
 her unawares. Madame O'Neil herself 
 appeared within a few yards of her. It 
 was a very natural little circumstance ; for 
 Madame O'Neil resided upon the Prome- 
 nade, and Ethel had been standing almost 
 right in front of her windows, — had, 
 indeed, been seen from them. Yet both 
 ladies either felt or aifected surprise at the 
 meeting; and Ethel involuntarily drew 
 back, and would perhaps, if she had 
 obeyed her first impulse, have run away. 
 But Ma,dame O'Neil had already possession 
 of her hand, which she was gently stroking ; 
 and she was smiling at her with affectionate 
 solicitude, and seemed in no wise inclined 
 to allow her to escape. 
 
 " What is the matter, little one ? " she 
 was inquiring anxiously. " You look sad, 
 troubled, hovleversee. Have, then, the 
 cares of the world come upon you, too, 
 already ? " 
 
 It was true. She had once been a 
 waiting-maid, a servant; but she was 
 Madame la Comtesse O'Neil now, and she 
 was handsome and ladylike and well 
 dressed. Moreover, she was kindly and 
 sympathetic; and the girl badly needed 
 kindness and sympathy just then. After 
 all, it only cost her a nibment's struggle, to 
 which madame la, comtesse was not, 
 perhaps, so blind as she pretended to be. 
 
 " And I, too, have my grievances," she 
 went on, half playfully, half reproachfully. 
 " It is such an age since I have seen you, 
 dear child ! I may confess it to you, I have 
 
 been afraid that you meant to give us up, 
 — me up, at least," she added with a mean- 
 ing smile. 
 
 Ethel colored. " I could not help it, 
 madame," she said hastily. " I could not, 
 indeed." 
 
 " Poor little one 1 I know it. I was 
 only jesting. Ernest has told me all." And 
 Madame O'Neil fondly patted her hand. 
 " Poor little one I " she repeated tenderly. 
 
 An opportune kind word works miracles : 
 it is the sesame which undoes the bars 
 and bolts of hearts. Ethel's heart melted 
 then. Her reserve and constraint vanished. 
 She suddenly burst into tears. She wept 
 for some time ; and her companion comforted 
 her with soft nothings as best she could, — 
 comforted her till the tears were dried up, 
 and she was smiling, or trying to smile 
 again. 
 
 " I am very foolish,'' she said deprecat- 
 ingly ; " but I have been worried and 
 unhappy, and lam still unhappy, I believe," 
 she added in a funny little tone of indecision, 
 as though she were not quiet sure about it. 
 
 Madame O'Neil, however, assumed the 
 unhappiness to be a fact, and wished to 
 know more about it. Soon, indeed, she 
 knew enough, — every thing, indeed. 
 
 " And now papa is threatening to leave 
 Nice at once," Ethel concluded dolefully, 
 " unless — unless " — And she could not 
 bring herself to say the words. 
 
 But the sentence was finished for her. 
 " Unless you give up Ernest," Madame 
 O'Neil said after a thoughtful pause. " And 
 what of my brother-in-law, Arthur ? " she' 
 inquired then suddenly and with a keen 
 look. 
 
 So suddenly, that Ethel was a little 
 taken aback. " About him 'i " she repeated. 
 
 " Yes. Does he remain much longer in 
 Nice ? Your father wishes you to marry him, 
 perhaps ? " Madame O'Neil said coldly and 
 abruptly. 
 
 Ethel was indignant. " To marry Mr. 
 O'Neil ! " she exclaimed. " Nonsense 1 
 Nobody is thinking of such a thing. He is 
 going away immediately: at least, he 
 was to have gone to-day ; but I believe that 
 he has put it off," she said with a little 
 half-conscious laugh. " Why do you 
 suppose that papa wants me to marry 
 him ? " she inquired in a flutter. 
 
 But Madame O'Neil was mysterious, and 
 would not give a direct answer. She only 
 shook her head, and said almost playfully, — 
 
 " And now, dear child, which is it to be, 
 the uncle, or the nephew ? " 
 
 " It is no jesting matter, madame," Ethel 
 replied stiffly. 
 
 " Jesting 1 Am I jesting ? Indeed, no. 
 
68 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAT'S FOLLIES. 
 
 I was never more serious in my life. Well, 
 then, since it displeases you, I will say no 
 more about my brother-in-law. It would be 
 a cruel sacrifice, and it may be that I wrong 
 your father in supposing him capable of 
 demanding it. Ethel dearest, I was only 
 jesting so far as your feelintrs are concerned. 
 1 know well enough that Ernest has been 
 fortunate enough to win your affections. 
 When will you marry him ? " 
 
 " When ? " And Ethel looked frightened 
 and startled. " O madame 1 how do I 
 know ? I know nothing. Papa will never 
 consent." 
 
 " Never ! Never is a long word. But 
 surely you mean to marry him; do you 
 not 1 " 
 
 "I suppose so. I — I have not thought 
 about it," Ethel faltered. 
 
 " You have not thought about it ? Come, 
 dear child. If it were Ernest, not I, who 
 was here, you would be hardly cruel enough 
 to say that ; and I know well that I am but 
 a poor substitute for liim. Have I startled 
 you by my abruptness ? But what you 
 tell me about your leaving Nice has 
 alarmed me. Once you leave, without 
 being definitely and openly engaged, the 
 difficulties will increase tenfold. Then, 
 indeed, you may well say that your 
 father will never consent. Ernest may 
 never have the chance of ever seeking 
 you again. Your father and yourself will 
 fall more and more under the influence 
 of those who are not our friends. You 
 will become strangers to us." 
 
 "But — but — what is to be done? 
 What can I do ? " Ethel inquired in a tone 
 of despair. 
 
 " Ask your father for his consent. He 
 can refuse you nothing. If you wish, 
 Ernest will write to him this very day." 
 
 l"he girl shook her head. " It would be 
 useless," she murmured, — " useless." 
 
 " And why, pray ? " asked Madame 
 O'Neil coldly. 
 
 "Because — because — oh I he is preju- 
 diced against him. It would be useless," 
 Ethel said despondingly. 
 
 " But he loves you. If you told him that 
 your happiness depended upon it." 
 
 " I will try, — I will tell him so, — I will 
 implore of him ! " the girl said with a sud- 
 den flash of hopefulness. "When will 
 Count O'Neil write ? " she asked timidly. 
 
 " At once, to-morrow, — when you like." 
 
 Ethel was frightened. " Not so soon, — 
 not for a day or two. Papa is not very 
 well just now," she pleaded nervously. 
 " Perhaps he will consept. Who knows ? 
 One never ean know till one tries." But 
 then a sudden conviction pierced her 
 
 brain. " Oh, he never will I — 1 know that 
 he will not," she groaned. 
 
 Her companion gazed upon her in 
 thoughtful silence. Intimately, indeed, 
 did she know that Col. Mildmay would 
 never of his free will allow such a mar- 
 riage I and she marvelled at Ethel's folly in 
 imagining even for a -moment such a possi- 
 bility. 
 
 " And if he does not consent ? " she in- 
 quired presently, giving the young girl a 
 slow, long look. 
 
 " It will be dreadful, — dreadful ! " 
 
 Miss Mildmay's mental capacities could 
 carry her no larther. There was another 
 -little pause. 
 
 " Then there remains only one alterna- 
 tive," Madame O'Neil said then very 
 quietly and calmly. " If persuasion fail, 
 force must be used. He must be made to 
 consent." ' 
 
 " Madame I " 
 
 " Yes : he must be made to consent," 
 repeated Madame O'Neil vehemently. 
 " Is your happiness, is my son's happiness, 
 to be sacrificed to calumny and foul suspi- 
 cion ? Do I not well know what the mean- 
 ing of it all is ? Until an evil wind 
 brought those false and lying relations of 
 ours to Nice, all was going well. Your 
 father encouraged Ernest's attentions. 
 Our acquaintance was sought and courted. 
 My son was your inseparable companion 
 and open admirer. What was the cause 
 of the change ? They came to blacken 
 and malign us with their invented tale of 
 wickedness, which can and will never be 
 proved. / care not : the end will compen- 
 sate for all to me. But the end is delayed. 
 It cannot be very far off; but it may not be 
 very near : and meanwhile is your happi- 
 ness, is Ernest's happiness, to be sacrificed ? 
 No 1 that is not justice : it is nothing but ' 
 cruelty and tyranny^" 
 
 She spoke with quick excitement, and 
 her pale cheeks flushed. It was one of 
 those sudden and rare explosions of passion 
 which now and then broke down the usual 
 steady composure of her manner, and 
 which both amazed and startled one all at 
 once. 
 
 Ethel was frightened. "It is not my 
 fault," she murmured. • 
 
 " Dear child, 1 know it is not. Do I not 
 know it well ? But those whose fault it is 
 must be punished. They must suffer, not 
 you, who are blameless. Ernest will pro- 
 pose to your father for your hand to-moiTOW. 
 If he grants his consent, well and good ; but, 
 if he does not, then you must act without 
 it." 
 
 "What do you mean?" And Ethel 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 69 
 
 jumped to her feet, and looked as if the 
 next moment she would run away. 
 
 Madame O'Neil laughed, and caught 
 hold of her hand. " My dear child, I don't 
 mean any thing so dreadful, so terrible. I 
 don't mean an elopement, a scandal, for 
 instance. Ernest would enjoy that as little 
 as you would. What I mean is a very 
 simple thing. It is an idea which has just 
 flitted through my brain. Let us think 
 about it. I mean that you should come to 
 me for a day or two, and that you should 
 write to your father to tell him that you 
 will not return home unless he gives his 
 consent to your marriage with the man you 
 love. That is what I mean. Nothing so 
 very shocking ; is it? Ernest can go away 
 to me club, to a hotel, — any place. Be- 
 lieve me, that your father will yield quickly 
 enough if he finds out that you really are 
 in earnest." 
 
 Ethel's eyes were fixed upon the ground. 
 "Poor papa! It would break his heart," 
 she said thoughtfully. 
 
 " That you should ctjme to stay with me 
 for twenty-four hours I Mon Dieu ! Hearts 
 are not broken so' lightly. It does not 
 break your heart that he persists against 
 your will in imposing guests on you whom 
 you do not like ; that you, whose slightest 
 desire was law, are now thwarted and op- 
 posed, as you have yourself just now told 
 me, on every occasion." 
 
 Ethel winced, and withdrew her hand a 
 little hastily. She had said something of 
 the sort, it is true ; but it is a difierent thing 
 to say a thing one's self and to hear anoth- 
 er repeat it. It is a very difierent thing to 
 allow a murmur to escape us in a moment 
 of irritatiop and temper, and to hear that 
 murmur commented and enlarged upon to 
 the prejudice of those we love. So she 
 said warmly and jealously,^ 
 
 "Papa is as fond of me as ever. He 
 adores me. I would not grieve him for all 
 the world." 
 
 " Then what do you mean to do ? " in- 
 quired Madame O'Neil shortly. 
 
 " I don't know, — t)h ! I don't know ; " and 
 Ethel moved away. " It is time enough to 
 think when the time comes, when " — 
 
 " You mean when Ernest proposes. But 
 can you expect a young man to propose for 
 the pleasure of being refused ? " asked 
 Madame O'Neil indignantly. " Ah, how 
 heartless you young girls are I '' 
 
 " But he will not be refused. He — I — 
 madame, you know that " — 
 
 " I know that he loves you : you know 
 it too. He has told you so often that he 
 loves you, that your ears must know the 
 tale off by heart ; but how do I know ? — 
 
 Ethel, dear child, do you love-him ? really 
 love him, — well enough to sacrifice some- 
 thing, to dare something, for his sake? 
 Cowardly, passive, inactive love is worth 
 nothing : it is not love at all. Ethel, do 
 you love him ? " 
 
 Madame O'Neil held her hand prisoner 
 again, so tightly that the girl could not, 
 even if she had wished, withdraw it. Did 
 she love him ? She was trying to ask her- 
 self the question, trying to find an answer : 
 but no answer came ; at least, none escaped 
 her in words. But, though she was silent, 
 she colored violently, — a crimson, eloquent 
 blush. 
 
 Madame O'Neil smiled, and drew her • 
 down to her and kissed her forehead. She 
 was answered and satisfied. " Dear child," 
 she whispered, " forgive me : I was wrong to 
 doubt you, even for a moment, — to sup- 
 pose that you were a girl of the common 
 stamp, to whom a man's affections are 
 mere playthings to be trifled with. I trust 
 you, Ernest trusts you," she added signifi- 
 cantly. 
 
 " You may trust me," the girl replied ; 
 and then gently but determinedly she freed 
 her hand, and turned away. " Good-by, 
 madame : it is getting late." 
 
 " And you will think of my little plan, 
 will you not, if every thing else fails, you 
 know ? " Madame O'Neil said eagerly. 
 
 " Yes, I will think of it. Good-by," the 
 girl repeated, without looking round, as she 
 walked away. 
 
 Walked away with a quick, determined 
 step, which said as distinctly as possible, 
 that it must not be detained or pursued. 
 Madame O'Neil gazed after her slender, 
 erect figure, so quickly receding from 
 view, with a perplexed ^nd not too well 
 pleased expression in her face. What did 
 her sudden departure mean ? What was 
 the secret of her abrupt and strange be- 
 havior ? Madame la comtesse was puzzled 
 and annoyed, and felt a little bit discon- 
 certed too. The young girl's proud and 
 haughty ways disconcerted her : her capri- 
 ciously changeable manners suggested a 
 problem or two to her mind. She admired 
 her : she could not help that, nor feel siur- 
 prised at her son's passion. But she was 
 not quite sure whether she liked her or not, 
 or whether the game she was playing was 
 worth the candle it cost, — perhaps not. 
 The English girl's fortune was probably 
 large ; but its exact amount had never been 
 distinctly ascertained ; and her son, with 
 his good looks and splendid prospects, 
 might find as much elsewhere. Ethel was 
 a prize, it is true ; but then the world con- 
 tained other prizes, and the Frenchwoman 
 
70 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 was bold and aspiring, and confident in Iier 
 own success. But though for the first time 
 to-day contemplating the prospect of 
 affairs, Madame O'Neil began to doubt 
 whether, on the whole, she had cause to be 
 grateful to Baron de K^rac for his effective 
 interference in her son's matrimonial con- 
 cerns, it never occurred to her to retire van- 
 quished from the field, or to induce him to 
 retreat before the unforeseen obstacles 
 which had suddenly started into existence. 
 On the contrary, she was resolved that he 
 should conquer them all, and win, — win 
 in spite of the odds against him ; in spite 
 of the plots and counterplots of her de- 
 tested relations. , 
 
 It was the first time in all these long, 
 weary, waiting years, that she had ever 
 come into active, close collision with the 
 family to which she belonged, but which 
 had so contemptuously rejected her. It 
 was the first actual tug of war : instinc- 
 tively she felt that it was the first prelimi- 
 nary skirmish in the great battle which 
 had yet to be fought out between them. 
 
 Poor Ethel! it was a strange freak of 
 fortutie which had ordained that she was to 
 be the signal for the commencement of 
 hostilities. For the girl herself, Madame 
 O'Neil would, perhaps, have been but little 
 inclined to seek a quarrel ; certainly she 
 would not have considered it worth while 
 to wrench a bride for her son from an un- 
 willing and dying father. 
 
 But for the victory over her relations 
 she did care, — care with all her heart: it 
 was but the beginning of the end ; and, as 
 she was resolved to win in the end, so also 
 in the beginning was she quite determined 
 not to be defeated. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 MEANWHILE Ethel was hastening 
 home, — running almost. Very soon 
 she was out of reach of Madame O'Neil's 
 far-seeing, thoughtful eyes, pale and 
 breathless, toiling up the steep, homeward 
 road. She was longing to be at home again. 
 The girl felt as though she were dream- 
 ,inor, — a bad, dreadful dream. Madame 
 'O^eil's words were ringing in her ears, 
 J her suggestions were repeating themselves 
 ■ over and over again to her senses, and 
 their meaning forcing itself upon her. 
 -Had it, then, really come to this, that she 
 must actually contemplate and nerve her- 
 ; self for open revolt ? Had it come to this, 
 
 that what had been play so long was now 
 real earnest, and, having up to this allowed 
 herself to glide down the stream of cir- 
 cumstance, she must now take the rudder, 
 and direct her course herself? 
 
 But she would not believe it ; any thing 
 miglit happen, something must : she was 
 young and sanguine, and could believe any 
 thing rather than face the impossible possi- 
 bility of open rebellion and war. 
 
 This morning, — how long ago it seemed 
 now 1 Even when she had actually met 
 Count O'Neil at Ste. Barbe's chapel, she 
 had not been in earnest, or had not 
 seriously faced the position. She had been 
 merely playing with edged tools, and tast- 
 ing the excitement of a forbidden pleas- 
 ure. So long as it was with her lover only 
 that she had to do, she somehow felt her- 
 self to be mistress of the situation, compe- 
 tent to go as far as she found it agreeable 
 to go, and yet to draw back in time; in 
 short, to flirt to the very extremities of 
 flirting, and yet to keep her head suflS- 
 ciently cool not to do any thing downright 
 wrong or silly. But now she became all 
 at once aware that she had blindly put 
 herself in the lion's jaws, and that she was 
 caught, hopelessly caught, in the meshes 
 of her own folly and wilfulness. The fact 
 was, that at last Miss Mildmay had come 
 in direct contact with a more powerful will 
 and nature than her own, and that, in 
 Madame O'Neil's hands, she felt herselif to 
 be weak as a child. 
 
 And so Ethel was miserable and wretch- 
 ed enough, as, indeed, everybody will ac- 
 knowledge she well deserved to be. And 
 she made other people miserable too, as old 
 Mrs. O'Neil infor^med her when she reached 
 home. " Your papa was inquiring for you, 
 and anxious about you," she told her re- 
 proachfully. " And Arthur has been here 
 too, as cross as two sticks that he did not go 
 away as he had intended to do to-day. I 
 don't know what has come over him," she 
 observed in a tone of irritation, " and over 
 everybody ; and it is all your fault, child, — 
 all your fault. The fact is, that neither 
 Arthur nor I can bear to see you making 
 such a fool of yourself, behaving so badly," 
 she concluded with a severe nod. 
 
 " What does Mr. O'Neil know about it ? " 
 Ethel inquired, flaming up. 
 
 " He knows that you met that impostor 
 this morning ; for I told him so," said the 
 old lady dolefully. 
 
 " Did you, indeed ? Well, and what does 
 he think about it ? " Miss Mildmay in- 
 quired coolly, though it was not diflicult to 
 detect some anxiety in her voice. 
 
 " He thinks that you are a headstrong, 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 71 
 
 Billy girl, and that you ought to be locked 
 up, and put on bread and water, till you 
 come to your senses," Mrs. O'Neil replied 
 tartly. 
 
 " What ? " Ethel was pale, speechless, with 
 indignation. 
 
 " He does, indeed I He said so an hour 
 ago." 
 
 " I consider Mr. O'Neil excessively im- 
 pertinent, and I should like to tell him so," 
 Miss Mildmay said in her clearest tones. 
 
 But for all that she did not tell him so : 
 
 Eerhaps she thought better of it ; or perhaps 
 er courage, great as it was, failed her ; per- 
 haps both found it easier to express their 
 indignant sentiments to a third party than 
 face to face to give one another their mutual 
 uncomplimentary opinions. At all events, 
 when they met, they met coolly but civilly, 
 and without any open explosion of dis- 
 pleasure. 
 
 It was a wretched time, — wretched, un- 
 comfortable, constrained, peaceless. Peace, 
 indeed, seemed to have taken wings and fled 
 from the villa, not the less really because 
 its outward semblance was still preserired. 
 
 It was on the evening of the next day that 
 the Delneuves, mother and daughter, came 
 to pay their promised visit to Ethel. Every- 
 body knows what state a household is in 
 when any little commonplace event is li ailed 
 with joyful eagerness, provided only that it 
 breaks in upon the dreary ^e«e and con- 
 straint with which its members regard one 
 another. 
 
 The dinner had been solemn and stiff: 
 Col. Mildmay had not, without some 
 trouble, forced Arthur O'Neil to join it; 
 but he had been silent and abstracted, and 
 had not fulfilled his accustomed role of en- 
 livening it. 
 
 Ethel had been saucy and talkative, doubt- 
 less for contradiction's sake, but her efforts 
 had been a flat failure ; and it was with a 
 petulant sigh of relief that she rose from the 
 dinner-table. " How dull we all are ! " she 
 remarked with an innocent laugh. " One 
 w6uld suppose that one of us had been mis- 
 behaving himself, and that all the others 
 were thinking of the lectures they were 
 going to give him." And the young lady 
 marched out of the room with a pair of 
 flushed cheeks and a lofty head. 
 
 Out of the room on to the cool, pleasant 
 terrace, where the sun was saying a loving 
 good-night to the serene, quiet valley. 
 
 Madame Delneuve and Christine were 
 coming up the avenue. Ethel ran to meet 
 them joyously. " At last I " she said, " at 
 last I I mought you never meant to come." 
 
 " You are alone, mademoiselle, are you 
 not ? " Madame inquired anxiously. "Our 
 
 toilets are, as you see, not suited to com- 
 pany." 
 
 " You are charming, madame, and so is 
 Christine. But we are alone, quite ; that 
 is to say, only Mr. O'Neil and his mother." 
 And she pronounced the names with ill- 
 concealed impatience. 
 
 Christine started. "Mr. O'Neil? but he 
 said adieu to us two days ago." And Ethel 
 fancied that she spoke nervously and a little 
 excitedly. 
 
 Miss Mildmay laughed. " Oh, but that 
 means nothing I " she said. " Mr. O'Neil's 
 farewells are Tike those of great actors to 
 the stage : there are always seven or eight 
 before the really last one takes place." 
 
 At the villa foreign customs were ob- 
 served : the gentlemen did not sit after 
 dinner, but rose with the ladies. At that 
 very moment Mr. O'Neil stepped out upon 
 the terrace. Had he heard her giddy, 
 saucy words? Miss Mildmay wondered, 
 feeling, for once in her life, thoroughly dis- 
 concerted and a little frightened. She 
 had been speaking loudly ; and the breadth 
 of the terrace, from the windows to the 
 steps on which she was standing, was not 
 great. It was awkward, to say the least 
 of it ; and Christine did not mend matters 
 by beginning to scold her. " You naughty, 
 amusing child ! " she said. " But it is true. 
 We have a right to taquiner him a little. 
 Come, monsieur, make your confession. 
 Once upon a time you were a man of stern 
 purpose and resolve. What has changed 
 you so ? In the old days I remember at 
 
 , once you had said that you would do 
 
 a thing, you did do it, all that one could 
 say against it." 
 
 "For example?" Mr. O'Neil inquired 
 calmly. 
 
 " For example, there was ho keeping you 
 there a day longer than you chose to re- 
 main, even though, when you left us, you 
 were not fit to travel." 
 
 "I had taxed your mother's and your 
 kindness long enough, mademoiselle; but 
 a propos of what is all this ? " 
 
 " Simply this : three days ago you said 
 good-by to us, and said you were going 
 immediately ; yet here you are still." 
 
 "1 plead guilty, mademoiselle, to the 
 charge, — let me see how it happened, — 
 ah, yes ! I have been delayed." 
 
 " A lucid explanation I Delayed by what, 
 pray ? But forgive me : I am indiscreet 
 perhaps." 
 
 " By no means : I have been delayed by " 
 — there was the faintest possible hesita- 
 tion, — "by circumstances. I believe that I 
 really do mean to go to-morrow, though," 
 he added coolly. 
 
72 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 " You believe that you really do mean 
 to go to-morrow ? Ah, monsieur I the de- 
 mon of indecisioa Jias then really got pos- 
 session of you." 
 
 "We are very satirical to-night," said 
 Mr. O'Neil, laughing. " But you remember 
 my mother of old, mademoiselle ; do you 
 not? Doubtless she and Madame Del- 
 neuve are at this very moment comparing 
 notes about that famous illness of mine. 
 You know that my mother hampers my 
 movements now and then, just a little, and 
 that I am not always quite a free agent," 
 he explained. 
 
 " Ah ! it is all your mother's fault, then ? " 
 and Christine laughed lightly. 
 
 " Not altogether : it has been a little my 
 own fault too. ^ How very curious you are, 
 mademoiselle ! " 
 
 Christine laughed. " I deserve that," 
 she acknowledged. " I believe that 1 am 
 curious, — are you ? " she inquired suddenly 
 of Ethel. 
 
 " About people and things which interest 
 me, I believe 1 am curious." 
 
 Miss Mildmay replied coldly, and speak- 
 ing for the first time. 
 
 " An oracular reply : what does it sig- 
 nify ? " asked Christine gayly. 
 
 " It means that Miss Mildmay is anxious 
 to make me understand that my movements 
 do not interest her," Mr. O'Neil observed 
 quietly. " But I understood that quite well 
 already." 
 
 There was an awkward little pause : Mr. 
 O'Neil's candid explanation took both girls 
 aback. 
 
 " Betise ! it does not mean any thing of 
 the sort," Christine said, recovering her- 
 self the first. And then she added coax- 
 ingly, and pressing Ethel's arm, which was 
 within her own, "Now, does it mean 
 that, chere ? Come, be good, and say that 
 it does not." 
 
 " I never contradict people," Miss Mild- 
 may replied : " when I was a little girl, they 
 used to tell me that it was a rude thing to 
 do." 
 
 Perhaps after this it was a happy diver- 
 sion that the servant should make his ap- 
 pearance to announce that tea was ready. 
 
 Within doors it seemed as though things 
 were going on more comfortably. The tea- 
 table looked bright and inviting. The 
 colonel was pretty well and in good spirits, 
 and Mr. O'Neil had made a good guess on 
 the subject of his mother's and Mrs. Del- 
 rieuve's conversation. 
 
 " The boy is always catching fevers : 
 Dr. O'Toole says that he is certain to die 
 of one sooner or later," the old lady was 
 observing in her funny, old-fashioned 
 
 French, to which the polite Frenchwoman 
 listened without a symptom of a betraying 
 smile. 
 
 " Truly, he was seriously ill then : the 
 doctors almost despaired of him," she re- 
 plied. 
 
 " But M. your son looks strong and ro- 
 bust now." 
 
 " Oh, yes, thank God I it is only fever I 
 am afraid of for him; for Dr. O'Toole, who 
 never says a word that is not true, says, 
 that, if there were a fever within ten miles, 
 Arthur would be sure to catch it, And so 
 your daughter is going to be married, ma- 
 dame ? " she went on, perceiving Christine. 
 " I am delighted to hear it, — very glad in- 
 deed. I always like to hear of these things. 
 Come over here, my dear, and telL me all 
 about it." 
 
 It was quite true that Mrs. O'Neil had 
 been pleased to hear of Mademoiselle Del- 
 neuve's engagement ; a lurking jealousy and 
 distrust of her son's gratefd attachment 
 to the French ladies being one of the 
 troublesome thorns of her life. It was a 
 constant bugbear to her, that Mr. O'Neil's 
 deep grsftitude might possibly mean some- 
 thing more ; and, ever since she had been 
 at Nice, she had fancied it necessary to 
 keep Madame Delneuve at a safe and civil 
 distande, and to discourage undue inti- 
 macy. It had been a difficult card to play ; 
 for poor Mrs. O'Neil was torn between the 
 gratitude she owed them for the services 
 they had rendered her son, and terror that 
 he might be entrapped into a marriage 
 with Christine. 
 
 After all, she was a young woman. 
 Moreover, she was a French young woman ; 
 and Mrs. O'Neil looked upon the French 
 female sex with a mortal hatred and dis- 
 trust. She might have forgiven Christine 
 every thing, — her want of money, of family, 
 of every thing which would in her eyes 
 have made her a suitable match for her 
 son ; she might possibly even have forgiven 
 the French girl the obligation which Mr. 
 O'Neil always so loudly proclaimed that 
 he owed her, and which her warm, jealous 
 heart found it a little difficult not to re- 
 sent : but she could not forgive Christine 
 the fact of being a Frenchwoman, and in 
 consequence of that fact she detested her. 
 
 Now, however, she did not detest her 
 any more. Once that she had been as- 
 sured that she was safely engaged to M. 
 Barbier, and innocent of matrimonial de- 
 signs upon her son, she was ready enough 
 to discover that she was charming, and to 
 feel most charitably and benevolently dis- 
 posed to her. 
 
 " Tell me all about it, my dear," she said 
 
ETHEL MILDMAT'S FOLLIES. 
 
 with her most winning smiles. And she 
 drew the French girl to her, and made her 
 fiitdown by her side. Christine, however, 
 did -not seem -to leave reiy much Jto telL 
 It was her mother who complied "with Mrs. 
 O'Neil's request, and with gentle triumph 
 dilated upon the subject of the approaching 
 nuptials. 
 
 M. Barbier was an excellent parti, and 
 in every way worthy of her daughter's 
 festeem and affection. She was thoroughly 
 satisfied and content. The marriage would 
 take place immediately after Easter. The 
 futur had already provided an extremely 
 handsome corbeille. In short, everything 
 was as it should be. 
 
 " M. Barbier said that he would probar 
 bly call to iietch us home this evening," 
 Madame Delneuve concluded : " so if you 
 will permit me, madame, I shall have the 
 honor of presenting him to you." 
 , Mrs. O'Neil professed herself delighted 
 at the prospect, and gave Christine a play- 
 ful little push. 
 
 " A devoted lover my dear, I see," she 
 said gayly : " he is afraid that somebody 
 will run away with you, I suppose. Quite 
 right, quite right. I like to see the young 
 men kept up to the mark, and made to do 
 their duty properly." 
 
 "M. Barbier is not young," Christine said 
 a little shortly : " he is nearly fifty, I believe." 
 
 "Ahl"and Mrs. O'Neil looked rather 
 disconcerted ; " but that is young, — quite 
 young enough," she went on cheerfully. 
 " I always tell Arthur that a man of forty 
 is a boy, — a mere boy. Why, men of forty 
 marry girls of eighteen every day," she as.- 
 serted in a somewhat defiant tone. 
 
 " Do they ? " and Christine looked at 
 Mr. O'Neil with a half-smile. 
 
 He colored and laughed. 
 
 " They sometimes do, I believe, perpe- 
 trate that folly, when they can get the girls 
 of -eighteen to marry them. You forget 
 that last clause, mother." 
 
 "Nonsense I of course they can. Ar- 
 thur, as I am always telling you, if you 
 would only take care of your hair " — 
 
 " Mother, it is hopeless I discovered a 
 new crop of gray ones this morning." 
 
 " Of course you did, because you will 
 never use the simplest remedies I ask you 
 to use. But it don't signify. The young- 
 est men get gray and bald now-a-days ; and 
 Heaven knows that it is better to have 
 some hair, though it be gray, than none at 
 all. To my mind a bald head is the ugli- 
 est thing in creation, or rather not in crea- 
 tion, for it never was created. Even new- 
 born infants have some hair upon their 
 heads," said Mrs. O'Neil vehemently. 
 
 There was a general laugh at this, in the 
 midst of which Christine remarked quietly, 
 " M. Barbier is bald, madame, as you will 
 .see presently." 
 
 ""Bless me 1 "Why did you not tell me bo 
 before, child ? " the old lady inquired tes- 
 tily. 
 
 Evidently bald heads, gray hairs, and 
 marriages were delicate subjects, which it 
 was as well to eschew. Christine turned 
 off the little awkwardness with a laugh, 
 and a declaration that she did not object 
 to baldness in the least. 
 
 " It looks venerable," she said ; and then 
 she rose from her seat by Mrs. O'Neil, and 
 walked over to the piano. 
 
 " You play, don't you ? " she said to 
 Ethel. " Come and play us something." 
 
 Ethel did play a little, and Christine 
 sang a little. The two girls made music 
 together, while Mrs. O'Neil and the colo- 
 nel played their game of draughts, and 
 Madame Delneuve and Mr. O'Neil chatted 
 perhaps over the old days, or, more like- 
 ly, over the new, pleasant days that were 
 to come when Christine would be estab- 
 lished in her own home, and her mother 
 with her. Christine had not much voice, 
 — hardly any indeed ; yet she sang a few 
 little French " Romances," cleverly and 
 touchingly, as clever people know how to 
 do these things, even when their voices are 
 the merest pretences of voices. Presently 
 Mr. O'Neil and her mother paused in their 
 conversation and listened to her. 
 
 " Plaisir d'amour ne dure qu^un moment, 
 Chagrin d'amour dure toute la vie," 
 
 the girl was singing; and, when she had 
 finished the song, Ji&. O'Neil rose at once, 
 and walked straight over to the piano. 
 
 " I remember that song of old," he said, 
 looking at her with a smile : " are you as 
 fond of it as ever ? " 
 
 " It is pretty, I think," she answered 
 carelessly. " I always sing the same songs, 
 I know so few." 
 
 It would be hard to say what at that 
 especial moment sent a sudden flash of 
 suspicion through Ethel's mind ; but then 
 and there she did for the first time suspect 
 that Christine liked Mr. O'Neil. 
 
 " And that is her romance," she thought. 
 " Can it really be ? " 
 
 She was standing in the recess of the 
 window looking at the pair, and feeling as 
 if she were in a dream. They were per- 
 fectly calm and composed, and they were 
 discussing some song which lay open on 
 the piano. But there was something in 
 Christine's face, a compression of her lips, 
 or a dimness in her eyes; which caused a 
 
74 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 lump to come into Ethel's throat, and made 
 her heart beat. 
 
 " She does like him,'' she said to her- 
 self. " I could swear that she does. Whdt 
 a blind idiot I have been I " 
 
 Christine had already risen from the 
 j)iano and was close to her. 
 
 "Monsjeur O'Nejl says that it is a pity 
 to be within doors this lovely night," she 
 said. " Shall we take a turn in the gar- 
 den V What ails you V " she inquired sud 
 denly : " you look as if you had seen a 
 ghost." 
 
 " Perhaps I have," and Ethel laughed a 
 little nervously ; and indeed in her heart 
 she was thinking that she had seen the 
 ghost of poor Christine's secret and silent 
 love. 
 
 Christine looked at her. 
 " Well, will you come out ? " she in- 
 quired. 
 
 "Presently: do you two go, and I will 
 follow." 
 
 " But " — and the French girl hesitated. 
 But Mr. O'Neil overruled her hesita- 
 tions. 
 
 " We will wait for Miss Mildmay out on 
 the terrace," he said, speaking a little im- 
 patiently, as he. was apt to do when his 
 wishes were not at once complied with. 
 " Come, mademoiselle." 
 
 " Go and fetch a shawl and follow us," 
 Christine said ; and then Mr. O'Neil opened 
 the window for her, and they both went 
 out. 
 
 But Ethel did not fetch a shawl, nor, 
 indeed, show the slightest intention of follow- 
 ing them. On the contrary, she stood quite 
 still, half hidden by the folds of the curtain, 
 looking after them, — not for very long, how- 
 ever, only for a few minutes, till, probably 
 tired of waiting for her, they weiit down the 
 terrace-steps, and disappeared out of her 
 sight. As Ethel knew very well, the .villa 
 garden was a pleasant place to walk in by 
 night, — by moonlight particularly; for the 
 raoonUght made of it a magical sort of gar- 
 den, and its stealthy, slender fingers stole 
 through the dark, shadowy alleys, and made 
 all sorts of fanciful patterns upon the earth, 
 such as mortal fingers could never have 
 devised. It was not a trim, well-kept gar- 
 den by any means, but wild, neglected, 
 overgrown, revelling in careless southern 
 luxuriance, with winding paths choked 
 with trailing boughs and branches, and with 
 sudden glimpses of the valley beneath, and 
 the mountains and the sea, — a romantic, 
 beautiful garden, with leafy nooks, and 
 broken nymphs, and dried-up fountains, and 
 mouldy summer-houses, — sad relics' of de- 
 parted and better times, when the villa had 
 
 been a happy, beloved home, instead of a 
 lodging-house let year after year to care- 
 less, unloving strangers, who came and 
 went, and were seen in it no more. 
 
 Mr. O'Neil and Christine apparently 
 knew how to appreciate its beauties at all 
 events. Ethel came and talked to Madame 
 Delneuve, and the colonel and Mrs. O'Neil 
 squabbled over many games ; and still they 
 did not return. Madame Delneuve got a 
 little anxious at last. 
 
 " Christine will catch cold," she said ; 
 " and besides, — besides, M. Barbier will be 
 here presently, and " — She left the con- 
 sequence to be inferred. 
 
 Ethel laughed. 
 
 " Is M. Barbier of a jealous disposition ? " 
 she inquired rather dryly. 
 
 " No. He has a most excellent disposi- 
 tion, — thoroughly good and generous ; but 
 the convenances you know, mademoiselle. 
 He might perhaps think it a little strange 
 to find" — 
 
 " To find the young lady he is engaged 
 to taking a moonlight walk with another 
 gentleman. Is that it, madame ? " 
 
 " M. O'Neil is such an old friend, that I 
 would trust Christine with him anywhere," 
 Madame Delneuve replied nervously. "I 
 am only thinking of the appearances." 
 
 " Are old friends never dangerous ones ? " 
 Ethel inquired abruptly. 
 
 Madame Delneuve gave her a half-anx- 
 ious, half-perplexed look. 
 
 " I trust M. O'Neil thoroughly," she said 
 with the faintest possible tinge of coldness 
 in her voice: "he has been always so 
 very kind and good to us. Christine and I 
 have both reason to look upon him as our 
 best friend." 
 
 Hey were actually entering the room as 
 she finished the words. The crisp night-air 
 had given Christine a bright color, and her 
 eyes were sparkling. Ethel, for the first 
 time, thought her actually pretty. 
 
 " You lazy child," the French girl said, 
 coming up to her : " why did you not come 
 out as you promised ? It is such a lovely 
 night I " 
 
 " You did not want me, did you ? Two 
 is often better company than three ; " and 
 Ethel looked at her with a half-smile. 
 
 Christine returned the look. Then sud- 
 denly she bent down and whispered in her 
 ear, " What a little goose you are 1 We 
 talked of you, and of you only, the whole 
 time. He says you have no heart ; and I 
 agreed with him." 
 
 " Did you V You are probably both quite 
 right." 
 
 But Christine had already turned away 
 from her. " Look here, ma mkre," she was 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 75 
 
 saying : " see the pretty cadeau de noces 
 which M. O'Neil has given me. Is it not 
 charming ? He was going to send it to me ; 
 but, as he found me here to-night, he has 
 given it to me instead." 
 
 It was a handsome gold locket set with 
 precious stones. Madame Delneuve's eyes 
 filled with tears. " Such a beautiful present 1 
 — you are too kind and good ; " and she 
 pressed his hand gratefully. 
 
 " Nonsense I It is a mere trifle, — not 
 half nice enough." 
 
 While they were all still admiring the 
 gift, the servant announced that a gentle- 
 man had called for the ladies. Of course, 
 M. Barbier was requested to enter, and the 
 colonel himself went out to fetch him. 
 In came the fat little Frenchman, hat in 
 hand, and making his bow, — a universal 
 bow meant for everybody ; but his eyes, as 
 was natural, only sought Christine. She 
 was already putting on her hat, and seemed 
 in a hurry to be gone. " You are a little 
 late, Jules ; are you not ? " she said. 
 
 Jules' good-natured eyes sparkled. Per- 
 haps it is only rarely that he had the 
 pleasure of hearing his future address him 
 by his Christian name, and perhaps more 
 rarely still did she evince any impatience 
 for his coming. " I was afraid to disturb 
 you by coming too early," he replied meekly ; 
 but hs reddened with pleasure. 
 
 In ^ve minutes more, good-nights had 
 been exchanged, and the French people had 
 all departed. 
 
 " An excellent man, I am sure,'' Mrs. 
 O'Neil remarked in a patronizing yet 
 doubtful tone of voice, commenting upon 
 M. Barbier,; and she looked slyly and fur- 
 tively at her companions. " No doubt that 
 it is a very suitable match." 
 
 She evidently expected contradiction ; yet 
 nobody did contradict her. " He is not 
 handsome ; but young ladies are too strong- 
 minded and sensible to care much about 
 such trifles now-a-days, I suppose," was the 
 only reply her remark provoked, and that 
 came from the colonel in the careless tone 
 of a man who is speaking of a totally in- 
 different matter. 
 
 As to Ethel, phe was yawning, and de- 
 claring herself to be half dead with sleep. 
 AVhen her father retired, as with his early 
 invalid habits he did at once, she became 
 fidgety, and begged of Mrs. O'Neil to 
 excuse, her. 
 
 " Probably, though, you are very glad to 
 be rid of me," she said with one of her 
 deprecating, charming smiles, as she kissed 
 her. And then, holding her candle before 
 her face, she held out her hand to Mr. 
 O'Neil. " I am stupid. Is it good-by, or 
 
 only good-night? I quite forget," she in- 
 quired with a meek sauciness which was 
 nothing less than audacious. 
 
 But he was her match. " I don't know," 
 he said carelessly. " Pray don't trouble 
 yourself on the subject." And he just 
 touched the little white hand which she had 
 ofiered him. 
 
 Mrs. O'Neil groaned and puckered her 
 forehead. Matters were, no doubt about 
 it, getting altogether too complicated for 
 her. And Ethel marched out of the room 
 with a warlike tramp, brandishing her can- 
 dle defiantly, and sowing grease broadcast 
 upon her dress. 
 
 CHAPTER XVm. 
 
 NEXT morning Miss Mildmay awoke 
 with a' pain at her heart, — with a hor- 
 rible, distinct presentiment that some great 
 crisis was approaching. Indeed, a sense 
 of depression and gloom seemed to hang 
 over the villa; and everybody in it seemed 
 more or less out of tune. Mrs. O'Neil was 
 cross and irritable ; the colonel had had a 
 wretched night, and was restless and bora- 
 plaining. 
 
 " I wish we were at home again, love," 
 he said wearily to Ethel. " I am sick of 
 the eternal glare of this place ; and I am 
 lono-ing for the green fields and green trees 
 of old England again." 
 
 His daughter tried to soothe him. " We 
 must have patience," she said : " it is win- 
 ter still in England." 
 
 The colonel sighed. With the caprice 
 of an invalid, Nice had suddenly become 
 distasteful to him, and he was longing for 
 change. 
 
 " We might move slowly," he suggested, 
 " delaying on the road. I am tired of Nice. 
 Besides, darling " — 
 
 But then, alas I he paused, looking at her 
 hesitatingly. He could not bring himself 
 to approach the. dreaded subject. The 
 poor man shrank with a morbid terror 
 from the thought of paining his darling. 
 Ethel's heart tightened, — she, too, wanted 
 to speak ; she, too, longed for, yet feared, 
 an explanation. But then an interruption 
 came, and the opportunity was lost; the 
 fact being, that both lacked the moral 
 courage to make the discovery that both 
 their wills were strong, and that neither 
 would yield to the other. 
 
 It was a wretched morning. Ethel's 
 heart jumped into her mouth at every 
 sound. She felt sick and miserable. The 
 
76 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 suspense she was enduring was intolerable, 
 for every minute she expected the arrival 
 of Count O'Neil's letter; and she trem- 
 bled in anticipation over the decisive turn 
 it must give to the situation. It had not 
 come yesterday. Madame O'Neil had been 
 so far merciful as to give her a little breath- 
 ing-time, a short respite. But Ethel's in- 
 stinct told her that Madame O'Neil was not 
 the woman to put her hand to the plough, 
 and then to turn back. Once that her 
 interference and assistance had been so- 
 licited and promised, it was not likely they 
 would be promised in vain. 
 
 Yet the morning dragged slowly and 
 wearily by, and no sign was made. With 
 nervous tenderness and solicitude, Ethel 
 hovered around her father, one moment 
 dreading, the next almost longing for, some- 
 thing to happen which would put an end 
 to the uncomfortable, false position of 
 affairs. There seemed, to be a tacit but 
 insecure sort of truce established between 
 her father and herself, — a miserable, hol- 
 low truce, which the veriest trifle must 
 destroy. It was like the calm before the 
 storm. The dark, brooding clouds had 
 gathered together; but they had not yet 
 burst. And to Ethel's impatient, impetu- 
 ous disposition, no storm could be worse 
 than this sickening, ominous calm. 
 
 Mrs. O'Neil, contrary to her usual cus- 
 tom, passed the morning shut , up in her 
 room, tete-a-tete with her maid Flaherty. 
 Flaherty was a character, and an old crony 
 of her mistress's, in whose service she had 
 passed the best part of her life. She was 
 Mrs. O'Neil's confidante, aide-de-camp, 
 every thing, in short, as well as her maid. 
 Since they had come to the villa, however, 
 her star had somewhat waned ; that is to 
 say, that the attractions of her society had 
 been rather thrown into the shade by those 
 of Miss Mildmay's, and her mistress's fidel- 
 ity had wavered a little in favor of the com- 
 panionship of the gay young girl. 
 
 But somehow now, Mrs. O'Neil seemed 
 to have taken a sudden turn against youth's 
 giddiness and wilfulness and saucy caprice, 
 and, for this morning at all events, was 
 
 flad to fall back upon the safe, steady 
 'laherty again. When she did at last 
 emerge from her room, she made no secret 
 of the cause of her grievances. 
 
 " I can't believe that Arthur has actually 
 gone without bidding me good-by," she la- 
 mented. " I was sure that he would come 
 this morning." 
 
 " Did you not bid him good-by last night, 
 then ? " Ethel inquired. 
 
 " Perhaps I did, child, — perhaps I did. 
 But I had twenty things to say to him still. 
 
 Besides, I did not think that he really 
 meant to go. If I had thought it, I would 
 have gone with him myselfT At least, I 
 think I would. What good am I doing 
 here ? " she concluded with melancholy ir- 
 ritation. " As Arthur has told me twenty 
 times, I am an old fool to meddle in other 
 people's affairs." 
 
 Ethel agreed too fully with her to con- 
 tradict her, and was silent. 
 
 " Perhaps he has not gone, after all," she 
 said thoughtfully after a little pause. 
 
 " Do you think so ? Perhaps he has not. 
 I will send to the hotel to inquire," Mrs. 
 O'Neil said with eager hopefulness. 
 
 The messenger returned in due time. 
 He had reached the hotel just as Mr. 
 O'Neil had been starting for the train ; and 
 he brought a little scribbled note, in which 
 her son bade her farewell. He was not 
 
 foing very far, however, he said, — only to 
 lentone ; and he would probably return 
 in a few days, when he hoped to find his 
 -toother ready to accompany him home. 
 
 "I thought that he, had business in Lon- 
 don," Ethel remarked rather dryly, upon 
 hearing this. 
 
 " So did I, child. Certainly he pre- 
 tended that he had. The fact of the mat- 
 ter is, that there is no comprehending him 
 nor anybody else ; but I think," and she 
 gave the girl a severe look, — "I think that 
 he is disgusted with you," she declared can- 
 didly. 
 
 " Do you ? Well, I wish that he would 
 save himself the trouble," replied Miss Mild- 
 may impetuously. 
 
 Mrs. O'Neil drew herself up in a flutter. 
 " I will go and see about packing up my 
 things," she announced with dignity. " I 
 certainly must not delay Arthur any Ion- 
 ger." 
 
 Ethel went to her room, and did not see 
 anybody for several hours. 'ITie first in- 
 terruption that came was her maid, an- 
 nouncing that it was time to dress for 
 dinner. Another and a more startling 
 announcement came too, before long. 
 " And so, miss, we are to pack up and be 
 off out of this in three days, I hear," Han- 
 nah observed cheerfully, as she was smooth- 
 ing the fair crumpled hair. 
 
 " What V " and Ethel started as though 
 she had been shot. 
 
 " Oh I Mr. Evans (the colonel's valet) 
 told us all in the servant's hall ten minutes 
 ago," Hannah went on ; and then' observ- 
 ing her mistress's agitation, "perhaps he 
 only wanted to take a rise out of us. 
 However, he said that the colonel had 
 given orders that e,very thing should be got 
 ready." 
 
ETHEL MILDMAT'S FOLLIES. 
 
 77 
 
 Ethel's toilet did not, we may be sure, 
 last long after this. She hastened to the 
 drawing-room. Her father and Mrs. 
 O'Neil were there before her. She heard 
 their voices through the closed door ; but 
 they paused abruptly as she opened it. 
 She looked from one to the other, and 
 something conscious and anxious in their 
 faces told her that the letter had come; 
 that it had come, and had been discussed, 
 and perhaps answered ; that they had 
 taken her fate in their hands, and had 
 decided upon it. The girl felt herself grow 
 pale with indignation ; but outwardly she 
 was calm enough. " Is it true that we are 
 to leave on Thursday, papa ? " she inquired 
 as quietly as she could. " Hannah says 
 that Evans told her so." 
 
 The colonel looked discomfited. " What 
 gossips those servants are, to be sure 1 " he 
 exclaimed impatiently. "I mentioned to 
 him that we might leave, only half an hour 
 ago. I am thinking of it, love, — if you 
 have no objection, that is," he added, look- 
 ing at her doubtfully. 
 
 " It is a sudden idea," Ethel observed 
 shortly, turning away from him. She 
 was choking. Her eyes filled with tears. 
 Her father had, then, lost all trust in her. 
 The very servants knew more of his plans 
 and projects than she did. Now she fan- 
 cied that she had detected a significant, 
 compassionate glance in Hannah's eyes, as 
 though even the maid guessed at and sym- 
 pathized with her young lady's troubles. 
 And as to Mrs. O'Neil, the girl almost 
 hated the old lady just then ; for had not 
 Mrs. O'Neil supplanted her in her father's 
 confidence ? had she not stolen in between 
 them, making them strangers almost to one 
 another ? 
 
 And 80 things had reached a climax 
 now, and what was to be done ? She was 
 out in the garden that evening, passion- 
 ately making herself the question. Ethel's 
 temper was roused. She was indignant 
 and angry. Never had a girl,_she told her- 
 self, been treated as she was treated ; and 
 now, more than ever, was she resolved not 
 to submit. A persuasive, kind word might 
 perhaps have worked wonders, she thought. 
 If they had but taken the trouble to reason 
 with her, to beg of her to pause, to grant 
 even delay, what might she not have done ? 
 But this tyrannical mode of proceeding 
 revolted her. Yes : it was tyrannical, — 
 nothing more nor less. She remembered 
 Madame O'Neil's words, and her heart 
 began to beat. What if her father were a 
 real tyrant, and that the moment had 
 actually come to resist him ? She stopped 
 suddenly in her hasty walk, and stood still 
 
 to think about it. The idea had been lying 
 dormant in her brain, and now it suddenly 
 started into vigorous life. 
 
 What if he were unjust and harsh and 
 cruel ? Some fathers were all these dread- 
 ful things, she believed ; though, till now, 
 she had certainly had no personal experi- 
 ence on the subject. What if — and just 
 then Ethel heard a voice calling her name, 
 and a quick step behind her ; and, turning 
 round, she saw Count O'Neil coming 
 towards her. 
 
 The most perplexed questions often are 
 given the suddenest answers. Quick rays 
 of light occasionally reveal the secret of 
 the puzzle which has distracted our brain 
 for long. All Ethel's stormy questions 
 seemed answered then. Her perplexity 
 seemed set at rest. The young man's 
 excitement all at once calmed hers. He 
 caught her hand, and pressed it to his lips. 
 He told her the old story over again, — how 
 well he loved her. He made her a pas- 
 sionate declaration. This time there was 
 no playing at love, no little artifices nor 
 coynesses, nor hesitations, nor obtrusive 
 recollection of the famous convenances. It 
 was much too serious and solemn a mo- 
 ment for that. Indeed, the exigencies of 
 the position seemed to have recklessly 
 scattered all such petty considerations to 
 the wind. It is wonderful how quickly 
 trifles dwindle away and disappear before 
 an emergency. 
 
 " I was going up to the house to insist 
 upon seeing you when I caught sight of 
 your dress through the trees," the count 
 told her. " You would have come to me, 
 would you not ? " he inquired anxiously. 
 
 " I don't know. They would not have 
 let me, perhaps." 
 
 " Not have let you ? Surely they would 
 not employ force " — 
 
 " Oh, no ! " and Ethel could not help 
 laughing a nervous, tearful, hysterical little 
 laugh. Heaven knew that things looked 
 black and grave enough ; but the word 
 "force" in connection with her loving, 
 invalid father, and gentle little Mrs. O'Neil, 
 had a sound about it which was almost lu- 
 dicrous. 
 
 Count O'Neil would have been angry 
 with her for laughing, if she had not sighed 
 immediately afterwards. 
 
 " How do I know," he went on, " what 
 they might not do to you? After the 
 insulting answer which your father saw fit 
 to send to my " — 
 
 " Then you did write ? He answered 
 you ? " Ethel interrupted breathlessly. 
 
 " Did you not know ? Did he tell you 
 nothing ? " 
 
78 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 " No, nothing,'' she replied with sad in- 
 dignation. 
 
 " Ah, I knew it ! I guessed it ! I told 
 my mother so t " the young man exclaimed. 
 " I well knew that you would never have 
 permitted such a letter to be sent to me. 
 Here it is, mademoiselle. I received it 
 within an hour from the time I sent mine. 
 He did not take long to reflect upon his 
 answer," he added bitterly. 
 
 Ethel took the letter, and read it by the 
 light of the moon, while O'Neil stood by 
 devouring her with his eyes. No wonder 
 the young man was incensed. It was a cold, 
 short, decided refusal to give him his 
 daughter's hand. No explanation or apolo- 
 gy was vouchsafed. Presently Ethel raised 
 her eyes, and, slowly and deliberately fold- 
 ing the paper, returned it to him. 
 
 " Well," he inquired breathlessly. 
 
 She half smiled. " We are to leave Nice 
 in three days. Count O'Neil," she said 
 quietly. 
 
 "In three days, mademoiselle 1 Ah, 
 Ethel — dearest Ethel — it cannot be 1 You 
 are not serious I " 
 
 She was indeed serious ; but so was the 
 young man. He loved her. Again and 
 again he told her so. And she loved him. 
 This also he told her. It was a torrent of 
 words, an avalanche of protestations, of 
 eager, irresistible entreaties. It was a des- 
 perate assault, a fiery bombardment. How 
 could the poor little, but weakly-defended 
 fortress hold out against such an attack ? 
 What was left to it but to capitulate at dis- 
 cretion, to lay down its arms, to surrender ? 
 
 " But wliat is to be done ? " Ethel said 
 desperately, when at last her voluble lover 
 
 Eaused to take breath, and it had come to 
 er turn to say something. 
 What was to be done? Count O'Neil 
 was at no loss for an answer now. He had 
 come to the villa armed with an answer for 
 the inevitable question, strengthened by his 
 mother's counsels, ready with her sugges- 
 tions. After all, following immediately 
 upon his passionate adjurations and fiery 
 declarations, the active measures which he 
 was ready to propose seemed to be mild and 
 meek enough. Perhaps Ethel had been 
 prepared to hear of an elopement, of es- 
 capes from windows, of scaling walls, of 
 special licenses, of desperate adventures. 
 But no, the young man had no such prop- 
 ositions to make. All he urged was, that 
 she should come to spend the next day with 
 his mother; that she should put herself 
 under her protection. 
 
 " There is no time to be lost," he re- 
 minded her. " In three days your father 
 threatens to take you away. Whatever is 
 
 to be done must be done at once. He will 
 yield so soon as he sees that he must yield ; 
 that you are not a child to be guided by 
 leading-strings ; that you are capable of a 
 decided step. From my mother's house we 
 will both write to him to beg for his consent, 
 and to tell him that if he refuses it — But 
 he will not refuse," he said, hastily checking 
 himself. " Ethel, if he sees that , you are 
 really determined, he will do as you wish. 
 Every thing depends on yourself." > 
 
 Ethel was silent. She was watching a 
 tiny cloud which was slowly sailing across 
 the deep-blue, starlit sky ; and a whimsical 
 idea played through her silly brain that she 
 would wait till it had reached the moon to 
 give him her answer. She knew very well 
 what it all meant. She knew very well 
 that Madame O'Neil and her son had re- 
 solved in their hearts that once she had been 
 induced to leave her home, she should not 
 be allowed to return to it until her father's 
 consent had been wrung from him. She 
 knew — Suddenly she started violently. 
 A tall figure was approaching, and the jjext 
 minute had passed. . 
 
 Miss Mildmay bit her lips. An irresisti- 
 ble impulse had made her draw back into 
 the deep shadow of some trees close at hand. 
 If she had had an instant for reflection, she 
 would probabl)' have disdained to move an 
 inch J but, undoubtedly, botli her own and 
 her companion's first instinct had been con- 
 cealment. 
 
 " It is Mr. O'Neil I " she exclaimed after 
 a moment's pause. " But how can it be ? 
 He went away to-day." 
 
 " Went away I I saw him at six o'clock 
 this evening. Ah, he, at least, may come 
 and go as he chooses 1 " he said bitterly. 
 
 " How can it be ? " Ethel repeated 
 thoughtfully. And then she added quietly, 
 " He saw us, I suppose." And she looked 
 up to find her little cloud again. But a 
 wind had wafted it away. It was lost some- 
 where in the deep-blue, starry depths ; and 
 the girl felt lonely as though she had lost a 
 friend. 
 
 " Do you think he did ? I hope not," 
 said O'Neil anxiously. " He will perhaps 
 tell, and there will be a commotion, and you 
 may be exposed to — I will follow him, and 
 challenge him to do more mischief than he 
 has already done," exclaimed the young 
 man in fiery tones. And he did actually 
 move away. 
 
 But Ethel caught his arm, and detained 
 him. She laughed, and yet she was pleased 
 and touched. It pleased her that her knight 
 should be ready to rush into the lists, and 
 fight her battles; but common sense told 
 her that it was unnecessary to prove his 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 79 
 
 prowess now. And so she laughed, and 
 left her hand almost caressingly upon his 
 arm. 
 
 " What does it matter, whether he saw 
 us or not ? " she said with gay defiance. 
 " He can't hurt us ; can he ? Let him tell 
 if he chooses. So much the better if he 
 does. There will be a fuss ; but I am well 
 able to bear it. They will hardly lock me 
 up, I think ; " and she laughed again. 
 
 " And you will come to us to-morrow, — 
 to-morrow morning, will you not ? " en- 
 treated the young man, forgetting his ven- 
 geance, his anwer, every thing but his love, 
 at the soft touch of her little hand and the 
 sweet sound of her laugh. " Come to us 
 to-morrow, and the future will take care 
 of itself. Heaven favors the brave, you 
 know; and you are brave and true and 
 noble. Here is a little note which my 
 mother has sent you. It explains all." 
 
 Ten minut«s later. Count O'Neil was 
 walking with an elated, triumphant step 
 away gayly, and with his high tenor voice 
 serenading the moon ; and Ethel, with a 
 curious pain at her heart, and a strange 
 dizziness in her head, had slowly turned 
 towards the house. On the terrace she 
 paused. The salon was brightly lit. , Mrs. 
 O'Neil was seated near the great white 
 stove, and her son was next her. Her face 
 looked softly happy. The clouds of the 
 day were dispelled. She was holding his 
 hand, and looking up at him with a smile. 
 But, though the old lady looked happy, she 
 looked a little puzzled too. Ethel went in 
 boldly. 
 
 "You see, he has not gone, after all, 
 child 1 " Mrs. O'Neil exclaimed trium- 
 phantly as she entered. " There was a 
 fate against it : I knew there was." 
 
 Mr. O'Neil stood up. " A commonplace 
 sort of fate," he said with a little con- 
 strained laugh. " I was late for the train. 
 Just half a minute late." 
 
 " How strange I " and Ethel looked in- 
 credulous. 
 
 " Yes ; for such a thing to happen to me, 
 who am generally punctual. The horse 
 under vay fiacre was lame, and I had calcu- 
 lated the time too closely." ' 
 
 " It is strange I " Ethel repeated. And 
 she looked incredulous still. 
 
 Mr. O'Neil gave her a keen ' glance, and 
 resumed his seat in silence. 
 
 " And now," pursued his mother glee- 
 fully, " we shair all start together on Mon- 
 day. It will be such a comfort to have 
 Arthur to take care of us and look after 
 every thing I Dear me 1 You and I, child, 
 and the poor colonel, would have made a 
 
 wretched business of the journey between 
 us." 
 
 " We would have got on very well. 
 Papa and I managed very well when we 
 were coming' here; and papa is stronger 
 now than he was then. Besides," she 
 went on, after a little thoughtful pause, 
 " perhaps we shall not leave on Monday at 
 all, Mrs. O'Neil. It is too soon." 
 
 Mrs. O'Neil nodded her head signifi- 
 cantly. " Oh, yes, we shall I Your papa 
 has made up his mind, my dear," she 
 said. 
 
 " Has he? But he may change it again. 
 Somehow, I fancy that he will. By the 
 way, where is papa ? " 
 
 " Gone to bed. He was tired." 
 
 " And so am I." And Ihe looked at her 
 watch. " Ten o'clock ! dear me I How 
 quickly the evening went by I " 
 
 " I don't think so at all. I found it very 
 lonw till Arthur came. Your papa was not 
 well, and I was dull, and we made poor 
 company for one another. You were out 
 in the garden all the evening, you know, 
 child. Upon my word, I hate that gar- 
 den," she added testily. 
 
 " Oh, no t it is delightful ; and such a 
 lovely night as it is too I Is 'it not, Mr. 
 O'Neil ? By the way, what made you run 
 away from nie just now upon the avenue, 
 as if you thought me a ghost ? Did you not 
 see me 1 " she inquired coolly. 
 
 Mr. O'Neil smiled. This piece of au- 
 dacity was irresistible. 
 
 " Yes, I did see you," he replied calmly. 
 
 " Ah I I thought so, and Count O'Neil! 
 too. We did not quite recognize youi 
 till you had passed. I fancied you had left,, 
 you know; but Count O'Neil assured me- 
 you had not." 
 
 Mrs. O'Neil bounded on her seat. She 
 could not believe her ears. 
 
 " You don't mean to say that that impu- 
 dent, fellow presumed to,"' — she began. 
 
 But Miss Mildmay was prudent as well 
 as brave. She had gradually approached 
 the door, and now she had opened it and 
 closed it behind her. 
 
 Mrs. O'Neil drew a long breath. "My 
 goodness I " she exclaimed. 
 
 It was all she could say. Her soui 
 laughed. 
 
 " Miss Mildmay is frank, at least," hc' 
 observed : " it is easy to see that this hole- 
 and-corner work is against her grain." 
 
 " Arthur, do you mean to say that youi 
 saw that young man with her, and that 
 you did not knock him down or shoot, 
 him ? " demanded his mother indignantly. 
 
 " I do indeed, mother. I would have- 
 liked to knock him down certainly. But 
 
80 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 what affair is it of mine ? " he asked with 
 a short laugh, " if she is resolved to marry 
 that" — 
 
 "To marry him I To marry Denis Ir- 
 win's son ! Arthur, are you mad ? It 
 would break her father's heart. It would 
 kill him at once." 
 
 " She means to do it,'' Mr. O'Neil said 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 "Nonsense! She cannot. We are going 
 away on Monday. Thank God I we are 
 leaving this wicked place on • Monday," 
 Mrs. O'Neil said, growing excited. " Ar- 
 thur, the girl is silly ; but she is not quite so 
 foolish as seriously to want to do such a 
 mad thing as that." 
 
 " It may not be such a mad thing, after 
 all," Mr. O'Neil said quietly. " That young 
 fellow may get Castle Garvagh yet." 
 
 "Arthur, Arthur! Don't break my 
 heart. I can't believe it. You know 
 that I cannot. Nothing has happened. 
 You have had no bad news ? " she inquired 
 breathlessly. 
 
 "Nothing particular. Only a letter this 
 morning, saying that that woman is better 
 again, and that she is delaying coming 
 home, and that nothing is to be got out of 
 her. It is weary, weary work," he said 
 with a quick, impatient sigh. 
 
 " God knows that it is. God knows that 
 it is a wonder my heart is not broken. It 
 would have broken long ago but for the 
 hope that keeps me alive, — the hope of see- 
 ing you master of your own before I die. 
 But if once your courage fails, Arthur, I 
 shall die ; I know I shall," she said with a 
 sob in her voice. 
 
 Mr. O'Neil kissed her. " But it is not 
 failing, mother. So long aa there is life 
 there is hope. Never fear but that we 
 shall make a good fight for the old place," 
 he said with an assumed cheerfulness which 
 deceived her. The elastic-spirited old lady 
 cheered up at once. 
 
 "And we shall win, too, of course we 
 shall. And then, Arthur, you will find 
 a nice, pretty, sweet-tempered wife, and I 
 shall be perfectly happy at last. That 
 infatuated, saucy girl 1 " she broke out sud- 
 denly, and in a tone of profound disgust. 
 " Certainly she is not the sort of wife for 
 you, that is one thing; though, indeed, I 
 believe that I was silly enough to fancy 
 that" — And she broke off, giving her 
 son a doubtful, furtive glance. 
 
 " Your fancies generally are silly, moth- 
 er," he replied with a little laugh. And he 
 stood lip to leave. " Good-night : it is 
 time for me to be off." 
 
 There was something sharp in the tone 
 of his voice, — something sharp and painful, 
 
 which smote jarringly upon his mother's 
 ears. , 
 
 " She is a silly-pated, headstrong, impu- 
 dent girl," went on the old lady, waxing 
 warm, and holding her son's hand tight. 
 " Thank God, Arthur, that you. are a sen- 
 sible man, and not one to be made a fool 
 of by such a minx as that." 
 
 "It is very fortunate certainly. Good- 
 night, mother ! " 
 
 But she was not satisfied yet : far from 
 it, indeed. " Arthur," she said suddenly 
 and yearningly. 
 
 "Mother." 
 
 " I was miserable about that French girl; 
 and now that is off my mind " — 
 
 He laughed. " Poor Christine ! She is 
 a dear, good girl, mother." 
 
 " But you don't want to marry her. You 
 never wanted it." 
 
 " Of course not : I told you so a hundred 
 times." And he spoke rather impatiently. 
 
 "Nor this one, either," persisted Mrs. 
 O'Neil. "Worthless, wilful, undutifiil, 
 empty-brained chit of a pretty girl that she 
 is." 
 
 " True enough, mother, — true enough, 
 dear old mother." And he' laughed. 
 
 "And yet," said Mr. O'Neil with a 
 strange, slow, lingering tenderness. 
 
 " And yet," repeated Mrs. O'Neil sor- 
 rowfully and doubtfully. 
 
 There was a little silence. Mother and 
 son looked into one another's eyes. 
 
 " And yet I believe that I love her, fool 
 that I am. I know that I do ! " he ex- 
 claimed with deep, sudden passion. 
 
 A dead, breathless pause followed this. 
 Then Mrs. O'Neil drew him down to her, 
 and put her arms round his' neck with a 
 groan. 
 
 "My goodness! — my goodness!" she 
 sighed. " Oh that we had never put foot 
 in this horrid place ! God help us 1 " 
 
 And the poor old lady wrung her hands, 
 and burst into tears. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 ETHEL did not sleep that night; yet, 
 when morning came, she felt no fatigue, 
 and her eyes sparkled, and her cheeks were 
 flushed with excitement. She had not 
 spent the night idly. Dhring it she had 
 written to her father ; and, though the let- 
 ter was not a long one, it had cost her 
 many hours, and had been written over and 
 over again. Now at last she told him the 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 81 
 
 story of her grievances. How cruelly she 
 believed herself to have been treated ; 
 how she had suffered from his want of con- 
 fidence; how deeply she resented Mrs. 
 O'Neil's interference between them, — a 
 sad, somewhat incoherent little plaint, 
 which it was a pity had not been put into 
 words and got harmlessly rid of before 
 this. 
 
 But, when she came to the real pith of 
 the letter, Ethel hardly knew what to say, 
 or how to say it, — how to tell him that she 
 loved Count O'Neil, and was resolved to be 
 his wife; and that she was leaving her 
 home with the intention of not returning to 
 it till he had consented to the marriage. 
 Many times she framed the words, and 
 tried to write them; but her tears fellniipon 
 them, and blotted them, making tbem 
 almost illegible. " No matter," she thought, ; 
 " he will understand my meaning clearly 
 enough." And in a vague way she told 
 him that she was going to spend the day 
 with Madame O'Neil, and begged of him, to 
 write to her and tell her that he was not 
 angry with her, and did not want to make 
 her miserable for life by forcing her to dis- 
 obey him. And then she threw down her 
 pen and wrote no more, knowing well, as 
 has been said, that her meaning, if not very 
 lucidly expressed, would be more than in- 
 telligible to her fether's heart. 
 
 The house was still hushed and quiet 
 when Ethel had dressed herself, and was 
 ready to leave her room. Madame O'Neil 
 had begged of her to come to her early, — 
 she had a particular reason, she said, — 
 and the girl was not sorry to obey. 
 
 Delay was useless and painful. The 
 sooner the brief little adventure — as she 
 represented to her own mind that it was 
 to be — was over, the better. Laden with 
 such a resolution, she felt that she could 
 not meet her father's eyes. If she was to 
 go at all, she had better go at once, she 
 thought, while her heart was sinking with- 
 in her, and every moment what she had to 
 do seemed more difficult and impossible. 
 After all, what was it ? she asked herself, 
 with a desperate resolution to be brave and 
 light-hearted. Nothing so very dreadful 
 surely. Was she not merely going to 
 spend the day with a friend, and thus 
 quietly to bring about the solution of a 
 lono'-slumbering difficulty ? Was she not 
 merely asserting the independence and 
 loyalty of which she was so proud? It 
 would all be over in a few hours, and she 
 would be home again, having adroitly and 
 successfully carried her point, and won her 
 victorv. Ethel left her room, laughing at 
 her Own haunting fears, and valiantly sti- 
 
 fling the aching disgust which was tortur- 
 ing her. 
 
 When she reached her father's door, her 
 light, swift steps paused. It was ajar, and 
 very cautiously she looked in. The colo- 
 nel had already risen. Probably he, too, 
 had had a restless night ; for now he was in 
 his dressing-gown, seated in his arm-chair, 
 and asleep. 
 
 Like herself, he had been writing. On 
 the table before him lay, a half-finished let- 
 ter ; and spveral papers were lying about. 
 
 Ethel went over and stood beside him, 
 listening with suspended breath to his gen- 
 tle breathing. The early morning sun was 
 flooding the room ; happy birds were 
 already singing merrily in the garden out- 
 side : but within all was quiet and hushed. 
 No sound but that low, measured respira- 
 tion, and the ticking of the clock upon the 
 mantlepiece. Presently it struck an hour. 
 Ethel watched expectantly ; but her father 
 was not disturbed. Then she bent down 
 and kissed him, — kissed his pallid, anx- 
 ious forehead with her fresh, cool lips, rev- 
 erently, yearningly, yet lightly. Still he 
 never moved. Her heart was breaking. 
 Great lumps were gathering in her throat. 
 How pale and gentle he looked! — the 
 irritable expression, which illness had of 
 late brought into his face, changed by re- 
 pose into one of deep serenity and peace. 
 And how well she loved him ! — how well, 
 how well ! She had never known how well 
 until now, when, for the first time in her 
 life, she was about deliberately to inflict 
 upon him a cruel pain, and that she found 
 out how terribly difficult it was to do it. 
 
 Could she do it at all ? For a'minute or 
 two she thought that she could not. For 
 a minute or two she would have ^ven 
 worlds that be would awake ; worlds that he 
 would look at her with his loving eyes; 
 worlds that she might hear the tender 
 sound of his voice. She could so easily 
 have told him all then. Late as it was, it 
 was yet not too late for an explanation. 
 But Ethel had taken her fate in her own 
 hands, and now Fate would not assist her. 
 
 The angel of sleep kept steady guard, 
 and her father did not awake. Could she 
 do it ? Yes, she could : she was doing it 
 now. She had faltered ; but now she was 
 firm again. Her word was given, and she 
 was too proud to retract it, — too proud at 
 the eleventh hour to draw back and prove 
 herself a nerveless, timid child ; too proud to 
 submit tamely to what Madame O'Neil had 
 told her was tyranny and injustice ; for, 
 strange to say, Ethel thought more of 
 Madame O'Neil just then than of Madame 
 O'Neil's son. 
 
82 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 Another look, another kiss, a brief sharp 
 struggle, a pain going through her heart 
 like a shiirp knife, and then, with her 
 hands tightly clasped together, the girl had 
 stolen from the hu.«hed room as noiselessly 
 as she had entered it, out into the pleasant 
 morninw brightness where the purple 
 mountains were melting in the azure skies, 
 and the distant white villages were spar- 
 kling merrily in the sun. 
 
 It was not a long walk; and Ethel's 
 hurried, nervous steps had soon accom- 
 plished it. But, early as it was, Madame 
 O'Neil was waiting for her, and had all 
 her arrangements ready. Foolish Ethel, 
 but vaguely realizing what she was doing, 
 and wilfully blinding herself to the possible 
 consequences of the steps she was taking, 
 had, we may be sure, thought of very lit- 
 tle beyond the moment. If she had been 
 asked what she expected would "happen 
 next, she would jjrobably have replied that 
 she supposed, that after a couple of quiet 
 hours at Madame O'Neil's house, during 
 which the villa would be in a state ot 
 wild commotion and uproar, her father, 
 brought to see the urgency and seriousness 
 of the case, would yield to necessity, and, 
 like the pater-familias on the stage, forgive 
 and bless his rebellious child. Silly Ethel I 
 Nothing would get it out of her head 
 that she was an aggrieved heroine of 
 romance ; and, as most of the romances 
 with which she was acquainted had a 
 triumphant ending, she never doubted but 
 that her own must have the same. But, 
 if she was a goose, Madame O'Neil was 
 certainly not one. Less sanguine and 
 more clear-sighted than Ethel, she by no 
 means anticipated such an easy victory; 
 nor was she, like her, oblivious of the 
 fact that Col. Mildmay, having law 
 and right to back him, could at any 
 moment force his daughter to return. 
 Delay and publicity were the two allies 
 to which she trusted. The longer Ethel 
 remained under her protection, so much 
 more importance did her flight from 
 home assume. The more widely was the 
 young lady's escapade known, the more 
 urgently would the dread of scandal and 
 of the world's judgment force him to 
 relent, and give his consent to her marriage 
 Mxdame O'Neil, in short, was, or consid- 
 ered herself to be, mistress of the position. 
 Pier tactics were simple in the extreme; 
 but their very simplicity might, she 
 hoped, prove the element of their success. 
 If necessary, desperate measures could be 
 resorted to. Once with her the young 
 girl was more or less, in her power. But, 
 until mild means' had been tried and 
 
 had failed, Madame O'Neil was in no wis© 
 anxious to adopt stronger ones, and lo 
 drive Col. Mildmay to extremities. 
 
 And so, when Ethel arrived, and had 
 been warmly and affectionately welcomed, 
 she found that an unexpected little arrange- 
 ment had been made. There was to be a 
 delightful expedition to Monaco for the 
 day. A few friends were going. Ernest 
 had already gone on to the station to take 
 the tickets, and to engage a carriage. But 
 the dear child looked pale and tired. She 
 was hungry perhaps. Could it be that 
 she had eaten nothing yet ? 
 
 Ethel smiled. It was a fact. She had 
 forgotten to take any thing before she left. 
 
 Madame O'Neil had to give food and 
 drink to the poor little runaway. There 
 was plenty of time, she said. They need 
 not start for a quarter of an hour yet. The 
 train did not leave till half-past nine 
 o'clock. 
 
 " But," interrupted Ethel, looking dazed 
 and perplexed, " would it not be better to 
 wait till papa '' — 
 
 " That is true,'' said Madame O'Neil : 
 " you would like to write to your father. 
 Well, there is time for that too. A few 
 lines is all thai is necessary." 
 
 "But I have written to him,'' Ethel 
 said. 
 
 Madame O'Neil looked at her in surprise : 
 she could not make out this young girl, so 
 weak and clinging one moment, so strong 
 and independent the next. 
 
 " You have written to him ; and what did 
 you say, little one ? " 
 
 Ethel reddened and laughed. "I told 
 him that he must let me do as I liked, and 
 that I had come to stop with you till he had 
 promised to be good," she said. 
 
 " Brava I nothing could be better : eat, 
 dear child ; and here, take a glass of this 
 Burgundy, you are weak and need it. 
 Nonsense I it is worth half a dozen cups of 
 your poisonous, nervous tea. And when will 
 your father get this famous letter ? " she 
 asked, laughing. 
 
 " I don't know ; I left it in my room : 
 Hannah will perhaps find it. They will 
 be stirprised when I don't come to break- 
 fast," she added with an uneasy smile. 
 
 Madame O'Neil looked thoughtful: the 
 outraged parent mir;ht, perhaps, arrive at 
 any moment, and then what a foolish little 
 ending there would be to the foolish little 
 adventure I She would have preferred that 
 the letter should have been written from 
 her house, and so more time gained : 
 presently she discovered that there was not 
 a moment to be lost. Count O'Neil, too, 
 who either had not gone, or who had re- 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 83 
 
 turned from the station, and who appeared 
 at the moment, adding" to Ethel's sense of 
 helplessness and confusion by the grateful' 
 ardor with which he welcomed her, hurried 
 their movements. The girl did not know 
 how to refuse to accompany them. Madame 
 O'Neil, unaccustomed to resistance, feigned 
 obliviousness to her hesitation and' reluc- 
 tance. " We are not running away with 
 you," she said playfully : " the servants 
 will know where we have gone. If your 
 father wishes to come after you by the next 
 train, there is nothing to prevent his doing 
 so ; but he will not, 1 am sure, be unkind 
 enough to interrupt our little pleasure- 
 party. More likely, that, when we return 
 this evening we will find a letter or a " — 
 
 " What hour shall we return, madame V " 
 Ethel asked. 
 
 " Whenever you please, dear child : 
 there is a train at six or seven o'clock, for 
 which, probably, we shall all be ready." 
 
 But, in the inner chambers of Madame 
 O'Neil's councils, it had been decided that 
 the day should be a really long one, and 
 that they should not come back till the last 
 train, which lefl Monaco about midnight. 
 
 " Come," she went on, as Ethel still 
 looked unwilling : " what do a few hours 
 here or there matter ? You know that it is 
 a long-standing promise of the colonel's to 
 let you see Monaco. You cannot think of 
 leaving Nice without doing so." 
 
 And so the girl's doubts were overruled, 
 and they went. Madame O^Neil knew the 
 human heart well, and knew that, under 
 the circumstances, reflection and quiet were 
 to be avoided, and distraction and ex- 
 citement were to be sought. Afterwards, 
 looking back upon that day, Ethel could 
 never distinctly remember how it had been 
 spent. It was like a dream to her, — a con- 
 fused, disjointed dream, in which blue skies, 
 and glittering seas, and glowing mountains, 
 and orange and lemon trees, and perfume- 
 laden air, were all mingled with music and 
 laughter and gayety, and the subtle in- 
 cense of pleasure and admiration. Ernest 
 O'Neil's dark passionate eyes haunted her 
 through it too, watching her with jealous 
 aflTection, monopolizing her with the tender 
 pride of possession. It went by quickly 
 enough. 
 
 Madame O'Neil had acted kindly by the 
 young girl, if it was a kind or a good thing 
 to drive away a single sensible, serious 
 thought, and to drown a better feeling in a 
 whirl of excitement. Little chance, in- 
 deed, of thinking in the midst of a gay, 
 light-brained party of young people, and in 
 such a distracting, beautiful little place as 
 Monaco, in which the flashy vices and fol- 
 
 lies, and unworthy attractions of Homburg 
 and Baden, unite with the lavish gener- 
 osity of nature and the tricks of art to 
 make of it a hell with the externals of a 
 paradise. Ethel looked on at it all bewil- 
 dered, repelled, yet attracted : what a day 
 it was ! 
 
 They gambled and they laughed and 
 they jested. She found herself in the 
 midst of her little court of ball-room 
 admirers again. She was queen once 
 more : the retii-ement and quiet of the last 
 few weeks had only increased her taste for 
 amusement, and gave a new zest to her 
 enjoyment. 
 
 She was young and giddy, and pretty 
 and vain : moreover, she fancied herself 
 engaged in a desperate adventure. Excit- 
 ing visions of consequences were confus- 
 ing her brain and heating her imagination : 
 she almost supposed herself to be playing 
 some grand and important role. No won- 
 der that the girl's head was a little turned, 
 and that as, by degrees, the influences by 
 which she was surrounded grew stronger, 
 and the morning's impressions faded away, 
 she grew more and more reckless and de- 
 termined. The hours were slipping by 
 certainly ; and as yet there had been no signs 
 of pursuit from the enemy. Ethel half 
 wondered ; but even for wondering there 
 Vas scarcely a moment. The railroad of 
 time was rushing at full speed. 
 
 And so it was afternoon now. She had 
 tired of the hot stifling rooms of the Casi- 
 no, in which the rest of the party was 
 amusing itself, and she had wandered out 
 into the pretty gardens overhanging the 
 sea. Count O'Neil was with her, of course ; 
 and presently they found a pleasant shady 
 spot, where they could listen to the splen- 
 did stringed band for which Monaco is 
 famed, and amuse themselves by watching 
 the gay crowds passing to and fro. They 
 were gay themselves. There are moments 
 for every thing ; and this was a moment for 
 the recklessness and efifervescence of youth- 
 ful spirits, without care or thought for the 
 future. Yet the young man was not losing 
 the precious minutes. He was telling her 
 now what she was to him, and how, from the 
 first day he had seen her, he had loved her. 
 " You were riding past, and the baron 
 pointed you out to me," he told her : " I 
 heard him without heeding ; I did not even 
 care to look. But, when you went by the 
 second time, an impulse moved me : I did 
 look, and" — 
 
 " And ? " said Ethel with one of her 
 arch, irresistible glances. 
 
 " And I was captivated : you smiled, and 
 the whole earth seemed to have suddenly 
 
84 
 
 ETHEL MILfiMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 brightened. I ' loved you then and 
 there." 
 
 Perhaps the sceptical baron might have 
 looked a little astonished at this statement. 
 But even he would have been indulgent. 
 It was exaggerated ; but there was some 
 truth in it, and Count O'Neil believed it to 
 be entirely true just then. 
 
 " And you — when did you first cai-e for 
 me ? " he asked presently, looking into her 
 face with a confident smile. 
 
 It was a legitimate question. In all fair- 
 ness it was her turn now ; ^et she looked 
 startled and bewildered. When had she 
 begun to care for him ? When had it first 
 come into her heart to do what she was 
 doing for his sake ? Madame O'Neil had 
 put pretty much the same question to her a 
 day or two ago, and she had not answered 
 it. Could she answer it now ? 
 
 Count O'Neil, at all events, never 
 doubted but that she could. He was 
 watching her, waiting with triumphant 
 security h6r answer, when he suddenly felt 
 her hand tremble, and saw her face 
 change. 
 
 " Dearest, what is it Y " he said anx- 
 iously. 
 
 A train had evidently arrived from 
 Nice : ibr a fresh influx of visitors was fill- 
 ing the garden, and thfe fiacres and omni- 
 buses were depositing their loads in the 
 little place in front of the hotel. Ethel 
 stood up. " There is Mr. O'Neil," she said 
 quietly, but with a subdued thrill in her 
 voice. 
 
 Count O'Neil sprang to his feet too, with 
 an oath. " Where ? " he asked. He' was 
 coming toward them. In another minute 
 he was close to them. 
 
 " I have come to fetch you home," he said, 
 looking at Ethel, and ignoring her com- 
 panion. 
 
 " Who sent you ? Did papa send you ? " 
 she asked, flushing up. 
 
 " He has sent for you : come home. 
 There is just time to catch tlie train, and 
 the fiacre is waiting : you must come," he 
 said sternly. 
 
 "There are two sides to that question, 
 sir," broke in Count O'Neil impetuously. 
 "Miss Mildmay is by her own will under 
 my mother's protection : she shall not leave 
 it for yours." 
 
 Mr. O'Neil did not seem even to have 
 heard him. " Come," he said to Ethel, 
 almost angrily. 
 
 The girl had sat down again ' her pres- 
 ence of mind, which had for a moment de- 
 serted her, had returned, and she shook 
 her head. " I have no wish to leave 
 Madame 'Neil's protection for yours," she 
 
 said, instinctively repeating Count O'Neil'a 
 words. 
 
 " You hear that, sir," said the young 
 man triumphantly ; " and I give you fair 
 notice, that if you presume to importune or 
 annoy this young lady " — 
 
 "Ethel, come home 1 " repeated Mr. 
 O'Neil. " For God's sake, come home ! 
 Your father is ill, very " — 
 
 "111! "she exclaimed. "1111" 
 
 But Count O'Neil took the word out of 
 her mouth. " It is a lie, a pretence : you 
 are imposing upon her," he exclaimed with 
 risinw temper. 
 
 " Hold your tongue, sir I Will you come, 
 or not ? " he added. 
 
 " Is it true ? is papa really ill ? You 
 would not tell me a lie, would you ? " she 
 asked piteously. 
 
 " God knows I would not. He is ill, — 
 dying! " said Mr. O'Neil. 
 
 " Dying I " Ethel said the word, and 
 there was an awful pause. She was spell- 
 bound, and never moved. 
 
 " We have not a moment : you must 
 come," urged Mr. O'Neil in a gentle, 
 broken voice. 
 
 ' Then she rose. ' Hie two men looked at 
 her compassionately. It was impossible to 
 be insensible to the horror and anguish 
 which had all at once come into her face. 
 In such moments as these, men are more 
 overwhelmed than women. If Madame 
 O'Neil had been present, she might, per- 
 haps, have questioned and resisted still ; but 
 her son loved the young girl, and forgot all 
 selfish interests at the sight of her grief. 
 But when Mr. O'Neil offered her his arm to 
 lead her to the fiacre, which was waiting 
 on the road a few yards away, he darted 
 forward jealously, and made her take his 
 arm. " Shall I accompany you V " he 
 whispered, as he assisted her to enter. 
 But she shook her head ; and the next 
 instant Mr. O'Neil had jumped upon the 
 box, and they were driving away at a fu- 
 rious pace. " We have but seven minutes 
 to reach the station," he told the man. 
 " Treble fare if you are in time." 
 
 And they were in time. The train was 
 on the point of starting. Another half- 
 minute would have made them late. Mr. 
 O'Neil almost threw his companion into 
 the nearest carriage. " It is fortunate : 
 we should have had to wait an hour and a 
 half for the next train," he said, drawing a 
 long breath as they moved off. 
 
 Ethel had not opened her lips yet. " Tell 
 me, — tell me about it all I " she said then at 
 last. 
 
 Mr. O'Neil was moved with pity. He 
 tried to take her hand ; but she drew it 
 
ETHEL MILDMAT'S FOLLIES. 
 
 85 
 
 away hastily. Even sympathy seemed 
 crud. then. " It was sudden," he said. 
 " He seemed as well as usual till half-past 
 ten or eleven o'clock, then something hap- 
 pened ; they think a blood-vessel broke ; 
 he fainted : ever since he has been sinking." 
 
 " Why was I not told ? Why did you not 
 send for me ? Did he not want me ? " she 
 asked in a low, fierce voice. 
 
 " He did want you. They sent at once ; 
 but there was a delay ; nobody knew where 
 you were. It was by chance, that I heard 
 irom an acquaintance, who s^w you at the 
 station this morning, that you had gone to 
 Monaco." 
 
 Ethel relapsed into silence. Her com- 
 panion watched her anxiously : she looked 
 so white and dazed, that he thought she 
 must faint. 
 
 Suddenly a broken whisper came to him. 
 " Are they afraid, — do they think he will 
 die ? " she asked with terror-stricken eyes. 
 
 He did not at once reply ; then gravely 
 and tenderly he said, " He is very ill. It 
 is in God's hands." 
 
 Ethal asked no more. Oh, what a re- 
 turn-journey it was, — so slow, so drearily 
 slow I The three-quarters of an hour which 
 it occupied seemed to have doubled their 
 length. The train seemed to creep along 
 its beautiful narrow way between the 
 green, wooded mountains, and the blue, 
 peaceful, little bays, dotted with lazy fish- 
 ing-boats languidly flapping their pictur- 
 esque, dingy sails. Ethel sat gazing 
 blankly at it all, seeing nothing ; yet, after- 
 wards, the pictures to which her eyes were 
 blinded then recurred to her mind vividly 
 and painfully, and she hated them. 
 
 At last they were at Nice. It was 
 twenty minutes' drive from the station to 
 the villa; but even that was over now. 
 They had climbed up the steep bit of road, 
 and the wheels of the fiacre were crunch- 
 ing the gravel upon the avenue. The win- 
 dows were blazing away fiercely in the 
 setting sun ; long solemn shadows were 
 lying on the ground ; the birds were sleepily 
 sinring through the trees. " Wait 1 " Mr. 
 O'Neilsaid to Ethel as they drew up at 
 the foot of the terrace ; but she had already 
 jumped to the ground, and was flying up 
 the steps. 
 
 " Wait! " he called out again after her. 
 He might as well have spoken to the wind. 
 She went in through the glass door. It 
 was the shortest way. The large drawing- 
 room was empty she thought at first ; but it 
 looked so strangely empty I it was so still 
 and silent, filled with the red glow which 
 was pouring brightly in through all the 
 windows, that involuntarily she paused. 
 
 The next moment she had run hastily for- 
 ward with a little cry. She had suddenly 
 seen that her father was in his accustomed 
 place, lying on the sofa near the fireplace. 
 He was asleep : she never doubted that he 
 was asleep, as he had been asleep this 
 morning when she had stood by him, and 
 felt it so hard to leave him. She stood by 
 him again now, and noiselessly, for fear 
 of disturbing him, knelt down to kiss him. 
 She felt relieved : he must be better now 
 that he slept. Suddenly she screamed ; 
 film came before her eyes ; voices were 
 buzzing in her ears ; and pale, startled faces 
 were coming towards her. But Ethel saw 
 nothing but that serene, pale face before 
 her, upon which the peace of death was 
 resting. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 MRS. O'NEIL was asleep, and Ethel 
 was reading ; that is to say, that she 
 had a book open upon her knees. But the 
 book was turned upside down, and the girl's 
 eyes were gazing vacantly out through the 
 French window into the pleasure-ground, , 
 where the bright flowers were drowsily 
 hanging their heads, and the setting sun 
 was tipping the tall fir-trees of Mount 
 •Druid. 
 
 It was a pleasant room that they were 
 in, long and low, half drawing-room, half 
 library, — more of a library than a drawing- 
 room, however ; for books were everywhere, 
 — in shelves, in cases, upon tables, piled up 
 in corners, everywhere : so many and so 
 varied, indeed, that Dr. O'Toole was in 
 the habit of solemnly offering his word of 
 honor, that the titles alone would be read- 
 ing^enough for rational people. 
 
 But there were not only books in the 
 room, there were plenty of preth' things 
 besides, — Florentine tables, , Venetian 
 glasses, rare bits of old china, and, better 
 still, quantities of pretty flowers. In short, 
 it was a pleasant room, interesting and 
 home-like ; such as people like to live in, 
 and which they remember with tenderness 
 when they live in it no longer. 
 
 Just now it was a very quiet room ; 
 extraordinarily so, Ethel thought, sitting 
 motionless, and listening to the deep, 
 solemn, intense silence which was that of 
 a remote country-place far removed firom. 
 either town or village, and, compared to 
 which, other silences are filled with sound.. 
 Before very long, however, it was broken 
 in upon suddenly. A quick step made 
 
86 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 itpelf heard upon the gravelled walk of 
 the pleasure-ground, quickly followed by 
 the loud bark of a dog. 
 
 " Bless me I " cried Mrs. O'Neil jumping 
 up, and rubbing her eyes. "What on 
 earth is the matter ? " 
 
 "Nothing. It is only Max calling to 
 me to go out," Ethel replied calmly ; and 
 she laid down her book, and rose from her 
 seat. " Max ought to be taught better 
 manners than to awake you so rudely," 
 she added, with a compassionate smile at 
 the old lady's disturbed countenance. 
 
 " Awake me, child I I was not asleep," 
 she asserted testily. And Ethel knew her 
 well enough by this time not to contradict 
 her; for Mrs. O'Neil's after-dinner nap 
 was one of the daily, inevitable events of 
 her life, about which she was prone to in- 
 dulge in a few innocent illusions. " I was 
 not asleep," she repeated, — " no more than 
 you were yourself. God knows," she went 
 on ruefully, " that it is little enough one 
 can sleep in one's bed, much less out of it, 
 these dreadful times, when one is not sure 
 whether one will wake up murdered or not. 
 Oh, dear 1 oh, dear ! to think of what those 
 wicked Fenians are bringing Ireland to." 
 
 As we know of old, a bugbear was a 
 necessary element of Mrs. O'Neil's exist- 
 ence. The bugbear just at present was 
 the Fenians. 
 
 Ethel did her best to console her. " Mr. 
 O'Neil says there are none in these parts," 
 she assured her. 
 
 " Nonsense, child I How does he know ? 
 How does anybody know 'I Flaherty told 
 me, only to-day, that people begin to see 
 strange-looking men about the roads. And 
 she told me something else besides," she 
 went on mysteriously, — " she told me 
 that she had heard irom good authority 
 that Paddy the groom, our Paddy's brother, 
 — a good-for-nothing fellow, who went to 
 America a year ago, — has turned Fenian, 
 and that he will probably come back and 
 cut all our throats for us some day. Of 
 course, through Paddy he can learn all the 
 ins and. outs of the house, and do as he 
 likes," she added in a melancholy tone. 
 
 Ethel was too well accustomed to these 
 startling announcements to be much dis- 
 turbed by them. She did not even tremble 
 nor turn pale when Mrs. O'Neil asked her 
 with thrilling solemnity, how she would 
 !ike to have her head carried about the 
 ceountry on a pike. 
 
 " They' will do it, child : they will do it 
 yet to all of us I Flaherty says that she 
 hears they have pikes concealed in all the 
 cabins round about," the old lady went on 
 impressively. " I declare, our lives are not 
 
 safe," she concluded, warming with the ter- 
 rors of her subject. " Flaherty says so 
 too ; and it is a shame for Arthur, upon my 
 word it is, to keep us down in these wild 
 country parts during these dreadful times. 
 It will be the death of me, I know it will I " 
 
 "But Mr. O Neil proposed our leaving, 
 did he not, if we were alarmed ? " Ethel 
 reminded her gently. 
 
 " To be sure he did, child, small thanks 
 to him I What is the use of our going, if he 
 would not come along with us ? And he 
 won't. He is as obstinate as a mule. He 
 says it would look badly, and make a bad 
 impression. As if it mattered a button what 
 it looked, or what sort of an impression 
 it made upon the poor savages we live 
 amongst, provided only we escaped with 
 our lives, and kept our heads upon our 
 bodies. And of course I would not leave 
 him, — not for all the world," she concluded 
 heroically. 
 
 " I suppose not," Ethel said carelessly. 
 
 Mrs. O'Neil gave her a keen look. " You 
 are not frightened yourself, child, are you ? 
 because, if you are, and you were to ask 
 Arthur to " — 
 
 " Frightened ! oh, dear, no ! There is 
 nothing to be frightened about really, Mrs. 
 O'Neil." 
 
 She spoke in a, weary tone of indiffer- 
 ence. Mrs. O'Neil's bright, tender eyes 
 peered at her anxiously through the fading 
 .light. "You look as if you were fright- 
 ened, or something, I know," the old lady 
 remarked, after a Uttle pause. " Child, 
 when will you get your roses back V when 
 will you look yourself again ? " she in- 
 quired suddenly and plaintively. 
 
 Ethel was standing before her, leaning 
 languidly against a chair. In her deep 
 mourning dress, she did indeed look pain- 
 fully white and frail ; and, worse than that, 
 there was a crushed and lifeless appearance 
 about her, which was a terrible, startling 
 contrast to the brightness and buoyancy 
 of former days. 
 
 For a minute she made no answer. 
 Then suddenly, with a sob and a gasp, 
 " Oh I have patience with me ; have pa- 
 tience with me I " she cried. " Oh ! it is so 
 short a time, so short a time I and my heart 
 is broken. I tell you it is broken, Mrs. 
 O'Neil." And with this piteous wail she 
 ran from the room. 
 
 From the room out into the quiet, dim 
 pleasure-ground, where wild pigeons were 
 Cooing softly, and sunset shadows were 
 stretching across the soft, velvety turf. It 
 was all very peaceful and pretty ; but Ethel, 
 fighting with a storm of passionate sorrow, 
 saw or felt nothing of its peace and beauty. 
 
ETHEL MILDMAT'S FOLLIES. 
 
 87 
 
 Max, impatiently waiting for her, set up 
 a noisy bark of welcome at her appearance. 
 Max's master was tliere too ; but he did 
 not seem to be waiting for her, but, on the 
 contrary, to be quite engrossed in pruning 
 the refractory trailing branches of a lau- 
 rel-tree, which were obtruding themselves 
 across the path. He looked up, however, 
 as she passed quite close to him, right into 
 her face, and seemed about to speak. But 
 he must have seen something in it to 
 silence him ; for he turned quickly away 
 again, and let her go by without a word. 
 
 Max led the way. He knew it well ; for 
 Ethel's evening walks invariably took the 
 same direction, — up through the thick plan- 
 tations in which Mount Druid was buried, 
 to the top of a hill, where they suddenly 
 ceased, and whence a wide expanse of 
 country was visible. It was a flat, dreary 
 view; yet the girl liked it, and always 
 breathed freer when she had escaped from 
 the snug, shut-in little place down below, 
 and she could feel the strong breeze sweep- 
 ing across the wide, desolate plain. It was 
 coming to-night, laden with a delicious 
 freshness, across the distant mountains, and 
 the immense stretches of dark Castle Gar- 
 vagh woods, and the miles of purple brown 
 bog, here and there varied by a tiny patch 
 of vivid green, ^here an acre of land had 
 been reclaimed and cultivated, which were 
 the principal features of the scene. Oh, 
 how desolate, how strangely desolate, it all 
 was I — 'the pale smoke of some miserable 
 cabin, the faint bark of a distant dog, the 
 rumbling of a cart on some far-away road, the 
 only signs and sounds of life ; no people, 
 no crops, no cattle, no horses, no yellow 
 cornfields, no happy, smiling homesteads; 
 nothing but this bleak, silent expanse, and 
 those pale mountains, and dark woods, and 
 solemn, sad-looking sky, gazing down upon 
 it all pitifully as it lay hushed, as it were, 
 beneath the enchantment of some mysteri- 
 ous, melancholy spell. 
 
 Yet, desolate and dreary as the view was, 
 Ethel had already grown fond of it. It 
 suited her mood and frame of mind. She 
 liked to sit with her face turned to the salt 
 breeze, and to watch the day die out, and 
 the dim light fade slowly away, and to 
 strain her eyes in the attempt to catch 
 sight of the big dark patch against the sky, 
 which was the great house of Castle Gar- 
 vagh, and in which that old man whose life 
 was still so strangely prolonged, and upon 
 whose death so many hopes and fears and 
 passions and interests hung, was dragging 
 out a solitary, joyless, mysterious existence. 
 
 Living still, but failing both in mind and 
 body, yet clinging on to life with a tenacity 
 
 which seemed to mock at the impatience 
 of those who were longing for his death ; 
 living on still when life had lost every joy 
 but that of defying human calculations and 
 human passions ; living on still in that 
 big, desolate house, with no companions 
 but interested servants, no memories but 
 those connected with the dead, — unloved, 
 unbefriended, alone, — when around him 
 on every side in the world young lives and 
 young hopes and young aiFections were 
 being uprooted, and scattered to the winds. 
 Oh, strange secret of destiny I strange 
 irony of fate I The old live, and the younw 
 die. The strong and happy are taken, and 
 the weak and wretched are left ; and all 
 that remains to us is but to watch and mar- 
 vel and submit. 
 
 Ethel, however, was not thinking much 
 of Castle Garvagh or of its strange old 
 master just now. Her mind was filled with 
 but the one thought, — her grief. It was so 
 short a time, as she had half an hour a^o 
 told Mrs. O'Neil ; so short a time — only 
 six or eight weeks — since that dreadful mo- 
 ment when she had looked upon her dead 
 father's face. And, as she had also told 
 Mrs. O'Neil, her heart was broken : at 
 least she believed it was, as young people 
 have, and always will have, a strange facil- 
 ity for believing. It had been a terrible 
 shock and cruel grief, — so terrible and cruel, 
 that her mind was completely stunned ; and 
 ■not even the curious and totally unexpected 
 circumstances in which she was placed 
 had been able to rouse her from the sort of 
 torpor which sorrow had produced in her. 
 
 Curious circumstances, indeed ! Here 
 she was, by virtue of her father's last will, 
 living at Mount Druid under the protec- 
 tion of Mr. O'Neil, whom the colonel's 
 dying wishes had constituted her guardian 
 till she should be of ago, — an event which 
 would not happen for more than a year 
 and a half yet. Hoyr had it all come 
 about ? Nobody knew exactly ; and Ethel, 
 as yet passively indifierent and submissive, 
 had never cared to inquire. What Mr, 
 O'Neil knew was, that the colonel, finding 
 himself to be dying, had implored of him 
 to take charge of his daughter, and to save 
 her, in spite of herself, from the fate into 
 which she seemed bent upon rushing ; and 
 that he, in such a moment, could not, even 
 if he had wished, have refused such a re- 
 quest. The consequences had followed as 
 a matter of course. Ethel had no near 
 relations except an uncle, — her father^ 
 elder brother. Gen. Mildmay, — who had 
 lived all his life in India, and was still 
 there. By the colonel's will, he and Ar- 
 thur O'Neil were constituted the girl's 
 
88 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 guardians ; but as Col. Mildmay had left 
 express directions that she was to await 
 her uncle's return, and not to go out to In- 
 dia to him, her guardianship, for the pres- 
 ent, fell entirely into Mr. O'Neil's hands, 
 and she had no other home but with him. 
 
 Ethel had heard of, and had acquiesced 
 in, the arrangements apathetically. If 
 three months ago it had been prophesied to 
 her, she would have considered it a simple 
 impossibility. If sorrow had not made her 
 indifferent to most things, she would per- 
 haps have rebelled. But, as it was, grief 
 and remorse made her strangely docile. 
 Her father's dying eyes had sought for her 
 in vain, his dying lips had called her to 
 him, and she had come too late. His last 
 moments had been made miserable, and 
 through her. His death had perhaps been 
 hastened by — But that thought Ethel 
 could not bear. She could not let it near 
 her. It made her almost mad. And yet 
 it was there, ever there, and the girl was 
 miserable. 
 
 How do people live through such times ? 
 Nobody knows, not even themselves. 
 They live with a haunting heart-ache ; with 
 memory fraught with pain, with hope and 
 joy crushed and extinguished by the over- 
 whelming weight of present suffering. 
 Dark, terrible times, in which life is a bur- 
 den from which we pray and long to be 
 delivered, living on, nevertheless, and 
 gradually and insensibly becoming recon- 
 ciled,, or at least accustomed, to the ab- 
 sence of the loved face and the silence of 
 the familiar voice, which death has robbed 
 from us. Hard to live, and hard, too, to see 
 living. 
 
 Dr. O'Toole was beginning to look per- 
 plexed and to grow a little impatient over 
 the girl's pale, wan face, and lifeless ways. 
 Mrs. O'Neil cried her bright eyes dim out 
 of sympathy and pity, and now and then 
 felt somewhat irritated and aggrieved by 
 this passionate yet subdued grief, which 
 all her love and tenderness could not allay. 
 Mr. O'Neil alone did not lose patience. 
 " Give her time," he always said ; " give 
 her time. It is too soon yet to expect any 
 thing but this." And he said this again to 
 his mother this evening, when, having 
 watched Ethel's slender, dark figure till it 
 had disappeared amongst the trees, he had 
 gone indoors, and had found the old lady 
 bemoaning the sudden and rare outburst 
 into which the girl had been betrayed. 
 
 " She is worse than ever, Arthur ; worse 
 than ever," she declared despairingly. 
 " The child will die if she goes on much 
 longer after this fai^hion. Dear me I dear 
 me I What a fool I was to be sure, ever to 
 
 have mixed myself up in the poor colonel'si 
 affairs, and to have been entrapped into, 
 having the child thrown upon u.i in this 
 way. Just imagine if she dies upon our 
 hands," she concluded paihetically. 
 
 " There is not the least fear of her dy- 
 ing," Mr. O'Neil replied hastily. " You 
 know I told you, mother, long ago," he 
 went on presently, "that you were doing 
 an imprudent thing in yielding to the poor 
 colonel's wishes, and taking upon yourselfi 
 even before his death, the charge of his 
 daughter." 
 
 " And have I not told you a hundred 
 times that there is not a more agmavating 
 form of speech in the English language 
 than that 'I told you so'?" retorted Mrs. 
 O'Neil testily. " And I don't regret it a 
 bit, not a bit : what I have done I mean," 
 she went on belligerently. " How could I 
 have acted otherwise ? Now, how could I, 
 Arthur ? How could I have refused poor 
 Henry that day when he asked me to come 
 and take care of his child ? If I had re- 
 fused him, I would not have deserved to 
 die a happy death. I do not regret it," 
 she asserted again vehemently. Then, 
 " Do you regret it, Arthur ? " she inquired 
 suddenly. 
 
 " No." 
 
 It was very promptly said, in a. quick 
 tone of decision, which could leave no 
 doubt but that the little word came from 
 his heart. His mother gave him a furtive 
 look. With the contradiction of 'human 
 nature, now that she had discovered that 
 her son did not look upon Miss Mildmay's 
 guardianship in the light of a grievance, 
 she was disposed to do so herself. The 
 moment she was quite sure that he did not 
 mean to upbraid- her for the important con- 
 sequences her good-nature had entailed, 
 she was rather inclined to pity and to 
 upbraid herself. 
 
 "K only the child don't die on our 
 hands I God knows, I never bargained for 
 that," she observed plaintively. 
 
 Mr. O'Neil laughed. 
 
 " Dying I she is not thinking of it. She 
 is only fretting. She will and must fret 
 and suffer, poor little thing." And his 
 voice softened involuntarily. 
 
 " That is all very well ; but there is fret- 
 ting and fretting," replied the old lady : 
 " and such fretting as this I have never 
 seen before." 
 
 " Her father is only eight weeks dead : 
 it is too soon for her to forget, — much too 
 soon. We must have patience, mother.'' 
 
 "The very thing she said herself just 
 now, the dear child. And we will have 
 patience ; will we not, Arthur ? " Mrs. 
 
ETHEL MILDMAT'8 FOLLIES. 
 
 89 
 
 O'Neil inquired, her momentary irritation 
 passing away, and her kind eyea beaming 
 with soilness and tenderness. 
 
 " I know you will, mother, for her poor 
 father's sake." 
 
 " Yes, for her poor father's sake ; for 
 Henry loved my child once, and he would 
 have made a good and kind husband' to 
 her, had she chosen to marry him instead 
 of that scamp who broke her heart for her 
 afterwards. Oh, what fools women are, to 
 be sure ! What fools girls I — by the way " 
 — But here Mrs. O'Neil paused abruptly. 
 
 Her son was turning over the pages of a 
 book ; but now he looked up sharply. 
 
 "Well, mother?" 
 
 " I wonder," went on the old lady doubt- 
 fully, " whether the child can be still han- 
 kering after that fellow, — Denis Irwin's 
 son, you know ? Do you think she can be 
 silly enough, wicked enough, to be fret- 
 ting about that ? " 
 
 " How can I say ? You ought to know 
 better than I can, mother." 
 
 " I know nothing. She never speaks 
 upon the subject. I have never heard her 
 mention his name since. I can't make the 
 girl out," concluded the old lady petu- 
 lantly. 
 
 Mr. O'Neil was silent for a minute. 
 Then he said thoughtfully, " No : I hardly 
 think that she is fretting about that. But 
 suppose you try to make out, mother ? " 
 
 « How can I ? What can I do ? The 
 girl is so hard to ' get at.' It is as if she 
 were turned into ice' or stone. Besides, 
 where is the use of talking of that — that 
 impostor ? She can't marry him. Of 
 course, she cannot. Her poor papa's ghost 
 would haunt her to her dying-day if she 
 did such a thing; and besides — besides, 
 so long as she is under our protection, Ar- 
 thur," Mrs. O'Neil said, drawing herself up 
 to her full height, and her bright eyes 
 sparkling, " those people will not presume 
 to come n^ear her, I should think." 
 
 Her son laughed. " They will be very 
 courageous if they do. You will be a 
 match for your daughter-in-law, mother." 
 
 " To be sure I will, and for twenty 
 daughters-in-law, if I had them. Ah, Ar- 
 thur ! how long will you keep me waiting 
 before you give me one that 1 can love and 
 like ? Now, there is Alice B,edfern, who, 
 Flaherty tells me (and she knows it through 
 Mrs. Redfern's old housekeeper, who is in 
 all the family secrets), is dying for you. 
 Dr. O'Toole says it too," she added with a 
 mysterious nod. 
 
 Mr. O'Neil reddened slightly, and 
 laughed. " It is very kind of Miss Ked- 
 fern, I am sure ; but " — and he paused for 
 
 an instant. " Mother," he went on grave- 
 ly, " I have told it to you before a hundred 
 times, and I repeat it now, and you may 
 believe me, I don't mean to marry for the 
 present — perhaps never. At all events, I 
 shall not marry until I know whether I am 
 to be the owner of Castle Garvagh or 
 not." 
 
 He spoke with the quiet determination 
 of a man whose mind is made up. Mrs. 
 O'Neil groaned, and wrung her hands. 
 
 " And when will that be ? " she asked. 
 " God's ways are dark. When will that 
 be, Arthur?" 
 
 He sighed wearily. " Heaven only knows. 
 The old man may live for years. And yet, 
 if I only win in the end, all that has gone 
 before will matter little." 
 
 "i/.* Arthur, if?" — 
 
 « ip " he repeated. Then suddenly, " I 
 will win, mother. I must. A man can bear 
 to be disappointed in many things, but for 
 the dream, the desire, of his whole life to 
 be disappointed I Oh, no I that is impossi- 
 ble 1 " 
 
 As Mrs. O'Neil had told her son, she had 
 never heard Ethel mention Count O 'Neil's 
 name since the day of her father's death. 
 Of what her feelings towards him were, the 
 old lady was in profound ignorance ; so was 
 Mr. O'Neil. The girl's behavior was a mys- 
 tery which neither of them could solve. 
 Her apathy was a sort of coat -of- mail 
 through which it seemed impossible to 
 pierce. Yet once since he had become her 
 guardian, Mr. O'Neil had almost pierced 
 through it. Once, and only once, the girl 
 bad been momentarily roused into a faint 
 likeness of the Ethel of old. 
 
 It was the day of her father's funeral. 
 That morning they had carried him to the 
 beautiful Nice churchyard, and had laid 
 him in his grave. The jalousies of the 
 Villa Balbi had been thrown open once 
 more, and the sun poured into the large 
 rooms with a mocking brightness that 
 seemed to defy all memories of sorrow or 
 death, — into all the rooms except the one 
 in which he had lain back on the sofa in 
 weary, impatient expectation of his daugh- 
 ter's coming, and had died. That room 
 Ethel would not allow to be disturbed. 
 She would not allow a chair to be moved, 
 nor a book, nor a flower. As his eyes had 
 last looked upon it, she prayed that, so long 
 as it was possible, it might remain. 
 
 AH the associations which met together 
 in it were gathered tightly round about her 
 heart, and she could not bear that one of 
 them should be uprooted. They could 
 hardly get her to leave it herself Here 
 she lay for hours, motionless, with her eyes 
 
90 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 wide open, gazing with a startled, horror- 
 stricken expression, which was painful to 
 sec, upon the spot in which she had first 
 seen her father dead, with the setting sun 
 shining upon his face. 
 
 It was afternoon now. A few hours ago, 
 Col. Mildmay's will had heen read in her 
 presence, and she had heard, apparently 
 without surprise or interest, that Mr. O'Neil 
 had been appointed her guardian. 
 
 Mrs. O'Neil had kissed her, and wept 
 over her, and had promised to be a mother 
 to her. Mr. O'Neil had said little, but that 
 little was earnest and kind. And then he 
 had asked her what her wishes were, and 
 whether she had any objection to live at 
 Mount Druid with his mother for the sum- 
 mer. Ethel had opened her weary eyes in 
 surprise, and said, that of course she had 
 no objection ; that she did not care where 
 they brought her to Uve. And to every 
 question it was the same reply. Ques- 
 tions indeed seemed merely to weary her. 
 Whatever suited Mrs. O'Neil would suit 
 her. The single symptom of a wish that 
 they could extract from her was one that 
 they should leave Nice as quickly as pos- 
 sible. 
 
 And so it had been arranged that they 
 were to leave it in a few days. The house 
 was astir with preparation. Boxes were 
 being packed, last arrangements made. 
 Everybody was busy but Ethel, who lay in 
 the darkened room alone with her sorrow. 
 
 Mrs. O'Neil had been obliged to drive 
 into the town to see after the poor orphan's 
 mourning ; and thus it was, that, except the 
 servants, Mr. O'Neil and Ethel were the 
 only two in fhe house. It was five o'clock. 
 For two hours the girl had been quite un- 
 disturbed. Mr. O'Neil had not come near 
 her. Indeed, since her father's death, he 
 had hardly seen her, and never alone ; and 
 now, when he knocked at the door, and 
 entered the room, there was an unwonted 
 hesitation and uncertainty in his face and 
 manner that showed that he was as yet very 
 far from at home in his new role of guar- 
 dian. 
 
 " I am sorry to disturb you. Miss Mild- 
 may," he said ; " but " — 
 
 Ethel hardly took the trouble to move. 
 It was by the faintest sign that she acknowl- 
 edged his presence. 
 
 lie paused for an instant, looking at her. 
 Then' lie said, "I must ask you to let me 
 speak to you for a moment." 
 
 He spoke very quietly and gently, yet 
 with a tone of decision which seemed faint- 
 ly to surprise her. And it must have 
 influenced her too ; for she raised herself, 
 and bowed her head. 
 
 He handed her a card then. " This 
 gentleman is here. Do you wish to 'see 
 him V " he inquired. 
 
 It was Count O'Neil's card. Ethel hard- 
 ly gave it a glance. " No I oh, no I " she 
 said vehemently. 
 
 " He is very anxious to see you. He — 
 What am I to say to him ? " Mr. O'Neil 
 inquired suddenly in a voice of the pro- 
 foundest and most miserable perplexity, 
 which, under less melancholy circumstances, 
 would have been ludicrous in the extreme. 
 
 " I don't know or care. Of course I 
 can't see him. How could I see him ? " 
 Ethel said piteously, and nervously clasping 
 a letter which she held in her hand, and 
 which was the half-finished letter she had 
 seen on her father's table the morning she 
 had left him. It was to herself, and had 
 caused her perhaps the sharpest pang of 
 grief she had yet felt ; for it was the letter 
 of a father to a child whom he adores. 
 Like herself, he had tried to write explana- 
 tions which he had not known how to speak. 
 In it he had told her of Count O'Neil's pro- 
 posal and his refusal ; and he had implored 
 of her, in language too pathetic to be re- 
 sisted, to yield to him in this one thing, and 
 to trust her happiness to him. But the 
 letter had never been finished, and what 
 was written of it she had never read till too 
 late. Too late, — too late 1 Those only 
 know the bitterness of that cry who owe 
 reparation to the dead. 
 
 " How could I see him ? " Ethel demanded 
 almost fiercely of her. guardian. 
 
 " You shall not see him, then," he replied 
 promptly, and with some involuntary ten- 
 derness. " You shall see nobody whom you 
 do not like. But — but what am I to say 
 to him ? " he inquired again. 
 
 " Tell him to ^o away. Tell him that I 
 am ill. I am ill," she said wearily, and 
 closing her eyes. 
 
 " He will not believe me," Mr. O'Neil 
 said shortly. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Because — because he knows, I suppose, 
 that I am your guardian, and he will imagine 
 that I am exercising my authority to pre- 
 vent you seeing him." 
 
 " Your authority ? " And the faintest 
 possible shade of color rose slowly in her 
 white cheeks. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 There was a brief pause, during which 
 they looked into one another's eyes, for the 
 first time, perhaps, measuring each other's 
 strength. Ethel's eyes fell the first. " Tell 
 him that it is of my own free will that I do 
 not choose to see him," she said then. 
 
 Mr. O'Neil made a step towards the door, 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 91 
 
 then he turned back. " Would you have 
 any objection to write a line to him ? " he 
 asked. " It will be more convincing than 
 my words." 
 
 " Oh ! where is the use ? ^ Why do you 
 tease me ? " she bui'st out impatiently. 
 
 " Only a line — on his own card. It will 
 not take you an instant," he persisted. 
 
 There was another little outburst. But 
 she rose and came to the table, and took the 
 pencil which he offered her. " It is unkind, 
 it is cruel, of you to tease me I " But she 
 obeyed him for all that, kneeling down by 
 the table, and scribbling off a few hasty 
 words. " There I " and she handed him the 
 card. "I suppose you have the right to 
 read it," she said with a sudden flash in her 
 poor, tear-dimmed eyes. 
 
 " I have neither the right nor the inclina^ 
 tion," Mr. O'Neil had answered quietly as 
 he left the room. • 
 
 And that was all. Count O'Neil had 
 made one or two more attempts to see the 
 girl ; but they were equally fruitless. He 
 had written to her, and she had answered 
 him ; but what he had written, or what she 
 had answered, she had not informed her 
 guardian. Madame O'Neil, probably aware 
 of the clause of her father's will which had 
 forbidden his daughter to marry without 
 her guardian's consent till she came of age, 
 made no sign. 
 
 A few days later the Villa Balbi was 
 deserted. Strangers had come ; but they 
 had gone again, leaving one behind. Si- 
 lence reigned through the empty rooms. 
 Memories haunted them ; but those to 
 whom those memories were dear were far 
 away. The moon looked down upon the 
 pretty garden, and crept stealthily, as of 
 old, through the dim, shadowy alleys : but 
 the alleys were deserted now ; no footsteps 
 echoed along them ; no tender whispers 
 stole through the trees. Hopes and fears, 
 passions and clashing interests, all alike had 
 fled. Death had passed on his solemn way, 
 and had left his cold, marble touch behind. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 AT last, however, even Mr. O'Neil be- 
 gan to lose patience, or, to speak more 
 correctly, to grow a little alarmed. Ethel 
 had now been with them two months : spring 
 had deepened into summer, and there was 
 as yet no sign of the resuscitation for 
 which they were all so anxiously watching. 
 " What is the matter with her, doctor ? " 
 
 he one day inquired of Dr. O'Toole, the 
 family friend and physician, who seldom 
 let a day go by without a call at Mount 
 Druid, and, on the rare occasions when he 
 ventured to do so, was invariably sent for, 
 on some pretext or other, by Mrs. O'Neil. 
 
 Dr. O'Toole was an honest man, and 
 was not in the habit of inventing diseases 
 to account for perplexing symptoms. And 
 so now he replied with the utmost candor, 
 " I give you my word, sir, that I don't know 
 what the matter with the girl is. Nothing 
 in the world, I'd take my oath. But, for 
 all that, she'll go off in decline if this 
 work goes on much longer," he announced, 
 taking a copious pinch of snuff. Mr. 
 O'Neil started violently. " Decline I " he 
 repeated. " Doctor, you are not serious V " 
 
 " Upon my word, sir, I am. At her age, 
 chits of girls fall into decline as readily as 
 they fall in love ; that is, when there are 
 any predisposing causes. And the mother, 
 I hear, died ef something of the sort. If 
 the child won't eat or drink, or stir herself 
 up, or do any thing from morning till night 
 but mope and piiie, the end of it will be, as 
 sure as my name is John O'Toole, that 
 she'll mope and pine herself into the next 
 world before a twelvemonth." And Dr. 
 O'Toole gave an emphatic thump to the 
 floor, with the stout stick which was his 
 invariable companion. 
 
 " What is to be done ? " Mr. O'Neil pres- 
 ently inquired in dismay. 
 
 " Stick pins into her," said the doctor 
 curtly. " They'd do her a world of good." 
 
 " Let us be serious, doctor, for Heaven's 
 sake. What is to be done really ? Ought 
 she to be sent away ? Perhaps travelling, 
 or change, or " — 
 
 " Bosh, sir ! " interrupted the doctor. 
 " Has she not been travelling and changing, 
 and gadding about the world ? These new- 
 fangled notions of travelling and changing 
 are great humbug, to my mind. Much 
 travelling and change our grandmothers 
 got, indeed I " he went on vehemently ; " and 
 a finer lot of women it would be hard to 
 find on the face of the earth, — worth twenty 
 of your slim, puny, tight-laced girls of the 
 present day. No, sir I I say that any girl 
 that can't thrive in the splendid air of 
 Mount Druid, and into whose cheeks the 
 Atlantic breezes don't blow as fine a pair 
 of roses as you'd see in a day's walk, — I 
 say that that girl is " — 
 
 " Is what 'I " Mr. O'Neil inquired, as the 
 worthy man paused, at a loss tor a word. 
 
 " Is a mystery beyond me. I give it up." 
 
 " Nonsense 1 " said Mr. O'Neil rather 
 sharply. " Doctor, you are croaking. The 
 poor child is only fretting.' It is too soon 
 
92 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 to expect her to have recovered the terrible 
 shock she received," he added kindly. 
 
 " True eaough, sir, — true enough. I am 
 not disputing mat point. I am only giving 
 it as my opinion, that, if she goes on fretting 
 at this rate, I'll not answer for the conse- 
 quences. Can't you rouse her up a bit? "^ 
 he inquired. " I am always telling Mrs. 
 O'Neil that she ought to give her a sound 
 scolding, instead of this perpetual petting 
 and pitying work that goes on. It would 
 be better that the girl should feel angry 
 than that she should feel nothing at all. 
 Now, sir, you, as her guardian, ought to 
 speak seriously to her. Upon my word 
 you ought," concluded the doctor solemnly, 
 as he rose to depart. 
 
 "As if I could — as if I would in the 
 very least know what to say to her," Mr. 
 O'Neil said ruefully. Then he laughed. 
 " I should be a bad hand at scolding, 
 doctor." 
 
 " Scolding pretty girls, you mean, eh, 
 Arthur?" said Dr. ,0'Toole with a sly 
 wink. " There is another idea I have got," 
 he went on with a still more emphatic 
 wink. " There is young Redfern now, as 
 find a young man as there is in the country. 
 Supposing we set about making a match 
 between them. It sometimes happens, that, 
 when old fogies like me are at their wits' 
 ends, young sparks can see what's wrong, 
 and set it right in a twinkling. I have 
 known more than one case like this," he 
 concluded solemnly, "cured by a lover. 
 Now, what do you say to that, sir ? " 
 
 " I say that — that it is much too soon 
 for any thing of the sort," replied Mr. 
 O'Neil promptly and with considerable 
 dryness. "Miss Mildmay is not thinking 
 of lovers just now. She is thinking of her 
 father." 
 
 " Yes. But she ought not to be let think 
 about him, — in this way I mean. The man 
 is dead and buried, and there is no help for 
 it. It is her mind, sir, that is diseased, — 
 diseased and morbid ; and it is for that the 
 remedy is to be got. Besides, are you 
 quite sure that it is only of her father that 
 she is thinking ? " inquired the doctor with 
 a shrewd look. 
 
 A sharp expression of pain crossed Mr. 
 O'Neil's face. " You mean that she is, 
 perhaps, grieving over that unfortunate 
 affair Y " he observed shortly. " I can't 
 give you information on the suigect, doctor. 
 Miss Mildmay does not favor me with any 
 tender confidences." 
 
 " Hum," said the doctor thoughtfully. 
 " There is no better remedy for an old love 
 than a new one. That is my experience. 
 However, it is just what I say. It ia the 
 
 mind that is diseased ; and how that is to be 
 mended is the question, — whether by 
 making the girl hate somebody or like 
 somebody, I leave to yourself." 'Where- 
 upon Dr. O'Toole, without another word, 
 made a suddto bolt fnorn the room, which 
 was his peculiar method of taking leave. 
 
 That evening Ethel came out as usual 
 for her walk. Almost every evening at 
 the same hour, since she had come to 
 Mount Druid, this solitary walk came off, — 
 solitary, but for the companionship of 
 Max, which never failed her. It was a 
 curious sort of arrangement that had been 
 tacitly come to for the disposal of the 
 evening by Ethel and her guardian. He 
 went out directly after dinner ; while she 
 remained in the drawing-room with Mrs. 
 O'Neil, who invariably fell asleep in five 
 minutes, leaving her companion free to 
 dream a sad hour away. In about an 
 hour, Max's bark would rouse her; and 
 she, in her turn, would go out, meeting Mr. 
 O'Neil in the pleasure-ground, where, as 
 often as not, they would pass each other 
 by without a single word. 
 
 By this time Max was thoroughly at 
 home in this arrangement. Once released 
 from his attendance on his master, he un- 
 derstood that his duty was to follow and 
 protect his master's ward — a duty which 
 appeared to afford him supreme satisfac- 
 tion. He was, however, too faithful and 
 intelligent an animal to perform it without 
 express permission ; and thus it was that 
 he seldom forgot to consult Mr. O'Neil with 
 a glance, which was as eloquent as any 
 words could be, before, with a satisfied wag 
 of his tail, he trotted off at Miss Mildmay's 
 heels. 
 
 Neither Ethel nor Max scented mischief 
 in the air to-night. Yet mischief was 
 brewing, — brewing diligently in Mr. 
 O'Neil's brain ; while the doctor's words — 
 " She must be made either to hate or like 
 somebody " — were ringing in his ears. He 
 had thought much over them that day ; he 
 was thinking of them now, as he sat calmly 
 smoking his cigar in the quiet pleasure- 
 ground, and looking towards the glass 
 door through which JEthel generally came 
 out. She was coming now. Somehow 
 Mr. O'Neil's heart failed him a little when 
 he saw her. She looked so white and 
 weary ; her step was so languid and life- 
 less ; she was so changed, so cruelly 
 changed, from the bright, joyous, pretty 
 girl whom he had first seen only a few 
 months ago on the Promenade at Nice, — 
 that a great fear suddenly took possession 
 of him, that, after all, there might be some 
 truth in what he had contemptuously 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 93 
 
 called Dr. O'TooFe's croaking. Something 
 else took possession of him too, — had in- 
 deed had possession of him for some time, 
 — something that made the hlood rush to 
 his face for an instant, and then leave it 
 again suddenly, when he saw the girl 
 coming towards him. 
 
 She was as usual going into the woods, 
 and, to do so, must pass him by. Max was 
 stretched at his feet in comfortable con- 
 tentment, waiting for her, and ready to 
 " fall in " as she passed. Mr. O'Neil 
 waited, too, very quietly. She was quite 
 close to him now. But though he rose 
 politely, and made her a little inclination, 
 it seemed as though she had not even seen 
 him ; for she went on her way without a 
 word or a sign. Her guardian's eyes fol- 
 lowed her for an instant. Max's eyes were 
 fixed upon his, waiting for the accustomed 
 signal of permission, which, however, for 
 the first time, failed to-night. The dog had 
 started up, and was panting to be off. He 
 had even made a bound forward, when his 
 master's voice — a voice that he had never 
 as yet disobeyed — called him back, and 
 ordered him to lie down again at his feet. 
 It was all done in half a second. Ethel as 
 yet had not had time to reach the little 
 iron gate which separated the pleasure- 
 ground from the plantation ; and, until she 
 did so, she never thought of looking be- 
 hind her. But, when she had reached it, 
 she did look back, and saw Max, devour- 
 ing her with his eyes, but submissively 
 crouched on the very spot which Mr. O'Neil 
 had pointed out to him. Miss Mildmay 
 was astonished, but nothing more. No 
 suspicion of the truth had as yet dawned 
 upon her ; nor did it for a moment or two, 
 till, having twice called Max, she made the 
 discovery that a higher authority was de- 
 taining him. 
 
 What was to happen next ? Mr. O'Neil 
 felt very curious and a little anxious about 
 it. Ethel herself was hesitating, with a 
 tinge of color in her cheek, and a faint 
 flash of the old, rebellious sparkle in her 
 eye that he knew so well. What would 
 she do ? The girl was debating the ques- 
 tion in her mind, — whether would she 
 comport herself with the dignity of in- 
 difference, and continue her walk without 
 making any further attempt to persuade 
 Max to accompany her, or would she 
 boldly enter the lists, and see whether the 
 dog would not obey her as readily as he 
 obeyed his master. Her first impulse was 
 the former plan. Of late, all Ethel's bel- 
 ligerent incunations seemed to have been 
 extinguished, and the girl was in no mood 
 for a trial of strength. She only wanted 
 
 to be " lefl alone" she tfionght; and the 
 fiery will of former days was, she was silly 
 enough to fancy, utterly crushed and 
 broken. Her guardian was half afraid 
 that it was crushed and broken, too, for a 
 moment. But only for a moment. Her 
 hesitation was a brief one. The woods 
 were dusky and solitary ; and Max's com- 
 panionship gave her a sense of security 
 which she did not feel disposed to dispense 
 with. Poor Ethel was nervous and timid 
 now; and, though she laughed at Mrs. 
 O'Neil's terrors and alarms, it was not so 
 very difficult to' startle and frighten her- 
 self. Besides, what did Mr. O'Neil mean ? 
 What did he mean by sitting there in an 
 attitude, as she irritably imagined, express- 
 ive of the pleasant consciousness of a se- 
 rene sense of power, calmly puffing at his 
 cigar, and, with such quiet resolution, ex- 
 ercising his authority over the dog ? What 
 did he mean ? 
 
 All at once Ethel's heart gave a great 
 angry bound, and she suddenly resolved to 
 find out. 
 
 And so she turned back a few steps, and 
 came a little nearer. "Max," she called 
 out in clear tones, " Max." 
 
 There was a little pause. The dog's 
 eyes were starting out of his head, ffis 
 tail was wagging madly with desperation. 
 He was panting to obey. And yet — and 
 yet; the old love was stronger than the 
 new. Max did not stir. 
 
 JJearer still came Miss Mildmay, then — 
 back — within a few yards of her guardian. 
 " You will not let the dog come with me, 
 Mr. O'Neil, — will you not V " she inquired 
 sharply. 
 
 " Am I preventing^him, Miss Mildmay ? " 
 
 " It appears so. 1 know you are," a lit- 
 tle breathlessly. 
 
 " Do you ? But surely you can make him 
 obey you, can you not I " he asked with 
 some quiet satire, which put the finishing 
 stroke to her temper. 
 
 " Max, come 1 Max ! " she called again 
 and again. But in vain. She was de- 
 feated. With a little secret pride she had 
 believed in the dog's attachment to her. 
 With a little secret complacency she had 
 gloried in the delusion that she had stolen 
 some of his fidelity and affection from his 
 master. And now this was the result. 
 This ignominious exposure was the end of 
 her imaginary little triumph. 
 
 " You see that I cannot. You are pre- 
 venting him coming with me, Mr. O'Neil," 
 she broke out passionately. 
 
 " Some people say that dogs have souls, 
 and I am inclined to subscribe to the be- 
 lief," Mr. O'Neil observed calmly. " Max I 
 
94 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIESi 
 
 Good do^ I Good old fellow I " And he bent 
 down and patted the animal affectionately. 
 
 This was a little too much, and would have 
 roused slower tempers than Ethel's. Hers 
 was fairly roused now, at all events. " You 
 are very unkind and rude. What do you 
 mean, Mr. O'Neil ? " she inquired angrily, 
 almost tearfully. 
 
 " I have been very uneasy of late,'' said 
 Mr. O'Neil with a pleasant smile, and 
 gently pinching his dog's ears ; " very 
 uneasy, indeed ; but now I am quite happy 
 again. My faith was tottering ; for, if I did 
 not believe in and trust Max, I would 
 neither believe in nor trust any body or 
 any thing. And I have actually been black 
 enough to distrust Max, — just a little, 
 — fancy that, old fellow t There, I may as 
 well make my confession to you I I was 
 actually beginning to distrust you. I was 
 actually beginning to feel suspicious and 
 jealous. Max. I was beginning to fancy 
 that a new love had driven the old one out 
 of your heart, and that a young and 
 pretty lady had, as young and pretty 
 ladies sooften do, made you false and fickle. 
 Max, I am ashamed of my unworthy 
 suspicions, and I beg your pardon most 
 humbly, — I do indeed I " concluded Mr. 
 O'Neil solemnly. 
 
 The pallor of Ethel's cheeks had pretty 
 well disappeared by the time that this 
 harangue had come to an end. She was 
 rosily red with indignation. 
 
 " There 1 I knew that you had done it 
 on purpose ; I knew you had," she burst 
 out. " You are very unkind, Mr. O'Neil, — 
 very cruel and unkind." 
 
 " Am I, Mi^s Mildmay ? But was it not 
 unkind of you to try to steal the dog's 
 heart away from me ? " 
 
 " I did not try to steal it. I don't care 
 whether he is fond of me or not." Then 
 tliere was a strangled little sob and a gasp. 
 " Yes, you are very unkind, when I am so 
 lonely ; when I have nobody in the whole 
 world to care for." 
 
 Probably she had not meant him to hear 
 the piteous plaint; for she had turned 
 sharply from nim, and, with nervous, hasty 
 steps, was walking across the soft green 
 grass. But he did near it for all that ; and, 
 after a brief moment of indecision, he had 
 overtaken her, and was by her side. " No- 
 body in the whole world to care for I " he 
 repeated dryly yet kindly. " That is not a 
 kind speech, Miss Mildmay." 
 
 She turned on him a little fiercely. 
 " Who is there to care for ? " she asked. 
 
 " My mother, for one : how can you 
 help caring for her when she loves you as 
 though you were her child ? " 
 
 " Ah, but she does not ; she cannot 1 It 
 is not the same thing : you know that it is 
 not I O papa, papa I " she cried. 
 
 Mr. O'Neil was silent for a moment or 
 two ; they were walking very fast up through 
 the dim woods ; for Ethel, half-blinded 
 with tears, had instinctively taken the path 
 which she was accustomed to take every 
 evening. 
 
 " Then," said Mr. O'Neil after a pause, 
 " you ought to care for me a little, — just a 
 little, — being your guardian, you know." 
 
 " For you V " 
 
 And, though his face flushed at the tone 
 in which it was said, his sense of the 
 ludicrous made him half smile. 
 
 " Yes, for me I " he repeated quietly. 
 " Guardians are included in the third com- 
 mandment." 
 
 " No, they are not I " very promptly 
 said. 
 
 " Are they not ? Well, I am not much 
 of a theologian, and so I will not be 
 positive. But, if I yield you that point, 
 1 am sufficiently acquainted with the rules 
 of society to know that politeness and 
 common civility are due to everybody, 
 guardians even included." 
 
 Ethel's eyes were flashing ; but she was 
 puzzled and curious too. 
 
 " What do you mean ? " she demanded 
 sharply. 
 
 « What I say." 
 
 " I don't understand, then." 
 
 "Do you not? Well, I will try to 
 explain. Will you allow me to ask you a 
 question ? and will you promise me a candid 
 reply ? " 
 
 " I generally do give candid replies." 
 
 "And you promise to give my question 
 one ? " 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 " Then, here it is. Do you consider it a 
 civil or a polite thing for a young lady 
 night afler night to come out, to pass her 
 guardian without a word or a look, even 
 when he invariably takes the trouble of 
 saluting her, to possess herself, without 
 leave or license, of his dog, and to march 
 off in solitary dignity, and with an air of 
 determination which clearly says 'I will 
 not be followed'?" 
 
 " But supposing she prefers, — much 
 prefers being alone ? " But, notwithstand- 
 ing the cruelty of the words, a faint shadow 
 of a smile, which her companion detected 
 quickly enough, was lurking about the 
 corners of her moulh. 
 
 " Pray, is that what you call a candid 
 reply to my question ? " he inquired. 
 
 Ethel stopped short, and turned round 
 full upon nim, looking a little like an 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 95 
 
 animal driven to bay. " I must admit that 
 I do not consider it a very civil or polite 
 thing to do," she said slowly and with 
 great deliberation. 
 
 " Ah I I thought not : neither do I. 
 Well, and that is what you have been 
 doing to me, Miss Mildmay, for the last 
 two months and more. Now, I put it to 
 you, is it very astonishing that 1 should 
 resent such treatment at last ? " 
 
 " No : at least, I suppose not." 
 
 " You suppose not ? But I know that 
 it is not. I can feel as well as you, and 
 my feelings can as little bear to be 
 trampled upon as your own." 
 
 He had begun calmly and lightly, 
 almost, indeed, jestingly; but his manner 
 had suddenly changed. In his turn, he 
 was excited and angry. 
 
 Ethel gave him a fturther glance of 
 amazement ; to tell the truth, , she was 
 a little frightened too. 
 
 " But what is the meaning of it all 1 
 where is it all to end ? " she inquired 
 sharply. 
 
 They had reached the top of the hill 
 now, and had emerged suddenly upon 
 the bleak, desolate expanse which lay 
 beneath it and over which the dark 
 shadows of night were 'slowly creeping. 
 
 Mr. O'Neil did not at once reply: he 
 was looking, as he always first looked 
 from this spot, towards the distant purple 
 line of the Castle Garvagh woods. 
 
 " Where is it all to end ? " he repeated 
 suddenly, afler a pause, as though he had 
 been awakened from a dream, — " where is 
 it all to end ? It will end by your falling 
 into bad health, and dying, ijf you will not 
 try to rouse yourself, if you will not try 
 to grow a little happy again," he said ve- 
 hemently, yet tenderly. 
 
 The girl started. The announcement 
 was, to say the least of it, slightly abrupt 
 and outspoken. ", Die 1 " she repeated 
 then passionately. " I don't care : I should 
 be glad to die ; I hope that I shall die ! " 
 And then she burst into a passion of sobs 
 and tears. , 
 
 Mr. O'Neil let her weep and sob away. 
 What could he do? what could he say? 
 how could he comfort her ? She little 
 suspected then, how he longed to comfort 
 her, the burning words that were trembling 
 on his lips, the passionate consolations that 
 he would so readily have offered her, — 
 how could she have suspected them ? He 
 stood apart ; and he bit his hps ; and he 
 looked at her with gloomy, devouring eyes, 
 in which the girl never saw the slumbering 
 passion ready to start into life. It was 
 just as well so. Mr. O'Neil could only 
 
 comfort her in one way, or not attempt to 
 comfort her at all ; and the silence of deep 
 pity was about the best consoler Ethel 
 could have been offered just then. 
 
 And so she wept and sobbed till she was 
 too breathless and exhausted to weep and 
 sob any more. Then Mr. O'Neil came 
 over to her, where she was sitting upon 
 her accustomed seat, — a moss-covered 
 rock. " You may not care much about 
 dying yourself, just now," he said gently ; 
 " but I care ; my mother cares : for our 
 sake will you not try to be a little hap- 
 pier?" 
 
 " How can I, how can I, be happy ever 
 again ? Don't you know how 1 loved 
 him ? " she asked passionately. 
 
 " Yes 1 " 
 
 " And how he loved me I I was his 
 only' one, his only child, — his heart's 
 darling, as he so often called me. We 
 were always together, always," she 
 wailed. 
 
 " I know it all : I do, indeed 1 Yet he 
 would be the first to wish you not to for- 
 get him, indeed, but not to regret him so 
 hopelessly and passionately." 
 
 " But how can I help it, how can I ? " 
 and then her voice sank. " And if it 
 were only that, — if it were only regret, 
 and not remorse too ! " 
 
 It was a whisper; but he heard it, he 
 must have heard it, for he was ben^ng 
 down over her: and now he ventured, 
 with a certain tenderness, to touch her 
 hand. 
 
 " He has forgiven you, you may be sure- 
 of that," he said softly. 
 
 " But I am not sure of it ; I do not be- 
 lieve it : at all events, I can never, never, 
 forgive myself." 
 
 " Never is a long word," said Mr. O'NeiL 
 " Besides, you must not exaggerate, it is; 
 foolish," he went oh a little sharply, " and, 
 does no good. There were mistakes and. 
 misunderstandings on both sides, as your 
 father knew himself." 
 
 " Did he ? do you think he did ? But I 
 killed him for all that I " 
 
 " Nonsense I that is utter nonsense," said 
 Mr. O'Neil very decidedly, — " pernicious; 
 nonsense too. You did nothing of the sort- 
 He was dying — we all knew that he was; 
 dying — for months." 
 
 " And I did not know it I " 
 
 " Oh, how the past rose up before her' 
 then, — that sunny, careless, inexplicable- 
 past, in which she had been so strangely^ 
 so extraordinarily blind I With what a. 
 rush of vivid color did it all come back, 
 upon her I — the white villa, with the sun- 
 set making its windows glow like furnaces,. 
 
96 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 and the fragrant garden, and the glimpses 
 of the shining sea, and the valley, and the 
 great snowy Alps. 
 
 They all had known itl Mr. O'Neil 
 and his mother, and the baron, and the 
 Delneuves, and Madame O'Neil and her 
 son. Every chance and passing acquaint- 
 ance had known it ; he himself had known 
 it; and she alone — his child, his heart's 
 darling — had been ignorant, thoughtlessly, 
 heartlessly ignorant : the thought stabbed 
 her through and through, causing her ex- 
 quisite pain. 
 
 " And I did not know it ! " she re- 
 peated. And the girl covered her face 
 with her small, wasted hands, and wept 
 again. Before long, however, she looked 
 up through her tears. " Why did nobody 
 tell me ? " she asked passionately i then, 
 without waiting for a reply, — her voice fell 
 a little, — " Did Madame O'Neil know that 
 p.apa was so ill ? " she inquired. 
 
 Mr. O'Neil's face darkened. " Of course 
 she must have known it," he replied 
 shortly. 
 
 " And yet " — 
 
 There was a pause. Ethel's eyes were 
 gazing vacantly before her towards the 
 west, where dark banks of clouds hung 
 over the horizon ; the chill sea-breeze was 
 sweeping with a low, sobbing sound across 
 the plain, right into her face, and through 
 her pretty fair hair. It was a cold, damp 
 wind ; and perhaps it was that that made 
 her shiver, for she did shiver suddenly from 
 head to foot. 
 
 " You are cold ? " Mr. O'Neil said in a 
 voice which seemed all at once to have 
 altered, and to have become strangely 
 * stern and constrained. 
 
 "Yes : I believe so.'' And with a little 
 weary sigh she rose from her seat. They 
 turned homewards in silence, but had only 
 gone a few steps when Mr. O'Neil stopped 
 again. " Miss Mildmay, as your guardian 
 I believe I have a right to make you a 
 question, which, under any other circum- 
 stances, would be an impertinent one : you 
 are, of course, at liberty to answer it or not, 
 as you please. 
 
 He paused, and looked at her hesitat- 
 ingly. Her face expressed surprise, and 
 nothing more. 
 
 " May I make it ? " he went on. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 But he did not make it, after all. " Dr. 
 O'Toole," he said, " told me to-day," sud- 
 denly walking on again, and speaking very 
 fast, " that he feared that it was not grief 
 for your father alone which was m^ing 
 you so ill, but that you were also grieving for 
 something — rather for somebody else." 
 
 " Dr. O'Toole is — is very impertinent," 
 Miss Mildmay replied with considerable 
 vehemence. 
 
 Then the question came at last. 
 
 "But— is it true?" Mr. O'Neil asked 
 quietly. 
 
 She did not at once reply, perhaps not 
 for half a minute ; then she said deliber- 
 ately, " No, it is not true I " and she re- 
 peated the words a second time thought- 
 fully, — " No, it is not true ! " 
 
 " I am glad of it." 
 
 And he said it with such deep heartiness, 
 almost, indeed, passion, that Ethel gave a 
 sudden start of alarm. 
 
 But Mr. O'Neil had. already recovered 
 himself. " Because," he went on presently 
 in a studiously measured voice which com- 
 pletely re-assured her, "I think that it 
 is, perhaps, my duty to remind you, that 
 though, for the present, you are not free to 
 marry without my approval, that is, — which 
 in this particular instance," and he laughed 
 a constrained little laugh, " I could hardly 
 be expected to give, — when you come of 
 age, which will be, I believe, in about 
 eighteen months, you will be your own 
 mistress, and at liberty to do as you 
 please. Eighteen months is not such a 
 very long time to wait," he added rather 
 dryly. 
 
 " Mr. O'Neil I " 
 
 "Miss Mildmay I" 
 
 " Mr. O'Neil," Ethel burst out angrily, 
 " what do you think I am made of ? what 
 sort of a girl Mo you suppose me to be ? 
 Do you seriously imagine that after — after 
 the dreadful thing that has happened, I 
 could ever for a moment think of marryinc 
 Count O'Nea?" 
 
 " One forgets every thing in this life," 
 Mr. O'Neil replied with dry sadness. " In 
 eighteen months, — pooh ! in half that 
 time." 
 
 " But I tell you that I shall never forget, 
 never!" Ethel cried passionately. "The 
 past is dead and gone ; it can never return : 
 besides " — 
 
 What would he not have given to have 
 known the meaning of that " besides," to 
 have heard the strange confession that had 
 almost passed the girl's lips ! But some 
 instinct drove it back, — an instinct that 
 warned her, just in time, that her guardian's 
 ears were not precisely the ones to which 
 she could confide the perplexing riddles of 
 her heart, — riddles which she as yet hardly 
 knew how to read herself. 
 
 " Besides," Ethel said tantalizindy, and 
 she said no more : they had reached the 
 house, and she went in without another 
 word. 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 97 
 
 CHAPTER XXn. 
 
 ETHEL had told her guardian in all 
 sincerity that she longed to die. Yet, 
 when she came to think about it, she found 
 out that this was a mistake, and that life 
 (though just now it seemed to be a cheerless 
 and perplexing sort of business enough) still 
 possessed too great a hold upon her to be 
 parted with so lightly. It was the very 
 next morning that she came to this con- 
 clusion : it was a fine summer's morning, 
 and the happy birds singing merrily through 
 the woods reminded her suddenly that in 
 the world's economy there still did exist 
 such an element as happiness ; and that, 
 beyond the narrow horizon of her own 
 personal troubles and sorrows, there might 
 possibly be a region in which hope and joy 
 still flourished. That they did not, nor 
 ever could again, flourish' for her she did 
 not as yet dream of doubting : it was too 
 soon for that. But as in bodily illness a 
 great step towards recovery is made when 
 the invalid first recollects the fact that 
 there is a world beyond the world contained 
 within the walls of his sick-room, so in 
 diseases of the heart and mind, when we 
 once recognize, that, outside the tiny circle 
 of feelings and sensations of which we 
 ourselves are the axis, many other circles 
 are ceaselessly revolving, our friends may 
 congratulate themselves, and confidently 
 trust that we are improving. 
 
 Ethel was nineteen and a pretty girl ; and 
 so it is not to be wondered at that a glance 
 in her mirror was the immediate cause of 
 the little shock which produced this sudden 
 revolution in her sentiments about dying. 
 The girl had not had many sins of vanity 
 of which to accuse herself of late : others 
 had seen clearly enough how pale and worn 
 and altered she was looking ; but she herself 
 had seen nothing of it at all, or, at all 
 events, the spectacle had made no manner 
 of impression on her mind. Her beauty 
 had become a matter of no importance to 
 her, at least so she thought. It might die 
 and be decently buried, and not a tear 
 could be spared to shed over its grave. 
 
 To-day, however, something liSe a vague, 
 regretful alarm started into life within her 
 as she looked into the glass, and saw her 
 visage reflected there. Ethel was at all 
 times a frail, delicate-looking girl, whom 
 grief did not become half as well as joy ; 
 and now, when she saw the work which 
 grief had wrought, — the white, thin cheeks, 
 the dark rings under the eyes, and the 
 cloudy, listless expression of those same 
 sweet eyes, of whose power she had- been 
 
 but a little while ago so proud, — she turned 
 abruptly away, from the dolorous contem- 
 plation with a sharp sense of melancholy 
 irritation, which was rather a startling 
 contradiction to the stony indifierence she 
 professed. 
 
 " I am pretty no longer," she thought to 
 herself. " Where can it all have gone to ? " 
 And then she looked timorously and a little 
 shyly again, searching anxiously for the 
 charms which had been so often reflected 
 back into her laughing eyes. 
 
 " I am pretty no longer," she concluded 
 solemnly after a moment or two of grave, 
 intent observation ; and it must be con- 
 fessed that Ethel was not stoical enough to 
 come to the conclusion without experiencing 
 a very sharp and decided pang of regret. 
 
 At nineteen, however, despair is a rare 
 and incongruous vice. Perhaps Ethel, in 
 spite of the important decision which she 
 had just come to, did not as yet utterly 
 despair. Perhaps it was because some 
 spark of hope still lingered within^Jier, that, 
 a day or two afterwards, she astonished 
 them all by suddenly appearing equipped 
 in riding-gear. 
 
 " I am goinw to ride," she announced 
 laconically. "They have put my saddle on 
 the bay pony, and I am going to try how he 
 will carry me." 
 
 Now, Miss Mildmay 's riding had been, it 
 must be known, a stone of contention at 
 Mount Druid. Dr. O'Toole had ordered 
 riding, and her guardian had counselled it. 
 Exercise of some sort, it had been decreed, 
 was necessary for the girl's health; and 
 riding was the exercise she was most ac- 
 customed to : but no orders or entreaties 
 had availed to induce her to resume it. 
 The very fact of its having been such a 
 pleasant habit in the old life had made it 
 seem impossible to her to ride without the 
 companionship which could never be hers 
 again. 
 
 And so she had obstinately refused to 
 ride till to-day, when those who took an 
 interest in her had given the matter up as 
 hopeless, and had ceased to importune her 
 on the subject. 
 
 " I am going to try how the bay pony 
 will carry me," she informed Mr. O'Neil, 
 meeting him by chance on the staircase, 
 and looking at him with an unconcerned 
 air, as though the proceeding were the 
 most natural one in the world. 
 
 " Indeed ! are you ? " He was betrayed 
 into a momentary eagerness ; but he recov- 
 ered his composure at once. " Tinker will 
 carry you well enough," he went on coolly. 
 "He ought to be pretty well trained by 
 this time." 
 
98 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES, 
 
 Mr. O'Neil was certainly qualified to 
 give an opinion on the matter, since Tin- 
 ker's training had been prosecuted under his 
 own careful supervision. Ethel had one 
 day, a month ago, chanced to say, when 
 they were urging her to ride, that, if she 
 rode at all, she would like to mount a quiet 
 pony upon which it would be sate for her 
 to go about alone; and her guardian had at 
 once searched for such an animal, and, not 
 having been able to find the perfection he 
 required ready-made, had diligently set 
 about making it. The result was Tinker, 
 — not exactly perhaps, as yet, the perfec- 
 tion which he would have wished, hut still 
 near enough to it for him to make no oppo- 
 sition to his ward's sudden fancy. 
 
 " Tinker ought to be pretty well trained 
 by this time," he said ; and Miss Mildmay 
 passed him by without vouchsafing him a 
 single word of thanks for the thoughtful 
 kindness which had been so eagerly ready 
 to gratify her slightest wish. 
 
 The ride that day was a success. Tinker 
 distinguished himself, and proved a " dar- 
 ling." At least, so Ethel declared, coming 
 in after a while with some of the old color 
 in her cheeks and the old sparkle in her 
 eyes, which made Mrs. O'Neil coo with de- 
 ligi:t, and tell her that she looked a differ- 
 ent girl. " You must ride every day now, 
 child," she said. " I will not let you off a 
 sinile one. It is the best thing in the 
 world for you, and so Dr. O'Toole has said 
 all along." Ce n'est qui le premier pas qui 
 coA'e. . Persuasion was not further needed. 
 Every day Tinker became a greater favor- 
 ite, — not because he turned out, on closer 
 acquaintance, to be the model animal which 
 Mr. O'Neil would have selected, for he was 
 no lamb, but, on the contrary, a spirited 
 little horse, which required a good nerve 
 and clever management ; but, the Rubicon 
 once crossed, Ethel found, and was proud 
 to 'find, that she could ride as well as of old, 
 and was glad that Tinker should give her 
 something to do, instead of allowing her to 
 fall asleep on his back. 
 
 And so she voted him a darling, and 
 rode him daily, and permitted him to carry 
 her over ditches and hedges in a manner 
 which delighted the hearts of the specta- 
 tors ; viz., the countless hangers-on of 
 Mount Druid. Those were the sort of 
 rides sh^ took, — more schooling than rid- 
 ing. Every day Tinker, amidst enthusias- 
 tic applause, accomplished some feat greater 
 than the day before ; and Ethel, without 
 vanity, might flatter herself that she was 
 developing into a first-rate horsewoman. 
 
 Mr. O'Neil made no objection. He some- 
 times rode himself, but long, distant rides, 
 
 upon which Ethel evinced no inclination to 
 accompany him. 
 
 " The roads are so stupid and dull, I 
 should be bored to death," she had indeed 
 candidly replied upon one occasion when 
 he had proposed something of the sort. 
 And her guardian had carelessly laughed, 
 and had acknowledged that she was quite 
 right, and that she probably would be 
 bored to death, and had not made the 
 faintest attempt to alter her determina- 
 tion. 
 
 Perhaps Ethel was a little surprised and 
 piqued by his indifference ; for a day or two 
 afterwards she dropped in his presence a 
 faint, a very faint hint, that some day she 
 would rather like to ride over to Castle 
 Garvagh, and see how the place looked in 
 this beautiful summer weather. But the 
 observation was made to apparently insen- 
 sible ears, and elicited no remarks. 
 
 Miss Mildmay pondered over this little 
 incident with some angry perplexity ; and, 
 being a girl of spirit, it gave birth to one 
 of the sudden resolves of which she was so 
 fond. "Don't mind me. I will take Tinker 
 out on the road for a little to-day," she in- 
 formed the old coachman who generally 
 accompanied her on foot to superintend the 
 jumping, and who was, by Mr. O'Neil's or- 
 ders, always within hail in case he should 
 be required. 
 
 " But the master, miss " — objected the 
 old man. 
 
 " Well, and what of the master ? " 
 
 " He'll be mortal angry if he knows that 
 I have let you outside of the demesne by 
 yourself, miss. He has told me over and 
 over again to be very careful." 
 
 " Has he ? " 
 
 It was all the remark which the young 
 lady vouchsafed. The next moment Tinker 
 was cantering away in the direction of 
 Castle Garvagh. 
 
 It was more than an hour's fast riding, 
 and was, to say the least of it, considering 
 the distance, and the desolate country, and 
 the bourne in view, rather an adventurous 
 undertaking for a solitary lady. But Ethel, 
 as we know, liked adventurous undertakings. 
 The road was new to her. She had never 
 taken it before. But an inquiry or two to 
 a gaping and amazed native remedied her 
 ignorance ; and, without the smallest inci- 
 dent worth recording, she in due time found 
 herself before the great gate of Castle 
 Garvagh. 
 
 This same gate had been the object of 
 her ride, and she had never contemplated 
 the boldness of penetrating beyond it. But 
 now that she had reached it, and found it 
 temptingly open, and saw the long straight 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 99 
 
 avenue lined on either side by rows of ^reat, 
 noble trees, she could not be herself, and 
 not feel a strong, very strong desire to go a 
 little farther. Tinker, too, seemed to be of 
 the same way of thinking. The broad belts 
 of sofl turf at the foot of the trees, no doubt, 
 looked inviting after the hard road to which 
 lie was so little accustomed. Grass was more 
 to his liking than limestone. It required 
 no urging upon his mistress's part to induce 
 him to pass through the high-arched gate- 
 way, and to rest and cool his weary little 
 feet upon the pleasant sward : up they went, 
 
 — slowly at first, then more quickly. Ethel's 
 heart was beating fast, faster than for a 
 long, long while. This was Castle Garvagh ! 
 
 — that strange, mysterious' Castle Garvagh 
 of which she had heard and thought so 
 much. She was within, actually ^within, the 
 enchanted region over which hung the spell 
 of so many conflicting hopes and interests. 
 She could scarcely believe it;, It seemed 
 much more like a fantastic dream than the 
 sober truth, that she, Ethel Mildmay, the 
 story of whose life had become so closely 
 mingled with, the strange stoiy of the 
 O'Neils of Castle Garvagh, should now at 
 last be gazing upon the old place, which, in 
 its silent, solemn desolation, was such a 
 startling contrast to the din of angry pas- 
 sions of which it was the object. 
 
 For it was strangely, solemnly desolate. 
 Somehow Ethel felt her spirit sink, and a 
 sort of painful awe creep over her, as she 
 drew nearer and nearer to the great pile of 
 gray buildings, which was the house, — not 
 a castle, in spite of its name ; for the castle 
 had been burnt in '98, and its ruins only re- 
 mained ; and this wUs a square, graceless 
 building, the vast size of which alone made 
 it imposing. 
 
 She was right opposite to it now. All the 
 long rows of tall, blank windows were 
 staring at her fixedly. Not a soul was vis- 
 ible. Hardly a sound was audible. No 
 smoke escaped from one of the many chim- 
 neys. The place looked absolutely unin- 
 habited. It looked and felt under a curse, 
 Ethel thought, with a shudder. The girl 
 never forgot that first view of Castle Gar- 
 vagh. The day, which two hours ago had 
 been bright and unusually warm, had be- 
 come now sultry and overcast. Leaden 
 clouds were gathering slowly together. 
 This morning the weather-wise had foretold 
 that thunder was not far away ; and now 
 the air was heavy with thunder, and the 
 peculiar hush which generally precedes it 
 seemed to be hanging over the darkened 
 earth. It seemed as though something 
 were coming, and that nature was in ex- 
 pectancy ; and even at that very moment 
 
 when Ethel paused right in front of those 
 countless, gaping windows it came, — a loud, 
 fearful peal, which seemed to break right 
 over her head. 
 
 What happened after that ? Ethel never 
 distinctly knew. In a vague manner she 
 knew that Tinker, whose reins she had been 
 loosely and carelessly holding, gave a sud- 
 den plunge which almost threw her out of 
 the saddle, and bolted over a steep narrow 
 bridge, which spanned a sort of moat that 
 seemed to surround the house. There was 
 a moment's interval, during which she was 
 trying with Vain desperation to recover her 
 seat, and to regain possession of the reins, 
 which now were lost utterly ; while Tinker 
 was madly rushing, as it seemed to her, right 
 into the great stone-fronted house before 
 him. Then she knew nothing more. A 
 sudden swerve had pitched her from her 
 already insecjire seat, and she had fallen 
 head foremost against the doorsteps of 
 Castle Garvagh. 
 
 When Ethel recovered consciousness 
 some minutes later, her first act was one 
 which did not argue particularly favorably 
 • for her sanity. She sat bolt upright in the 
 bed upon which she had been laid, and 
 said in a low, startled, yet perfectly distinct 
 tone, the two words, " Coutit O'Neil!" 
 Then, as suddenly, she lay back again, and 
 closed her eyes. 
 
 But presently, after a minute or two, 
 they opened slowly, and a little curiously 
 again, while a faint color crept across her 
 cold white cheeks. Count O'Neil I — where 
 on earth had the words come from ? She 
 could have bitten the foolish lips that had 
 formed them. What extraordinary train 
 of ideas had shot through her dazed brain, 
 and given shape and color to the first fixed 
 one which had become imprinted upon it V 
 She knew that she had said the words. 
 The sound of them kept buzzing in her 
 ears. But why had she said them ? She 
 could not make it out, — not now, not as 
 yet, nor for a long time. 
 
 In her present surroundings there was 
 not the slightest feature that she could dis- 
 cover to remind her of the young man. 
 
 She was lying on a big bed in an im- 
 mense room ; and a small spare woman, in 
 a close cap and a dark stuff gown, was 
 gently bathing her forehead, with some 
 cool, refreshing lotion. For a moment 
 Ethel fancied herself to be dead, and lying 
 in a coffin ; for she could see that the som- 
 bre canopy of the bed was adorned with 
 hearse-like, nodding plumes ; and a sound, 
 like, that of an organ playing solemn, death- 
 
100 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 like music, was stealing into her ears. But 
 the delusion was a very brief one. One 
 by one the mists cleared away from her 
 brain, and for the second time she raised 
 herself. 
 
 « What has happened ? Where am I ? " 
 she inquired, sensibly enough this time. 
 
 " Xou are in Castle Garvagh. You 
 were thrown from your horse, and hurt, but 
 not severely, thank God ! " the little woman 
 by her side replied. 
 
 " Castle Carvagh I Is this Castle Gar- 
 vagh ? " And Ethel looked about her cu- 
 riously and eagerly. 
 
 " Yes. You have often heard of it, I 
 dare say ; " and she smiled faintly. 
 
 " And that music — what is it ? " Ethel 
 asked breathlessly, as the sounds swelled 
 into a sudden grand and harmonious burst. 
 
 " That is Lord O'Neil playing the organ. 
 You have doubtless heard that he is a 
 good musician." 
 
 There was yet another question. " And 
 you," Ethel began hesitatingly, and turn- 
 ing round so as to face the little woman, — 
 " you are " — 
 
 There was a slight pause before she re- 
 
 Slied. Then she said, " I am Mrs. Irwi 
 [adame la Comtesse O'Keil's sister, 
 Count O'Neil's — aunt." 
 
 " Ah 1 I am Miss Mildmay." Am 
 heaved a little sigh, and, lying bai 
 her eyes once more. 
 
 Not from weakness or exhaustion WHs 
 time, however : as Mrs. Irwin had said, she 
 was not severely hurt, and, but for a sharp 
 pain where her forehead had been cut in 
 the fall, she felt quite well. But she had 
 so much to think of, — so much to try to 
 understand and to realize. Mrs. Irwin's, 
 voice had awakened so many sleeping im/. 
 pressions, had recalled so many dormant 
 memories. It was so curiously like her sis- 
 ter's voice, and like Count O'Neil's too. It 
 seemed to be the one point of similarity 
 between the two sisters. In appearance 
 there was none. What greater contrast 
 could there be than between Madame 
 O'Neil's handsome, striking features, and 
 tall commanding figure, and this small, 
 insignificant woman by her side, whose 
 faee would have been irredeemably ordi- 
 nary but for the painiiil look of intense 
 self-control and patient endurance which 
 was its principal expression? Ethel 
 watched it furtively under her eyelids for a 
 minute or two, but soon perceived that 
 Mrs. Irwin was as closely and curiously 
 studying her. 
 
 " How do you feel now, Miss Mildmay ? " 
 she inquired abruptly, when their eyes met 
 in that mutual, searching survey, and 
 
 speaking in those smooth, soft tones, and 
 with the marked foreign accent, which 
 more than twenty years' residence in Ire- 
 land had not made her lose. 
 
 " I feel better, — quite well, 1 believe, 
 except my forehead. Is it cut?" Ethel 
 inquired anxiously, and with an alarmed 
 glance in the direction of a massive look- 
 ing-glass of the date of the year one, which 
 stood upon a vast and equally ancient 
 toilet-table. 
 
 Mrs. Irwin smiled. " Yes, it is cut a lit- 
 tle : but your hair hides it nearly. I will 
 fetch you a little mirror, that you may see 
 and be re-assured." 
 
 And, before Ethel could detain her, she 
 had glided from the room, presently re- 
 turning with a small hand-glass. 
 
 " See 1 it is nothing," she said. " You 
 are as pretty as ever." 
 
 Perhaps Ethel resented the familiarity 
 of the words and the smile which accom- 
 panied them ; for she rose from the bed 
 rather suddenly. 
 
 " Thank you I I am giving you a great 
 deal of trouble ; and I am quite well, I be- 
 lieve, only a little weak." And she turned 
 pale and staggered ; for, now that she was 
 on her feet, she felt shaken, and hardly able 
 to stand 
 
 Mp«3^win gently forced her into an 
 air. " No, not quite well yet," she 
 
 i9 ; " though you will be in an hour or 
 en the carriage comes to fetch you. 
 sent over to Mount Druid to inform 
 the accident," she explained, 
 but why did you do that ? I could 
 hav^rldden home. I would much rather 
 pi^l^Sshe insisted. 
 
 'V" BuO'you would not be able. No ; I 
 assure you that you would not. You are 
 weaker than you think. Besides, your 
 pony has hurt himself, and could not carry 
 you." 
 
 This was decisive. Ethel heard with 
 dismay that poor Tinker had fared less 
 happily than herself, and that his escapade 
 was punished by a severe injury. 
 
 " Mrs. O'Neil will probably herself come 
 to fetch you," Mrs. Irwin observed, after 
 she had forced Ethel to drink some wine, 
 and that she saw that she was looking her- 
 self again. " She, her son rather, ought 
 not to allow you to take such long rides 
 alone." 
 
 "They did not know I was coming," 
 Ethel replied shortly. 
 
 "Ah!" And Mrs. Irwin gave her a 
 searching look. "You were, I suppose, 
 curious to see the place," she went on after 
 a pause. " Do you know, Miss Mildmay, 
 that I have been looking out for you this 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 101 
 
 long time, wondering why you did not 
 come before ? " And she smiled. 
 
 Ethel colored. " Why did you expect 
 me to come ? " she inquired. 
 
 " Oh ! because " — Then, suddenly and 
 quite quietly, but claspino; her hands to- 
 gether closely, "Miss Mildmay, tell me 
 something about my nephew, Count O'Neil," 
 she said. 
 
 " What can I tell you ? I have not seen 
 him this long time, — not for more than 
 three months, since I left Nice." 
 
 " Nor heard from him ? " 
 
 " He has written ; but I returned the let- 
 ters." 
 
 Ethel expected an angry observation ; but 
 none came. Mrs. Irwin did not seem to 
 have heard her. " You have not seen him 
 for three months ; but I have not seen him 
 for nearly two years," she said in the same 
 quiet, self-contained voice. " Tell me 
 about him." 
 
 " I have nothing to tell." 
 
 " Is he handsome ? " 
 
 « Yes." 
 
 " And charming ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "And^ood?" 
 
 "I believe — Yes: I am sure he is 
 good." 
 
 " And clever ? " 
 
 " Yes : he is clever." 
 
 " And you love him very dearly ? " 
 
 It was said in precisely the same tone, as 
 though she were merely mentioning a well- 
 ascertained fact; but the sunken, dark 
 gray eyes seemed to light up suddenly. 
 
 As to Ethel's eyes, they flashed. " No ! 
 I do not love him at all," she said. 
 
 Mrs. Irwin looked amazed. " How is 
 that ? " she asked quickly. 
 
 Ethel stood up. " I don't know how it 
 is," she said passionately. "I can't tell 
 you. I did love him : at least, I thought 
 I did. But since that dreadful thing hap- 
 pened ; since " — and her voice tell, — 
 " since, through loving him, I killed papa, 
 I tell you, Mrs. Irwin, that I love him no 
 more." 
 
 "And yet just now — just now — you 
 called his name." 
 
 Ethel crimsoned. Ther^ was a pause. 
 The storm had not yet quite spent itself; 
 and at that very moment a vivid flash of 
 lightiiing, which made both the women 
 start, and involuntarily clasp each other's 
 hand, lit up the room. The organ was 
 pealing away louder than ever. 
 
 "I called his name," Ethel said present- 
 ly; "but it meant nothing. I was not in 
 my right senses, and something must have 
 suddenly reminded me of him. Mrs. Ir- 
 
 win, if you are a woman, and have a 
 woman's heart " — 
 
 " I have, though few believe it : you need 
 not fear. Miss Mildmay." 
 
 " There is nothing for me to fear," Ethel 
 said coldly and haughtily. 
 
 Mrs. Irwin was silent. She was looking 
 at the young girl, and seemed absorbed in 
 thought. " At least, you did love him, and 
 he loved you. You love him still, — you 
 must, if you ever loved him, that is." She 
 said at last, " May I embrace you ? " 
 
 Ethel drew back. For the Ufe of her 
 she could not have helped the involuntary 
 movement ; though she bitterly regretted it 
 the next instant. 
 
 Mrs. Irwin saw it. " I know that it is a lib- 
 erty that I am asking," she said very gently, 
 almost indeed humbly; "for I am but a 
 servant. But at least I am his aunt, — his 
 mother's sister." 
 
 What could Ethel do? "What she did 
 do was, without another word, tQ bend her 
 proud neck, and to raise her pretty, blush- 
 ing face. And Mrs. Irwin gave her a silent, 
 passionate kiss. 
 
 CHAPTER XXm. 
 
 BUT the marvels of that day were not 
 nearly exhausted yet. Greater ones 
 were still to come. Before the two women 
 had had time to recover from the sort of 
 little shock which that kiss had produced, 
 a knock came to the door, and a broad- 
 shouldered girl, with naked feet, and a 
 basket of turf not ungracefully poised upon 
 her head, appeared. Wha|: she said was 
 .said in Irish, which, of course, Ethel could 
 not understand. But Mrs. Irwin translated 
 it for her, looking, truth to tell, a little dis- 
 concerted and surprised. 
 
 His lordship wished to know how the 
 young lady felt herself, and whether she 
 would not come down and take a glass of 
 wine with him in the dining-room. 
 
 Ethel gave Mrs. Irwin a questioning 
 glance. 
 
 "I did not suppose that he was aware 
 that you were here," Mrs. Irwin answered. 
 " Some days, the thought of there being 
 a stranger in the house sets him wild. He 
 is very capricious." 
 
 "But ought I to go to him? Is he 
 very 1" — Ethel asked timorously. 
 
 " Odd, you mean to say, or, rather, mad. 
 Sometimes he is, — generally, indeed. But 
 there are times when he is quite sane and 
 sensible. To-day, for instance, you will 
 
102 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 probably find him reasonable and ration- 
 al." 
 
 " But " — And Ethel hesitated still. 
 
 " It will irritate him if you do not go to 
 him," Mrs. Irwin said. " He will fancy all 
 sorts of things. The old man has strange 
 fancies, without beginning or end." And 
 she spoke with subdued irrit^jtion. "If 
 you fear — If it pleases you, I will ac- 
 company you," she volunteered. 
 
 " I am not afraid. But — I think I 
 would rather you would be there, — just at 
 first, you know," the girl confessed. 
 
 They left the room together ; the bare- 
 footed girl, still balancing her turf-basket, 
 holding the door open tor them to pass, 
 and gaping with all her great Irish blue 
 eyes at the slender, fair-haired apparition 
 in the neat dark riding-habit. Miss Mild- 
 may returned the glance with usury; per- 
 ceiving which Mrs.- Irwin said, " You are 
 surprised to see such a servant in a great 
 house like^his : but his lordship is poor ; at 
 least, he says he is." 
 
 " Indeed ! I fancied that all his relations 
 thought him rich." 
 
 Mrs. Irwin took no notice of the retort, 
 but led the way in silence down a hand- 
 some, double-winged oaken staircase, which 
 led into a vast entrance-hall. Here was 
 the organ, — a fine, noble instrument. But 
 it was silent now. The musician had de- 
 parted. 
 
 " What trouble you must have had car- 
 rying me up stairs I " Ethel remarked won- 
 deringly. " I knew nothing of it." 
 
 " No : you had fainted, and were quite 
 unconscious. We carried you up (he back 
 ■staircase, — my husband and I. Not this 
 one." 
 
 " And why the back staircase ? " 
 
 "Because one never can be certain of 
 his lordship's moods. Besides, it would 
 have alarmed him to have seen you." 
 
 There was no time for any thing more. 
 They had crossed the hall, and were stand- 
 ing before a door at which Mrs. Irwin tapped 
 gently. Ethel heard no answer, but proba- 
 bly one had been given ; for Mrs. Irwin 
 turned the handle, and opened it. " There 
 is his lordship. Go in," she said. And 
 shegave the young girl a push. 
 
 Ttere was his lordship ! Ethel was not 
 a nervous girl, nor a timid one. But a mist 
 came before her eyes just then, and a queer, 
 very unpleasant sensation into her throat. 
 There was Lord O'Neil, — a mile away 
 from her still, as it seemed to her in that 
 first embarrassing moment, — sitting at the 
 far end of the room, at the top of a long, 
 long, shining mahogany table, and rigiit 
 underneath a picture, which, even at the 
 
 first glance, and at such a distance, she at 
 once recognized to be his own portrait. 
 
 His own portrait. But could it be ? 
 Could that handsome, dark-eyed, smiling 
 face, and that erect, proud figure, be the 
 face and figure of the dreary wretch before 
 her? 
 
 Lord O'Neil had risen on her entrance, 
 with an old-fashioned, ceremonious inclina- 
 tion, and was standing still, waiting for her 
 to come nearer. Upon all those leagues of 
 brightly polished tables, there were but 
 three tiny objects, — two wine-glasses and 
 a decanter. Ethel kept them steadily in 
 view as she walked, somehow or other, she 
 never knew exactly how, up the whole 
 length of the interminable room, and 
 reached them and Lord O'Neil. The next 
 moment she found herself seated upon a 
 peculiarly hard, horae-hair chair, with a 
 high, straight back, to which the old man 
 pointed as he resumed his seat himself. 
 
 All Ethel's nervousness had melted into 
 curiosity now; a sentiment which seemed 
 to be thoroughly reciprocated by Lord 
 O'Neil, whose dark, lustreless eyes were 
 scanning her from head to foot from be- 
 neath a pair of white shaggy brows. Truly 
 he was a strange-looking old man, tall and 
 gaunt and spare, and perfectly colorless, in 
 a worn threadbare coat, the sight of which 
 made Ethel shiver even upon that warm 
 day ; a wreck, nothing but a wreck, of 
 what had once been a handsome, ardent, 
 living man, but was now little more than a 
 galvanized corpse ; a pale, spectral image 
 of a life that has lived its day, and yet can 
 not, or perhaps will not, die. 
 
 Quite suddenly, but gently, he broke the 
 silence in which he and his visitor had been 
 openly taking one another in. 
 
 " What is your name, young lady ? " he 
 inquired, pouring out with a tremulous 
 hand, that could scarcely grasp the decan- 
 ter, a glass of dark brown wine, and push- 
 ing it over to her. 
 
 "My name is Ethel — Ethel Mildmay. 
 Thank you. Lord O'Neil ; but I have al- 
 ready had some wine up stairs." 
 
 " Have you ? Who gave it to you ? Mrs. 
 Irwin, there?" And he glared towards 
 the end of the. room, where, near the door, 
 Mrs. Irwin was meekly standing. Per^ 
 ceiving the angry, suspicious glance, Ethel 
 was afraid to say yes, and was silent. But 
 the old man's displeasure was but momen- 
 tary, if displeasure it was at all. " Ethel 
 Miidmay," he repeated ; " Ethel Mildmay, 
 — a pretty name. My nephew Arthur's 
 ward ; eh ? " 
 
 " Yes, I am Mr. O'Neil's ward." 
 
 " Indeed I Arthur is a handsome fellow. 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 103 
 
 He ought to marry you : he lueans to, I 
 suppose?" and he gave a low chackling 
 laiigh. 
 
 Ethel flamed into a rosy blush. " He does 
 not, — he does not mean any thing of the 
 sort, — neitiier do I," she protested angrily. 
 
 " He does not ? more fool he 1 Well, 
 now, what brought you over to* Castle Gar- 
 vagh, young lady, and all by yourself too ? 
 You came by yourself; did you not ? " 
 
 " Yes. It was foolish of me ; but I was 
 curious to see the place, and " — 
 
 " And what besides the place ? Come, 
 now, tell the truth." 
 
 " I am not in the habit of telling any 
 thing but the truth. 1 believe that I was 
 curious to see you too, Lord O'Neil ; but I 
 would never have come in, never have 
 intruded upon you, but that that horrid 
 Tinker" — 
 
 " Curious to see me, were you ? upon my 
 word I am greatly flattered," interrupted 
 Lord O'Neil, giving the grl a keen, search- 
 ing, surprised glance. "By Heaven, you're 
 candid, youn^ lady, at all events. And who 
 sent you ? —Master Arthur, eh ? " 
 
 "No I of course not. Why should he have 
 sent me ? " 
 
 "Because he is too proud to come near 
 me himself. Ah, there's a true O'Neil for 
 you, — as proud as Lucifer I Arthur would 
 sooner go to hell than watch and worrit me 
 the way those Irwins do for that scamp of 
 a nephew of theirs — for he is their nephew, 
 isn't he ? " he asked suddenly, bending for- 
 ward so that Ethel felt his hot breath upon 
 her cheek, and speaking in a low, startled 
 whisper. 
 
 The girl was frightened. " I don't know 
 _ — how should I know? I know nothing," 
 she said. 
 
 " You don't know ; don't you ? " and the 
 old man burst into a harsh laugh. " And 
 BO you're not wiser than your neighbors, 
 young lady? We're all in the same box, 
 then. She knows," he went on, with a nod 
 of his white head towards Mrs. Irwin, who 
 stood immovable in the same spot and atti- 
 tude at the farther end of the room. " She 
 knows well enough ; but she is a clever 
 woman, and can hold her tongue. She's 
 worth twenty of that devil of a sister of 
 hers, I can tell you." Then he laughed 
 again, — a laugh that made Ethel shudder, it 
 was so hollow and mirthless. " And per- 
 haps I'll outlive them all yet," he went on 
 with a wicked chuckle, — " Master Arthur, 
 and that young fellow, and the countess 
 (as she calls herself), and Mary Anne Irwin, 
 over there, and that villain of a husband of 
 hers. Who knows I As long ?i,s there is 
 breath in a man's body, there's hope ; and 
 
 I'm not going to die yet, not a bit of it 1 — 
 no, nor for many a long day, though they'd all 
 give their immortal souls to throw the first 
 shovelful of earth upon me." And he glared 
 at Ethel in the most alarming way. 
 
 But the girl was more disgusted than 
 alarmed. " You are greatly to be pitied. 
 Lord O'Neil," she said with a shade of 
 contemptuous compassion in her voice. 
 
 " To be pitied, — what for ? They're to be 
 pitied who see the years go by, and their 
 youth pass away ia vain desires and long- 
 ings. What am I to be pitied for, young 
 lady ? I have lived my life, and have 
 nothing left to hope for but to disappoint 
 them. And that I am doing, am I not, every 
 minute, every hour? Every day that I 
 live is a gain to me and a loss to them. 
 And I have many a day yet to live, you 
 may tell Master Arthur who sent you here, 
 young lady. Tell him, with my love, that 
 I am strong and hale, and hard to kill, 
 — hard to kill. Wishes don't kill, or I'd 
 be dead long ago. But the O'Neils are 
 tough and long-lived, thank God 1 " 
 
 Ethel stood up. "Mr. O'Neil did not 
 send me here," she said indignantly, " and 
 it is a great shame for you to pretend to 
 think he did. You kntm he did not. Lord 
 O'Neil," she said firmly, her eyes flashing 
 with a fire that was worthy of the pride of 
 the O'Neilg themselves. 
 
 " How should I know it ? Don't I know 
 that they are all watching me, and counting 
 every breath I breathe ? So Master Arthur 
 did not send you, young lady, did he not? 
 Then \yhy did you come ? " 
 
 " I did not mean to come : it was an 
 accident, I " — 
 
 But the old man interrupted her, laugh- 
 ing at her rage. " Perhaps you came on 
 your own account, then, — to see and judge 
 for yourself; perhaps you're scheming as 
 well as the rest of them, for all your fair 
 face and innocent looks. But which will 
 you try your fortune with, young lady, — the 
 uncle, or the nephew ? Ha, ha I there's the 
 puzzle. I'd say the uncle if I were you," 
 raising his voice for Mrs. Irwin's benefit, and 
 giving her a malicious glance. " He's an 
 O'Neil, at all events ; while the other — God 
 knows who he is ! Mary Anne Irwin, over 
 there, knows it well ; but she'll not tell, not 
 if her tongue were to be dragged out of her 
 head with red-hot pincers. Catch the 
 uncle, young lady : that's my advice. By 
 Heaven, what ducks and drakes ye'U all be 
 making of the old place when I am gone ! " 
 
 Ethel was standing before him now, pale 
 with indignation. But the mischievous, sa- 
 tirical gleam, which she suddenly detected in 
 the old man's eyes, checked the angry words 
 
104 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 upon her lips. He wanted to " rile " her, 
 and she would not be riled : she would have 
 the advantage of him yet. " The old place 1 " 
 she repeated with cool contempt. " It is a 
 poor old place, not worth the fuss you seem 
 to think that all the world is making about it." 
 
 If she had coolly informed her host that 
 the house was on fire, and the next instant 
 would crumble down on top of him, he could 
 not have looked more horrified and amazed. 
 With a great bound he was on his feet, 
 towering above her with all his great slen- 
 der height, and glaring upon her like the 
 lunatic he was. But Ethel was a brave 
 girl, and never faltered, never removed her 
 own steady eyes from his. 
 
 " Ugly ! " he cried ; " Castle Garvagh poor 
 and ugly I Are you mad, child ? are you 
 mad 1 " And, sweeping down upon her, he 
 suddenly whirled her to the nearest window, 
 and drew back from it the faded crimson cur- 
 tain. " Look ! " he exclaimed with tremulous 
 vehemence, — " look, and say now whether 
 Castle Garvagh is poor and ugly ; whether, 
 in the length and breadth of the three king- 
 doms, there is a more beautiful spot than 
 this ? " 
 
 Ethel looked and was silent; for she could 
 not gainsay him : she could not in common 
 honesty and reason maintain the truth of 
 her contemptuous and slighting verdict. 
 Yes, it was true : it was a lovely spot ; and 
 the little she had as yet seen of Castle Gar- 
 vagh was but a poor preparation for the 
 beauty which now, with the suddenness of a 
 vision, had burst upon her. A green, 
 sloping lawn, studded with ancient and 
 splendid trees ; a vast dark-blue lake, 
 with many dewy islets, green as emeralds, 
 floating upon its bosom ; beyond, crowning 
 an eminence, the picturesque ruins of a 
 great and noble' pile, — what once had 
 been the magnificent Castle Garvagh, and 
 which now stood out in gaunt relief against 
 what seemed to be miles and miles of rich 
 green forest. It was very beautiful, serene, 
 and lovely in the burst of brilliant sun- 
 shine, which, now that the thunderstorm had 
 spent itself, was pouring down upon it 
 through great jagged rents in the clouds ; 
 and Ethel, gazing upon it, suddenly re- 
 membered and understood the enthusiasm 
 with which Arthur O'Neil had once spoken 
 to her of Castle Garvagh. 
 
 "It is pretty," she confessed candidly 
 after a pause. 
 
 Lord O'Neil laughed, and relaxed the 
 tight grip with which he had been holding 
 her slender wrist. Her words were but 
 poor praise ; but the involuntary heartiness 
 with which they were said testified to their 
 sincerity, and gratified him. 
 
 Indeed, it was soon by no means difficult to 
 perceive, that, ominously as their acquaint- 
 ance had begun, the eccentric old man had 
 taken a fancy to his uninvited visitor, and, 
 after his fashion, that he meant to make 
 himself agreeable to her. 
 
 For two long hours and more, the girl had 
 to bear him company, and to do penance for 
 her escapade. After all, when she grew 
 accustomed to him, and overcame her first 
 nervousness, it was not such a long, severe 
 penance. Lord O'Neil, as Mrs. Irwin had 
 told her, was mad, if mad at all, only by fits 
 and starts. His manias were avarice, sus- 
 picion, and distrust. Whenever, for a time, 
 his mind could free itself from these three 
 spectres, which, in the wretched isolated 
 existence he led, grew daily stronger and 
 stronger, threatening soon to master him 
 completely, he was a tolerably kindly, 
 harmless old man, to whom the ancient 
 courtly traditions of his youth still clung, in 
 spite of the savage solitude to which he had 
 for so long condemned himself. 
 
 Of course. Lord O'Neil had a story, or 
 rather many stories. His youth and manhood 
 had been stormy and wild: he had brought 
 sorrow and disgrace upon many, and, in his 
 turn, had been made sorrowful and disgraced. 
 A young and beautiful wife whom he, al- 
 ready old, had, in a frenzy of love, married, 
 betrayed and dishonored him. Long, long 
 ago it had all happened : even memories of 
 these things were faded and indistinct, 
 washed out by Time's kindly touch. His 
 wife and her child had been laid to rest in 
 a foreign churchyard, before that luckless 
 day on which Arthur O'Neil's mother had 
 first laid her eyes upon those two French 
 girls who had wrought so much mischief to 
 her sons ; but it was said and believed, that 
 that false wife's crime had put the finishing 
 stroke to Lord O'Neil's manhood, and cer- 
 tain it is that ever since it he had been the 
 miserable, useless creature we find him now. 
 It was long since a fair young girl, like 
 Ethel Mildmay, had brought sunshine and 
 brightness amongst the deep, silent shadows 
 of Sie old place. Lord O'Neil, unpropitious 
 and disagreeable as he had chosen at first 
 to make himself, would not let her out of 
 his sight now. In vain she tried to make 
 her escape. Together they went through 
 acres of gaunt, empty stables, where, in the 
 good old times of Lord O'Neil's father, and 
 his own spendthrift youth, teams upon teams 
 of horses, the marvel and admiration of all 
 the country, had been kept. Now they 
 were silent, weed-grown, and deserted, di« 
 lapidated, and going fast to ruin ; poor little 
 Tinker with his badly cut knees, and a 
 couple of sorry-looking laboring beasts, 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 105 
 
 their sole denizens. The place was a pic- 
 ture of desolation : not a shilling would Lord 
 O'Neil allow to be spent upon it ; and 
 rumor said, that his trusty steward, Denis 
 Irwin, was as close and avaricious as him- 
 self, and that the secret of the mastery he 
 possessed over him lay in their mutual 
 sordid sympathies. 
 
 A pleasanter spectacle than the stables 
 and offices, all equally melancholy in their 
 neglect and decay, were the grounds around 
 them, the beauty of which no neglect could 
 destroy. Lord O'Neil brought her down 
 to the white sandy beach of the blue lake, 
 which was not a lake at all, but an arm of 
 the sea, but, like one of the Norway fiords, 
 wooded to its very edge, and so sheltered 
 and calm and peaceful, that it was hard to 
 believe that its bright limpid waters were 
 really those of the great Atlantic. Then 
 they went through shady paths, amid tan- 
 gle^ of wild flowers of every form and hue, 
 all the earth smelling sweetly after the 
 storm, up to the picturesque old churchyard, 
 which tie peasantry firmly believed was 
 haunted, and for which they preserved such 
 a devout veneration, that, though burials 
 were no longer allowed within it, they still 
 stealthily brought their dead by night to lay 
 them in the sacred earth. It was all very 
 green and wild and beautiful. Daisies were 
 thickly strewn over the crowded graves, and 
 moss and lichen and ivy crept over the an- 
 cient tombstones, and clambered up the 
 ' tottering walls, and through the broken 
 arched windows of the old abbey. Ethel 
 was charmed, yet saddened too. It was a 
 sad place ; and now and then, when the girl 
 glanced furtively at the gaunt, tall figure, 
 and white shaggy head, of her strange com- 
 panion, her heart failed her, and a weird 
 sensation stole over her, as though she had 
 strayed into some uncanny region, of which 
 ghosts and spirits were more likely inhabi- 
 tants than mortal men and women. 
 
 Yet she actually saw neither ghost nor 
 spirit, though more than once she was half- 
 tempted to fancy that she did. More than 
 once Mrs. Irwin's quiet steps forever dog- 
 ging them, and her watchful eyes forever 
 observing them, startled and frightened her. 
 The woman seemed \resolved never to let 
 them out of her sight for more than five 
 minutes at a time. 
 
 Now it would be from behind a tomb- 
 stone, now from round a corner, now with 
 apparent unconcern walking down a cross- 
 path, that she would appear. What did it 
 mean ? — was it that her master could not be 
 trusted ? or that she was jealous of the 
 favor which the young visitor had found ? 
 or that she wished to secure some more 
 
 conversation with her herself? Ethel was 
 irritated and fairly perplexed by the cease- 
 less observation to which she was subjected, 
 but did not dare remonstrate against it. 
 Lord O'Neil either did not perceive it, or 
 was too well accustomed to it to notice it. 
 
 And so two hours and more passed, not 
 so thoroughly unpleasantly, after all. There 
 was an dement of adventure in the situa- 
 tion, which tickled Ethel's fancy, and kept 
 up her spirits ; yet when at long, long last, 
 the welcome sound of carriage-wheels was 
 heard approaching, she heaved a little sigh 
 of relief, and began to breathe more freely. 
 " They are coming ! " she exclaimed joy- 
 fully : " they are coming to fetch me ! " 
 
 Lord O'Neil gave her a sardonic 
 glance : perhaps he was affronted by her 
 very visible gladness at the prospect of a 
 speedy release. 
 
 " Are they ? Time for them," he re- 
 marked ungraciously. " So Master Arthur, 
 having sent you into the lion's mouth, will 
 actually condescend to come to fetch you 
 out of it ; will he ? Very kind of Mm, 
 indeed I " 
 
 Ethel thought it beneath her to resent 
 the oft-repeated sneer. " I suppose Mr. 
 O'Neil is coming," was all the reply to it 
 which she vouchsafed. 
 
 But she was mistaken. The Mount 
 Druid carriage contained Mrs. O'Neil, her 
 fair face flushed and anxious, but no- 
 body else. The fat old horses were blown 
 and streaming ; old John's eyes were start- 
 ing out of their sockets ; poor little Mrs. 
 O'Neil was all rufiled and fluttered, and 
 nearly screamed with joy when she found 
 Ethel upon the door-steps, whole and smil- 
 ing, waiting to receive her. 
 
 " We thought you were killed, child : 
 we thought you were killed ! " she cried. 
 
 "Did you? Oh, I am so sorry, Mr^. 
 O'Neil I " 
 
 " At least, I did. Arthur said that it 
 was all nonsense, and that I was a fool to 
 be so frightened. Good-evening, Cousin 
 O'Neill" 
 
 It was quite a little comedy to watch the 
 meeting between the pair : they had never 
 liked one another, and, of late years, charity 
 had not increased. On principle, Mrs. 
 O'Neil still, from time to time, paid formal 
 visits to Castle Garvagh ; but these visits 
 only served to keep up the semblance of 
 friendship, and not seldom ended in an 
 open quarrel ; for Mrs. O'Neil, as we know, 
 was an outspoken lady, but little versed 
 in the art of holding her tongue, and would, 
 on occasions, impart her mind as roundly 
 to Lord O'Neil as to anybody else. 
 
 To-day the old gentleman could not re- 
 
106 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 sist a snarl in the very first breath. " And 
 so you've com'e all alone in search of the 
 stray lamb, Cousin Sarah ? " he observed. 
 " What's that lazy fellow of an Arthur 
 doing, that he'll never take the trouble of 
 looking after a poor, helpless old man, — 
 when there is a young lady in question 
 too ? Upon my honor, I did. not think he 
 had grown into quite such a boor as that I " 
 and he gave one of his malicious chuckles. 
 
 Mrs. O'Neil fired up like tinder. " Ar- 
 thur is neither a boor nor a lazy fellow," she 
 said warmly. " He would be glad to call 
 over to see you now and then if" — 
 
 And here she paused, a withering 
 glance at Mrs. Irwin, who at that moment 
 appeared in the background, completing 
 the sentence. 
 
 "Ah 1 it is to Mary Anne Irwin you object." 
 
 And the old man smiled wickedly. " But 
 what can we do. Cousin Sarah ? She'll be 
 throning it in Castle Garvagh one day yet, 
 aunt to the heir, you know, — aunt to the 
 heir I " 
 
 Poor, wretched old man ! This was his one 
 pleasure, his one idea of enjoyment, — to 
 play off one rival against the other, and to 
 torment the lives of all who came near him. 
 To him the future was a blank : he neither 
 knew nor apparently cared what solution it 
 would bring to the great Castle Garvagh 
 mystery. " After him the deluge." But 
 the present was his own at least ; asd to it 
 he clung with the frantic grip of a drowning 
 man. 
 
 Little Mrs. O'Neil actually cried with 
 rage and mortification when she and Ethel 
 were at last alone in the carriage. 
 
 " The wicked old creature! the nasty, 
 wicked old creature I " she exclaimed. " As 
 if he did not know, as if he miist not know, 
 that my son, and my son only, will ever 
 be master at Castle Garvagh. O Lord, 
 Lord ! where, how, is it all to end ? " 
 
 Where ? how ? who could tell ? who 
 could even guess ? Ethel took the old lady's 
 hands in hers, and softly stroked them ; 
 and, doing so, she looked out, with per- 
 plexed, clouded eyes, upon the brown, bleak 
 bog through which their road was wending, 
 and thought, with a strange pang at her 
 heart, of that fervid, peculiar- kiss of Mrs. 
 Irwin's, which seemed to be burning her 
 forehead still. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 ABOUT a week after this, Ethel and 
 her guardian had an explanation. It 
 happened thus. The day subsequent to 
 
 the Castle Garvagh adventure, Mr. O'Neil 
 had gone away, as he was from time to 
 time in the habit of doing, on a short visit 
 to Dublin. But his absence was a brief 
 one, and within the week he had already 
 returned. 
 
 It was a bright, warm July day. The 
 pleasure-ground of Mount Druid was in all 
 the glow of summer beauty, and nestled 
 cosily, like a tiny, gorgeous, fairy-garden, 
 amidst the greenery with which it was 
 encircled. It was a pretty, gay pleasure- 
 ground ; but its beauty only consisted in 
 itself, and borrowed nothing from its sur- 
 roundings. It could boast of no view, no 
 glimpses, no suggestiveness of any sort. 
 Hemmed closely in on every side by a thick 
 wall of verdure, it was like a jewel spar- 
 kling in its velvet case, in itself exquisite 
 and complete, yet lacking the rare fanciful 
 setting, which would have increased the 
 pleasure of those who looked at it. 
 
 Ethel, for her part, lelt a little weary of 
 its monotonous beauty this afternoon. Since 
 Tinker's disaster, the girl had been dull, 
 and had learned to marvel at the apathy 
 with which she had borne the dulness of 
 former days. Her rides were a terrible 
 loss to her ; and already her pallid looks 
 were returning, and her figure was begin- 
 ning to droop again. And only to-day, 
 alas I had she been informed that Tinker 
 would be disabled for at least a week to 
 come, and that to ride him in the present 
 state of his wounded knees would be an 
 inhuman impossibility. 
 
 And so Miss Mildmay felt cross and dull, 
 and much at a loss what to do with herself 
 this hot, bright afternoon. Mrs. O'Neil 
 had pressed upon her the mild diversion of 
 a drive. But Ethel was sick of those slow 
 progresses along those dreary roads, and 
 had begged to be let off to-day, even though 
 a special attraction had been held out to 
 her in the shape of a visit to Redfern Park, 
 a place about six miles away, in which their 
 nearest, and, indeed, almost solitary neigh- 
 bors resided. Mrs. O'Neil had thereupon 
 been compelled to fall back upon the faith- 
 ful Flaherty for a companion, and had 
 sallied forth, gorgeous in her best black 
 silk gown and Paris bonnet, and in a car- 
 riage from which every breath of air was, 
 even upon this warm day, carefully ex- 
 cluded, upon her errand. And Ethel was 
 left with her long afternoon to do with as 
 she chose. 
 
 No doubt about it, she felt it a little long, 
 — at least, she thought that she was going 
 to feel it excessively long. Her guardian 
 was away, and they had no reason to sup- 
 pose that he was going to return that day, 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 107 
 
 Ethel's single uompanion was Max ; and 
 Max had not been in favor lately, — had, 
 indeed, been treated with a marked coldness 
 ever since that evening when he had dis- 
 played such a marked preference for obey- 
 ing his master's commands rather than her 
 own. Yet Ethel was fond of Max ; and 
 Max was fond of Ethel, — very fond, in- 
 deed, it would seem. For to-day, though 
 the girl passed him by without a glance or 
 a caress, and took not the slightest pity 
 upon his consciously penitent looks and 
 shy advances towards a reconciliation, Max 
 would persistently follow her; and when 
 she found a shady spot, and stretched her- 
 selfj as she was fond of doing, upon the 
 lowly (grass, he seated himself beside her 
 with an air of determination, and pro- 
 ceeded to lick her little white hand, which 
 lay listlessly upon her black dress, with a 
 very red and affectionate tongue. 
 
 Ethel could not but be mollified. But 
 he was not absolved yet. " You bad dog 1 " 
 she addressed him severely. " You wicked, 
 bad dog ! You don't care tor me, — not one 
 bit : you know you don't. And you are a 
 hypocrite and a sneak. When your master 
 is away, you toady me ; but, the instant he 
 comes back, you'll change sides in a twin- 
 kling, and refuse even to look at me, unless, 
 indeed, he gives you leave. Get away I I' 
 don't like you, Max ; " and she made a feint 
 of pushing the dog Itom her. But it was a 
 mild feint, — so mild, that Max held his 
 ground, and wagged his tail, and looked 
 supremely delighted. 
 
 " I did not know that you were capable 
 of keeping such long accounts as that. Miss 
 Mildmay," a voice remarked just behind 
 her. 
 
 Ethel jumped up. , She had fancied her- 
 self alone ; yet here was Mr. O'Neil within 
 a few yards, and smiling at her through 
 some trailing greenery which had concealed 
 him from her. 
 
 " Mr. O'Neil I I did not know you had 
 come back. When did you come back ? " 
 
 "Barely an hour ago. 1 came by the 
 night mail, but was detained for the morn- 
 ing at , and so have only just arrived." 
 
 " Oh ! I did not see you, of course, 
 or" — 
 
 •' Or what ? Pray complete the sen- 
 tence." 
 
 " Oh, nothing I I would not have dis- 
 turbed you. You were reading." 
 
 "Yes. And you also seem about to 
 read," glancing at the volume in her hand. 
 
 « Yes." ■ 
 
 " Pray, don't let me interfere with you." 
 And the branches tfere dropped, and Mr. 
 O'Neil again screened in ; and Ethel, as it 
 
 was evidently expected of her to do, re- 
 sumed her seat upon the grass, and opened 
 her book. 
 
 Certainly the greeting between guardian 
 and ward was by no means a demonstrative 
 one. The separation had been, it is true, a 
 short one. Yet, short as it had been, the 
 common rules of politeness might, it would 
 have seemed, have demanded a little more 
 effusion. 
 
 Max, faithful to his " new love '' for the 
 present, was by Ethel's side again. But 
 the girl, with considerably more vigor this 
 time, pushed him away from her, and, when 
 he seemed but little disposed to move, stood 
 up again, and looked about for another 
 seat. " I don't want your company. Max," 
 she informed him roundly; "and so don't 
 bother me." 
 
 Up went the greenery again. " What a 
 terribly long memory you have, Miss Mild- 
 may I " Mr. O'Neil observed. " Poor Max ! 
 Have you not forgiven him yet? " 
 
 " No I That is : there is nothing partic- 
 ular for me to forgive. Only he bores 
 me." 
 
 " Does he ? I fancied you were a little 
 fond of the dog." 
 
 " I used to be ; but " — 
 
 "Would you like me to give him to 
 you ? " 
 
 " To give him to me 1 O^Mr. O'Neil 1 " 
 
 " I would rather not. But still, for the 
 sake of peace, I will if you like. It is 
 evident that you are of a jealous, tyrannical 
 disposition. Miss Mildmay, to which it must 
 be all or nothing. You won't go halves on 
 any account. I see nothing for it but for 
 me to give you the dog." 
 
 Ethel bridled up. " Pray, don't think of 
 such a thing. I would not accept such a 
 favor on any account," she replied with 
 dignity. 
 
 " Would you not ? From me, that is. The 
 present of a do^ is not such a mighty favor, 
 after all. But i will not pretend, to regret 
 your refusal. Max is a faithful old fellow, 
 and I would be sorry to resign possession 
 of him. Still I do wish you would be 
 good-natured to him," he added with a 
 uttle laugh. 
 
 " How absurd I " 
 ^ " Why is it absurd? You can't deny 
 that you are affronted and displeased with 
 him ; for I heard you tell him so five min- 
 utes ago. I heard you tell the old fellow 
 that he was a toady and a " — 
 
 " I don't want to have any thing to say 
 to the dog. He only cares to be with me 
 when he can't get at you. Just now, when 
 he was wagging his tail, and looking so 
 supremely 'delighted, it was because he 
 
108 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 knew that you were behind that evergreen, 
 though I did not. I don't want to have any 
 thing to say to the dog." 
 
 And having delivered this excessively 
 childish and silly confession in sharp, rapid 
 tones, and with suddenly flushed cheeks. 
 Miss Mildmay walked a few steps away, 
 seated herself, and opened her book. 
 
 Mr. O'Neil, however, had closed his : 
 nor did he seem to have the slightest in- 
 tention of allowing her to read hers ; for he 
 emerged from his green hiding-place, and 
 came and sat down near her. 
 
 " There is no object," he observed, " in 
 screaming at one another, and fatiguing 
 our lungs, when there is no particular rea- 
 son for our remaining four or five yards 
 apart." 
 
 " I thought we were going to read." 
 
 " So I was right. You are jealous and 
 tyrannical," Mr. O'Neil remarked thought- 
 fully, without taking the slightest notice of 
 this very broad hint. 
 
 " I dare say I am. What other charm- 
 ing qualities will you give me, Mr. 
 O'Neil ? " 
 
 " Let me see. I can't think of any just 
 at present. Come, Miss Mildmay, relent. 
 I really do want you to forgive poor old 
 
 " How tiresome you are I As if it mat- 
 tered a straw." 
 
 " But it does, — several straws. I'll tell 
 you why. If — when I go away, I shall want 
 you to take care of mm for me, to be, in 
 fact, his mistress " — 
 
 " Go away ? Are you going away, Mr. 
 O'Neil?" 
 
 He looked at her. There was some- 
 thing in the tone of her voice, — a faint, 
 startled ring. But her face expressed 
 nothing but astonishment. 
 
 " Not quite immediately. Perhaps not, 
 indeed, for a couple of months ; but then 
 it is probable I shall go, and be away for 
 some time " 
 
 " How long ? A month " — 
 
 " Nearer six ; perhaps even more, 
 Heaven only knows." 
 
 Ethel was silent, looking down. Pres- 
 ently a smile, but a stormy smile, played 
 upon her lips. " I have tired you out 
 already, Mr. O'Neil," she said : " you are 
 weary of your r6le of guardian." 
 
 He reddened. " Am I ? " he asked 
 quietly. 
 
 "I think you are; I am sure you are: 
 and I am turning you out of your own 
 home. It is too bad I It can't be ! " and 
 Ethel spoke vehemently, and in a tone of 
 real distress. 
 
 There was a little pause. Then Mr. 
 
 O'Neil said very constrainedly and coldly, 
 " You are quite mistaken. Why should 
 you suppose that you are turning me out of 
 my own home, Miss Mildmay 'I " 
 
 " Because you do not like me ; and yet 
 — yet you can't get rid of me." 
 
 Was she speaking in all simplicity and 
 earnestness ? or was she merely acting the 
 part of the inveterate coquette she was? 
 Apparently Mr. O'Neil was at a loss to' 
 know ; for he gave her a quick, searching 
 glance. /• 
 
 " Why should you take it for granted 
 that I do not like you. Miss Mildmay," he 
 inquired at last. 
 
 " Why ? How can you like me ? " she 
 replied candidly. 
 
 Why? How, indeed? Mr. O'Neil col- 
 ored and bit his lips. True enough. His 
 ward had certainly, of her own free will, 
 never given him very many reasons, such 
 as d, sane, sensible man might accept, to 
 like her. He thought of the past. Ever 
 since he had known her, she had been way- 
 ward, saucy, often even downright impu- 
 dent to him. He thought of the present ; 
 and in the present, Ethel was cold, indif- 
 ferent, repellent, yielding an enforced, un- 
 willing submission to the guardianship 
 which had been thrust upon him, and 
 which he had been as loath to accept as she 
 to submit to. The girl was right. True 
 enough, if he did like her, he was a fool for 
 his pains. But, as we know, 
 
 " La ralson sans cesse raisonne, 
 Etu'a jamais gu^ri personne." 
 
 " I don't know the ' why ' or the ' how,' " 
 he replied suddenly and sharply. " It is a 
 matter of no importance one way or the 
 other. I am your guardian, and you are 
 my ward ; and I suppose that we are both 
 mutually inclined to do our duty by one 
 another." 
 
 Ethel looked at him in amazement. She 
 had never in her life heard him speak so 
 dryly, harshly even, before. 
 
 " Your duties do not seem to be particu- 
 larly onerous ones," she said with a short, 
 angiT^ laugh. 
 
 " That is what I was coming to. They 
 are not onerous ; and therefore it is that I 
 have made up my mind that I can, without 
 in any way going against your dear father's 
 wishes, leave you in charge of my mother 
 during my absence." 
 
 " Of course," and Ethel's foot was beat- 
 ing a double-quick march upon the inno- 
 cent green grass and the poor little dai- 
 sies. 
 
 " It is important business that will oblige 
 me to go, — very important business. I 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S EOLLIES. 
 
 109 
 
 shall have to go to America, and probahly 
 be compelled to remain there several 
 months. I — Miss Mildmay " — 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 She looked at him. His face was quite 
 altered ; so was his voice. All impatience 
 and irritation had passed out of both, and 
 now he only looked unusually pale and 
 grave. 
 
 " Forgive me ! " he said. " I believe that 
 I spoke sharply just now ; but I did not mean 
 it. The fact is," he went on with a half- 
 smile, " that it gives me great pain, that it 
 grieves me excessively, to be obliged to 
 leave home for so long, to leave my mother 
 and" — 
 
 Ethel waited for the word ; but it did not 
 come. "Does Mrs. O'Neil know about 
 it ? " she inquired at last. 
 
 " No, oh, no I And I do not wish her to 
 know as yet. I may not have to leave for 
 many weeks, perhaps even not at all. It is 
 uncertain, and in all cases there is no use 
 in worrying her before the time. I only 
 told you because — ah, yes 1 I remember, 
 for poor Max's sake. You will let me 
 leave him in your charge, will you not? " 
 
 " Of course, Mr. O'Neil." 
 
 " And you will be good to him." 
 
 " Am I likely to be any thing else ? But 
 he will miss you." 
 
 "For a while; but he will soon forget 
 to miss me. A dog's memory is, after all, I 
 suppose, not longer than a man's." And 
 he laughed, and sighed too, then, a little 
 bitterly. 
 
 There was a silence after this, — a silence 
 which was, however, filled with the count- 
 less sounds of nature, — the buzzing of 
 insects, the droning of bees, the rustling of 
 leaves, the singing of birds. 
 
 "On entendalt dans les ramures 
 Ces sons qui semblent des murmureB, 
 Ces bruits qui semblent des baisers." 
 
 Abruptly Mr. O'Neil broke this melodious 
 but perhaps painful silence. " AVhat were 
 you going to do with yourself this after- 
 noon ? " he inquired quietly and in his 
 usual tone of voicfe again. 
 
 " To read, I believe. There was nothing 
 particular to do," Ethel replied a little 
 de.spondently. 
 
 " But that is dull work. Why would you 
 not drive ? " 
 
 " I hate driving I " 
 
 " Poor child I You are bored to death, 
 no doubt about it. I wish we had some 
 amusement." 
 
 " No, I am not," rather indignantly inter- 
 rupted. " You know very well that I don't 
 want — that I could not like amusement. 
 
 Tinker will be well in a few days. And 
 then" — 
 
 " Tinker well in a few days ! Perhaps 
 so. But you will never mount that brute 
 again." 
 
 " Of course I shkll." 
 
 " Not with my consent. He has proved 
 himself a treacherous little brute ; and I 
 would not trust you on his back. One 
 escape does not guarantee another. You 
 might be killed next time." 
 
 " 1 might have been killed last time, so 
 far as some people would have cared about 
 it," Ethel said angrily. But she was 
 ashamed of her little outburst the next 
 instant, and tried to cover it over. " Non- 
 sense, Mr. O'Neil I Tinker is quite safe, I 
 assure you." 
 
 " I beg to assure you of the contrary. Miss 
 Mildmay. What do you mean by that 
 speech ? " he inquired, turning round upon 
 her suddenly. 
 
 "What speech?" 
 
 " You know very well." 
 
 Another storm seemed imminent, indeed, 
 was ready to burst. But Ethel, as we 
 know, for all her boldness, was something 
 of a coward at heart, and, as soon as she 
 had evoked a hurricane, was generally 
 anxious to hide from it as cleverly as she 
 could. 
 
 She started to her feet suddenly now. 
 " How tiresome you are 1 " she exclaimed 
 petulantly, "catching one up this way. 
 I did not mean any thing particular. I am 
 sure I don't care whether you cared or not," 
 she added lucidly. Suddenly Mr. O'Neil 
 smiled, — one of his brightest, most genial 
 smiles. 
 
 " I know that I behaved badly ; that I 
 ought to have gone to fetch you the other 
 day at Castle Garvagh ; that I ought, in- 
 deed, to have ridden over with you there 
 myself," he said frankly. " My mother 
 gave me a severe lecture on the subject " — 
 
 " Oh, dear me 1 Not at all I " Miss 
 Mildmay protested with dignity. 
 
 " But the fact is," he went on without 
 heeding the interruption, " that I hate going 
 near the place, and never do go unless I 
 positively cannot help it. There now 1 I 
 have apologized. Will you accept my 
 apology ? " 
 
 " No. Yes. That is — John said that I 
 might ride Tinker this day week, Mr. 
 O'Neil. His knees will be all right by that 
 time." And her dark eyes peeped over her 
 shoulder with a resolute expression. 
 
 " His knees may be all right ; but you will 
 certainly be all wrong if you do. In short, 
 I cannot allow it." 
 
 "No?" 
 
no 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 " No 1 " 
 
 They were looking at one another, and 
 perhaps testing one another's strength. 
 
 " I will ride nim," Ethel said under her 
 breath. 
 
 Mr. O'Neil stood up. Perhaps he had 
 not, at all events he pretended not to 
 have, heard the words. 
 
 "Miss Mildmay," he said very gently, 
 " I have taken a liberty which 1 hope you 
 will not resent. I have bought you a pretty 
 little mare in Dublin, and have brought her 
 down with me to-day. She is a beauty, I 
 think, and perfectly safe and gentle. Will 
 you come to the stables and look at her ? " 
 
 Truly this was a case of " coals of fire." 
 Ethel grew crimson, then very white. 
 " Mr. O'Neil," she said. 
 
 " Well ? " And he turned round and 
 paused ; for he had already taken a step or 
 two towards the stables. " Well ? " 
 
 "Mr. O'Neil. Oh I I cannot — I ought 
 not to " — 
 
 "To accept a present from me. Well, 
 considering ouf mutual position, I think you 
 may, unless you have any particular objec- 
 tion to do so. Come and have a look at 
 her at all events." 
 
 They went together. Ethel could not 
 repress a little cry of delight. The new 
 arrival was a handsome, thorough-bred bay 
 mare, with a soft, gentle brown eye, and a 
 long sleek nose, which she ,at once thrust 
 confidingly into Ethel's dress. " She is 
 looking for sugar," the girl cried delightedly. 
 " She wants sugar, just as my own beautiful 
 Eclipse used to do I O you duck I You 
 pretty one ! "' 
 
 " She's as beautiful a craythur as ever 
 stepped into the Phaynix Park, miss," 
 was the unanimous verdict of the admiring 
 audience of stable-men. 
 
 She was a trained huntress too, and 
 had carried a " lady of quality," as the ad- 
 vertisements said, " with the Kildare 
 hounds." " I have seen her jump myself," 
 Mr. O'Neil told her, " and I know what she 
 can do. I have every confidence in her. 
 Besides, I bought her from a fi-iend whom I 
 can trust." 
 
 What could Ethel do ? What could she 
 say ? What she did was to get into fits of 
 admiration over her new treasure, so long 
 and so ardent, that there was no doubting 
 their sincerity. What she said was, when 
 at last she tore herself away from the 
 stables, and found herself in the pleasure- 
 ground once more, "Mr. O'Neil," she 
 said, "you know I ought not — you ought 
 not " — 
 
 " I ought not to give you the horse ? Wh v 
 not?" 
 
 " Because — oh 1 1 can't. You should let 
 me" — 
 
 " Pay for her yourself? Well, you have 
 plenty of money, Miss Mildmay, and " — 
 
 " Oh, I did not mean that I You are too 
 kind to me, Mr. O'Neil." 
 
 " You did mean it," he said, looking at 
 her with a very kind smile. " But you do 
 not wish to pain me by saying it. Miss 
 Mildmay, oblige me, — if it were only for 
 once. Accept Eclipse from me." 
 
 " Eclipse I " 
 
 " I christened her so the moment I bought 
 her." 
 
 Ethel said nothing ; but she gave him her 
 hand. 
 
 "Then it is settled." 
 
 " Yes. And I will not try to thank you." 
 
 " That is right." 
 
 Of course it was settled, since he willed 
 it. With a dazed feeling, half of pleasure, 
 half of pain, Ethel realized during that 
 afternoon which they passed amicably to- 
 gether in the pleasure-ground, that it was 
 so. With a sense of baffled defeat which 
 was more pain than pleasure, she realized 
 the plain fact, that, in every little skirmish 
 with her guardian, she invariably came off 
 second best ; that, in fact, he was stronger 
 than she was, and that he knew well how 
 to use his strength. Just now had he not 
 carried off another little victory ? Had she 
 not been treated like a child whose crying 
 is stopped by a sugar-plum, and who is 
 bribed and petted into submission and good- 
 humor ? She would not bear it. She 
 could not. The sugar-plum was sticking in 
 her throat, and she could not swallow it. 
 She could not accept such a gift from her 
 guardian. He was not a rich man, as she 
 very well knew, and he could but ill afford 
 such an expensive present as this. His stud 
 was but a very modest, one. His own horse, 
 she had heard it casually mentioned, had 
 been lately bought at a bargain at a neighbor- 
 ing fair, and Blrs. O'Neil's carriage-horses 
 were as old\ as the hills. It had been a long 
 day, she guessed readily enough, since such 
 a costly beauty as Eclipse had graced the 
 stables of Mount Druid. And that it 
 should be hers — actually given to her 
 by him I — the thought was intolerable, quite 
 intolerable. Suddenly she raised her eyes, 
 which, during that five minutes' perplexed, 
 stormy meditation, had been fixed upon the 
 ground. They met those of her guardian. 
 
 " I know what you are going to say," he 
 said promptly and with a smile. 
 
 She colored. " But Mr. O'Neil," she 
 began. 
 
 " Very well," he said a little coldly. 
 " Eclipse can be easily sent back again to- 
 
ETHEL MIIiDMAT'S FOLLIES. 
 
 Ill 
 
 morrow. My friend sold her to me as a 
 favor ; but he would not sell her to a 
 stranger." 
 
 " Am I a stranger ? " 
 
 " To him you are, of course, and to me 
 you wish to make yourself one ; or ra- 
 ther " — he corrected himself a little bitter- 
 ly — "to remain one." 
 
 He spoke" not angrily, but in a tone of 
 deep offence ; and it was easy to see that 
 he was indeed deeply, seriously offended. 
 
 Ethel looked down again. There was a 
 brief, sharp struggle, at the conclusion of 
 which pride was utterly vanquished and 
 routed. 
 
 " How absurd you are 1 and how huffy I 
 and how quick at jumping at con- 
 clusions 1 " this audacious young lady re- 
 marked in an injured tone of voice, and 
 with one of her frankest, most charming, 
 most sunnily irresistible smiles. "Did I 
 not tell you that I would not try to thank 
 you, because I could not ? But I do thank 
 you, Mr. O'Neil, all the same." 
 
 And so the matter was at rest, — really 
 and finally this time. 
 
 Mrs. O'Neil, returning in due time from 
 her drive, found them together in the 
 pleasure-ground still, though it was late, 
 and the dressing-bell had already rung. 
 The old lady was amazed and delighted. 
 It was the first time since Ethel had come 
 to live with them that such a distinct ap- 
 proach to amity had been made. It was 
 the first time that they seemed to be 
 thoroughly at ease in one another's society, 
 and she could hardly believe her ears when 
 she had diplomatically ascertained that in 
 one another's society almost the whole 
 afternoon had been spent. "I found Mrs. 
 Redfern at home, and she was most polite," 
 she informed them ; " and I asked the 
 young man and his sister to ride over to 
 see us some day. They perhaps will come 
 to luncheon on Tuesday," she added doubt- 
 fully. 
 
 Now, Mrs. O'Neil knew perfectly well 
 that the Redferns would come to luncheon 
 on Tuesday, because she had distinctly in- 
 vited them to do so, and they had with 
 equal distinctness and considerable eager- 
 ness accepted her invitation. But she im- 
 parted the intelligence thus doubtfully for 
 two reasons : the first, that, only a short 
 week ago, she had told her son that he 
 really ought to marry Alicia Redfern at 
 last, and that he had very decidedly nega- 
 tived the proposition, as we know; and 
 the second, that iti her clear mind she had 
 laid a deep plan that young Charles' Red- 
 fern should marry Ethel, and that she felt 
 a little guilty, considering the girl's .deep 
 
 grief and mourning, at as yet laying the 
 first stone of the edifice her imagination 
 had so solidly erected. And thus it was 
 that she said with affected carelessness, 
 "Perhaps they will come on Tuesday," 
 which was an unworthy little piece of 
 cowardice on Mrs. O'Neil's part. 
 
 Ethel, all unconscious, heard the intel- 
 ligence with perfect indifference ; but Mr. 
 O'Neil made a wry face and a faint grumble. 
 " Dear me, mother," he began ; " what a 
 bore I " 
 
 " Arthur, you are growing into quite a 
 bear. You must not be so unsociable and 
 inhospitable," reproved Mrs. O'Neil sharply. 
 And then the dinner-bell rang, and they 
 all went in. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 GRAVELY pleasant were the summer 
 days that followed, — bright, peaceful, 
 sunny days, gliding away noiselessly and 
 quickly, working but little outward change, 
 leaving but faintly-visible marks behind 
 them, yet changing and marking things, 
 for all that, in a quiet way of their own, 
 and unsuspectingly laying the seeds of 
 greater things to come. 
 
 Ethel's grief had not died, nor even 
 grown much less. It was there, keen and 
 fresh as ever ; but the shock which it had 
 produced, and which had so seriously 
 threatened to affect her health, was 
 gradually subsiding. And she herself, 
 stronger now both m mind and body, was 
 able to face life calmly, if not joyfully, and 
 to grow daily more and more convinced of 
 the truth of the great discovery she hadl 
 recently made, — that in this same perplex-- 
 ing, puzzling, sad, and sorrowful, yet deli- 
 cious life, there wus something still worthi 
 living for. 
 
 They were certainly very quiet days., 
 Now and then, a visit either from or to the 
 Redferns broke in upon their monotony;, 
 but neighbors, as we know, were an all. 
 but unknown luxury at Mount Druid, and,, 
 except the Redferns, there was scarcely a 
 civiUzed creature to speak to for miles, 
 around. And, by one of those strange: 
 eccentricities which characterize social, 
 life in the country, the Redferns andl 
 O'Neils, perhaps simply because they were 
 one another's sole neighbors, lived on 
 terms which were coolly friendly, but- 
 nothing more. Long ago there had beem 
 some foolish quarrel between cantankerous. 
 Squire Redfern and Lord O'Neil ; but that. 
 
112 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES, 
 
 was forgotten now. Squire Redfern had 
 retired into private life, snoozing away his 
 few remaining days in a peaceful, doting 
 old age ; and Lord O'Neil had become a 
 maniacal recluse. The succeeding genera- 
 tion had sensibly, by mutual consent, 
 profited of the course of events to bury 
 enmity in oblivion, and to renew communi- 
 cations and the amenities of life. But 
 though mutually polite, and appreciative 
 of one another's good qualities, the two 
 families were not what is best expressed by 
 the word "syrapathetic,"and their reciprocal 
 sentiments had never warmed into intimacy. 
 
 Mrs. O'Neil, however, had, as we know, 
 great designs on hands now, and was re- 
 solved, in consequence, to inaugurate a new 
 regime. Alice Redfern was no longer 
 young ; but she had lately come in for a 
 fortune : and Mrs. O'Neil, instigated by 
 Flaherty, who, in her turn, was instigated 
 by Mrs. Redfern's own maid, was begin- 
 ning to become alive to the fact that ner 
 son might look farther and fare worse in 
 his search for a wife. And then why not 
 catch the son and heir for Ethel ? He was 
 a promising young man, good, amiable, 
 well spoken of, and rich : in fact, as it 
 appeared to Mrs. O'Neil, ready made for 
 the purpose. Mrs. O'Neil and Flaherty 
 had it all at their fingers'-ends already, 
 and were busily hatching wonderful eggs 
 together. 
 
 And of course this was the meaning of 
 that invitation to luncheon, and of the 
 many little plots and plans with which they 
 diversified the monotony of the next few 
 weeks. So far as the Redferns were con- 
 cerned, Mrs. O'Neil's friendly advances 
 were responded to readily enough. Charlie 
 was young and ardent, and set about 
 admiring Ethel at once. And the sedate 
 Alicia, too, seemed inclined to smile upon 
 Mr. O'Neil. It was not their fault if the 
 process of hatching turned out to be a 
 rather slow one, and there seemed to be a 
 screw loose somewhere. Whose fault was 
 it? Apparently Mrs. O'Neil knew whose 
 it was, or, at all events, thought she did. 
 
 " Why on earth did you throw difficulties 
 in the way of that ride young Charles 
 Redfern was proposing to-day ? " she 
 inquired testily one evening, suddenly 
 waking up with her wonted vivacity out of 
 her after-dinner nap, and finding her son 
 by chance in the room. 
 
 " What ride ? Oh, yes, to be sure 1 Did 
 1 throw difficulties in the way of it ? " Mr. 
 O'Neil inquired innocently. 
 
 " Of course you did, Arthur, and you 
 are perfectly well aware of it too. And I 
 must say," she went on with a severe bob 
 
 of her head, " that it was not very kind or 
 considerate of you, considering that " — 
 
 " CoDsiderfng what, mother ? " as she 
 paused. 
 
 "That Mr. and Miss Redfern had the 
 civility to propose it, and that — that I 
 suppose all the young people would have 
 liked it," she added with slightly nervous . 
 haste. 
 
 " What young people, in the name Of 
 wonder ? " demanded Mr. O'Neil, opening 
 his eyes. 
 
 " How tiresome you are, Arthur I and 
 how dull 1 Why, all of you, of course ! " 
 
 He burst out laughing. " Do you mean 
 me, mother, and Miss Redfern ? Well, we 
 are mature young people, to say the least 
 of it. Poor, poor mother I " And he 
 caressed her pretty white hand softly. 
 
 But the old lady was testy and cross, 
 and not inclined to be coaxed into good 
 humor so easily. " I don't mean you at 
 all. I sometimes think of somebody else 
 besides you, Arthur. Where is the use of 
 thinking of you, or trying to do any thing 
 for you, you obstinate, provoking boy ? " 
 she demanded pettishly. Then, with a sly, 
 anxious side-glance, " I was thinking of 
 young Charlie Redfern and of Ethel," she ' 
 observed quietly ; " and I don't see why 
 they should not enjoy a ride together now 
 and then extremely." 
 
 Her son looked up quickly. " Young 
 Redfern only bores Miss Mildmay," he 
 said shortly. 
 
 " Humbug, Arthur I " 
 
 " But he does ; of course, he does. She 
 dislikes seeing strangers. She has said so 
 over and over again." 
 
 " Humbug! " repeated Mrs. O'Neil more 
 vehemently than before. 
 
 "But, mother" — 
 
 " Humbug ! " she repeated crescendo. 
 " Dear me ! Dear me ! What fools men 
 are, to be sure I Why, they can't see the 
 length of their own noses." ' 
 
 " What on earth is there to see ? What 
 are you driving at ? Do you mean to say 
 that " — and he broke off with a flush and 
 a suddenly disturbed look in his face. 
 
 " I don't mean to say any thing, — not a 
 word. I only mean to say that — that it 
 is natural that young people — a young man 
 and a young woman "— she added explicit- 
 ly, " should like to be together." 
 
 Mr. O'Neil was silent for a minute or 
 two, his elbow resting on the mantlepiece, 
 his eyes fixed upon the floor. 
 
 " I believe that the ride is to come off 
 to-morrow or the day after," he observed 
 then. " I think it was settled." Then sud- 
 denly, and perhaps a shade sharply, though 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 113 
 
 he laughed, " That will never be a match, 
 mother, if that is what you mean," he said. 
 " Young Redfern is a good fellow, but ordi- 
 nary, commonplace. She'd never care for 
 him." 
 
 " He'll have a fine property some day, 
 though," replied the old lady promptly and 
 complacently ; '' and it would, to my mind, 
 be a nice and suitable thing. But, of 
 course, I did not mean any thing of the 
 sort, — of course not," she went on, drawing 
 herself up wi,th dignity. " I only suspect 
 that — that from what I hear, that they 
 would like it ; and — and then as to age, 
 you see, and all that sort of thing, Arthur, 
 why, they would suit one another very 
 nicely," the old lady concluded hurriedly. 
 
 " Ah, yes, verv nicely ! " and he crossed 
 the room to the window rather abruptly, 
 and remained with his back towards her, 
 gazing out into the dim, fading light, and 
 at the stars, just beginning to glimmer in 
 the pale, yellowish sky. 
 
 The lamp had not as yet been brought in ; 
 and his mother peered anxiously, and with 
 a perturbed face, through the dusky room 
 alter his tall, dark figure. The old lady 
 was indeed troubled. She was wringing 
 her soft, white hands Nervously. Words, 
 were trembling upon her lips ; but, strange 
 to say, she had the unwonted discretion 
 not to, after her usual fashion, blurt them 
 out, until she had at least weighed them. 
 Grave and solemn words they were. Her 
 mother's heart was yearning. All her pas- 
 sionate love for her son was rising up 
 within her. A cruel perplexity was haunt- 
 ing her brain, — a perplexity which she 
 would have given worlds, and was yet 
 horribly afraid, to solve. 
 
 Never since that memorable even! us at 
 Nice, which preceded the day of Col. Mild- 
 may's death, and on which her son had 
 . horrified her by the passionate avowal of 
 his love for Ethel, had he ever allowed 
 himself to be betrayed intp a word or a sign 
 which could cause the old lady the slight- 
 est uneasiness or misgiving. Mrs. O'Neil 
 could not make it out She could not un- 
 derstand — hardly, indeed, believe in this 
 iron will, this stern self-control, which 
 could give a man the strength to live in 
 the same house, and on terms of constant 
 and intimate intercourse, with a pretty, 
 charming young girl, whom he had con- 
 fessed that he loved with all his heart, 
 atid yet to treat her with the coolness of an 
 ordinary friendship, the calm, kindly cour- 
 tesy which his position towards her re- 
 quired. To the old lady it had been and 
 was still the most mysterious puzzle she 
 had ever yet come across ; such a marvel, 
 8 
 
 indeed, that she could not gr;ipple with it, 
 and was gradually making up her mind to 
 set it aside, and to persuade herself that 
 she had, in that confused and dreadful time 
 at Nice, dreamt those wild, heartbreaking 
 words — "And yet — and yet I believe, I 
 know, that I love her with all my heart, 
 mother" — with which her son had, as it 
 were, allowed his piteous confession to be 
 wrung from him. 
 
 To some minds, calm and clear as pure 
 and limpid water, it is easier to ignore and 
 disbelieve, than to attempt to understand, 
 inexplicable complications and incongrui- 
 ties. Mrs. O'NeiVs was one of these. 
 
 She could not understand, therefore she 
 disbelieved. She had watched closely and 
 anxiously. She had waited nervously and 
 tremulously. She had observed first the cold 
 estrangement ; then the slow, gradual, tacit 
 reconcilement ; and now the sort of cool, 
 pleasant friendliness which had within the 
 last few weeks grown up between her son 
 and his ward. And, having observed and 
 thought over it all, Mrs. O'Neil had all but 
 come to the serene conclusion that she had 
 been the victim to her imagination, when 
 she had fancied that her Arthur, great, 
 strong, and noble as he was in her eyes, 
 and who, up to this, had been so despair- 
 ingly proof against all the fascinations and 
 wiles of maidenhood, had yet told her, 
 actually shouted into her startled ears, the 
 fact that lie loved Ethel Mildmay with all 
 his heart. 
 
 Most people, as we know, dearly like 
 comfortable conclusions. Mrs. O'Neil liked 
 them most particularly; and this especial 
 conclusion was about the most comfortable 
 one she had as yet ever come to. Some 
 months ago, at Nice, she had, it is true, in- 
 dulged in some romantic day-dreams about 
 her son and Ethel. Then she had been 
 foolish enough to fancy that the young girl 
 would make a nice wife for Arthur, and a 
 most lovable and seductive daughter-in-law 
 for herself. But time and the course of 
 events had opened her eyes, and altered 
 her judgment. A nineteen-year-old maiden, 
 — her pretty head crammed with stufiF and 
 nonsense, filled, too, with vanity and con- 
 ceit, — a saucy, romantic, silly chit of a 
 girl, was, she had quite made up her mind, 
 the very, very last wife she would soberly 
 choose to make her son's happiness, even 
 if — Ah, there it was ; there it was I 'Even 
 if — even if that same romantic, silly, 
 saucy chit of a girl would ever condescend 
 to accept of such a husband. Mrs. O'Neil ■ 
 saw with despairing clearness that she 
 would not; and being a. sensible, clever 
 woman, to whom the fitness of things was 
 
114 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 habitually the standard of things, and who, 
 remembering her own youth, could under- 
 stand why a girl of nineteen would not 
 care to marry a man of forty, had resigned 
 herself to circumstances, and had pleas- 
 antly resolved to make the best of them. 
 
 But to-night, she did not exactly know 
 why, some faint misgiving was troubling 
 her, some teasing doubt was tormenting her. 
 Five minutes and more passed, the old lady 
 wrapped in perplexed meditation upon the 
 sofa, and her son gazing steadily out of the 
 window in profound silence. At last Mrs. 
 O'Neil's mintl was made up. She could 
 not bear it any longer. Any certainty would 
 be better than this troublous uncertainty. 
 Flesh and blood could bite its tongue and 
 lorce It mto silence up to a certain point ; 
 but, that point once reached, it should and 
 must speak. Besides, was it not her duty 
 to speak ? was it not her bounden duty to 
 utter words of warning and sense and sym- 
 pathy ? 
 
 " Arthur ? " she began tremblingly at 
 last. 
 
 " Yes, mother ;" but he did not turn round. 
 
 " Arthur, I wish " — 
 
 This time he did turn, and came over and 
 stood by her sofa, looking down at her. 
 
 " Well, mother, what is it you wish ? " 
 
 " I wish that — But what is the use of 
 my wishing any thing ? " she broke off petu- 
 lantly : " nobody pays the least attention to 
 any thing I ever say." 
 
 Her son moved a little impatiently, but 
 he spoke good-humoredly. " What is it 
 that you wish, mother ? " 
 
 " That — that you would marry Alice 
 Redfern, Arthur; a good, nice, sensible 
 girll" 
 
 Suddenly, but quite quietly, Mr. O'Neil 
 broke in upon his persistent parent's oft- 
 repeated sermon, so oft repeated that every 
 single word was known by heart by this time. 
 " By the way, mother," he said, " I got a 
 letter to-day which contained — but here, 
 you may as well read it." 
 
 " A letter 1 — from whom, Arthur ? A 
 foreign letter too," as he placed in her hand 
 a thin envelope. 
 
 " Yes : it is from Christine Del — Ma- 
 dame Barbior, as she is now, I mean." 
 
 " Indeed I And what in the world does 
 she write to you about V " 
 
 The diversion was complete. Mrs. O'Neil 
 was off at a tangent. " I must say," she 
 observed severely, " that I don't exactly see 
 why a young married foreign woman 
 should" — 
 
 " Nonsense, m6ther I " Mr. O'Neil inter- 
 rupted impatienfly. "We write to one 
 another constantly, as it is quite proper and 
 
 correct that we should ; for, see, there are 
 no secrets, since I give you the letter to read. 
 I give it to you, because Madame Barbier 
 mentions in it a report which — which may 
 interest you." 
 
 ''Indeed, indeed I " And the old lady 
 was all excitement and curiosity. " Ring 
 for the lamp, Arthur; ring for the lamp! 
 There is not light to see. What is the re- 
 port, thouffh 7 You may as well tell me, 
 and then I'll read it afterwards." 
 
 Mr. O'Neil told her. Christine, since her 
 maiTiage, lived at Nice, — it was henceforth 
 to be her home ; and to Nice the rumor had 
 come, on what the writer said was, she be- 
 lieved, good authority, that young Count 
 O Neil had lately added a fresh conquest to 
 his already crowded list, and was shortly 
 to be married to a young and charming 
 heiress, the only daughter of a French 
 nobleman. 
 
 Mrs. O'Neil was torn in two by the in- 
 telligence. " The impostor 1 the audacious 
 impostor I " she cried. " Here is another 
 fool, or set of fools, taken in by his bare- 
 faced lying and deceit." But the next in- 
 stant consoling thoughts suggested them- 
 selves. " I'm glad, delighted 1 that silly 
 child's eyes will be opened for her, now at 
 least, I trust. So much for his frantic love 
 and ardent declarations. What an escape 
 she had I Thank God I Thank God 1 To 
 think — to think that the goose had actu- 
 ally run away with this impudent adven- 
 turer 1 " 
 
 "Then, will you tell Miss Mildmay?" 
 Mr. O'Neil asked a little uneasily. 
 
 " Tell her ! Of course I'll tell her the 
 very first thing. I would think it wrong, 
 downright wrong, not to tell her at once." 
 
 " But it may surprise and shock her. 
 Besides, it may not be true ; reports are as 
 often lies as not ; and I thought — yes; I 
 really did think that the young fellow 
 was in earnest. If I were you, mother " ^— 
 
 " Surprise and shock her ! Stuff and 
 nonsense, Arthur! The sooner she is sur- 
 prised and shocked, the better. I will" — 
 
 But she paused suddenly. At that very 
 moment the servant appeared, carrying the 
 lamp ; and behind the lamp, with its light 
 streaming full upon her, came Ethel. 
 
 How pretty she looked ! — just then, how 
 very pretty! — her color heightened into a 
 delicate flush by the evening air, for she 
 had just come in, and her fair hair slightly 
 and F)ecomingly disarranged by the breeze. 
 
 Mrs. O'Neil looked at her admiringly, 
 but, not for the first time in her life, a lit- 
 tle, a very little, wickedly. Why was the 
 girl so pretty ? Why so young ? And why 
 had that wretched, uncomfortable suspicion 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 116 
 
 started into life again, after being so com- 
 fortably dead and buried, that her son 
 cared for her? 
 
 " Put the lamp over here, William, here, 
 quite close to me," she commanded the foot- 
 man. " I want to read something most par- 
 ticularly. Dear me ! Dear me I where are 
 my spectacles ? A letter, my dear," she 
 explained with a pleasant smile to Ethel, 
 who, having descried the spectacles on the 
 floor, had picked them up, and was handing 
 them to her, — -'a letter which Arthur has 
 got from Madame Barbier, your friend of 
 Nice, you know ; and I hear that there is 
 some very interesting news in it." 
 
 " Is there Y " Ethel inquired, faintly cu- 
 rious ; but, as she had herself heard from 
 Christine only a day or two ago, the intel- 
 ligence did not quite produce the efi'ect 
 which little Mrs. O'Neil had intended. , 
 , Profound stillness reigned in the library 
 for some minutes : at least, the only sounds 
 which disturbed it were the ticking of the 
 clock, and the rustling of the thin, crisp, 
 foreign paper upon which Christine's letter 
 was written. Mrs. O'Neil, spectacles on 
 nose, was diligently reading it. Her son, 
 his elbow resting upon the mantle-piece, a 
 favorite attitude of liis, was standing a lit- 
 tle in the shade, and with a«dark, grave 
 look in his eyes, was watching Ethel, who 
 had seated herself opposite the urn, and 
 was preparing — as she had fallen into the 
 habit of doing, to save Mrs. O'Neil trouble 
 — to pour out tea. But, though the teapot 
 and cups were ready there expectant, she 
 had not begun operations yet. Perhaps the 
 tea was not yet drawn, or, more likely, the 
 girl had fallen into one of her frequent 
 dreaming-fits, and had forgotten all about 
 it ; for the urn hissed away noisily for sev- 
 eral minutes, and the tea must have been 
 gradually degenerating into a stew: and 
 yet she sat there motionless and abstracted, 
 looking straight out before, her, yet evi- 
 'dently seeing nothing. No: she was not 
 eeeirig any thing, — nothing, at least, of 
 the sensible objects before lier. The men- 
 tion of Christine's name had carried her 
 back to the past ; and there she was, think- 
 ing over the French girl's odd little ro- 
 mance, and the determination with which 
 she had resolved to be happy, or at least 
 contented, and to marry the excellent but 
 unfascinating Barbier. To Ethel this queer 
 bit of practicality and hard common sebse 
 seemed a sadly incongruous and flat ending 
 to an interesting and sentimental story. 
 To her mind it was a dull and provoking 
 denouement, — the more provoking as Chris- 
 tine invariably wrote to her in a contented 
 and happy strain, and had more than once 
 
 assured her that the experiment she had 
 made was turning out well, and that Jules 
 was a most satisfactory husband. " Satis- 
 factory ! what a strange word to apply to 
 a husband," Miss Mildmay was reflecting 
 at this very moment with some disdain, — 
 disdain which deepened the color in her 
 violet eyes, and made her guardian marvel 
 curiously what deep thoughts were flitting 
 through her brain. 
 
 It was just then that Mrs. O'Neil, having 
 completed her lecture, looked up through 
 her spectacles, drawing a long breath. 
 " Upon my word I " she observed, " that is 
 news, and no mistake about it." 
 
 Ethel started, so did her guardian : the 
 sound of tiie old lady's voice breaking in 
 upon the stillness effectually roused them 
 both. 
 
 "What is the news, Mrs. O'Neil?" the 
 girl inquired, pouring out the tea at last. 
 
 " That young coxcomb, Mary Anne Ir- 
 win's son, you know, my dear, is going to 
 be married : that's all." 
 
 " Count O'Neil to be married ? I don't 
 believe it, ■^- not a word of it," Miss Mild- 
 may said very sharply, the teapot sus- 
 pended in her hand, and the black, over- 
 drawn tea running out all over the white 
 tablecloth. 
 
 A sharp look of pain crossed Mr. O'Neil's 
 face, as with a strong effort he withdrew 
 his eyes from Ethel, and turned round to* 
 his mother. " It is a mere report. Cer- 
 tainly it may not be true," he observed in 
 a cold voice. 
 
 " It is true, of course, perfectly true,'' as- 
 serted Mrs. O'Neil decidedly, and waxing 
 angry. " There are fools beyond counting 
 in this world ; and that clever, bad woman, 
 my daughter-in-law, will never be at a loss 
 to find people to take in and bamboozle. 
 She is bamboozling these French people 
 as she has bamboozled many others before 
 this," she concluded with significant se- 
 verity. 
 
 " I don't believe it." It was all that 
 Ethel said ; and then she suddenly discov- 
 'ered that the table-cloth was deluged with 
 the overdrawn tea, and with her lips tightly 
 compressed, and an ominous flush upon her 
 cheeks, she silently filled the remaining 
 cups. And it was the only remark the girl 
 made ; though Mrs. O'Neil gave her Chris- 
 tine's letter to read, and tried hard to im- 
 press upon her that there was no reason to 
 doubt the accuracy of the intelligence. At 
 last she gave it up in despair. Ethel's 
 proud, impassible coldness and incredulity 
 drove the good old lady wild; but she 
 could not get the better of it for all that ; 
 and days and days passed, and, after that 
 
116 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 first evening, the subject was, by tacit con- 
 sent, dropped, and no furtlier discussion 
 raised as to the truth or falsehood of Chris- 
 tine's news. 
 
 It was on another evening, some weeks 
 after this, that Ethel and her guardian were 
 together in the pleasure-ground. It had 
 been a very warm day, and the Redferns 
 and they had, during the afternoon, taken 
 a long ride, for comme femme veut, Dieu 
 veut, and Mrs. O'Neil's resolution had car- 
 ried the day, and produced a pretty con- 
 stant intercourse between the "young peo- 
 ple." It was warm still ; the birds were 
 singing faint good-nights ; the bees were 
 droning themselves asleep, and the flowers 
 languidly closing. Nature seemed to be in 
 a languid, lazy mood : and so, too, it seemed 
 was Ethel ; for, instead of setting out upon 
 her usual walk, she lingered in the pleas- 
 ure-ground, and informed Max, who was 
 dutifully awaiting her pleasure, that she was 
 too tired to stir. " We will rest ourselves 
 this evening," she told him ;, and, suiting 
 action to words, she took possession of a 
 garden-seat. 
 
 " Do you know that I was just going to 
 ask you to do that ? " her guardian said to 
 her with a smile, and drawing near : " I 
 wanted to talk to you." 
 
 "Did you?" 
 
 " Yes. I have had my walk, the one 1 
 
 'believe you usually take, — up to the top of 
 
 the hill ; and I have had a great, long look 
 
 over at Castle Garvagh, and now — Yes, 
 
 it is very pl(iasant to sit still here." 
 
 It was a strange speech, and made in a 
 peculiar tone of voice. Ethel looked puz- 
 zled. " Those ' great, long looks ' at Cas- 
 tle Garvagh are nothing particularly new, 
 I should say," she observed a little dryly. 
 " I do believe there is not a day that you 
 don't indulge in one." 
 
 " Very few days, I confess ; " and he 
 laughed quietly. 
 
 " And I believe, too, that ' Castle Gar 
 vagh ' will be found written on your heart 
 when you come to die," she went on a lit- 
 tle disdainfully. " Lord O'Neil was right, 
 after all. The whole family thinks that it 
 is the one place in the whole world ; and 
 as to you, Mr. O'Neil, you think of nothing 
 else but it." » 
 
 " Do I not ? " he asked quickly. ' Then, 
 after a moment's pause, " Any true O'Neil 
 must be fond of the old, place," he said 
 quietly. 
 
 Any true O'Neil ! Ethel recollected 
 suddenly the mocking gayety with which 
 Count O'Neil had laughed at his relation's 
 ardent, enthusiastic attachment to the " old 
 place." 
 
 Very abruptly she said, plucking to 
 pieces, as she spoke, a beautiful, tardy 
 " Gloire de Dijon," which Charlie Redfern 
 had brought her that day, " Do you 
 think it is true that Count O'Neil is going 
 to be married, Mr. O'Neil ? " 
 
 " You say not. Miss Mild may." 
 
 " But I don't know for certain : how 
 should I ? /s it true, Mr. O'Neil V " 
 
 " I can't give you certain information. I 
 have heard again that it is, — from anoth- 
 er source." 
 
 She was silent for a minute or two, tap- 
 ping the ground with her foot. When she 
 spoke again, it was on quite a different sub- 
 ject. " I declare that the leaves are turn- 
 ing already," she said : " surely summer is 
 not over 1 " 
 
 '• Nearly : we are in the middle of Sep- 
 tember now." 
 
 "Is it possible ? " 
 
 It was possible, true. Noiselessly the 
 Slimmer had glided away, as quiet, peaceful 
 times do glide, slipping like running water 
 through our careless fingers ; and now gold- 
 en Autumn was tipping the ends of her 
 trailing, flowery garment. 
 
 " Then time has passed quickly at Mount 
 Druid, has it ? " he inquired. 
 
 " Yes, it has, very quickly. I can hardly 
 believe that I have been here nearly five 
 months now." 
 
 " Can you not? I am glad to hear it." 
 
 " This time next year," Ethel went on 
 laughing, " you shall have nearly got rid 
 of me, Mr. O'Neil : your guardianship will 
 be drawing to an end. My birthday is, 
 you know, the first day of the new year. 
 Next New- Year's Day 1 shall be twenty ; 
 and the one after that " — 
 
 " Twenty-one and free. What a joyful ' 
 New- Year's Day it will be. Miss Mildmay 1 
 will it not ? " 
 
 " To you, Mr. O'Neil." 
 
 " To you." 
 
 " It would be exceedingly ungrateful of 
 me to say so," Ethel said demurely. " You 
 are very kind to me." 
 
 " A bearable guardian, after all. Leave 
 out the gratitude, though, and tell the truth." 
 , Ethel looked about her, — at the golden- 
 tipped trees, at the sleeping flowers, at the 
 long, deep shadows, at the gray, friendly 
 old house. 
 
 " I am sure that I shall be very sorry to 
 leave Mount Druid," she said simply and 
 earnestly. 
 
 There was a pause ; then suddenly she 
 asked, " You said that you wanted to speak 
 to me, Mr. O'Neil. What was it about ? " 
 
 "Did I? Oh, yes!" But he did not 
 speak, for all that. 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 117 
 
 " What was it about 1 " she repeated. 
 Then, " By the way, you told me nearly 
 two months ago that you would probably 
 go away for some time, — to America, I be- 
 lieve. Do you remember V You have 
 altered your plans, of course ? " 
 
 " Altered them ? Why should I have 
 altered them ? " 
 
 " Because I have heard nothing more on 
 the subject." 
 
 " Have you not ? No, of course not." 
 He was speaking like a man in a dream ; 
 and Eth -l, looking at him wonderingly, saw 
 that there was a dazed, peculiar expression 
 in his eyes such as she had never seen 
 there before. " No, of course not," he re- 
 peated. " And yet I am going away to- 
 morrow. Miss Mildmay. It was what I 
 wished to tell you. You'll take care of 
 Max for me ; will you not ? " ho added with 
 a faint smile, and bending down to caress 
 the dog. 
 
 " To-morrow, Mr. O'Neil? " 
 
 "Yes, to-moiTow. I hate preparations 
 and leave-takings ; and so — I have not 
 told my mother yet," he added hastily. 
 
 "Not told her? Poor, poor Mrs. 
 O'Neil ! " 
 
 " I wanted to save her unnecessary pain. 
 You will take care of her also. Miss Mild- 
 may ; will you not ? My mother and Max 
 — I trust them both to you." 
 
 " Yes," Ethel promised slowly and 
 gravely. 
 
 " And of yourself, for my sake, — for 
 your guardian's sake, you know," he added 
 hastily and with a short laugh : " I am re- 
 sponsible ior your welfare." 
 
 Ethel turned away. She felt sad and 
 sorry and hurt, but was too proud to show it. 
 
 "I hate good-bys," Mr. O'Neil said, 
 " and so will not say it even to you, my 
 ward." 
 
 And with that he left her, and walked 
 into the house. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 IT was a year and more before Mr. 
 O'Neil returned. When he had first 
 gone away, he had talked of three months' 
 absence, then of six, then of nine ; but the 
 business which had brought him to Ameri- 
 ca lingered on with distracting slowness, 
 and latterly he had given up fixing any 
 definite date for his return. For the last 
 few weeks, indeed, there had been no letter 
 from him at all, and his mother was fretting 
 and fuming over this strange silence. 
 
 " Perhaps he is ill, or some accident has 
 happened ; or perhaps even they have 
 killed him," she announced one evening to 
 Ethel, waking up with her usual vivacity 
 from her after-dinner nap. " I tell you, 
 child, something dreadful must have oc- 
 curred." 
 
 This was, as we know, Mrs. O'Neil's hour 
 of horrors. Ever since her son's departure, 
 about an hour every evening had been de- 
 voted to the most desponding and gloomy 
 views concerning his welfare. Kecently 
 they had assumed a darker hue even than 
 usual ; but this last suggestion was a cli- 
 max at which her companion could not 
 help laughing. 
 
 " Killed him ! " she cried. " Is he not in 
 New York V and who on earth is there in 
 New York likely to kill him ? " she inquired. 
 
 Mrs. O'Neil looked mysterious. 
 
 "I have just had a dream." she said; 
 " that is to say," hastily correcting herself) 
 for if she were to be put on the rack she 
 would never acknowledge this after-dinner 
 nap, " I dreamt last night that Arthur was 
 murdered ; yes, child, murdered. And by 
 whom do you think ? By that bad woman 
 Ernestine." 
 
 « O Mrs. O'Neil ! " 
 
 " A fact, child ; a fact I God forgive me 
 for saying it ; but she would be capable of 
 it: I verily believe that she would; and you 
 know why too, for you know all our secrets. 
 If Ernestine O'Neil once knew that that 
 unfortunate creature Bridget had betrayed 
 her ; if she once though); that Arthur had 
 got into his possession any proofs, — indu- 
 bitable proofs, such as must and do exist 
 of her wicked imposture, — then she'd stop 
 at nothing: on my honor, I do not think 
 she would." 
 
 " I thought Madame O'Neil was in 
 Paris," Ethel observed coldly. 
 
 " God knows where she is : sometimes 
 she is here, sometimes there. In one of 
 Arthur's letters a month or two ago, he 
 mentioned that she actually was in or 
 coming to New York, to dog and watch 
 that poor creature to the last, — to terrify 
 the last chance which God in his mercy- 
 would give her to save her wretched soul."' 
 
 Ethel shuddered. 
 
 '■Mrs. O'Neil, I don't, I can't, I never- 
 shall, believe that your daughter-in-law is. 
 the wicked woman you pretend." 
 
 Mrs. O'Neil jumped up like a shot, her- 
 fair cheeks all aflame, and her trim littlei 
 figure trembling. 
 
 " You don't, you can't ! Then what dbi 
 you believe, child ? Do you believe that 
 we are liars and impostors ? or that they 
 are?" 
 
118 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAT'S FOLLIES. 
 
 Which did she believe, indeed ? Ethel 
 groaned in spirit. Dark and perplexing 
 as ever was that terrible, perplexing 
 puzzle. No ray of light had dawned upon 
 it yet : at least, none that would satisfy 
 her ; none that would either humble the 
 pride or shake the fidelity which held her 
 judgment still in suspense, and would not 
 allow her to acknowledge that she had 
 made a great and egregious mistake. 
 Strange to say, long as she had now lived 
 with Mrs. O'Neil, this was the first time 
 — since that old, miserable, stormy time at 
 Nice, when skirmishes and battles were the 
 order of tlie day, — that she had actually 
 been once more brought face to face with 
 the despairingly strong, immovable posi- 
 tion, — who was right V who was wrong ? 
 Upon the day when Col. Mildmay's will 
 had been read, and Mr. O'Neil had been 
 iippointed the young girl's guardian, he 
 had gravely, solemnly even, implored his 
 mother to promise him, that, so long as 
 Ethel lived under his roof as his ward, no 
 attempt should be made to induce her to 
 desert the side which she had chosen to 
 adopt in the preat family feud. He him- 
 self was resolved scrupulously to avoid any 
 approach to the question ; and Mrs. O'Neil 
 had given the promise, and,* extraordinary 
 to relate, kept it, — kept it till to-night, 
 when, suddenly and unexpectedly, the two 
 ladies found themselves face to face oppo- 
 site the impregnable fortress, their swords 
 flashing from their seajibards, their martial 
 spirit aroused, in the warlike attitude of 
 old. 
 
 One, two, three, and away 1 Another 
 minute, and they would have probably 
 rushed into the thick of the fray. Proba- 
 bly, too, the fight would have arisen just as 
 much from dulness and ennui as any thing 
 else; for there certainly was no especial 
 reason why, after months and months of 
 scrupulous observance of the tacit truce 
 which had been established between them, 
 they should have selected this particular 
 evening for a skirmish. Probably, too, 
 they were both at heart more of the same 
 way of thinking than one of them — a self- 
 willed, self-opiniated, high-spirited young 
 person — would have, for a hundred-pound 
 note, chosen to confess. 
 
 It is a calumny often and loudly asserted 
 against the fair sex, that the absence of the 
 male element from the domestic hearth is 
 apt to foster belligerent tendencies; and 
 that it is a calumny is proved by the fact 
 that • Ethel and Mrs. O'Neil had lived 
 tele-a-lSte together for nearly a twelve- 
 month, and had yet never had a serious 
 quarrel. But to-night mischief was in the 
 
 air. The day had been long and dull. 
 Probably they were beginning to weary 
 ever so little of one another's undisturbed 
 society. Perhaps, too, both being of a 
 pugnacious temperament, they had sud- 
 denly become alive to the absolute neces- 
 sity of a break of some sort or other in the 
 monotony of their amicable intercourse. 
 
 One, two, three, and — 
 
 " God bless my soul ! " suddenly cried 
 Mrs. O'Neil. " What in the world is Max 
 barking in that fashion, just like a lunatic, 
 for? Call Paddy, child! call John! call 
 Flaherty ! There must be thieves in the 
 place " 
 
 Ethel had started up from her low stool 
 at Mrs. O'Neil's feet, and was standing like 
 a statue in the middle of the room. 
 
 " Max is barking a welcome," she said, 
 " not a warning. It is some one he knows. 
 Who can it be ? " 
 
 And at that very moment, suddenly and 
 unexpectedly as he had departed, the door 
 of the library opened, and Mr. O'Neil ap- 
 
 f)eared. His mother screamed. Ethel 
 aughed. He himself did not laugh ex- 
 actly ; but he looked joyous, radiant, like a 
 man who is glad to come home again. 
 
 It took a little time to elucidate the situ- 
 ation, — to explain how letters had been 
 written, and must have been miscarried ; 
 and how events had taken an unlooked-for 
 quick turn ; and how a passage in a ship 
 secured at the very last moment had left 
 no time to announce his immediate com- 
 ing. 
 
 " But I flattered myself that you would 
 be glad to see me, mother, whether pre- 
 pared or no," Mr. O'Neil told her, hold- 
 ing her hand, and smiling down at her one 
 of his gladdest smiles. 
 
 The old lady was between laughing and 
 crying. 
 
 " Glad to see you ! " she repeated. 
 " You don't deserve that we should tell you 
 so. Glad to see you 1 The fact is, that we 
 have been longing for you, dying for you. 
 We thought you never would come back ; 
 did we not, child ? We have nearly died 
 of dulness without you." 
 
 " I could not help it, mother. I could 
 not escape a moment sooner. Well, and 
 bow have you both been ';' " with a quick 
 glance towards the fireplace, where, early 
 in the year as it was, a bright little fire 
 was merrily sparkling, and where Miss 
 Mildmay was standing, smiling at him. 
 
 " Pretty well, Arthur ; pretty well. Ah ! 
 you mean Ethel. She has been well 
 enough too, and naughty enough," with a 
 sly smile and wink. " But it will keep, it 
 will keep ; and I'll not make the child 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 119 
 
 blush," she added with a gladsome little 
 laugh, " by telling tales out of school be- 
 fore her face." 
 
 But, as we know, very few things ever 
 did keep with Mrs. O'Neil, particularly 
 those things to the category of which Miss 
 Mildmay's misdemeanors belonged. It 
 often happens — always, indeed — that, 
 ■when people who love one another meet 
 after long separations, their hearts are too 
 full, their nerves in too rickety and unsafe 
 a condition, to allow them to do any thing 
 but laugh and jest in a foolish, aimless sort 
 of fashion, and generally behave them- 
 selves as if they had parted only yesterday. 
 It is one of the aggravating consequences 
 of the faulty mechanism of our natures, 
 which, in spite of ourselves, so often makes 
 our words and actions such a ridiculous 
 travesty of our thoughts and feelings. 
 And thus it was with Mrs. O'Neil and her 
 son just now. 
 
 " My ward has been conducting herself 
 badly, has she?" he asked, laughing. 
 " What is your complaint, mother ? I have 
 a right to know." 
 
 Mrs. O'Neil bobbed her head three 
 times. 
 
 " You must know that the child has got 
 an admirer, Arthur," she announced sol- 
 emnly. 
 
 " One V Twenty, more likely,'' Mr. 
 O'Neil said with a smile. 
 
 " Mrs. O'Neil ! how tiresome, how ridic- 
 ulous ! " and Miss Mildmay blushed, and 
 looked a little foolish. 
 
 « Twenty fiddlesticks, Arthur ! " the old 
 lady interrupted petulantly. "Where in 
 the world would she be likely to find twenty 
 admirers in this God-forsaken country, 
 where civilized human beings of any sort, 
 men or women, are as rare as green peas 
 in November? So you have learnt gal- 
 lantry at last, have you, over the water ? " 
 she inquired slyly. 
 
 " Not much, I am afraid, from our smart 
 first-cousins. But you have not been here 
 ever since, mother, you know. You starred 
 it in Dublin last winter, remember. Plenty 
 of gay gallants there, 1 should say." 
 
 " Yes ; but Ethel would not go out, and 
 was as demure and quiet as a mouse ; would 
 not look at anybody indeed, though we did 
 make the acquaintance of a few young men, 
 except — ah, yes! the hero came after us 
 there, too, I can tell you " 
 
 "Mrs. O'Neil, it is not true," here put 
 in Miss Mildmay, rather vehemently, which 
 was the first consecutive sentence she had 
 uttered since Mr. O'Neil had entered the 
 room ; and, having uttered it, she suggested 
 the advisability of providing some food for 
 
 the traveller, and inade her exit for the 
 purpose of seeing after it. 
 
 But though presently a dainty repast, no 
 doubt called into existence under her aus- 
 pices, made its appearance. Miss Mildmay 
 herself did not bear it company. Perhaps 
 they did not miss her : at all events, it was 
 not for a long, long time, that any inquiry 
 was made as to why she did not return to 
 the drawing-room ; and, when it w^s made, 
 it was found that the young lady had gone 
 to bed, and, from her refusal to answer any 
 questions, was, it was to be supposed, fast 
 asleep. Yet Ethel was not asleep at all ; 
 though her candle was out, and the book 
 with which she had tried to beguile the 
 long and slightly lonely evening by the im- 
 proper habit of reading in bed, pitched 
 away rather weariedly. Perhaps she was 
 feeling a little sad, perhaps a little excit- 
 ed ; perhaps she was feeling nothing at all, 
 except that it was impossible to go asleep ; 
 for sleep she did not until early morning, 
 when the thrushes were cooing their fresh- 
 est and sweetest love-songs, and lulled her 
 at last kindly to rest. 
 
 " Who is the hero, mother ? " Mr. O'Neil 
 had inquired so soon as his ward had walk- 
 ed out of the room with the stately yet 
 girlish step vrhich had often enough made 
 him smile. He was smiling now, looking 
 after her. "Who is the hero? Charlie 
 Redftrn;eh?" 
 
 " Just so, Arthur ; and he is head over 
 ears in love." ' 
 
 "Indeed I" 
 
 " Head over ears. And they are all 
 delighted. Mrs. Redfern has grown sweet 
 as sugar of late. No bounds to their civili- 
 ties. There's what it is to have a girl with 
 a fortune on one's hands. But it will do 
 Very nicely, very nicely indeed," she con- 
 cluded complacently. 
 
 " What will do ? Oh, nonsense ! " And 
 Mr. O'Neil poked the fire. 
 
 " Nonsense, Arthur I What objection do 
 you see to it, pray ? The young man is rich, 
 gentlemanlike, good-looking, amiable. I 
 am sure that I " — 
 
 "But she is not going to marry him, 
 mother, for all that, you know." 
 
 "Well!" the old lady began in a tone 
 of the utmost perplexity and provocation. 
 " I don't see what you're laughing at, Ar- 
 thur," she broke out in high dudgeon. " I 
 declare, you are as bad as Ethel herself, 
 who is the sauciest, silliest, most provoking 
 girl that ever lived. That child would flirt 
 with a poker, Arthur, if there was nothing 
 else at hand, — why, she flirts with poor 
 old Dr. O'Toole when she hasn't got young 
 Redforn: in short" — 
 
120 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIKS. 
 
 " Well mother I " 
 
 " Tlie sooner she is married, the better," 
 Mrs. O'Neil said, winking through her spec- 
 tacles ; " and I am delighted, Arthur, that 
 you .have come home to see about it." 
 
 " High time for me to come home, I 
 think," said Mr. O'Neil with a laugh ; " and 
 so she is flirting with poor Charlie, is 
 she?" 
 
 " Outrageously, Arthur, outrageously ! 
 But she'll find herself caught, and wings 
 clipped in a twinkling, and lucky for her 
 too. Redfern Park is a cosey nest enough, 
 and " — 
 
 " And Redfern mere a charming parent- 
 bird. Ugh, mother ! " 
 
 " Arthur, how silly you are I as if such 
 trifles signified. Now, do you suppose that 
 your wife, whoever she turns out to be, will 
 let me stand in her way ? " 
 
 " You are too little to stand in anybody's 
 way," her son said fondly. 
 
 "But" — and here all the advantages 
 of the contemplated alliance were held forth 
 upon ; young Redfern's good qualities, and 
 the suitableness of the match ; how every- 
 body wii^hed it, everybody of sense that is, 
 and everybody approved of it, &c., till 
 the climax was reached. " And you know, 
 Arthur," concluded the old lady impres- 
 sively, "there is not another man in the 
 country for the child to marry ; and so that 
 is the beginning and end of the matter." 
 
 " Is there not ? " 
 
 " Of course there is not. And, reflect, 
 that in three months she will be of age, 
 your guardianship will be over, her uncle 
 will probably have come to take her away, 
 and we shall lose her forever, and have the 
 disgrace into the bargain of not having 
 married her." 
 
 And Mrs. O'Neil, having delivered her- 
 self of this gloomy horoscope, lay back on 
 the sofa with a sigh of satisfaction, such as 
 people give when they leel that they have 
 accompfished their duty. 
 
 Suddenly she exclaimed, " Arthur, how 
 well you are looking, — how well 1 You have 
 grown young, ten years younger ! " 
 
 He shook his head, and lau'.;hed. 
 
 " But I say you have I Hold the lamp up 
 to your face, and let me look at it." 
 
 Smilingly he obeyed her. He was looking 
 well and young ; and there was II light in 
 his eye and a color in his cheek which the 
 old lady had not seen in them for many a 
 long day. 
 
 " Arthur," she said in a suddenly altered 
 voice, and holding out lifr two hands, — 
 " Arthur, I have been afraid to ask ; but I 
 see now that I may. Arthur " — 
 
 He took not her hands only, but her slight, 
 
 fragile little body in his arms. " You may, 
 mother. Thank God ! thank God I " 
 
 " Is she dead, Arthur ? is the poor crea- 
 ture dead ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 There was a pause. " And," Mrs. O'Neil 
 whispered. 
 
 " And before she died she gave me these. 
 Mother, I have won Castle Garvagh, — 
 won it at last ! " 
 
 His voice trembled with subdued excite- 
 ment ; and as he spoke he laid his mother 
 gently back upon the sofa, and placed in 
 her hands a little packet of yellow, faded 
 letters. 
 
 " Arthur, what are they ? what are they ? 
 Oh, thank God for this ! " and then and 
 there the flood-gates broke down, and "the 
 gentle old lady burst into a passion of tears. 
 
 What were they ? It was some time be- 
 fore her son could tell, or she could listen. 
 The history was a long one, but can be told 
 in a very few words here. As we already 
 know, the Irvvins' old servant Bridget had 
 been for years and years the object of 
 Arthur O'Neil's suspicions and watchful- 
 ness. Rightly or wrongly, there was a pop- 
 ular impression abroad, not only amongst 
 those personally interested, but also in the 
 country for miles and miles around, where- 
 ever the name of O'Neil of Castle Garvagh 
 was known, that this woman was an accom- 
 plice in the great fraud which the foreign 
 party, which was the designation given to 
 Count O'Neil's pretensions, had practised 
 by the change of children, of which they 
 were accused. But suspicion is not proof; 
 and though suspicion took root, and flour- 
 ished in a strange, silent, mysterious fashion 
 of its own, — being whispered at lonely fire- 
 sides, being talked of at funerals — one of 
 the most sprightly diversions of the country 
 
 — and fairs, being told to children by their 
 parents, cropping up here and there in high 
 circles as well as in low, growing, in fact, 
 into a deep-rooted, wide-spread conviction, 
 
 — still years and years had passed, and 
 suspicion had never become certainty. 
 They had been years of cruel uncertainty 
 and suspense, of tantalizing, maddening al- 
 most, hopes and dreads. Often and ofVen 
 during them, Arthur O'Neil's heart had 
 sunk and his courage failed. Often and 
 often he had lost patience, given up hope, 
 and despaired of success. Often and often 
 his soul had sickened within him, and he 
 had felt that no prize, no triumph, not even 
 the prize and triumph of vindicating his 
 rights, and seeing the dream of his whole 
 life fulfilled, would compensate for the 
 heart-wearing, pleasure-destroying, intoler- 
 able state of doubt and suspense in which he 
 
ETHEL MILDMAT« FOLT^IES. 
 
 121 
 
 was condemned to see the best years of his 
 life, his whole youth, pass away. No won- 
 der that he was a grave and old man even 
 for his years ; no wonder that his hair was 
 gray before its time, and that lines of 
 thought and care and anxiety traced them- 
 selves early in his face ; no wonder that he 
 was reserved and pre-occupied, and often 
 apparently cold and abstracted, and that 
 people called him proud, and at the first 
 brush were little disposed to warm towards 
 him, or to be " hail fellow, well met " with 
 liim. One object does not engross a man's 
 life for nothing ; one thought cannot with 
 impunity fill his brain, nor one great desire, 
 his heart. Men have gone mad, or have 
 become soured, or have grown unkind or 
 hard, or reckless or wicked, from slighter 
 causes than this one. But Mr. O'Neil had 
 been saved from this. He was at forty 
 neither a bad man nor a soured one, but 
 simply one whose mitid and heart were 
 filled with one great object, — that of prov- 
 ing himself to be, if he really was it, Lord 
 O'Neil's true and rightful heir. 
 
 Till forty. But then a day had come at 
 last when the sun was shining, and the sea 
 breaking in clear, beautiful waves upon a 
 white beach, and he, looking at it all with 
 an abstracted, indifferent gaze, and his 
 thoughts far away with the old, well-loved 
 place in all its dreary grandeur and wild 
 beauty, had suddenly awaked from the one 
 all-absorbing dream ; a day when the sound 
 of a sweet, gay voice close at hand had 
 roused him, and, raising his eyes, he had 
 seen a bright young girl, with wavy fair hair 
 and a sunny smile, beside him. And then 
 the charm was brok.en, or rather worked. 
 Mr. O'Neil fell in love. 
 
 This was his story. To-night, sitting in 
 his happy home, by his mother's side, look- 
 ing back upon his life, he marvelled how 
 he had borne it. No wonder that the past, 
 that long, weary, loneless, miserably hoping 
 and fearing past, filled him now with a sort 
 of sad, perplexed, yet glad surprise. 
 
 How had he lived through it ? how had 
 he managed even to grow accustomed to, 
 to become passively submissive to, its heavy 
 dead-weight ? How had he borne to have 
 gone through life with this mill-stone round 
 about his neck ? — this cloud of doubt, of 
 tantalization, of grasping at shadows, of im- 
 potent efforts, of torturing uncertainty, ever 
 hanging over him ? This unfortunate crea- 
 turet ]^ridget, had, indeed, led him a life 
 of — looking back upon it now from a haven 
 of comparative security and peace — what 
 seemed little less than torture. She had 
 been his one hope, his one chance ; and she 
 knew it. Wretched, ■ miserable, herself, a 
 
 victim of vice and intemperance, torn be- 
 tween remorse and fear, between terror of 
 man's judgment and God's justice, the un- 
 fortunate woman had been perpetually 
 vacillating between the vague intention of 
 doing right some day, and the desperate 
 resolve not to do it an instant too soon ; 
 not to die with her secret unconfessed, but 
 not to live with the shame and abject fear 
 of liaving betrayed it. Thus for years she 
 had been in the habit of throwing out dark 
 hints, writing anonymous letters, making 
 vague promises, trying to extort money, 
 and of keeping Arthur O'Neil on the very 
 tenterhooks of suspense. More than once 
 he had actually gone to America, half in- 
 duced to do so by the wretched creature's 
 solicitations and promises. Yet, once 
 there, she had invariably managed to 
 elude him or to baffle him, and he would be 
 forced to return home no wiser, no nearer 
 the truth than before. The fact was, the 
 woman was sold, body and soul, to the 
 other side. Not only did the Irwins and 
 Madame O'Neil hold her completely in 
 their power by their gold and protection, 
 but also by their knowledge of some guilty 
 secrets in her life, which they had only to 
 reveal to ruin her. She was, besides, their 
 accomplice ; and, betraying them, she must 
 betray herself. No wonder that they 
 feared the unfortunate creature so little, 
 and were so confident and secure in their 
 wrong-doing. No wonder that they fan- 
 cied her to be tied hand and foot, and 
 never doubted but that her secret would go 
 down to the grave with her ; and even if 
 it did not, — even if, after these years of 
 silence, she were to speak ; even if the worst 
 came to the worst, and the terrors of the 
 next world were to prove more powerful in 
 anticipation than those of the pre.=ent, — 
 who would believe her ? Of what worth 
 was the word of a los|: woman, whose whole 
 life had been a career of sin and shame ? 
 In any court of law would a claim un- 
 backed, except by such a support, be lis- 
 tened to : it was thought not. Lawyers 
 and great people, having been consulted, 
 wagged their wise wigs, and said no, they 
 thought not. And years passed, and 
 iniquity grew apace, and Madame la Com- 
 tesse O'Neil watched and waited patient- 
 ly, biding her time, living down suspicion 
 and distrust, — now in shadow, now in sun- 
 shine, now believed in and flattered and 
 trusted, now given ^the cold shoulder, 
 and subjected to the countless humiliations 
 and affronts which society so well knows 
 how to offer to a doubtful position. And 
 through it it all she lived unmoved, un- 
 ruffled, secure, hard, and cold as steel, 
 
122 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 smiling her perpetual smile; her glossy 
 hair black as night, her smooth, handsome 
 faoe unliqed. Ah! truly a contrast to 
 her anxious, striving, distracted, tortured 
 brother-in-law I Ah I it is not surprising 
 that old Mrs. O'Neil counted her son's gray 
 hairs with hot tears, and that each tear was 
 rigorously put down to the account of her 
 daughter-in-law, Ernestine, i 
 
 But to return. Of late years, matters had 
 become worse : Bridget was ill of an incur- 
 able, awful disease ; and the solution, if so- 
 lution there ever was to be to the mystery 
 connected with her, was apparently drawing 
 near. The woman had always declared 
 that she would come home to her native 
 land to die ; but Death had not waited to be 
 sought, but had come, as he generally does, 
 unsought. At last her disease prostrated 
 her, and she could not move. Then it was 
 that Mr. O'Neil felt that the supreme and 
 final effort must be made. Accompanied by 
 his lawyer, he went to America. It was the 
 old story. The woman would not die ; and, 
 until death was staring her in the face, 
 nothing would persuade her that it was so 
 close to her. Weary months went by. 
 Madame O'Neil, too, though her brother- 
 in-law never saw her, had, it was rumored, 
 come to New York, and was doing her part. 
 Bridget, tortured by pain, but her brain un- 
 clouded, and her strong will unbroken, was 
 dying by inches. At last, at last, she felt 
 its cold touch ; at last she felt and knew that 
 this world was slipping, had almost slipped, 
 away from her, and that for her it no longer 
 contained punishment, or bribe or reward, 
 or hope or fear. And then, not till then, 
 did this strange, resolute, wicked, lost — yet 
 believing with the strong ineradicable faith 
 of her native country — woman confess ; 
 making before witnesses a dying deposition 
 of the truth. 
 
 And Madame O'Neil knew it, knew it 
 well; and for the second time in her life 
 found herself to be foiled by that grand 
 human foiler, death. 
 
 And yet she smiled, and did not believe 
 herself vanquished ; was confident and trust- 
 ful, indeed, still. The worst had come, as 
 she had always known that it might Come ; 
 and she braved and disdained it. What 
 was it, after all ? what was such a confession 
 worth ? Well she knew that it would never 
 be received as legal evidence; well she knew, 
 that, though it might influence men's minds, 
 it could not influence their judgment, for 
 she was a clever woman of business as well 
 as a clever woman of the world. This 
 dying confession would not be, she was 
 perfectly aware, worth the paper it was 
 written on in an English court of law. If 
 
 that was all she had to fear, she might well 
 be secure and confident still. 
 
 But it was not all, though Madame 
 O'Neil believed that it was. Clever and 
 cunning as she was, her slave — the ignorant, 
 uneducated Irishwoman — was cleverer and 
 more cunning than she. Two hours before 
 she died, when she was already speechless, 
 she had pointed out to her attendants a 
 secret drawer, which opened with a spring, 
 and which was part of the old wooden chest 
 in which she kept her clothes : in it lay a 
 small packet of faded letters, dated years 
 and years ago, and signed Mary Anne 
 Irwin. There were only five or six ; for 
 Madame O'Neil and her sister were too 
 prudent, except in ease of absolute necessity, 
 to trust their great secret to paper : and 
 they were letters, too, which over and over 
 again Bridget had solemnly sworn had been 
 destroyed. But the sharp Irishwoman had 
 not destroyed them for all that, and had, 
 perhaps, hesitated till this supreme moment 
 into whose hands she would deliver them. 
 But right had at last been allowed to tri- 
 umph. In the end she had given them to 
 Arthur O'Neil ; and he, having read them 
 over, and weighed their value, could not 
 doubt that they were conclusive proofs by 
 which the minds of men must be convinced. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVn. 
 
 MR. O'NEIL seemed to have become 
 another man. His own mother rubbed 
 her eyes, hardly knowing him again. And, 
 as it may be supposed, much less easy did 
 Ethel find it to recognize in this lively, 
 animated, joyous man the grave, reserved, 
 cold guardian of a year ago. 
 
 He had been three weeks at home now ; 
 and though, every day, he talked of another 
 departure as imminent, he for some mys- 
 terious reason delayed to accomplish it. 
 This absence was to be a short one. " Only 
 to last a few days, or a week at most," he 
 assured his mother. In short, itwas to be 
 a mere run up to town on business connected 
 with the recent important discoveri^ which 
 had come to light. 
 
 But, short as it was to be, Mr. O'Neil 
 seemed to be uncommonly loath to make it. 
 " Very different irom this time last year," 
 Miss Mildmay reflected with a little nervous 
 flutter near the region of her heart, " when 
 be rushed off to America for a year, and 
 never took the trouble of even saying 
 ' good-by ' to one. Now, somehow or 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 123 
 
 other, one feels that he can't tear himself 
 away. Yery different, indeed 1 " 
 
 And, having come to this solemn con- 
 clusion, the young lady cast a puzzled, iur- 
 tive look at her guardian, who was lying on 
 the grass at her feet. 
 
 It was a romantic attitude and a romantic 
 situation ; and Ethel, as we know, was a 
 romantic youno; lady. Mr. O Neil had 
 asked her to walk with him this allernoon ; 
 and by common consent they had come 
 up the old familiar path through the woods, 
 and had paused to rest at her favorite 
 resting-place on the top of the hill. There 
 were the old bleak brown bogs, and the 
 purple mountains, and the dark Castle 
 Garvagh woods. There was the same chill 
 searbreeze sweeping across the flat, dreary 
 expanse, and the same solemn, pathetic 
 desolation all around. " The world is 
 the same always," Ethel thought, studying 
 her guardian's face attentively ; " but how 
 changed the people in it have become I " 
 
 For the matter of that, a year had worked 
 some changes in Miss Mildfnay herself. 
 Ethel was in mourning stjU. Eighteen 
 months had passed since her father's death, 
 and superficial observers might perhaps 
 have fancied that he was forgotten ; for 
 the girl had recovered her spirits, color had 
 returned to her face, and happy liglits to 
 her eyes. She was gay and merry as of old ; 
 but slje had not forgotten him for all that, 
 nor ceased to love him, — love him, too, as 
 yet, far better than any thing on earth. 
 
 Once or twice lately, Mrs. O'Neil had 
 hinted that black was a '■ nasty thin^ " for 
 girls, and that Ethel might, in all con- 
 science, make some change in the sombre- 
 ness of her attire ; but the girl had been 
 deaf, and persisted in wearing her mourning 
 still. 
 
 But youth and bright eyes and a happy 
 heart can. defy sable itself Miss Mildniay 
 was looking radiant to-day; and her small 
 black hat and feathers, coquettishly, and, 
 truth to tell, most becomingly, crowned the 
 great pile of her pretty fair hair. Radiant, 
 if perhaps a, little grave and thoughtful 
 too ; for she was, as we know, perplexing 
 her brain over a puzzle, and puckering 
 her smooth white forehead in the attempt 
 to solve it. Here was the puzzle. What 
 change had come over Mr. O'Neil ? " The 
 world is always the same," she reflected ; 
 " but how changed the people in it have 
 become 1 " 
 
 Some people, at least. To others the 
 year seemed to have brought no change, 
 to have dragged on its weary length without 
 a single break in the dull daily monotony 
 of existence. Over there, for instance, at 
 
 Castle Garvagh, the old lord was hanging 
 on to life still ; growing daily feebler, it was 
 said, and more peculiar; becoming more 
 and more of a savage, secluded misanthrope, 
 yet living still. Eihel had only seen him 
 once or twice since ; for Mrs. O'Neil hated 
 the Irwins, under whose domination he now 
 seemed to have completely fallen, too 
 intensely to bring herself to go near Castle 
 Garvagh oftener than she could possibly help. 
 
 On the other hand, at Redfern Park one 
 or two events had taken place. Alicia, for 
 instance, convinced and disgusted by Mr. 
 O'Neil's abrupt departure last year, had 
 consoled herself in another quarter. And 
 Charlie — ah 1 but thereto hung a tale. All 
 that is necessary to relate here is, that, a 
 fortnight ago, poor Charlie had paid a 
 certain visit to Mount Druid, after which 
 Ethel had looked pale and penitent, and 
 received a severe sound scolding from Mrs. 
 O'Neil ; and the next that was heard of 
 Charlie was, that he had gone to pay a 
 visit at a fashionable house in Scotland, and 
 was having rare sport with the partridges 
 there. 
 
 Ethel had behaved badly ; at least, so Mrs. 
 O'Neil told her with great severity. The 
 young lady herself drooped her silken 
 lashi-s over her violet eyes, and said " that 
 she had not meant it," meekly enough at 
 first ; but when the old lady irascibly in- 
 formed her that that, was no excuse, and 
 was, indeed, trying hard to turn on remorse, 
 and perhaps reconsideration. Miss Mildmay 
 had fired up. , 
 
 " I never cared a button for him : so how 
 could I suppose that he cared for me ? " she 
 demanded I'rankly. » 
 
 " But why don't you care for him, child ? 
 He is a handsome young fellow, and good 
 as gold — and rich too. What on earth 
 do you want more ? " 
 
 " I don't want any thing more ; but I don't 
 want him," the young lady lucidly ex- 
 plained. 
 
 " But, thijn, why did you flirt with him ? " 
 Mrs. O'Neil demanded severely, — " why did 
 you flirt with him. child ? " 
 
 And, it so chancing that at that very mo- 
 ment her son entered the room, she appealed 
 to him in his role of guardian to decide 
 whether his ward was not a silly, misbe- 
 haved, unpracticable young lady. 
 
 " There, she has just sent poor young 
 Redfern about his business," she informed 
 him. " What have you got to say to that, 
 Arthur ? After flirting with him all " — 
 
 " I did not flirt," Ethel broke in, growing 
 all of a sudden very red and flurried. " At 
 least, not much," truth compelled her to 
 admit. 
 
124 
 
 ETHEL MILDSTAT'ff' FOLLIES. 
 
 " Ha^ ha I " Taughed the old lady sar- 
 donically. " Do you hear that, Arthur ? " 
 
 Mr. O'Neil laughed. " Open confession 
 deserves forgiveness," he said. " We must 
 forgive her, mother." 
 
 " It has been so dull all the summer ! " 
 Miss Mildmay said deprecatingly. " He 
 was the only person one ever saw ; and of 
 course — well, of cdurse one could not help 
 being glad to see him. Where was the 
 harm of that f " she inquired a little defiantly 
 and with a flashing eye. 
 
 " True enough," Mrs. O'Neil confessed. 
 " Arthur, the child would have died of 
 dulness if it had not been for Charlie Red- 
 fern. It was a shame for you to have 
 staid away so long 1 " 
 
 " I could not help it, mother : you know 
 I could not. Miss Mildmay knows :t too." 
 
 " I don't know any thing of the sort," that 
 young lady remarked with a toss of her 
 head, and under her breath. 
 
 But Mr. O'Neil heard her words for all 
 that, and gave her a quick, keen look. 
 
 " It was a cruel necessity that " — 
 
 But his mother interrupted him. " Of 
 course we know that you could not help it, 
 Arthur," she said. " Well, well, child, I 
 suppose you know your own mind, and all 
 the talking in the world won't alter it. 
 But remember that there is not another 
 young man to be had in the country, for 
 love or money ; and child, child, it would 
 have been so nice to have had you settled 
 here " — 
 
 But at this point, Mrs. O'Neil, looking 
 suddenly up into her son's face, broke off 
 abruptly with a narvous little laugh. " I 
 am an old fool, 1 believe, for my pains," 
 she said vaguely, — a remark which nobody 
 contradicted. 
 
 No more was said about young Redfern 
 or his proposal just then. Indeed, he 
 seemed to be somewhat of a tabooed sub- 
 ject ; and, whether by chance or design, his 
 jiame was seldom mentioned during the 
 days that followed. They were pleasant 
 days. There is no blinking the fact that 
 Ethel was a wretch. She hardly even 
 missed young Red tern's frequent visits. 
 Her guardian was, in his present mood at 
 all events, a pleasanter companion, and, 
 moreover, he was always there : always at 
 hand to amuse her, to entertain here, to 
 anticipate her slightest wish, to obey her 
 tiniest behest ; alwa.ys there to give her, 
 by his altered demeanor towards her, by 
 his deference and devotion and watchful 
 attention, a constant subject of wonderment 
 and fluttering perplexity. Ethel was a 
 true woman ; and everybody knows that a 
 true woman's weak point is curiosity. Mr. 
 
 O'Neil was tickling her curiosity intensely 
 just now, and filling her mind entirely. 
 One day they rode together, another day 
 they walked : conversation never flagged 
 between them. There was always some- 
 thing to argue about and quarrel over ; for 
 quarrels were frequent incidents of their 
 intercourse, serving no doubt to enliven it, 
 and to prevent Miss Mildmay ever feeling 
 it in the least dull or monotonous. 
 
 To-day, however, they had not quar- 
 relled — as yet. They had had a quiet, 
 sober, serious walk of it, during which Mr. 
 O'Neil had for the first time openly alluded 
 to the business which had brought him to 
 America, and had finished the sentence 
 which his mother had interrupted some 
 days ago, about its having, been a cruel 
 necessity that had compelled him to remain 
 so long absent from home. 
 
 " So much precious time lost to me," he 
 said, " out of my guardianship. But it 
 could not be helped. And after all," he 
 added, giving her a quick look, and with 
 a half-laugh, — " after all, the prize has been 
 well worth the cost : at least, I trust that it 
 will turn out so." 
 
 Mr. O'Neil was in love ; but as yet, at 
 least, he was a practical, sensible man. 
 The compliment implied by the first half 
 of the sentence was, to Ethel's thinking, 
 utterly ruined by the cold calculation of 
 the second half 
 
 " How desperately worldly you are, Mr. 
 O'Neil I " she said contemptuously. " Do 
 you, then, care so very much for money ? " 
 He gave her an amused look. " It is by 
 no means unpleasant to be rich," he said 
 frankly. " I have no doubt that I should 
 like it excessively." 
 
 Ethel arched her slender white throat, 
 and looked scornful, as high-minded, ro- 
 mantic young people are apt to look when 
 such unromantic, commonplace statements 
 are made. 
 
 " Excessively," he repeated, in nowise 
 disconcerted. " The world is all wrong if 
 you will ; but, wrong or right, money now-a- 
 days means most things that are pleasant. 
 It means pleasure, amusement, esteem, re- 
 spect, affection, even love. Miss Mildmay. 
 Yes, love," he went on, giving the young 
 girl a quick, rather defiant glance, though 
 he smiled. " A rich man may choose his 
 wife ; while a poor man — such as I am at 
 present — is condenined to love in silence 
 and in vain." 
 
 Ethel grew red as fire ; but she shivered, 
 as she always did when under a strong 
 emotion. There certainly was no mistak- 
 ing his meaning. The wife whom it had 
 pleased him to select was to be bought, then, 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 125 
 
 with gold. He -was strong and self-reliant 
 enough for this, — to be content to buy 
 her — herself — not her affection. Proud 
 man as be was, he was not too proud to 
 stoop to this. 
 
 The discovery revolted her. Very 
 slowly she raised ter grave face, and stead- 
 ily looked at him. 
 
 " The wife who lets herself be chosen in 
 that fashion is but a poor creature, Mr. 
 O'Neil," she said, — "a poor creature, not 
 worth much.'' 
 
 " She is worth a great deal to me," he 
 replied promptly ; " so much, indeed, that, 
 though I would rather be poor witfr her 
 than rich without her, still I can humble 
 myself sufficiently to loa^ to long with 
 all my heart, to be rich for the sake of hav- 
 itlg something worthyof her to offer her." 
 
 Ethel shookr her head, and smiled. 
 " You are denreiving yoafself, Mr. O'Neil : 
 there is not a gram of humility in your 
 nature. You wish to be rich that you may 
 bay your wife as you might buy a hand- 
 some horse or a pretty piece of furniture. 
 Well, I wish you every luck in your 
 search." And she laughed gayly and a 
 little scornfully. 
 
 Mr. O'Neil colored, and bit his lips. 
 The pointed arrow had struck home. " It 
 will be a successful search, please God," 
 he said quickly. " Do you really wish me 
 liick. Miss Mildmay ? " 
 
 " To be sure. Wishes are such cheap 
 things! " 
 
 " Remarkably so." 
 
 They looked at one another, and laughed. 
 It was a strange sort of courtship ; more, 
 indeed, of a warfare than a courtship. It 
 was a difficult conquest, and every step 
 needed a victory. But a battle-royal was 
 imminent. Perhaps the girl, with her 
 blazing cheeks, and eyes that somehow 
 seemed to have lost some of their usual 
 self-possession and power of looking 
 straight out before them, felt the situation 
 a somewhat overpowering one : at all 
 events, she certainly was delighted at the 
 chance of an escape ; and when one of Mr. 
 O'Neil's laboring men, passing by at the 
 moment, paused to speak to him, she felt a 
 'very undignified sense of relief. The man 
 was in trouble. He and his neighbor had 
 quarrelled about a " bit of land ; " and by 
 common consent the " masther " had been 
 cliosen umpire. " Perhaps his honor would 
 plaze to come and look at the bit of land 
 at once, and see for himself how badly 
 O'Rorke was conductii^ himself." 
 
 The master said, " Yes, he would. It is 
 but a few steps ; " and evidently he took it 
 for granted that Ethel would come too. 
 
 But the young lady had other designs. 
 " I amgoing the other way," she said, " by 
 the Widow Moore's house. Don't mind 
 me, Mr. O'Neil. I promised the old wo- 
 man that I would go to see her to-day. 
 And she is very ill, — dying, indeed,, I lies-- 
 lieve." 
 
 " But yon can go there afterwards : 
 there is plenty of time. By the way, no, 
 I forgot. You mtlst not go to that cottage, 
 Miss Mildntsy. The old woman's son has 
 just come home, and he is in fever. Dr. 
 CyToole told me so this morning." 
 
 He did not mean it of course ; but in that 
 " You must not," there was a shade of im- 
 periousness, which was the tocsin to revolt. 
 
 " I am not in the least afraid of infec- 
 tion, and I promised to go," Miss Mildmay 
 said ; and she actually moved away. 
 
 But her guardian was by her side. 
 " Wait till to-morrow," he said. 
 
 " The woman will be dead to-morrow ; 
 and I cannot let her die without seeing 
 me." 
 
 " Nonsense I I know her of old : she is 
 constantly ' going to die,' but never does 
 die. Come, Miss Mildmay, I can't allow it. 
 It is folly, madness." 
 
 '•You can't allow it?" 
 
 " No. I will not let you expose yourself 
 and others, too, to infection. The fever 
 may be infectious : I am not sure. At all 
 events, wait till to-morrow, and we can in- 
 quire." 
 
 " I tell you that she will be dead to-mor- 
 row." 
 
 Both their tempers were warming, both 
 their wills rising. Their eyes met, as they 
 invariably did on occasions of measure- 
 ments of strength such as this." 
 
 " I ask you not to go," Mr. O'Neil said 
 at last ; said it, too, entreatingly, — almost, 
 for him, humbly. 
 
 Ethel hesitated an instant. He loved 
 her, and she knew it ; but she had no pity 
 for him then, — no pity when she remem- 
 bered bis proud, defiant resolution to win 
 her. At all events, in this trifle he would 
 not be the victor. She would prove to 
 him, and force him to see, that she could 
 resist him. 
 
 " How absurd ! " afad she laughed lightly. 
 " How absurd I We are becoming tragical 
 actually, and about what ? Because, in- 
 deed, I am going to pay a visit to a dying 
 old woman, who happens to have a sick 
 son. Come, Mr. O'lNeil, it is you who are 
 silly with your nervous fears. Don't be 
 afraid. Infection is all humbug to my 
 mind; but, to satisfy you, I promise to 
 change all my things before I go near any- 
 body at Mount Druid." 
 
126 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 Mr. O'Neil had, in his eagerness, laid 
 his hand lightly upon her shoulder : now 
 he removed it. "I have both forbidden 
 and implored of you not to go," he said : 
 " I can do no more." 
 
 It was evident that he was stung to the 
 quick, incensed. There was something 
 in his face and voice which made Ethel 
 feel a little flurried and frightened. It is 
 not always the moment of victory which 
 aifords the keenest delight. But she had 
 won her victory, and was proud of it. 
 
 Indeed, the girl, as she walked with her 
 stateliest step away, felt in quite a tumult 
 of pride and excitement. More flushed 
 than ever were her cheeks ; more like two 
 flaming torches her eyes. Not a suitable 
 mood exactly for the errand of charity upon 
 which she was bent; hardly the proper 
 preparation for the spectacle of misery 
 which she was so soon to witness. That 
 death jostles life is a truism ; but people do 
 not become aiccustomed to things because 
 they are truisms, and death, — strange, sad, 
 solemn, and peaceful, — closely intwmed as 
 it is to life, will yet ever be its deepest and 
 most thrillin^inystery. 
 
 How full Ethel was of life just now 1 
 Her heart was beating high, her blood run- 
 ning swiftly ; from the crown of her head 
 to the sole of her foot she was tingling all 
 over with a sense of elation and triumph. 
 Her walk had soon quickened into a run : 
 the fading light, the solitude and stillness, 
 did not oppress her. She saw, indeed, and 
 felt, nothing of them all. Within all was 
 too great a turmoil ; her brain too much 
 excited for her to see or even be conscious 
 of the calm external world of nature which 
 surrounded her. 
 
 So quickly did she go, that soon, very 
 soon, she had reached old Martha Moore's 
 house. House ! Was this thing a house, 
 — a shelter for human beings with souls ? 
 The girl, accustotned as she was by this 
 time to the miserable hovels of the Irish 
 peasantry, paused with a shrinking at her 
 heart, with a sudden cold shiver from head 
 to foot, when she came face to face with the 
 sight that greeted her from its threshold. 
 What a picture it was ! what a weird, un- 
 canny picture in that uncertain, fading 
 light I A mud-floored hovel, lower than 
 the level of the road, with pools of water 
 here and there, in which the sickly glare of 
 a single tallow-candle was reflected. On 
 the grimy, filthy walls a few cheap prints 
 were hanging. A pig was grunting in one 
 corner ; a brood of youn^ chickens flutter- 
 ing in the other. One cnair and one table 
 the only furniture. There was a bed, to be 
 sure ; but such a bed I — a sort of hole 
 
 made in the wall, lined with some dirty 
 boards, and covered with some dark-brown 
 stuff. Above it hung a brass crucifix and 
 a bunch of palms; and on it lay a fine, 
 stalwart young man, writhing, as Ethel's 
 first glance told her, in fever; his hard 
 brown hands clutching the coverlet, his 
 eyes wild, his lips uttering disjointed, rav- 
 ing sentences. The girl was frightened 
 now, shocked and startled, and would will- 
 ingly have drawn back ; but it was too late. 
 An old woman sitting on the floor hugging 
 her knees, and wailing piteously as she 
 rocked herself to and fro, looked up as her 
 figure darkened the doorway, and made a 
 sign for her to enter. 
 
 " Ah, is it you, honey ? — you yourself at 
 last ? God bless your pretty face I So you 
 have come to see the craythur die, have 
 ye ? God bless ye 1 God bless ye I " 
 
 It was the sick man's mother. Mr. 
 O'Neil had been right. Yesterday priest 
 and doctor had given her up, wishing her 
 Godspeed upon ner journey ; but the old' 
 woman had changed her mind, and turned 
 back again, waiting to watch the child she 
 had borne go safely before her. 
 
 " There was not room for them both to 
 die together," she said ; " and he must have 
 the bed." 
 
 She had had many children, and this 
 was the last ; and now he, a sailor, sick to 
 death with a fierce fever which he had 
 caught on board ship, had just come home 
 to her to die too. And Martha, with her 
 seventy years, had a stout heart still, and 
 would not leave him out in the cold behind 
 her. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVni. 
 
 COME in, honey dear. You'll come in, 
 won't ye ? " old Martha inquired, as 
 Ethel stood looking and hesitating. And 
 the little group round the sick man — two 
 or three charitable neighbors, and the 
 rough, kindly country - priest, faithfully 
 striving to help the poor sailor on his last 
 and longest journey — moved, and made 
 room for her to join them. 
 
 " And will he really die, Martha ? " Ethel 
 asked with a shudder, as she came and knelt 
 by the old woman's side. 
 
 " Sure enough, sure enough I We'll wake 
 him to-night, honey. He'll be cold and 
 stiff to-night, as sure as he's my last-born 
 boy." And she took to her rocking and 
 wailing again. 
 
 But indeed Ethel could see for herself. 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S JOLLIES. 
 
 127 
 
 Death was already in the young man's face; 
 his hands were relaxing their tightj painful 
 clutch ; his eyes were growing dim ; exhaus- 
 tion was stealing over him. It was easy to 
 see that the battle was nearly fought out, 
 and that peace and repose were at hand. 
 
 What a strange, heart-rending scene it 
 wasl How mournfully mysterious and 
 weird it all looked in the yellow flare of a 
 single tallow-candle, and with that pale, 
 sicWy twilight creeping in through the door I 
 Yet it was not altogether mournful. Man's 
 curse was upon the place ; but God's smile 
 rested there too. Poverty, misery, and 
 death had met to hold tryst together ; but 
 other and brighter visitors were not far 
 away. Heaven has strange compensations ; 
 and to the poor death comes as a friend to 
 make them forget the weariness and hard- 
 ships of the accomplished road, and with 
 faith and love and fearless hope to open 
 their dying eyes to the gladness and rest- 
 fulness of the mysterious country to which 
 they are bound. 
 
 Presently old Martha's wail ceased, and 
 they all knelt and prayed together. Ethel 
 prayed and wept with the rest, as a deep 
 hush stole over the little cabin, undisturbed 
 except by the weak moans of the sick man 
 and the monotonous, gentle voice of the 
 ■ priest as he recited the prayers for the 
 dying. Just then it was that Ethel, raising 
 her eyes, saw Mr. O'Neil at the entrance. 
 Unlike her, he did not seem to hesitate, but, 
 bending his tall figure almost in two, crept 
 in through the low opening, and came and 
 stood in the shadow behind her. A sharp 
 pang shot through her conscience then, as 
 she recollected the unworthy taunt she had 
 indulged in a few minutes ago. She had 
 
 Eretended to believe that he had feared for 
 imself; and now — here was his answer! 
 Then he had not even noticed it ; but now 
 something told her that he wished to punish 
 her, and that this was his punishment; 
 that he was resolved to humble her, and 
 that this was her humiliation. And as it 
 ever is, and ever will be so long as the 
 world lasts, that around great tragedies 
 minor ones must cluster, around dying-beds 
 human hopes and passions will clash in their 
 wild uiirest ; so it was that in this miserable 
 Irish hovel, by the bedside of this poor 
 dying sailor, these two fought out their own 
 tiny battle, and, with death solemnly watch- 
 ing them, eagerly played the game of life. 
 
 It was some time before they left the 
 cottage. When the priest had administered 
 the last rites, the sick man had rallied, and 
 seemed to recover some faint glimpses of 
 consciousness. Then they left him to his 
 mother, and, passing out Irom the dreadful 
 
 atmosphere of the little cabin into the 
 delicious evening air, silently took the home- 
 ward road. No wonder that they were silent ; 
 no wonder that their hearts were too heavy 
 for many words, and that the haunting 
 vision of that dying scene seemed to make 
 a great, impassablegulf of the last half-hour, 
 in which, for the moment, all personal feel- 
 ings were absorbed. 
 
 Presently, however, Mr. O'Neil spoke, 
 very gravely and coldly. " I came to fetch 
 you," he said, " because it is getting dark, 
 and the road home a lonely one. Dogs are 
 sometimes troublesome at this hour." 
 
 " Thank you." And there was silence 
 again, to be disturbed but once more. " Mr. 
 O'Neil," Ethel sa' d after a long interval, " is 
 it not terrible ? Why should there be such 
 miserable, cruel poverty as that ? " 
 
 "Why indeed 1 God only knows. I 
 would prevent it if I could ; but I am power- 
 less. They are my uncle's tenants. And 
 what can I do when there are a hundred, ay, 
 hundreds even, of similar cases." 
 
 He spoke in a tone of profound irritation 
 and sadness ; and she could see in the un- 
 certain light that his face had suddenly 
 become so dark and careworn that she did 
 not venture to speak again. It was a long 
 walk to Mount Druid, and a lonely road 
 certainly. In her heart of hearts Ethel was 
 intensely grateful that she had not been 
 treated according to her deserts, and left to 
 find her way home alone. It was dark too : 
 the stars were already shining calmly in the 
 dark-blue sky ; but clouds were as yet hid- 
 ing the pale, rising moon. Not a creatur*' 
 did they meet. Here and there they passed, 
 by a rare cabin, from which a faint light 
 stole across the road, and where the angry, 
 suspicious growl of a dog renewed her' 
 sentiments of gratitude. But no humaii> 
 being was visible. Yes, there was one, — 
 only one, — but not until they had almost 
 reached the entrance-gate of Mount Druid ;. 
 and here they did meet a solitary wanderer,, 
 a tall man in a great, heavy, dark coat, who' 
 brushed by them with a hurried step, and 
 disappeared in the darkness. " Who is it,, 
 I wonder ? " Ethel thought, with some faint 
 curiosity; for, quickly as he had passed them,, 
 she had been able to see that his dress was 
 not that of a peasant. But she made no- 
 remark ; for her companion had apparently 
 noticed nothing, and she did not like to be- 
 the one to again break the silence. 
 
 " Who is it, I wonder ? " Ten minutes, 
 later, her idle, languid curiosity was more 
 than satisfied. 
 
 She was still out. Mr. O'Neil had 
 entered the house ; but at this time of year- 
 the hour before dinner was a favorite one 
 
128 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 of Ethel's. She was fond of watching the 
 stars as they came out one by one, and of 
 seeing the moon rise slowly, and of hearing 
 the sounds of day gradually die out. This 
 evening, too, she was haunted with a hor- 
 rible melancholy. Perhaps it was the scene 
 which she had just witnessed which hung 
 like a pall over her heart ; perhaps it was 
 that she was aware that she had grieved 
 and offended her guardian, and that she 
 was sorry for it ; or perhaps sad omens 
 were flying about through the soft night 
 winds. At all events, she was wretched. 
 What she felt she did not exactly know 
 then, being completely unable to analyze 
 her sensations ; but afterwards she remem- 
 bered and understood it all, and knew that 
 she had felt as people do feel who have 
 been sheltered for a while in a safe and 
 pleasant harbor, but for whom the hour 
 has struck to wander forth into the stormy, 
 dreary wastes again. 
 
 And so this vague, indefinite sense of 
 discomfort and coming sorrow was upon her. 
 And yet her thoughts were perhaps just 
 then rather tender ones than sorrowful. 
 She was thinking, as it chanced, of that 
 other evening in the villa garden at Nice, 
 when Count O'Keil had suddenly solved 
 the miserable question which was racking 
 her brain, and had extracted from her the 
 promise that she would for his sake leave 
 her father's house the very next day. She 
 had believed that she had hated him for it, 
 that she must hate him forever ; and when the 
 report of his marriage had come to her ears 
 it year ago, she had worse than hated him, 
 — she had despised him. But that report 
 had been contradicted, — contradicted by 
 facts. He was not married yet at all events. 
 In deed at least, if not in thought, he was 
 tuithful to her, — more faithful perhaps than 
 she had been to him — 
 
 Ohl what was this, — who, rather, was 
 this hastening towards her up the avenue, 
 across which the uncertain moonlight was 
 throwing through the trees strange, waving 
 shadows ? 
 
 Suddenly Ethel stood quite still. She 
 knew at once who it was, though he was 
 not near her yet, though she had believed 
 him thousands of miles away, and though 
 the heavy great-coat which he wore mag- 
 nified his figure into an almost complete 
 disguise. She knsw him at once; and 
 with a sudden, strange calmness, she stood 
 still and waited. 
 
 What do people do or feel or say in such 
 moments as these ? Ethel, for her part, 
 did or said nothing ; but she felt that the 
 world was swimming under her feet, that 
 the trees were all filing around her, that 
 
 the starlit sky was coming down with a 
 rush on top of her; and she let Count 
 O'Neil come to her and take her hand, and 
 peer down into her face, and call her name 
 over and over again. 
 
 " Mademoiselle, mademoiselle I Is it you 
 really, — you yourself? Ethel, dearest 
 Ethel, will you not speak to me, look at 
 me?" 
 
 She could not speak; she could not 
 look, — or rather she could look, doubting 
 her eyes. At last a few strangled words 
 came, — 
 
 " You frightened me, — oh, so much 1 " 
 she said. 
 
 " Frightened you ! Mademoiselle, for- 
 give me, forgive me. But I have been 
 waiting for hours ; and, when I caught sight 
 of you alone at last, I could not restrain 
 myself a moment longer. 1 know of old 
 that you love a moonlight stroll, mademoi- 
 selle; and so I watched and waited still, 
 and now I am recompensed. Ah, Ethel) 
 you have not forgotten, surely you have not 
 forgotten, the Villa Baibi garden, and the 
 sweet and precious moments we have 
 passed there together ? " 
 
 Forgotten it I No, indeed, she had not. 
 But somehow he would have done better 
 not to remind her of it. 
 
 "I am very glad to see you. Count 
 O'Neil," she said in a low voice; and 
 gently, but firmly, she disengaged her 
 hand from his clasp. 
 
 '•Ethel I" 
 
 "Yes, very; but" — 
 
 And, fi-ee now, she drew back a few 
 paces, and stood facing him with courage 
 in her eyes. 
 
 " It was not right for you to be there. It 
 is not right for you to be here," she said. 
 
 " Ethel I mademoiselle I " and he caught 
 her two hands again, and would not let 
 them go. " You must, you shall, listen to 
 me." 
 
 He was not a shy nor diffident man to be 
 rebuffed in such a cavalierish fashion as 
 this ; and he was roused and angry, indeed 
 in a towering passion now. Ilthel did 
 listen to him because she could not help it ; 
 because, in truth, he held her a fast and 
 close prisoner: besides, as we know, the 
 young man possessed the gift of eloquence 
 and the power of persuasion. Perhaps the 
 girl, perplexed, curious, miserable, dis- 
 tracted, was not at heart so sorry to be 
 forced to stand still and hear him out. 
 
 If there be one position in the world 
 more utterly bewildering and upsetting 
 than another, it is that in which we find 
 ourselves placed, when, being under the im- 
 pression that we have deep and serious 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 129 
 
 grievances against a certain person, we 
 suddenly discover that that person con- 
 siders himself the aggrieved party, and 
 that to him, and not to us, apologies and 
 explanations are due. And this was the 
 position in which Ethel found herself then. 
 The young man's defence was an accusa- 
 tion. His explanations were severe re- 
 proaches. He had loved her, and did still, 
 as she well knew, love her. If for eighteen 
 months he had been silent, was it not be- 
 cause he well knew that those with whom 
 she lived were his bitter enemies ; and that 
 his letters would be, as his first ones were, 
 returned unanswered ; that every attempt 
 to see her would be frustrated Y 
 
 Was it not she who had behaved harshly, 
 cruelly even, in not having granted him even 
 a single parting interview ; in having left 
 Nice, or at least allowed herself to be 
 brought away,— for he could not believe that 
 she had acted of her own free will, — without 
 deigning to give liim a word or a sign ? 
 Had he not watched and waited for one ? 
 Had he not implored of her to see him or 
 write to him? Had he not waited pa- 
 tiently for these long eighteen months, 
 codnting each weary day as it slowly 
 passed. Knowing, miserably knowing, un- 
 der whose iufluence she was ; knowing how 
 her ears would be poisoned against him, 
 and her affection treacherously stolen from 
 him ? Had he not, — and now, indeed, was 
 the climax reached, — had he not, he asked 
 her, spent hours this very day, skulking 
 and hiding about this miserable, accursed, 
 triste, accablant country, in the hope of 
 catching sight of a flutter of her dress, or 
 hearing the blessed sound of her footstep ? 
 And she, — what had she done, what was 
 she doing, but treating him as if he were 
 a half-forgotten stranger, some chance 
 acquaintance whom she had met years 
 ago? No, not even that; for to a mere 
 acquaintance common politeness would 
 make her at least kind and courteous. 
 And, at this point, the young man's voice 
 faltered, and he threw her hands from him, 
 and crossed his arms upon his breast in the 
 well-remembered theatrical attitude of old. 
 
 Ethel listened to it all with a swimming, 
 whirling brain. She was taken aback, 
 dumfounded. This sudden volley simply 
 took away her breath, and drove every 
 clear idea clean out of her head. i 
 
 " But — but — where is the meaning of 
 it all ? — the use, the object ? " she said at 
 last with a kind of despair. 
 
 " The meaning, the object. Mademoi- 
 selle, you ask me i You can ask me. So 
 long as you were by your father's, will 
 under my uncle's guardianship, it was, it \ 
 9 
 
 is, I know, perfectly useless, hopeless, for 
 me to claim the fulfilment of your promise 
 to me. But, by your father's will, so soon 
 as you are of age you are free, — free to 
 choose your own husband. Ethel, I have 
 counted the days, the hours. It wants but 
 eight or nine weeks now to the first day of 
 the new year." 
 
 She made no reply, but stood there 
 quite motionless, staring at him with wide- 
 opened, perplexed, slightly frightened eyes. 
 They were silent. Suddenly there came 
 across the evening air from the house the 
 faint yet clear sound of the Mount Druid 
 dressing-bell, — a happy, pleasant, peace- 
 ful sound ; but to Ethel it seemed just then 
 a sort of knell. 
 
 " I must go," she said, offering him her 
 hand, and then she looked at him with a 
 faint smile. " You hear that : it is the 
 dinner-bell. I wish — I am sorry that I 
 cannot ask you in." 
 
 The young man laughed as he took pos- 
 session of her hand once more. It must 
 have been her sudden gentleness which 
 niagically appeased him. 
 
 " So am I sorry," he said ; " for, I avow it 
 to you, I am hungry, — hungry with the 
 hunger of a wolf. For my part I am, as 
 ever, devoid of prejudice, and would gladly 
 partake of my uncle's hospitality, were he 
 polite enough to offer it ; but of course it is 
 impossible, — quite impossible. Courage I 
 One can yet hold out a little longer." 
 
 It was a sudden and ludicrous anti- 
 climax. A m'inute ago they were upon the 
 exalted heights of romance, now upon the 
 hideous plains of the bread-and-butter topic 
 and dinner. Both the young people 
 laughed. / 
 
 " It is too bad," Ethel said ; " but where 
 are you stopping ? How are you to get 
 back ? " 
 
 " Where do I stay ? At Castle Garvagh 
 certainly. And how do I travel back? 
 My Bosinante is somewhere or other tied 
 to a tree, browsing, no doubt, happily upon 
 some scant herbage. She is as sorry a 
 beast as her namesake. My grand-uncle's 
 stables are not — ahem — sustained in ex- 
 actly the most magnificent style," he added 
 ruefully. 
 
 " Good-by, Count O'Neil." 
 
 " Good-by ? au revoir, rather. To-mor- 
 row we shall meet again." 
 
 " But how ? where 1 How can I receive 
 you ? " 
 
 " Here ; at the same hour, if you will. 
 There are volumes, yes, volumes yet, to 
 speak to you." 
 
 " Yes, volumes," Ethel repeated slowly ; 
 " but, Count O'Neil, come openly to the 
 
130 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 house in broad daylight, and I will see 
 you." 
 
 " And expose myself to insults and 
 injuries? No, mademoiselle, it is im- 
 possible." 
 
 " You would not be insulted or injured. 
 And yet " — And she hesitated, realizing, 
 trying, at least, to realize, how difficult; how 
 impossible, for her it would be to receive the 
 young man in her guardian's house. 
 
 " Yes, it is impossible ! " she cried at 
 last. " Count O'Neil, I cannot see you 
 again." 
 
 " You can ; you must." 
 
 The bell rang again ; but she struggled in 
 vain to escape. 
 
 " You can ; you must. I will not let 
 you go till you promise. For a day or two 
 it is absolutely necessary that our arrival 
 in the country should remain a, secret : my 
 mother would be frantic did she think I had 
 betrayed my presence to you ; but in a day 
 or two the whole world may know of it, — 
 any world there is in these desolate, unin- 
 habited, regions, that is. Au revoir, made- 
 moiselle. Au revoir! To-morrow, then, 
 at five o'clock." 
 
 But Ethel had torn away her hand from 
 his, and was flying, like the wind, away. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 THAT evening I — apparently so like 
 the many pleasant happy evenings 
 that had gone before, and yet with such a 
 strange, sad difference, with such a mys- 
 terious, cold shadow hanging over it. For 
 long, long afterwards, Ethel used to look 
 back at it with a thrill of pain at her heart, 
 which was like a discordant chord of music 
 to a sensitive ear, — a secret, wringing, 
 aching pain, which was born that night, 
 and was her companion, waking and sleep- 
 ing, for some time to come. 
 
 Dr. O'Toole dined at Mount Druid. It 
 was fortunate he did; for the cheery old 
 man's company helped to conceal the sud- 
 den depression which seemed to have stolen 
 over at least two of the little party ; and if 
 Mr. O'Neil was unwontedly grave, and 
 Ethel unusually silent, the old doctor's 
 loquacious tongue and never-failing hilarity 
 made up for all deficiencies. 
 
 It is odd how a cloud, a real dark cloud, 
 may steal in and settle down between two 
 people, and yet remain for ? while almost 
 imperceptible, not only to their neighbors, 
 but also to themselves. A cloud had stolen 
 
 in between Ethel and her guardian, — a 
 fragment, as it were, of the great, dreary, 
 hopeless mass of clouds which had, at the 
 first start of their acquaintanceship, so 
 apparently irrevocably estranged them. 
 And yet the estrangement had not been 
 irrevocable. The clouds had lightened, 
 and been wafted away by friendly breezes. 
 Time and patience, and sympathy and 
 kindliness, and a. gentle yet resolute de- 
 termination, were their names ; and beneath 
 their warm touch one by one the clouds 
 had melted, leaving a clear, serene, bright 
 sky behind. 
 
 But now they were coming back again. 
 Ethel knew it and felt it. Despairingly did 
 she feel the old weary sickening sensation 
 of deception and concealment creeping 
 upon her once more. Oh, how she hated 
 it I How she hated the memory of the 
 cruel fashion in which deception and con- 
 cealment had to her iinbittered and poisoned 
 the last days of her father's life I And now 
 she envied, piteously, hopelessly envied 
 those who, unlike herself, could look back 
 to the last days of those they loved without 
 self-reproach or self-accusation. Oh, how 
 this evening she hated the consciousness 
 that there was a " something " to conceal, a 
 " something " not to mention, a " something " 
 which prevented her looking frankly and 
 bravely into the eyes of those around her, 
 untortured by the stabbing recollection that 
 she was deceiving them 1 Yet how could 
 she help it? How could she disregard 
 Count O'Neil's caution ? How could she 
 be so utterly false and faithless to her old 
 friends, as in such a trifle as this — a mere 
 delay of a day or two — not to keep silence, 
 and betray a secret which she believed 
 she had hardly the right to consider her 
 own! 
 
 And so she was silent; so grave and 
 silent and pale, that Dr. O'Toole noticed it 
 at last, and grew curious ; and when his 
 inquiries were put off by the never-failing, 
 convenient plea, " a headache," gave one of 
 his slyest, broadest, most awful winks, and 
 nudged his old friend. 
 
 "What have you been doing with that 
 young spark Redfern, Mrs. O'Neil V " he 
 inquired. " Queer things are said in the 
 country, I can tell you. He's bolted, you 
 know, — gone like a shot. And as to her 
 ladyship " (Dr. O'Toole always called Mrs. 
 Redfern her ladyship), "I thought she'd 
 eat me up alive lo-day when I just dropped 
 her a hint that perhaps he had been shot 
 through the heart." 
 
 And the old man guffawed over the stale 
 little joke with the keenest enjoyment. 
 
 Mrs. O'Neil reddened and <;roaned. 
 
ETHEL. MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 131 
 
 " Don't speak of it, doctor ; don't speak 
 of it. It makes me ill." 
 
 And she gave Ethel a terrible glance, — 
 a punishment which, however, that young 
 lady received with the most complete com- 
 posure. 
 
 " He's gone to the Highlands, I believe," 
 pursued the doctor. " A fine place for 
 mending broken bones and other injured 
 parts. Her ladyship gave me a list a yard 
 long of all the ' nobs * ' Charlie my darling ' 
 is meeting, — Lady Adelgiza this and Lady 
 Belinda t'other. All the grand names took 
 my breath away : so they did. And I hear 
 that ' Charlie my darling' is very much ad- 
 mired," he ailded, wisely malicious. 
 
 " Is he indeed ? Do you hear that, 
 child?" 
 
 " By my word, yes. Lady Belinda is 
 setting her cap at him like mad, and her 
 ladyship is strutting about like a peacock 
 already. Coming events, you know, throw 
 their shadows before them." 
 
 " I don't believe it," Mrs. O'Neil said, 
 drawing herself up, and sniffing the air. 
 '• Let's have our game of draughts, doctor. 
 These two people here are in the blues, 
 and there's no good to be got out of them." 
 
 Out came the draughtboard ; and the 
 doctor and Mrs. O'Neil at least were happy. 
 What a countless number of games those 
 two white heads had bobbed overl Of 
 what amicable wrangles, and mimic bat- 
 tles, and comic disputes, had tliat draught- 
 board been the theatre between the faithful 
 old friends 1 And, oh, what a sweet, pretty, 
 tender thing, true and faithful friendship 
 is I watering, as it does, the arid, barren 
 plains of life with a magical water, laying 
 the dust, levelling the rocks, making the 
 hard, weary roads easy, and dropping 
 everywhere the seeds of beautiful fragrant 
 flowers, which death itself cannot kill. 
 
 When the doctor and Mrs. O'Neil 
 played draughts, it not seldom happened 
 that Mr. O'Neil and Ethel played chess. 
 Half expectantly the girl stood this evening 
 waitin" for the accustomed invitation. It 
 did not -come, however. Hardly had Mr. 
 O'Neil addressed a single word to her all 
 throufh it ; and now he had taken up a 
 book, and did not even look at her. It is 
 one thing to feel penitent and contrite for 
 having behaved badly when one knows 
 one is forgiven and liked as well as before, 
 and quite another to submit humbly to the 
 just consequences of one's misbehavior. 
 Straightway Miss Mildmay felt huffed and 
 aorirrieved, and marched off to the piano to 
 play her ill-humor and her sadness, and 
 her perplexity and her troubles, into tune 
 again. It would not do, however. Noth- 
 
 ing but sad airs would come into her head ; 
 nothing but funeral-marches, and dreary 
 minor chords, and snatches and odds and 
 ends of melancholy little pieces. 
 
 " God bless me 1 " Mrs. O'Neil said at 
 last, looking up from her game. " What 
 on earth p.re you at, child V That's the 
 fourth funeral-march you have played since 
 you began." 
 
 " She is thinking of a wedding," ob- 
 served the doctor solemnly. " Those things 
 always go by contraries. How many mag- 
 pies did you see to-day. Miss Ethel V" 
 
 " One, doctor." And she closed the 
 piano with one of her quick, impetuous 
 movements, and came over to the table to 
 watch the game. 
 
 " Nonsense I " said the doctor. " You 
 saw three, as sure as my name is John 
 O'Toole." 
 
 "You did not really see one magpie, 
 child ? " Mrs. O'Neil "inquired, peering at 
 her anxiously ; for Mrs. O'Neil was super- 
 stitious, and firmly believed in omens. 
 
 " One for sorrow, two for joy," began 
 Ethel, laughing. 
 
 " Three for a wedding," put in the doc- 
 tor slyly: "eh. Miss Ethel I We're get- 
 ting impatient, I can tell you. You're 
 keeping us waiting too long." 
 
 Ethel laughed saucily. , " You don't deal 
 in husbands in this part of the world, doc- 
 tor ; and weddings without husbands are, 
 you see, matters of difficulty." 
 
 " A smart girl like you knows how to 
 pick up a husband wherever she goes. Miss 
 Ethel. By the way, talking of weddings 
 puts me in mind of funerals," proceeded 
 the doctor. " Poor Dan Moore, old Mar- 
 tha's son, is in a bad way, do you know, 
 Mrs. O'Neil? They'll be burying him 
 to-morrow or after." 
 
 "Is it possible? That fine young fel- 
 low just come home 1 What is the matter 
 with him, doctor ? " 
 
 " Fever ; and he is dead, or as good as 
 dead, by this." 
 
 " Fever ? " cried the old lady, horror- 
 stricken. " Fever, did you say ? . Doctor, 
 what sort of fever ? Is it infectious ? " 
 
 " Typhus. Bad kind too. Yes, it is 
 infectious ; and I wanted to warn you not 
 to be allowing the servants about the 
 place. There are two or three bad cases 
 in the parbh." 
 
 " Typhus ! Bless my soul ! " cried Mrs. 
 O'Neil ; for the dread of infection was one 
 of her most favorite hobbies. 
 
 But the doctor re-assured her. " Never 
 fear, never fear," he said. " Old people 
 like you and me are safe enough: it's only 
 the young people that " — 
 
132 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 " Young people I Do you hear that, 
 child ? And you who are always poking 
 your nose into those poor wretches' filthy 
 cabins 1 Ethel, I positively forbid you to 
 put your foot inside — Lord, bless me I to 
 go near any of those poor people's hovels 
 again until Dr. O'Toole gives you leave," 
 she commanded with great severity. 
 " Promise me, child. Won't you promise 
 me?" 
 
 Ethel glanced at her guardian ; but his 
 eyes were fixed on his book. 
 
 " But," she began hesitatingly. 
 
 " Of course she promises," said the doc- 
 tor decidedly. "Nobody in his senses 
 would think of such a thing. There is 
 Arthur there, who is born to catch fevers, 
 as I am always telling him. Do you hear, 
 O'Neil? Look sharp, and don't go out 
 of your way to catch one, — if you can help 
 it, that is. Some people have a peculiar 
 knack for that sort of 'thing. Pooh, pooh I " 
 laughing at his old friend's miserable face. 
 " There's nothing in the world to be afraid 
 of. Drop a hint to the servants ; that is 
 all. Lord bless me ! how late it is I Good- 
 night, good-night I " And with a bolt and 
 a bound Dr. O'Toole had departed. 
 
 And departed, too, was poor Mrs. O'Neil's 
 peace of mind. The vaguest, faintest 
 rumor of the vicinity of an infectious illness 
 was enough to upset her for a month. 
 
 " We had better leave the place at once," 
 she decided. " To-morrow, the day after, 
 at the latest. Arthur, don't you think 
 so ? " J 
 
 " Indeed I do not, mother. What is il 
 all about 1 " 
 
 " How tiresome you are I There is fever, 
 malignant typhus-fever, in the parish. 
 What do you think of that?" she de- 
 manded. 
 
 " Poor wretches I " Mr. O'Neil said com- 
 passionately. " I know it, mother ; but 
 there are only a few cases." 
 
 " Few or many, I am miserable, thor- 
 oughly miserable," th? old lady asserted. 
 " And here's this child here, that won't 
 even promise me not to keep away fi-om 
 the cabins," she went on plaintively. " I 
 shall die of fright : I know I shall." 
 
 " That is foolish of Miss Mildmay " Mr. 
 O'Neil said, returning to his book. 
 
 " I did not refuse to promise, Mrs. 
 O'Neil. I — yes, I do promise," Ethel said 
 with sudden eagerness. 
 
 The old lady was somewhat appeased 
 and quieted. " Good child, good child I " 
 she said. " And I'll make a rule that every 
 servant found within half a mile of a cabin 
 will have to pay a tine," she exclaimed, de- 
 lighted at the sudden idea. " We'll be tol- 
 
 erably safe then, I think ; and the money 
 will go to the poor^ck people. Is not that 
 a good notion, Arthur ? I will consult with 
 Flaherty about it this very evening." 
 
 Poor Mrs. O'Neil ! On that night, at all 
 events, she went to bed happy, — at least, 
 tolerably happy, — having, with the assist- 
 ance of her faithful Flaherty, laid down a 
 complete plan of campaign against the ap- 
 proaches of the much-dreaded enemy, little 
 suspecting — poor old lady 1 — that she was 
 campaigning against a phantom foe. Too 
 late, too late I The real foe had already 
 treacherously stolen in. was indeed sitting 
 by her side" in the very midst of her bright, 
 secure home. Nobody saw it as yet ; but, 
 invisible as it was, its grim, cold shadow 
 was there. 
 
 The next morning, Ethel came down to 
 breakfast very late and rather nervous. 
 How would she and her guardian meet? 
 The night had brought her counsel ; and 
 she had almost, if not quite, made up her 
 mind that she was more bound to inform 
 her guardian of the strange meeting of the 
 past evening than to respect Count O'Neil's 
 desire for secrecy. It was half a relief, 
 half a disappointment, to her to find that 
 the meal was, after all, to be a solitary one. 
 Mr. O'Neil had, the servant informed her, 
 breakfasted an hour ago, and had gone oitt 
 to ride. It was a little odd. Ethel fi-lt 
 curious, and perhaps a shade uneasy. 
 Then she was provoked with herself lor 
 feeling either curious or uneasy. Yet how 
 could she help it ? How on earth could 
 she prevent her sensations ? Ah, it was 
 the weary, weary, wretched work begin- 
 ning all over again, — the work that sick- 
 ened her heart, that revolted her soul ; the 
 vague dreads, the wretched haunting fears, 
 the horrible consciousness of concealment 
 and mystery. 
 
 Needless dreads and fears I Needless, 
 foolish curiosity and uneasiness 1 Present- 
 ly, when she went up to pay her morning 
 visit to Mrs. O'Neil, the old lady explained 
 it all to her in the simplest manner possi- 
 ble. 
 
 " Arthur had not slept very well," she 
 told her ; " and so, to freshen himself up, 
 he had gone out for a breath of air. He 
 was quite well, — as well as possible," she 
 said emphatically. " But he had drunk 
 three cups of strong tea last night, ajid of 
 course he could not sleep : no, of course 
 not." And she bobbed her pretty white 
 muslin night-cap and its pink bows with 
 quite a satisfied air. 
 
 Ethel was satisfied too, though she 
 looked a little grave and thoughtful. " He 
 did not sleep well, perhaps, because I dis- 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 133 
 
 ple^^d him," she thought ; " and perhaps 
 he is a little displeased with me still ; and 
 perhaps just now when I meet him, — I 
 wonder, it' I told him that I was sorry, and 
 asked him to forgive me, — I wonder what 
 he would say." 
 
 But she was so amazed at the idea her- 
 self, that she could not come to the faintest 
 conclusions on the subject. 
 
 " By the way, Arthur was in here this 
 morning; and he told me to give you these, 
 child," Mrs.*0'Neil said, breaking in upon 
 her meditations, and speaking in a slightly 
 nervous, flurried tone of voice. " They 
 are those letters, you know, that we have 
 spoken to you about ; and he wishes you to 
 read them." 
 
 Ethel drew back. " Oh, no ! oh, no 1 " 
 she said. 
 
 Mrs. O'Neil looked at her amazed. 
 The girl's face had suddenly crimsoned. 
 
 " VVhy not, child ? why not ? What on 
 earth is the matter ? My goodness 1 they 
 won't burn you," as Ethel let the little 
 packet of letters which she tried to force 
 into her hand drop upon th^ bed. 
 
 " I don't want them. I would rather not 
 read them. I " — Yet she looked a little 
 curious, a little longing. 
 
 " Nonsense ! " said Mrs. O'Neil impa- 
 tiently. "Take them, at all events, and 
 read^them or not as you please. I must 
 say," and she drew herself up, " that I 
 think you might oblige Arthur in such a 
 trifle as that; and since he wishes you to 
 read them, and to see for yourself that 
 what we have told you all along is true as 
 gospel, you might as well do so. I do 
 think," she concluded in an aggrieved tone, 
 " that, considering the eagerness with which 
 you used to listen to every thing that was 
 said against us, you might at least take the 
 trouble to begin to show a little interest in 
 <mr side of the question." 
 
 It was a long and flurried speech, and it 
 was not diflieult to perceive that the old 
 lady was in one of her huffy, irritable 
 moods this morning, and that it would not 
 be wise to annoy her. 
 
 " That is not fair. I do take an interest. 
 I wish — oh, how I wish! " — 
 
 But, instead of saying what it was that 
 she did wish, Ethel took the letters, and 
 put them in her pocket. " Whether I read 
 them or not," she thought, "I will myself 
 return them to Mr. O'Neil, and that will 
 give me an opportunity of speaking to him." 
 And in her little mind she quickly ar- 
 ranced that this convenient excuse would 
 admirably pave the way to the explanation 
 and reconciliation which she was contem- 
 plating. 
 
 " Take care of them, and don't let them 
 out of your sight for a minute," Mrs. 
 O'Neil warned her. " I'm always misera- 
 ble when they are in my hands. They are 
 more precious than any thing else in the 
 world to Arthur. Well, Flaherty, what is 
 the matter ? " as that personage made her 
 appearance wearing her longest and most 
 important face. 
 
 " Nothing, ma'am, nothing ; only I have 
 just heard that Dan Moore, the widow's 
 son, is dead. He went off" at twelve 
 o'clock last night." 
 
 Now, it so nappened that Flaherty her- 
 self was rather partial to deaths, and never 
 failed to announce them with a certain 
 decent, subdued cheerfulness. But upon 
 her mistress, on the contrary, they invaria- 
 bly produced the most mournful impres- 
 sions ; and, indeed, gloomy intelligence of 
 any sort was excessively distasteful to her. 
 
 " Dead 1 " she repeated. And Ethel too 
 exclaimed, " Dead I " 
 
 It was expected news to both of them, 
 yet came with a sharp, unpleasant shock, 
 such as the ruthless cutting-off" of young, 
 strong lives must ever produce. 
 
 " Poor tellow I poor fellow I " And Mrs. 
 O'Neil's tender eyes were filled with kindly 
 tears. 
 
 " Yes, ma'am, dead ; and more's the pity. 
 And I hear talk below stairs," added Fla- 
 herty, lowering her voice mysteriously, " of 
 some of the servants wanting to slip off" 
 to-night tp go to the wake." 
 
 " T'o go to the wake I God bless my 
 soul 1 Do they want to murder us all in 
 cold blood — in typhus-fever, I mean ? " 
 
 And, needless to say, consternation, 
 terror, and indignation took, on the spot, 
 wild possession of the old lady's mind, and 
 eff"ectually dislodged every other thought 
 from it. 
 
 In the midst of the tumult, Ethel es- 
 caped. She wanted to read the letters ; 
 and yet she could not make up her mind to 
 do so. In the present state of things it 
 almost seemed a sort of dishonesty, a not 
 quite fair and upi'ight proceeding. At all 
 events, she would wait until she had seen 
 her guardian ; and the morning went by in 
 a torturing, miserable state of indecision. 
 At luncheon she would meet him ; and, after 
 luncheon, there miriit be an opportunity of 
 speaking to him. But luncheon was eaten, 
 and still he did not appear. 
 
 " His ride had fatigued him ; and he was 
 busy writing letters in his room," Mrs. 
 O'Neil told her. 
 
 And to his room his lunch was sent. 
 But Ethel, presently passing by the door,, 
 saw the tray with the untasted food carried: 
 
134 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 out, and could only suppose that her guar- 
 dian was too tired even to eat. 
 
 It was a dreary day, — the first dreary day 
 for a long, long time. A break had come 
 m the fine weather, and gloom and gray- 
 ness had taken the place of sunshine and 
 brightness, — gloom and grayness within as 
 well as without ; for through the house 
 there reigned an unwonted stillness, that 
 strange, causeless, mysterious sort of quiet 
 which sometimes comes upon a place, 
 Tiobody knows why, nobody can say whence. 
 Ethel spent the afternoon alone in the li- 
 brary, which looked unfamiliar and melan- 
 choly in its unusual solitude ; for Mrs. 
 O'Neil's sofa remained unoccupied, and 
 Mr. O'Neil did not once come near it. 
 There was no inducement to go out ; yet it 
 was dull and lonely within. First the girl 
 felt sad, then a little aggrieved and angry, 
 then sad once more. What did it mean V 
 Why was she left alone? Why did Mr. 
 O'Neil so evidently avoid her ? tor that he 
 was avoiding her, and resenting and wishing 
 to punish her yesterday's conduct, she never 
 doubted. Why was it all ? Why, too, 
 was it, that, when the clock on the mantle- 
 piece struck four, she started and colored 
 and trembled, and suddenly recollected 
 that probably at this very moment Count 
 O'Neil was taking that long, bleak, dreary 
 ride over from Castle Garvagh to see her. 
 
 Count O'Neil I But was he really Count 
 O'Neil ? Was he really the man he called 
 himself? Could she have made such a 
 mistake ? — could she have made such an 
 egregious mistake ? Could she, Ethel 
 Mildmay, have once promised to become 
 the wife of a vulgar, audacious impostor ? 
 All at once she remembered his handsome 
 face, his ardent eyes, his convincing elo- 
 quence, his gentleness, his tenderness, — 
 all the qualities which, in spite of the 
 slightly comic foreign peculiarities of his 
 character and manner, had once attracted 
 and charmed her, and perhaps did attract 
 and charm her still. All at once she felt a 
 great, irresistible longing once for all to be 
 done with these cruel doubts, these intoler- 
 able perplexities, — once for all to see, to 
 know, the truth, — once for all, — and then 
 at last Ethel took the little packet of let- 
 ters which Mrs. O'Neil had given her that 
 . morning out of her pocket, and sat down to 
 read them. 
 
 An hour passed, and more. The light 
 of the autumn afternoon was fading fast 
 away, and still she was reading on. Yet 
 the letters, as we know, were few; but 
 they were written in small, minute writing, 
 Iiard to decipher ; and time had dimmed 
 ihe ink, and made the words faint and the 
 
 paper yellow. But before she rose /rom 
 her seat she had made out every single 
 word, and read it over and over again, and 
 thought upon it ; and then she looked at 
 the clock again, and saw that it was half- 
 past five ; saw, too, that darkness was fast 
 setting in, and that not a moment was to 
 be lost in further hesitation. So much the 
 better. Ethel, as we know, hated indecis- 
 ion with a mortal hatred, and had, by this 
 time, pretty well accustomed herself to 
 taking leaps in th«^ dark. Out she went 
 now into the fast-growing darkness, with a 
 resolute light in her eyes, and a set deter- 
 mination at her heart, stumbling over Max, 
 who was lying in disconsolate solitude upon 
 the doorsteps, as she did so. 
 
 Poor Max had had a dull, lonely day of 
 it, too, and hailed her advent with a joyous 
 bark, — joy which was, however, very 
 quickly disturbed ; for at the moment the. 
 sudden appearance of a strange dark figure, 
 coming hastily up to the door, made the 
 dog prick his ears, and growl a not very 
 hearty welcome. 
 
 " An old friend I " exclaimed Count 
 O'Neil's gay, pleasant voice. " I remem- 
 ber thee well, thou great, awkward brute, 
 and what mischief thy clumsiness did 
 work upon a certain fair lady's pretty 
 toilet. Mademoiselle, have you ever 
 been able to forgive the dog ? " 
 
 " Forgive him ? I should think so I Max 
 and I love one another now. Come, Max, 
 come, behave yourself." As the dog con- 
 tinued his low, suspicious growl, and began 
 to look dangerous, the young people had 
 already turned away, and had entered a 
 side-path which thick verdure concealed 
 from the house. But the dog did not fol- 
 low. There he sat on the doorsteps, with 
 a disturbed look in his face, — a picture, 
 indeed, of displeasure and distrust. Ethel 
 paused, and looked back. " Come, Max," 
 she called again. 
 
 In vain : he never stirred. 
 
 Ethel laughed nervously. " Max has not 
 forgotten or forgiven, at all events," she 
 said. " He does not like you." 
 
 " So be it," and the young man shrugged 
 his shoulders with careless gayety. " Let 
 the poor brute indulge his antipathy in 
 peace. For my part, I cannot comprehend 
 such unchristian sentiments ; but doubtless 
 he takes after his master, who probably 
 loves God, and hates his nei<rhbor; viz., me. 
 Well, so be it. I am unprejudiced enough 
 to believe that there are several roads 
 which lead to heaven." 
 
 " Mr. O'Neil does not hate you. And 
 yet" — 
 
 " On my word of honor' I believe I went 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 135 
 
 very .near to hating him just now, while 
 waiting for you, mademoiselle, in this cold, 
 deathlike, damp gloom, which chills and 
 penetrates the very marrow of one's bones. 
 Heavens ! What a climate ! what a country 
 it is I " And be groaned and shuddered. 
 " Mademoiselle, five minutes ago I was 
 
 Eicturin^to myself the interior of yonder 
 ouse. Doubtless a bright, elegant room, 
 with one of your splendid blazing fires. 
 Around it, probably, you were all sitting, — 
 a charming, tender family group, — you, my 
 stern handsome uncle, and his eminently 
 respectable and venerable mother, and I 
 here outside, shivering, swearing, perhaps 
 even laying the seeds of some incurable 
 malady which will bring me to an early 
 grave, and thus, in a romantic but unpleas- 
 ant fashion, extinguish many difficulties. 
 Peste ! I put it to you, mademoiselle, am I 
 to be blamed for some passing sentiments 
 of hatred under the circumstances ? " 
 
 " The picture is not very like the original ; 
 at least, the first part of it," Ethel said with 
 a dreary little laugh. " But — but why 
 did you come, then V " she asked suddenly. 
 
 " Why did I come, mademoiselle ? Be- 
 cause I love you well enough to go to the 
 very ends of the earth for your sake." 
 
 His voice and manner had all at once 
 become transformed : they were tender, 
 earnest, grave. 
 
 " Don't say that I You must not : it is 
 not right," Ethel broke out passionately. 
 " And it is not true, either. I know it is 
 not. Why, a few months after we parted 
 at Nice, you were already admiring — 
 ' Your name had already been coupled with 
 that of another girl." 
 
 The young man smiled ; and perhaps it 
 was as well for him that his companion 
 could not see how secure and triumphant 
 the smile was. If he had needed encour- 
 agement, surely here it was. If Ethel's 
 strange coldness and reserve had vaguely 
 disturbed him, was he not now re-assured ? 
 His nawe vanity and self-confidence were, 
 if they had failed him for an instant, 
 rampant once more, fanned into a merry 
 blaze by this delightful little outburst of 
 feminine jealousy. And, of course, he 
 denied it all -with vehement eloquence, with 
 solemn protestations, which it would have 
 been difficult to disbelieve. 
 
 It vfas true, he acknowledged, that there 
 had been some project of marriage for him. 
 Mothers are not their children ; and his 
 mother had thought of and wished for such 
 a marriage. It would have been an ad- 
 vantageous one, no doubt ; for the young 
 lady was rich and noble. Her parents had 
 made the first advances ; and Mademoiselle 
 
 Eulalie herself had been not quite averse." 
 And the young man paused with a depre- 
 catmg little laugh, and twirled his black 
 mustache. 
 
 " What can a man do under the circum- 
 stances ? " he inquired in a tone of dolorous 
 modesty, " but " — 
 
 " But oblige his friends. Ah ! so it was 
 true after all, count? " and Ethel laughed 
 a little scornfully. 
 
 " No, it was not. By Heaven it was not I " 
 
 He had never by word or sign consented. 
 He had always been constant to his one 
 and only love. Others had planned and 
 schemed ; but he had openly protested. He 
 had never, even for a moment, wavered or 
 faltered in his fidelity. Even if his affec- 
 tion (which he swore never had), — but even 
 if it had grown cold or faint, chilled, as it 
 might so easily have been, by her unkindness 
 and harshness, he had always considered 
 himself bound -:- bound in honor to her. 
 Of course he was bound. They were both 
 bound. Such promises, such vows, as 
 theirs, could never be broken. They were 
 irrevocable, eternal. 
 
 Poor Ethel 1 She listened to it all, dazed 
 and bewildered. He spoke so vehemently, 
 so impetuousl)', so quickly, that the girl's 
 breath was fairly taken away. Her per- 
 plexed silence gave him fresh courage, new 
 eloquence. He began it all over again. 
 But at last she found words to interrupt 
 him. 
 
 " I can — I will never marry you 1 " she 
 cried out suddenly in a clear, sharp, fright- 
 ened tone, which rang through the damp, 
 silent air, almost like a cry for help. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 THERE was a pause, — a deep, bresith- 
 less pause. Both had stopped in their 
 walk, and had turned round, facing one 
 another. To Ethel the worst was over; 
 but to her companion it was only the 
 beginning of the end. 
 
 " What — what do you mean ? " he 
 faltered. 
 
 Ethel tried to speak collectedly and 
 calmly. " I told you that I never would be 
 your wife, at the time of papa's death," she 
 said. " It is not my fault if you did not 
 believe me." 
 
 " I did not believe you. I do not now." 
 
 " You must. It was true. It is true as 
 there is a heaven above us." 
 
 '• I begin to doubt heaven itself," broke 
 
136 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 out the young man indignantly. "Ethel, 
 you are jesting, cruelly jesting." 
 
 " Jesting I " And her voice was as sad 
 and broken as his own. They were walk- 
 ing on aMin now. Perhaps they hardly 
 knew, neither of them, what they were 
 doing. Suddenly Ethel said, " Count — 
 Count, I can't say it. How can I ? " she 
 cried ; and she caught his arm, and made 
 him stop. '• Stand here, where I can see 
 you. Let me look at your face." 
 
 The young man, amazed and bewildered, 
 obeyed. They had reached an open spot 
 upon which a pale moon was faintly gleam- 
 ing. But, pale as the light was, it sufficed 
 Euiel's purpose ; and her companion's face 
 was distinctly visible. 
 
 " Hear me," she said then, — " hear me. 
 This very day, not an hour since, I have 
 seen proofs — proofs that 1 cannot, cannot 
 doubt — that you " — her voice fell almost 
 to a whisper, and she hesitated painfully, 
 — " that you have no right to the name of 
 O'Neil," she said at last with a desperate 
 eflfort. 
 
 It was a terrible moment. Ethel felt 
 that it was too terrible, too painful, to last. 
 Yet, intensely painful as it was, a horrible 
 load seemed to be lifted from her heart. 
 Whatever, whoever, the young man before 
 her was, he was perhaps the dupe of others ; 
 but he himself was no deceiver. Her heart 
 was wrung. With all its faults, it was a 
 tender and noble heart ; and she could not 
 bear to see the pain she was inflicting. 
 Selfishly she had thought but of her own 
 
 f ratification, of her own great longing to 
 now the truth, and she had forgotten to 
 weigh the cruelty of the blow till it had 
 been already dealt. It seemed to have 
 stunned her companion. 
 
 " AVhat do you mean ? What do you 
 say ? " he inquired at last, in a helpless, feeble 
 sort of way. " Explain yourself; for Heav- 
 en's sake, explain yourself, mademoiselle." 
 
 Explain 1 How could she V " Forgive 
 me," was all that she was able to say, — " for- 
 give me. But I thought it better, kinder, 
 to tell you the truth myself, than to let you 
 hear it through others." 
 
 " Better ! kinder I " he repeated indig- 
 nantly. " A strange kindness truly 1 A 
 very perfect charity ! You call it kindness, 
 mademoiselle, to insult me, — to tell me to 
 my face that I am a liar, an impostor. 
 To — Heavens 1 It is beyond man's pa- 
 tience to bear." And he broke down with 
 a strangled sob. 
 
 " Oh, no ! not you ; not you. I know 
 that you are innocent. But your mo — 
 Madame O'Neil." 
 
 He started as though he were stung. 
 
 " My mother's honor is my own. Be ti- 
 lent, mademoiselle I " 
 
 Ethel was silent, clasping her hands 
 tightly, completely bewildered by this hope- 
 less entanglement. 
 
 "Yes," he went on vehemently: " my 
 mother's honor is my own ; and even by 
 you, — even by you, mademoiselle, — I will 
 not permit it to be attacked. You talked 
 of proofs just now. What proofs ? What- 
 ever they are, they are false, — false as 
 hell." 
 
 " Perhaps so , — perhaps they are. Oh, 
 no ! they are true." 
 
 " False as hell ! " he went on without 
 heeding, or perhaps even hearing her. 
 " There can be no proofs. How could it be 
 proved that I am not myself, — that I am 
 not my own mother's son ? Bah I What 
 a fool, what an idiot, I am to be even 
 startled 1 But no wonder, — no wonder that 
 such a stab, coming from you, pierces my 
 heart through and through." 
 
 " Forgive me. At least, forgive me." 
 
 " Call me O'Neil, — Ernest O'Neil." 
 
 Ethel turned away. " I cannot. Oh, I 
 cannot I " 
 
 With a quick, sharp movement, he, too, 
 turned as if to leave her. But restraint 
 and reserve were unknown to him; and the 
 storm must break loose. White and cold 
 as marble, with bowed head, and trembling 
 from head to foot, she listened to all his re- 
 proaches. She had accused him of infidelity, 
 and who was unfaithful? She had suspect- 
 ed him of inconstancy, but who had proved 
 herself inconstancy itself? For that was 
 the secret of it all. He was not blind nor 
 a fool ; and at last he saw the truth, — the 
 truth of which others had in vain tried to 
 persuade him, while to her alone it had been 
 left to succeed. It was she who was fickle 
 and false ; she who deceived ; she who — 
 " Yes, you are fickle and capricious," he 
 broke out passionately. " But you cannot 
 deceive me longer. I know now, what 
 the whole world knows already, that, if you 
 have ceased to love me, it is because you 
 have been taught — wisely and well taught 
 — to love my uncle." 
 
 This was too much. Ethel flamed up. 
 " That is untrue," she said sharply. 
 
 " Untrue ? " 
 
 " Yes, untrue I " 
 
 " Then you do not love him nor me, ^- 
 neither of us? " 
 
 "Neither of you," she repeated. But 
 she was asking her own question instead of 
 replying to his. " God help me ! " she said 
 with a frightened little sob. " What can I 
 do?" 
 
 Perhaps the young man's angry jealousy 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 137 
 
 was disarmed : at all events, it was ap- 
 peased. Sanguine and confident as ever, 
 her vague, double-meaning words had al- 
 ready half re-assured him. 
 
 " To do," he repeated with a bitter little 
 langh ; " to do, — to wait for the end, I 
 suppose. To wait and see whether your 
 second choice is more fortunate than the 
 first. The end cannot be very far distant 
 now. , It must be drawing near. Made- 
 moiselle, I tell it to you in confidence : it 
 is drawing near. My great-uncle cannot 
 live much longer." 
 
 " I wish that he would live forever. 1 
 wish — oh, I wish that I had never known 
 one of you I " she broke out passionately. 
 
 " He grows weaker, feebler, and more 
 eccentric every day," he went on. " Proofs ? 
 — what proofs are you talking of? Why, 
 Lord O'Neil himself receives me at his 
 house as his acknowledged heir. At 
 present, indeed, J am his mania, and he will 
 let me hardly out of his sight. It seems 
 that the poor old miserable likes young 
 people," he added with a slightly rueful 
 laugh ; " and if only liis cellar were a little 
 better filled, his cuisine a little less savage, 
 and this climate somewhat more humane, 
 one might perhaps, out of charity, be able 
 to support it for some time longer. But as 
 it is, you, you only, mademoiselle, can give 
 me courage to — Ah I fool that I am, I 
 had forgotten, or have I, perhaps, been 
 merely dreaming, laboring under a hide- 
 ous nightmare ? Ethel, I implore of you 
 to say that it is so ; to say that " — 
 
 " What can I say ? How can I eat my 
 own words when — when they are true ? " 
 
 " True I " 
 
 " But we can be friends, — friends always. 
 Let us at least be that." 
 
 " Then you reject me ? " he said, turning 
 very white. 
 
 " Not now. Long ago I told you that I 
 could never be your wife." 
 
 " You reject me now unconditionally ? " 
 he persisted. 
 
 " Unconditionally ! " 
 
 " You know my meaning. What 1 when 
 I succeed to my grand-uncle's title and prop- 
 erty?" 
 
 Ethel bit her lips; but she laughed 
 lightly. " I suppose I deserve the taunt," 
 she said: "at least, you think I do; but 
 you are mistaken. Yes, both of you are 
 mistaken." She was looking down on the 
 ground thoughtfully ; but now she raised her 
 eyes boldly to his. 
 
 " Listen to me," she said then. " Less 
 than ever would I marry you then. You 
 smile ; yet it is true. I promise you here, I 
 give yow my solemn word, that I shall never 
 
 be part and parcel of this marvellous prize. 
 I tell you that I do not care a single straw 
 for it. One day, perhaps, I shall prove to 
 both of you, and force you to acknowledge, 
 how meanly and falsely you have judged 
 me." 
 
 It was a grand, heroine-like sort of speech, 
 but made with a certain flurriedness and 
 excitement which deprived it of some of its 
 impressiveness. Long ago, when she had 
 been playing at love with this handsome 
 young man by her side, she had often, as 
 he knew, felt herself to be three parts a 
 heroine, and had taken to the role rather 
 kindly. But now, when she was for the 
 first time in her life really making some- 
 thing like an heroic resolve, her courage was 
 low and her heart faint. Somehow or other, 
 this speech of hers did not seem to inake 
 much impression upon her companion. 
 Perhaps he did not understand it. Cer- 
 tainly he did not believe it. 
 
 " You force me to judge you. You force 
 me to be unkind and rude and savage," he 
 replied. " But, hard and cruel as you are, 
 1 believe nothing but good of you, — no, 
 nothing. You have been wkrped, preju- 
 diced, imposed upon. Your love has been 
 stolen from me, its rightful possessor. But 
 I tell you that I do not believe it. Until 
 you are of age, your own mistress, and 
 perfectly free, I will" — 
 
 He paused abruptly. The girl was not 
 even listening to him. The path they were 
 on emerged now, within a few paces, upon 
 the avenue ; and at that moment carriage- 
 wheels were heard, and a vehicle of some 
 sort passed. 
 
 " It is Doctor O Toole's gig," she said in 
 a startled tone. " He was not to have dined 
 to-day. What can bring him at this hour ? " 
 
 Her companion laughed a little sadly 
 and bitterly. "i'iistoVe se rdpete" he said. 
 " It seems that we two are destined to be 
 always playing at hide-and-go-seek. Often 
 do I recollect that evening at Nice, when 
 my respected uncle stalked past us upon 
 the avenue, pretending not to see us. But 
 he did see us, I would stake a hundred 
 louis. He — Lord 1 what a century is 
 this, that a pretext cannot be found that we 
 should fight one another like honest men, 
 and let the best man live in peace. For my 
 part, I am weary of life on these terms." 
 
 " So am I. This cannot go on. I came 
 to say good-by, and now I say it." 
 
 " You do not — you must not — you '' — 
 And he caught hold of her hand, and would 
 not let it go. 
 
 She stood for half a minute or so passive ; 
 then with a strange quiet, " At least, prove 
 yourself a gentleman," she said. 
 
138 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 And then at last her hand was dropped 
 as though its touch burned him, and she 
 was free to go. 
 
 She went quietly at first, and then more 
 quickly. Soon she had reached the house, 
 and entered it, daZed and dazzled by the 
 sudden warmth and brightness. 
 
 Dr. O'Toolc's gig was at the door. He 
 and Mrs. O'Neil were whispering together 
 on the staircase. " Don't let Arthur guess 
 that I sent for you," she was saying ; " pre- 
 tend that you just dropped in by chance. 
 He would be angry if he thought I had 
 dragged you out." 
 
 The doctor winked knowingly, and 
 passed on. 
 
 " Is any thing the matter ? Is Mr. 
 O'Neil ill"? " Ethel asked, with her heart 
 in her mouth, 
 
 " 111 1 not at all, child. Don't look so 
 flabber-gasted. He has got a slight head- 
 ache, that's all ; but, as you know, I like to 
 have the doctor for every prick of a pin. 
 Bless me 1 Why can't you walk like a 
 Christian by daylight, and not go out in 
 the dark like an owl ? We will have you 
 complaining next; "and she bustled away. 
 
 So Mr. O'Neil was complaining. More- 
 over, his mother was cross. A bad sign. 
 Ethel caught hold of the banisters to 
 steady herself: she felt dizzy and faint. A 
 long, long time she waited, what, indeed, 
 seemed an age. Dr. O'Toole's visits were 
 lengthy and conversational ones ; and this 
 one, to poor Ethel at least, seemed inter- 
 minable. At last he came out, cheery and 
 kindly as ever. " Nothing.; it's nothing," 
 he was assuring Mrs. O'Neil. " He'll be 
 all right in the morning, never fear. I 
 will send him up a, sleeping-draught, and 
 — Lord bless me ! What are you standing 
 there for, just like a ghost. Miss Ethel ? It 
 is you who will be giving us trouble unless 
 you take care. Where are all your roses 
 gone to ? " 
 
 There was not a chance of getting a 
 private word with the doctor. Little Mrs. 
 O'Neil, happy again, chattered the whole 
 way down stairs and to the hall-door with 
 him ; and Ethel, all her patient waiting gone 
 for nothing, went to her own room at last 
 to take off her things, and to try to per- 
 suade herself that she was not feeling 
 uneasy. 
 
 Next morning, however, she was more 
 fortunate. The sleeping-draught had not 
 worked the promised eiieet. Mr. O'Neil 
 was still unwell, too unwell to leave his 
 room ; and Mrs. O'Neil, her fair, pretty 
 face dragged and anxious, was sharply 
 reproving Ethel for looking alarmed, and 
 Flaherty for looking mysterious. 
 
 " There is nothing the matter with him, 
 — nothing in the world. Bless nie I Don't 
 be creeping about the house as though 
 there was sickness in it. Can't you go and 
 play a tune on the piano, child, just to 
 make a noise, and to make one ieel as 
 usual ? Something merry and lively, 
 mind ; none of your horrid, dreary march- 
 es," she commanded. 
 
 Ethel went and did as she was bid. 
 Perhaps her guardian, sick and restless in 
 his room, hearing that soft, sweet, merry, 
 yet sadly pathetic, German valse going on 
 in the library, thought it rather a heartless 
 thing of the girl to be playing valses when 
 he was feeling so wretched and ill ; but, if 
 he did, he kept the thought to himself, and 
 said nothing about it. 
 
 Presently it ceased, breaking off sud- 
 denly in the midst; that particular valse 
 being destined never to be finished. The 
 doctor, issuing from the sick-room, had 
 come in in search of pen and paper. 
 
 Ethel jumped up. " How is he, doctor ? 
 Better ; is he not ? Oh " — she paused, 
 looking very white and frightened. " O 
 doctor I what is it ? " 
 
 " What is what, Miss Ethel ? " 
 
 Dr. O'Toole was a little cross too ; but 
 Ethel had seen something in his face which 
 made her completely indifferent to any- 
 body's crossness. 
 
 " Tut, tut 1 " said the doctor. " Bless 
 my soul 1 " for the girl had suddenly burst 
 into tears. 
 
 " Tell me, doctor ; oh, tell me that it is 
 not the fever 1 " she implored. 
 
 " The fever I what fever ? Hum — well, 
 what is the use of my telling you, 
 when — when I don't know myself yet I 
 Tut, tut, child I ' Don't cross the bridge 
 till you come to it.' Time enough to fret 
 when " — 
 
 " It is the fever, I know it is; and I have 
 killed him ! " 
 
 Of course the good doctor thought she 
 had parted with her senses, and stared at 
 her through his spectacles with alarmed 
 eyes ; but, when the girl had poured out 
 her confession, he understood it all, and, 
 truth to tell, looked a little grave. 
 
 " Hum I That accounts for 'it, that ac- 
 counts for it," he said thoughtfully. " I 
 was puzzling my brain to know how on 
 earth he could have picked it up." 
 
 " Then it is true. It is the fever 1 " Ethel 
 cried, her last hope gone. " O doctor, if 
 he dies, I shall have killed him ! ' 
 
 " Dies ! stuff and nonsense, child I Who 
 is talking of dying ? Even if the man has 
 got a touch of the nasty disease, he will 
 get through it ; of course he will. Come, 
 
ETHEL MILDMAT'S FOLLIES. 
 
 139 
 
 come, child I cheer up," for the old man's 
 heart was really touched at the girl's dis- 
 tress. " And sure it was not your fault 
 eitjher, not a bit of it. You are only a chit 
 of a girl, without sense ; but Arthur ought to 
 have sense, and to know better than to be 
 putting himself in the way of infection. 
 If I have told him so once, I have told him 
 so a hundred times ; but. Lord bless us 1 
 we men will bo fools to the end of the 
 chapter, I believe, wl^en a pretty girl is in 
 question." And, with an awful wink, Dr. 
 O'Toole prbceeded to write his prescription. 
 ., .^ It was poor consolation ; but it was some. 
 First of all, it was not quite sure it was 
 the fever ; secondly, even if it were, Dr. 
 O'Toole had said he would certainly pull 
 through it ; and any consolation is better 
 than none. 
 
 Quickly enough, too quickly, the time 
 came when there was none ; when one by 
 one Dr. O'Toole's hopeful prophecies falsi- 
 fied themselves ; when vague, unconfessed 
 uneasiness grew into dire alarm and con- 
 sternation ; when faces were pale, and eyes 
 dim, and hearts sick and weary, all through 
 the house. Oh, what a wretched, dreary 
 time it was 1 Who does not know it ? 
 Who cannot remember some such time as 
 this in their lives, when the lives of those 
 they love are hanging in the balance, and 
 in watching and waiting the long, wretched 
 hours go by ? Mr. O'Neil was ill, — desper- 
 ately ill. Even Dr. O'Toole's cheery voice 
 faltered, and his jovial face looked strange- 
 ly grave, and his courage failed him, and 
 he declared that the responsibility was too 
 great, and that other advice must be had. 
 Other advice I Who does not know the 
 horrible sound of that anxious call for 
 help, of that painful acknowledgment that 
 disease and death are strong, and that 
 man's science and man's efforts are being 
 slowly yet surely and mysteriously baffled ? 
 
 They had all borne up pretty well till 
 now. Mrs. O'Neil had perfect faith in 
 Dr. O'Toole, and his confidence was the 
 barometer of her courage. But, when 
 that failed, the old lady collapsed all at 
 once, and came sobbing and weeping to 
 throw herself into Ethel's arms. 
 
 " There is a curse upon us, a curse," she 
 cried. " O God 1 what sin have I com- 
 mitted, that I should live to see the last of 
 my children, the last of the O'Neils, die ? " 
 
 Ethel kissed her, and comforted her as 
 best she could ; but she could not weep with 
 her. Except that first day, when she had 
 burst into that passion of tears before Dr. 
 O'Toole, she had not wept at all ; and yet 
 she thought that she had never, never 
 known what unhappiness was till now. 
 
 It was a sunless day ; the wind was sigh- 
 ing sadly through the nearly-despoiled trees, 
 and the falling leaves were rustling to the 
 ground. Summer and joy seemed to have 
 fled together, and to have left the world 
 naked and miserable. It was pouring rain 
 too ; yet here was the Redfern chariot toil- 
 ing painfully up the rivuleted avenue, and 
 a mounted messenger from Castle Garvagh 
 coming to inquire. 
 
 Oh the horrid paraphernalia of illness I 
 the miserable conventionalities with which 
 the world carelessly condoles with griefj — 
 conventionalities which, not seldom, are like 
 so many pricks of pins into sore and bleed- 
 ing hearts. Upon poor little Mrs. O'Neil's 
 impressionable, lively nature, these com- 
 mon, trifling - little civilities produced a 
 new shock. Mrs. Redfern was in the car- 
 riage herself, — had come with her hand- 
 some horses and fat coachman, in spite of 
 wind and weather ; in spite, too, of resent- 
 ment and offence, pardoning injuries, as, in 
 such great crises as these, good Christians 
 must pardon them. And Lord O'Neil had 
 actually sent a shaky, anxious little note, 
 containing his best love to poor Arthur, 
 and his best sympathy to dear Sarah in her 
 great affliction. 
 
 "Oh, it was dreadful, — too dreadful 1 
 Over and over again the old lady said 
 with piteous moans, that it was too dread- 
 ful to bear. " It is a punishment on me, — 
 a punishment on my pride, which God has 
 never yet forgiven," she wailed, — " the 
 pride that would not let me take Bernard's 
 child home. It was the sin of my life ; and 
 now Bernard's child is dead, and my own 
 child is dying, and God k punishing me 
 for it." 
 
 Ethel shuddered. " He will not die, Mrs. 
 O'Neil ; he cannot." 
 
 And in truth it seemed to her that the 
 thing was impossible ; for that, if Mr. 
 O'Neil died, his death would be upon her 
 conscience. 
 
 Mrs. O'Neil shook her head. "I don't 
 know, child ; I don't know. God's ways 
 are dark. He took old Martha's last son 
 from her; and now he is taking mine, — 
 now, too, when it would seem that at last, at 
 long last, he could have been happy ; that 
 we could both have been happy and con- 
 fident. That reminds me, child," she said, 
 looking up through her tears, " that I gave 
 you those letters of Bridget's the other day. ' 
 Mind that you don't let them wo astray." 
 
 " Oh, no I " Ethel showed tier how she 
 had, for safety, placed them in an old-fash- 
 ioned, delicately-carved Indian box, with a 
 secret spring in it, which had been a sort 
 of heirloom in the family for over half a 
 
140 
 
 ETHEL MILPMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 century, and which always lay upon a con- 
 siile in the corner of the library. " Will 
 you put them up? or shall I leave them 
 here i " the girl in(juired. 
 
 '• Leave them there, child. I can't bear 
 the sight of them. What good are they 
 now Y What good will they be when Ar- 
 thur — Oh, my God I is he dying ? O 
 God 1 are you a good God, and yet will 
 }Ou take him from me V " 
 
 •' No, no I He will not, can not," Ethel 
 repeated over and over again. 
 
 But, for all her hopeful words, the world 
 seemed a blank to her in which even hope 
 was dead. 
 
 It was that day that the great doctor 
 came. They had hung upon his coming as 
 drowning people cling to the last plank. 
 But he had gone away again, leaving but 
 taint comfort behind him. " As long as 
 there is life, there is hope," were his part- 
 ing words ; but it was easy to see that he 
 was not hopeful himself. It was easy to 
 see — nay, impossible not to see — that 
 Mr. O'Neil was fearfully ill, — could it be, 
 dying ? Could it be ? 
 
 Ethel had sat up all through the terrible 
 night, counting the dark hours as a miser 
 counts his gold, as they slowly passed ; for 
 he was still alive, and the doctors thought, 
 that, if he could only live through this 
 awful crisis, there might be a chance of re- 
 covery. She had sat up listening to the 
 clocks striking, and to the wild ravings of 
 the sick man as they crept out throui^h the 
 halfK)pen door, and, when dawn came at 
 hist, listening to the bird-world rousing 
 itself, and greeting with its strangely sweet 
 and sad songs " the earliest pipe of half- 
 awakened birds," — the new-born day. 
 
 What fresh, cruel, sweet son;s they 
 were I And when evening came, and, tired 
 after their happy day, the birds would sing, 
 again returning to their nests, would not, 
 perhaps, a precious, well-loved life have 
 passed away, and death be in the house ? 
 
 The thought was very nearly intolerable. 
 It would have been entirely so but for the 
 weariness and exhaustion which 'so often 
 mercifully stun the hearts and capabilities 
 of ieeling of those who live to see others 
 die. Misery and fatigue had gone a good 
 way towards stunning Ethel now. Some 
 c jiupassionate servant noticed her white, 
 fixed face at last, and insisted upon her 
 goiii;^ to rest. The morning was chilly and 
 r.nv, and the girl was shivering from head 
 t') loot. The library was the only well- 
 wanned room in the house; for here the 
 fire had been burning all night; and here, 
 too, Ethel found poor Majc, who, having in 
 viiin tried to effect an entry into his mas- 
 
 ter's room, had finally cried himself to 
 sleep on the rug. 
 
 This was too much. Ethel, as we know, 
 was not much given to tears. But at this 
 spectacle they came, — came with a wild, 
 blinding rush ; and, throwing herself down 
 on the floor by his side, she buried her 
 head in her hands, and wept as if her heart 
 would break, — wept till Ae could weep no 
 longer, till her eyelids drooped irom sheer 
 exhaustion, — wept till her sobs became 
 sighs, and her sighs dreams ; till they, too, 
 passed, and melted in a deep, dreamless 
 sleep. 
 
 It must have lasted for hours. AVhen she 
 awoke, the sun was high in the heavens, — 
 a burst of sunshine which flooded the room, 
 and dazzled her eyes. Yet it was not this 
 that had awoke her : it was a kiss upon 
 her forehead, — a cold, familiar kiss, which 
 roused her as effectually as a douche of icy 
 water would have done. 
 
 Yes, she was awake, — wide awake ; and 
 there before her, standing over her, looking 
 down at her with a smile, was Madame 
 O'Neil. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 MISS MILDMAY was, as we know, by 
 no means deficient in that admirable 
 quality, — presence of mind; yet she will 
 forgive her biographer for reconling, that, at 
 this moment, she did utterly and complete- 
 ly lose her presence of mind ; felt herself, 
 indeed, to be a sort of helpless idiot, totally 
 incapable of a course of action of any de- 
 scription. As a matter of fact, she sat upon 
 the ground, and stared speechlessly at her 
 unexpected visitor. 
 
 Not so Madame O'Neil, who, not taken 
 unawares, and in full possession of all her 
 faculties, was looking composedly about 
 the room. 
 
 Yet even her hard, handsome face flushed 
 faintly, and betrayed something like emo- 
 tion. It was a trying moment. Years and 
 years had passed since she had last been in 
 that room : youth had become age, fair 
 looks had faded, the fire of life had been 
 quenched. And yet here she was again — 
 the goal of her life still unattained — on 
 the very spot where she had first dreamed 
 that ambitious dream which long, weary, 
 resolute waiting had not yet realized. 
 What thoughts, what memories, must have 
 rushed into her mind then 1 What a sharp 
 pang must have pierced her heart I And 
 yet she was calm, — pale again and smiling, 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 141 
 
 — her large, dark, resolved eyes collect- 
 edly surveying it all. 
 
 And she was the first, loo, to spe^k. 
 " The old room," she said softly : " what 
 a pleasure to be once more in it I — what a 
 joy 1 And you, too, dear child : what 
 a happiness to see you, too, again 1 " 
 
 Ethel y^as slowly rising from the ground. 
 "Perhaps you wish to see Mrs. O'Neil, 
 madame," she said ; " but " — ^ 
 
 " No, no, no I Not for all the world, — 
 not for all the world, would I intrude upon 
 my mother-in-law in such a cruel moment 
 as this. Ah, hard and unjust as she has 
 tver been to me, yet can I sympathize with 
 her, and feel for her, in such a terrible 
 affliction. Will he die ? " she inquired 
 suddenly, and fixing her eyes upon the 
 young girl with a quick, penetrating 
 glaflce. 
 
 Ethel turned away, " I don't know ; oh 1 
 I don't know," she cried. " Perhaps he is 
 dying, — perhaps he is dead already." And 
 she moved as though to leave the room. 
 
 But Madame O'Neil detained her. " He 
 is not dead," she said. " The servant told 
 me even that there was a shade of improve- 
 ment. Wait, mademoiselle I " as Ethel 
 still seemed to wish to escape. 
 
 Perhaps it was the touch of her hand 
 upon her shoulder, perhaps it was the sud- 
 den tone of authority, which all at once 
 roused Ethel's spirit. 
 
 " Wait ? " she repeated, — " why should 
 I wait? Madame, what brings you here 
 into this house, and at such a time as 
 this?" 
 
 " True. I grant it to you. It-<ioes seem 
 strange ; but " — And Madame O'Neil 
 smiled. " Mademoiselle, I have had the 
 audacity to come actually to see you." 
 
 "Me?" 
 
 " Yes, you. For the sake of old times, 
 you know. Once you were almost my 
 child." And she smiled. 
 
 Ethel crimsoned. " It is true, madame : 
 at least, I believe it is true ; but " — 
 
 " But the past is an embarrassing mem- 
 ory which it is best to dismiss. Is it so, 
 mademoiselle ? " 
 
 Her quiet, smooth tone of irony made 
 Ethel wince. " It is, a painful memory," 
 she said in a low voice, — " painful as the 
 memory of every folly must be." 
 
 " Folly I What a convenient word I " 
 And she laughed lightly. " Pray, made- 
 moiselle, why was it folly for you to love 
 my son ? " 
 
 " I did not love him, madame : you force 
 me to tell the truth. I believe I never 
 loved him. I " — 
 
 iShe paused, clasping her hands with a 
 
 gesture of despair; for Madame O'Neil's 
 steady gaze hopelessly bewildered her. 
 
 " Never loved him ! " she repeated softly, 
 but with a low, indignant thrill. "But 
 come," she went on in a difierent tone after 
 a little pause, ■■ — " come. What has brought 
 me here was not to reproach or quarrel 
 with anybody. I am a woman of the world, 
 and an old woman too ; and well I know 
 that young girls' hearts are fickle and 
 volatile as the winds and waves, and that 
 to expect constancy from them is to look 
 for water in an empty pitcher. We have a 
 proverb, 'Amour fait rage; argent faii 
 mariage,' and I am perfectly aware that 
 what you English girls call a flirtation — 
 even a very violent one — is quite a difierent 
 thing from a marriage. Therefore it is, 
 that you should have changed your mind 
 is not a matter of such deep surprise, not 
 such a terrible shock, to me as to my dear 
 son, who believes still, poor fellow, that all 
 women — young and pretty ones at least — 
 are angels. But, just as a matter of curi- 
 osity, why is it that you have changed 
 your mind, mademoiselle ? Surely this, at 
 least, a mother has a right to know." 
 
 " Papa would never have," Ethel began 
 a little hesitatingly. But Madame O'Neil 
 interrupted her without ceremony. " Your 
 father 1 Ah, another convenient excuse I 
 Wonderful is the devotion of those children 
 to their parents," she said with a stinging 
 laugh. "While your father lived, made- 
 moiselle, you feared not to deceive him and 
 disregard his wishes. And now that he is 
 dead, and can neither know nor care what 
 you do, you pretend to hold these same 
 wishes sacred. At least, mademoiselle, I 
 thought you were frank and honest." 
 
 As usual, Madame O'Neil had only been 
 able to hold her temper in check up to a 
 certain point ; and, as usual, her weakness 
 gave Ethel an advantage, 
 
 " Yes, it is true : I am at least frank and 
 honest," the young girl said, flaming up 
 indignantly. " And, what is more, I will 
 tell you the truth. I will never marry 
 your — you know whom I mean. I will 
 never marry him for two reasons : first, 
 because I do not love him, and never did 
 love him ; and, secondly, because — yes, I 
 will say it to your face — because he is not 
 your son, and you know that he is not." 
 
 "Ahl^' she drew a long, long breath. 
 As to Ethel, she was trembling all over with 
 excitement and nervousness and fear ; for, 
 bold as she was, she did fear MadameO'Neil, 
 
 " You say that deliberately ? " Madame 
 O'Neil asked quietly. 
 
 " Yes, deliberately. Let me go, madame, 
 let me go now." 
 
142 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 "Not yet." And she tightly held her 
 hand. " Not yet. Why do you say it ? " 
 
 " Because I know it to be true." 
 
 She expected a storm ; but none came. 
 " Poor child, poor child 1 " Madame O'Neil 
 said with a gentle, pitying laugh. " Waft- 
 ed here and there like a fallen leaf, now 
 believing this, now that. Do not think 
 I blame you ; but I do feel pity for you." 
 
 " Let me go, madame." 
 
 " Now believing this, now that ; now 
 hearing one side, now the other, — no 
 wonder that you are bewildered and per- 
 plexed. And so a bad woman's dying 
 words, a woman whose character had been 
 for years utterly ruined, — words that were 
 dragged, tortured, from her, and which no 
 one in their senses would believe ; and so a 
 misere such as this has produced this great 
 revolution in you, has caused this wretch- 
 ed misunderstanding between us. Poor 
 child ! " And she bent down and kissed 
 her. 
 
 That kiss was the last straw. 
 
 " No, it is not that only, — a misire, as 
 you call it," she cried indignantly, and 
 wrenching her hand away. " Mtidame, I 
 am not a fool, though you pretend to think 
 me one. There is more than that." 
 
 " More ? " 
 
 " Yes, more.'' 
 
 Madame O'Neil's face did not grow paler 
 (it could not do that) ; but a change, 
 some sort of a change, passed across it. 
 
 " More ! " she repeated. " In the name 
 of Heaven, what do you mean ? " she asked. 
 
 Quite involuntarily Ethel's eyes wan- 
 dered uneasily across the room to the console 
 upon which the Indian box was placed. It 
 was a quick, hasty glance; but, quick as it 
 was, it did not escape her companion. " I 
 mean that proofs exist, — indubitable proofs 
 that — Let me go," she cried, breaking off 
 suddenly ; for she felt that she was becom- 
 ing paralyzed and helpless again beneath 
 Madame O'Neil's searching eyes., " Let me 
 go. I will tell you nothing, nothing ; and, 
 if you will not leave the room, I must. 
 Madame, will you go, or not ? " 
 
 The girl was crimson. All her momen- 
 tary presence of mind, all her courage and 
 selt-restraint, had vanished. Madame 
 O'Neil only smiled. 
 
 " Fool, little fool I " she began, slowly 
 gathering up her shawl. 
 
 And then suddenly she paused. The 
 door had been flung open, and a frightened 
 servant had rushed in. " The master is 
 mortal bad, miss," she cried ; " and the mis- 
 tress has fainted away ; and the doctor is 
 calling for you to come to look afler her. 
 And, O Lord I O Lord!" For Ethel 
 
 had flown past her with a little scream, and 
 was out of hearing already. 
 
 Madame O'Neil was alone, standing per- 
 fectly still as they had left her, in the 
 middle of the long room, pale and still and 
 cold as marble. 
 
 Perhaps, for a moment (5r two, a rush of 
 memories overpowered her; perhaps even 
 upon her steel-like nature the moment, the 
 place, the sight of the old familiar room, 
 of all the old familiar objects which sur- 
 rounded her, produced a strange, bewilder- 
 ing sensation ; perhaps even into her cold, 
 calculating heart, the thought that her 
 husband's brother was at this very instant 
 dying within a few yards of her shot some- 
 thing like a pang. But, if so, it was only 
 momentarily — a passing weakness. Grad- 
 ually and slowly her eyes raised themselves 
 ii-om the ground, and wandered curiously 
 and anxiously about the room, resting here 
 and there upon some piece of furniture or 
 ornament or picture, — old friends which 
 stared at her like ghosts from the dim, 
 distant past. It was wonderfully little 
 changed since she, a girl, had known in 
 that very room how, humbly and dexter- 
 ously, to attract the admiring glances of 
 a weak, foolish boy, and,~ while befooling 
 and deceiving his unsuspecting mother, to 
 bind him closely to her. Here on this very 
 spot she had sat on a lowly stool at her 
 mistress's feet, reading aloud to her some 
 silly French romance, and, whilst amusing 
 his mother, had not failed to drop sweet 
 poison into the young man's ears. There 
 she had modestly sat bending diligently 
 over some marvellous piece of fancy-work, 
 yet not too engrossed, from time to time, to 
 raise her splendid eyes in answer to some 
 passionate, ardent glance. Ah 1 and this 
 was life, — the past a silent, mocking, and 
 empty dream ; the present delusion,-disap- 
 pointment, defeat. But could it be defeat, 
 with Arthur O'Neil dying, and — 
 
 Oh that wretched, tell-tale glance of 
 Ethel's 1 Oh, the mad, giddy thoughtless- 
 ness of a heedless young girl 1 Very 
 quietly, but with a quick, unfaltering step, 
 Madame O'Neil did move, at last, right 
 across the room to the console at the far- 
 ther end of it, upon which the little Indian 
 bojc was lying. She took it up in her hand, 
 looking at it with a slow, recognizing 
 glance. It seemed to her, somehow, to be 
 an old acquaintance. Yet she had all but 
 forgotten it, — entirely forgotten the secret 
 spring which opened it. But Fortune has 
 strange caprices and still stranger favor- 
 ites. Over and over again had she favored 
 Madame O'Neil, as. Indeed, she not seldom 
 favors those who throw themselves into 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 143 
 
 her arms ; and now, at this supreme mo- 
 ment, she was not going to fail her. Even 
 as she held the box, curiously examining it, 
 her finger touched the spring, and the lid 
 flew open. Perhaps that really was the 
 supreme moment of Madame O'Neil's life ; 
 and, if so, she was equal to it. For years 
 and years she had been haunted by this 
 lurking dread, that her wretched tool 
 would play her false at last, and that, in 
 spite of all care and precaution and deter- 
 mination, she possessed the means to do so. 
 It had only been a vague dread ; and over 
 and over again- she had persuaded and con- 
 vinced herself that it was a foolish one. 
 She herself had been too clever to risk such 
 a chance, or to commit herself to any 
 writing which could possibly inculpate 
 her ; and so far she was secure. But she 
 mistrusted her less clever and far less 
 strong-minded sister; and Mrs. Irwin had, 
 she knew, been guilty of the folly of from 
 time to time sending letters to America, 
 which, unless destroyed, it was not impos- 
 sible might, one day, be terrible proofs 
 against her. But Bridget had over and 
 over again sworn that she had destroyed 
 them ; and Madame O'Neil had finally let 
 the matter rest, and believed her. Yet 
 here they were, — at least some of them ; for 
 Bridget had so far sworn true that most of 
 them had been destroyed. A few only — 
 but those few all sufficient for her purpose 
 — the clever Irishwoman had preserved. 
 Here they- were. Madame O'Neil held 
 them in her hand ; and at once, before she 
 had even opened the packet, a sure instinct 
 told her what they were. She did not hesi- 
 tate a moment. She did not even take 
 the trouble of closing the door which the 
 frightened servant had left half ajar a few 
 minutes ago ; but at once, with swift, dex- 
 terous fingers, she undid the string which 
 tied the papers together, and one by one 
 examined the yellow, faded letters. Color 
 came into her face as she did so, and per- 
 haps her hands trembled a little. To have 
 been so sure of triumph, and yet so nearly 
 defeated 1 To have toiled and labored and 
 waited for years, and in the end to have 
 been foiled by a few miserable, almost ille- 
 
 fible sheets of paper I For they would 
 ave foiled her : she knew they would. 
 Her sister's handwriting — that foreign, 
 cramped, painful writing, hard to decipher, 
 as others had found it — was legible enough 
 to her. In five minutes she had not read 
 them all ; but she had read and seen enough 
 to convince her that such witnesses as these 
 were more than powerful enough tp destroy 
 in an instant all her plans, all her schemes, 
 all her hopes, all her resolves. [ 
 
 And now she held these silent, solemn 
 witnesses in her hand to do with as she 
 willed; and Arthur, the last but one — and 
 that one a maniac of ninety — of the 
 O'Neils of Castle Garvagh, was dying, — 
 dying close at band. Another woman but 
 his sister-in-law might perhaps have fal- 
 tered , and hesitated, — felt at least some 
 pang of pity, some passing doubt, some 
 irresolution ; but she felt nothing of it all. 
 A momentary doubt — yes, for she had half 
 put the fatal letters in her pocket, when 
 she hastily drew them out again. Perhaps 
 she did not like to steal them from the 
 house ; perhaps she disliked the sensation 
 of actually carrying away stolen goods ; 
 perhaps she mistrusted herself or others. 
 Heaven only knows. Heaven only knows 
 what it was in her heart and mind during 
 that solemn instant, — during which she 
 had approached the fire, and, with one 
 steady hand stirring it into a bright, warm 
 blaze, bad with the other dropped the 
 fatal letters into it. And thus it was that 
 while Arthur O'Neil was fighting his last 
 desperate fight for life, here in his own 
 home, at his own hearth, this cruel deed 
 was calmly done. 
 
 A quarter of an hour later, Ethel re- 
 turned to the library. That alarm was over. 
 Mr. O'Neil had not died yet ; and his 
 mother, who had fainted away from grief 
 and exhaustion, had been carried to her 
 own room, and there — poor little woman I 
 — was now peacefully asleep. A vague 
 uneasiness had brought the girl back. She 
 thought it scarcely probable that Madame 
 O'Neil would depart without seeing her- 
 again ; and the thought that she was still in. 
 the house was intolerable. But she was 
 wrong. Madame O'Neil had gone. The 
 room was empty, still, and pleasant, a»- 
 though no tragedy had just been played 
 out within it. Ethel drew a deep sigh of 
 relief. Suddenly her eye, by chance, rested' 
 on the little Indian box, which lay in the- 
 same position upon the console, and a hor- 
 rible dread seized her. But the next in- 
 stant she was re-assured. 
 
 The little packet of letters was there,, 
 tied carefully up, as she had herself tiedi 
 them, with a blue silk ribbon. But Ethel,, 
 sharply realizing the dreadful possibility 
 which had just been incurred, then andi 
 there brought letters and box and all into- 
 her own room, and carefully locked them 
 up. 
 
 As Lord O'Neil had said, the O'Neils- 
 were a long-lived family, and tough, and 
 
144 
 
 ETHEIi MILDMAT'S FOLLIES. 
 
 hard to kill. Never had a man been near- 
 er death, and yet not died, than Arthur 
 O'Neil. It had been a sharp, close strug- 
 gle ; and he came out of it weak and help- 
 less as an infant, but yet — perhaps be- 
 cause he was resolved not to die — living 
 still. But his recovery was slow, despair- 
 ingly slow. Several days passed before it 
 could be called a recovery at all; and 
 several more, when the joy of hope crept 
 once more through the house, before he was 
 capable of moving hand or foot, or -of even 
 making a sign that this life for which he 
 had fought so desperately was really worth 
 the trouble of keeping. After the first 
 great re-action of happiness had passed 
 away, it was a trying time. Particularly 
 so to Ethel ; for it had to be passed, for the 
 most part, in solitude and idleness. No- 
 body wanted her. Now that excitement 
 and danger were passed, Flaherty, the auto- 
 crat of the sick-room, was too discreet and 
 prudish (prudent she called it) to allow a 
 giddy young girl's incomings and outgoings 
 to disturb its repose and peacefulness ; and 
 Mrs. O'Neil, with the ingratitude of happi- 
 ness, was completely engrossed in her son. 
 And so things went on for a little, till one 
 day, when the old lady, sitting by his bed- 
 side, was indulging in the dismal pleasure 
 of a retrospect. 
 
 " How on earth he caught that fever is 
 and always will be a puzzle to me," she 
 told Dr. O'Toole, who was paying his 
 morning visit ; " and, the more I think of 
 it, the less I understand it. All the pre- 
 cautions 1 had taken, or at least was going 
 to take. Now, there it is, Arthur : if you 
 had only waited for a couple of days, till " — 
 
 Dr. O'Toole guffawed loudly ; and even 
 Mr. O'Neil laughed — a feeble little laugh 
 — over the premature collapse qf the old 
 lady's grand campaign. 
 
 " How did he catch the fever, ma'am ? " 
 the good doctor repeated. "Why, to be 
 sure, he caught it from Dan Moore, the 
 widow's son. Lord bless my soul 1 " as a 
 vehement wink from the invalid impe- 
 riously warned him to pause. 
 
 "From Dan Moore! good gracious! 
 How could Arthur have caught it from 
 him? You don't mean to say that?" 
 And Mrs. O'Neil looked from one to the 
 other aghast and perplexed. 
 
 It was a critical moment; but Dr. 
 O'Toole, by the aid of what he was in the 
 habit of terming a " bouncer," easily ex- 
 tricated himself from the difficulty. By 
 and by, when Mrs. O'Neil had left the 
 room, 'and the two gentlemen were alone, — 
 
 "You are a fool, doctor," quoth Mr. 
 O'Neil pleasantly. " You know that I did 
 
 not really get the fever from poor young 
 Moore. 1 was only in the cabin that day 
 for about five minutes. The thing is im- 
 possible." 
 
 "Very well," said the doctor., "It is 
 impossible if you like ; but, beyond yea or 
 nay, it is a tact for all that. Some men 
 can do things of this sort with impunity, 
 and others can't. You are one of those 
 that can't ; and so I have told you a hun- 
 dred thousand times." 
 
 " Humbug ! " was the invalid's irrever- 
 ent comment. " By the way, who told you 
 about our — m^ having gone near Dan 
 Moore at all ? " he inquired carelessly. 
 
 " Who told me, sir V Why, Miss Ethel, 
 to be sure I Wasn't she nearly breaking- 
 her heart about it 1 And wasn't I well in- 
 clined to give her a good sound scolding 
 too ? No : by the way, I was not," pro- 
 ceeded the doctor, shaking his head, and 
 looking wise ; " for, as I told her, one 
 don't expect sense from chits of girls of the 
 sort ; but from a man of your age — upon 
 my word, sir, it is ridiculous I " 
 
 Mr. O'Neil looked a little impatient and 
 a little uneasy. 
 
 " Moonshine ! " he observed. " It had 
 nothing whatever to do with my illness at 
 all. Of that I am convinced. I was not 
 well when I came home ; though you were 
 all noticing my good looks. But I was 
 worn out and exhausted and excited, and 
 had probably laid the seeds of the attack. 
 I hope that she — Miss Mildmay did not 
 tease herself, did not really imaoine any 
 thing of the sort," he added quickly. 
 
 " Hum. It is my opinion that she was 
 teasing herself, — breaking her heart, in 
 fact. And it is also my opinion, sir," and 
 here the doctor lowered his voice to a con- 
 fidential whisper, and gave one of his most 
 appalling winks, " that the girl is sweet 
 upon you. I give you-my solemn word it is." 
 
 Probably the good doctor only meant 
 pleasantly to enliven his patient. Certain- 
 ly he was by no means prepared, and not 
 a little alarmed, by the sudden start and 
 deep flush his announcement produced. 
 But Mr. O'Neil only laughed, and turned 
 his back upon him. 
 
 " Doctor, I give you up," he said. " Rea- 
 son is tottering at last. Go away and let 
 me sleep." 
 
 But he did not sleep for very long. 
 Presently his mother, stealing on tiptoe 
 into the room not to disturb him, found liim 
 wide awake, his eyes a little brighter, his 
 face a shade redder, than half an hour ago. 
 
 " Used Miss Mildmay never come to see 
 me while I was ill, mother ? " he inquired 
 abruptly. 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 145 
 
 " Bless me 1 I thought you were asleep. 
 To be sure she did, Arthur ! and, what is 
 more, when you were very bad, she helped 
 to nurse you very nicely indeed. She is a 
 good child, Arthur, — a good child, but 
 desperately wilful. I tried to shut the 
 door on her at first on account of the infec- 
 tion ; but, as you know,(there is no prevent- 
 ing the girl doing a thing when she is bent 
 on it, and she told me that she would get 
 in through the keyhole if there was no oth- 
 er way. Upon my word, I think she would 
 too," concluded the old lady with a gentle 
 laugh. 
 
 " And I knew nothing of it all." 
 
 " Of course not. You were out of your 
 senses for days and days ; and the Great 
 Mogul might have come to nurse you, and 
 you would have been none the wiser. Poor 
 fellow 1 Poor boy 1 " And she fondled him 
 as though he were ^ child. 
 
 He smiled a weak, grateful smJle, and 
 passively submitted to her caresses ; but it 
 was evident that he was not perfectly satis- 
 fied. Presently out it came. 
 
 " I should like to see Ethel," he said in 
 rather a low voice. " By and by when I 
 am up and on the sofa, you know, suppose 
 you ask her to come, mother." 
 
 Perhaps a momentary pang of jealousy 
 shot through the old lady's heart ; for a lit- 
 tle cloud darkened her fair forehead for an 
 instant, and she replied with a shade of 
 dryness, — 
 
 " Well, perhaps so, Arthur, — perhaps so. 
 We'll see about it. But she is such a giddy 
 child I and the doctor says you must not 
 be excited or disturbed." 
 
 " She will not excite or disturb me, 
 mother ; and I want to see her." And he 
 said it so pleadingly, that Mrs. O'Neil could 
 not but relent. 
 
 That afternoon she came behind the 
 young girl suddenly, as she stood at the 
 window, looking out blankly at the dull, 
 gray world, and the leafless trees, and the 
 sad-looking sky. 
 
 " Arthur would like to see you, child," 
 she told her abruptly. " Will you come to 
 him?" 
 
 Ethel turned' round sharply, coloring up 
 to the roots of her hair with pleasure and 
 surprise. 
 
 " Would he really ? Oh, yes I I'll come." 
 
 The old lady gave her a keen, anxious 
 glance. 
 
 " Mind, you must be very quiet, and not 
 talk," she warned her a little dryly. " He 
 is not to be excited, remember." 
 ' An injunction which Ethel obeyed after 
 her own fashion. She had her little speech 
 ready, — had indeed had it ready for many 
 , 10 
 
 a long day of impatient waiting. Until she 
 had made it, until she had told her guardi- 
 an of her sorrow and her remorse, and had 
 begged of him to forgive her, she knew that 
 it was quite impossible for her to feel com- 
 fortable or happy again. But now that 
 the opportunity had come at last, and that 
 she was by his side, holding his hand, look- 
 ing at him, the words stuck in her throat, 
 and she was speechless. So was he. It 
 was a silent meeting. 
 
 After all, it was he that spoke first. " I 
 have been longing for you," he said. " Why 
 did you not come before ? " 
 
 " They would not let me. They thought 
 that I would only disturb you." 
 
 " Disturb me I Very likely. When the 
 sight of you does me more good than any 
 tonic in the world ; " and he gave her a 
 kindly smile. 
 
 Ethel's eyes filled up with tears. For 
 the life of her she could not help it, he 
 looked so white and weak and ill. And 
 the wreck before her was her work, her 
 doing. The thought was simply intoler- 
 able. 
 
 " Does you good ? I ? O Mr. O'Neil ! " 
 
 " Well, what, Miss Mildmay ? Ethel, if 
 you cry it will be all up with me," he said 
 in a tone of desperation. 
 
 " I can't help it ; oh I I can't help it." 
 And then there came a few strangled sobs. 
 " Mr. O'Neil, will you ever forgive me V 
 Can you ever forgive me ? You know it 
 was my fault, — altogether my fault. And 
 I am miserable, dreadfully miserable." 
 
 A nice way of not exciting him. White 
 as Mr. O'Neil was before, he was a hun- 
 dred times whiter now, — so white, indeed, 
 that Ethel thought he was going to faint, 
 and fiew terrified to the bell ; and then Mrs. 
 O'Neil and Flaherty came rushing in, and 
 Ethel was ignominiously turned out ; and 
 faint ofi" he did in right earnest. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 STRANGE were the rumors and reports 
 that came floating across the brown, 
 bleak bogs from Castle Garvagh. Day af- 
 ter day Dr. O' Toole brought some new and 
 startling piece of gossip with him to Mount 
 Druid, picked up here and there, and which 
 we may be sure diversified not a little the 
 daily monotony of existence to its inhabit- 
 ants. 
 
 All the world, indeed, was talking ; any 
 world, that is, that existed in that thinly 
 
146 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 populated region. Mysterious whispers 
 were creeping through the air; wild suppo- 
 sitions and suggestions were wafted upon 
 the chill wintry breezes. Every day gave 
 birth to some thrilling flight of imagina- 
 tion, or some sensational piece of intelli- 
 gence such as made people stare and talk, 
 and marvel what was coming next. 
 
 That something was to come soon seemed 
 to be by most people taken as a matter of 
 course ; public opinion being somewhow or 
 other raised to a pitch that loudly demand- 
 ed satisfaction of one kind or another. 
 But, concerning what actually had come, 
 meagre, indeed, was the intelligence that 
 could be relied upon. 
 
 All that was known beyond " yea or nay," 
 as Dr. O'Toole emphatically expressed it, 
 was, that the " Countess " and the " Pre- 
 tender," as they were called, had arrived to 
 take possession, it was said ; for the old 
 lord, the world decided, was really going 
 to die at last, and, for once in his life, to 
 oblige everybody. But the world came to 
 this important conclusion on hearsay only ; 
 lor the real state of Lord O'Neil's henlth 
 was a mystery which had yet to be pene- 
 trated. He was madder than ever : that 
 much, at least, seemed certain. All sorts of 
 strange stories were circulating on that 
 subject — stories that told of extraordinary 
 freaks and caprices and outbreaks, which 
 made the lives of all those that were busy 
 closely watching him, hard lives to bear. 
 
 Big with intelligence, one day, came the 
 doctor. The last freak was the queerest 
 and most wonderful of all ; and his jovial 
 eyes twinkled merrily as he recounted it to 
 his old friend. The " countess " had been 
 dismissed, turned out, baggage and all, of 
 the castle. Whether she had entered it 
 with or without an invitation, was not 
 known. But what was known was, that a 
 summary invitation to leave it had been 
 given her, and that yesterday she and her 
 sister had departed to take up their resi- 
 dence in the steward's modest little bouse 
 on the demesne. 
 
 Mrs. O'Neil clapped her hands with 
 delischt ; for, needless to say, the favor 
 which the foreigners had been for the last 
 few weeks enjoying at the castle had 
 cruelly aggrieved the old lady's heart. 
 " And the young fellow — what of him, 
 doctor ? Has he been sent about his busi- 
 ness too ? " she demanded eagerly. 
 
 But Dr. O'Toole had no such pleasing 
 intelligence to impart on that score. This 
 was the strangest of all. While the old 
 lord had apparently taken a fit of the most 
 lively aversion to the countess, the pretend- 
 er was still in high favor. From the very 
 
 first, Lord O'Neil had taken a fancy to him ; 
 but now this fancy had grown into quite a 
 mania, and he would hardly let him out of 
 his sight. From morning till night they 
 were together, playing at the organ, wan- 
 dering through the house or over the 
 grounds. The poor count had got more 
 than he had bargained for when he had 
 come to Castle Garvah, and was, perhaps, 
 beginning to feel the aflTection which he had 
 so unexpectedly evoked a little oppressive 
 and overpowering. 
 
 Mrs. O'Neil's face darkened. " The man 
 is mad, — as mad as a March hare ! " she 
 exclaimed indignantly. " To think^that he, 
 too, should be taken in by such a barefaced 
 impostor 1 " 
 
 " True enough, he's mad," replied the 
 doctor thoughtfully. " One of the greatest 
 proofs of insanity are these violent hatreds 
 and likings to which he is subject. Upon 
 my word, I am thinking it is a crying shame 
 not to have liim locked up and put out of 
 harm's way." 
 
 The old lady wrung her hands. " What 
 can we do? what can we do?" she in- 
 quired piteously. " Those Irwins have him 
 completely in their hands now ; and it would 
 look dreadful for us to be the first to pro- 
 pose such a thing, — when, too, the old 
 creature can't live much longer. I defy 
 him to live much longer," she said desper- 
 ately. 
 
 " Unless he is sold body and soul to Old^ 
 Nick," replied the doctor with a guffaw : 
 " well, no matter, no matter I All I say is, 
 that the countess is a clever woman ; and 
 that it is a good job that whatever the 
 unfortunate old man says or does don't 
 matter much in the long-run. Now, if it 
 were a case of his being able to make an 
 heir according to his own liking, Master 
 Arthur, with his lazy, proud ways, would 
 be cut out in a twinkling. I wonder what 
 it would take to make him go and dance 
 attendance upon his lordship as that young 
 foreign fellow is doing so diligently." 
 
 " True enough, doctor | true enough. 
 Pride is a good enough thing in its way, — 
 in moderation, that is, — but I have told 
 Arthur a hundred times that there are 
 occasions when one would do better and 
 wiser to pocket one's pride, and that he 
 ought not to have entirely neglected his 
 uncle as of late years he had done. But " 
 — and she shook lier head dolefully. 
 
 " 'All's well that ends well,' " quoth the 
 doctor cheerfully ; " and, provided the old 
 sinner would only think well of making him- 
 self scarce in the world, never fear but that 
 all their foreign toadyism and grimacings 
 would serve them precious little. Never fear 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 147 
 
 but that twelve honest British jurymen will 
 make short work of all that, and of the 
 whole abominable fabric of their disgrace- 
 ful imposture, — blow it off the face of the 
 earth, ma'am ! " And he gave the table a 
 violent thump. " By the way, I don't think 
 Master Arthur is troubling himself much 
 £lbout Castle Garvagh just now," concluded 
 the doctor, lowering his voice, and winking 
 tremendously. 
 
 Mrs. O'Neil colored. " What do you 
 mean, doctor ? what do you mean ? " she 
 inquired nervously. 
 
 " Ahem, ma'am 1 I can tell you that it 
 is something else besides my physic that's 
 curing him so fast." And he nodded his 
 head solemnly. 
 
 Mrs. O'Neil groaned. '■ Doctor, she's a 
 terrible girl, — terrible. O Lord I OLord! 
 Why on earth had I ever any thing to say 
 to her ? " 
 
 Dr. O'Toole opened his eyes. " Why, 
 Where's the harm ? Suppose they like one 
 another, why on earth shouldn't they make 
 a match of it, ma'am ? " 
 
 " Suppose 1 Humbug ! Suppose she is 
 making a fool of him, as she makes a fool 
 of every single man that comes within a 
 yard of her. Doctor, I tell you that she 
 is a terrible girl." 
 
 " Hum." And the doctor looked con- 
 templative. 
 
 " And now the poor fellow is weak and 
 foolish, and — It makes both Flaherty 
 and me sick,'' she said, waxing irate. 
 
 " Hum. It strikes me that both you and 
 Flaherty are completely out, ma'am," re- 
 marked the doctor oracularly. 
 
 "Don't be a fool, doctor 1 As if you 
 knew any thing about these matters. The 
 saucy minx is just amusing herself with my 
 poor boy as " — 
 
 "Com — pletely out," repeated the doc- 
 tor, making a rush at the door, and dis- 
 appearing. 
 
 With disturbed wrinkles puckering her 
 smooth forehead, Mrs. O'Neil hurried up 
 stairs. Her son, though still an invalid, 
 was yet now able to leave his room, and to 
 spend most of the day in the library. Ethel 
 was with him as usual, — had been with him, 
 indeed, for many hours ; for notwithstanding 
 the disastrous result of that first interview, 
 and the consequent peremptory interference 
 of the authorities, the patient had set them 
 all at defiance, and had insisted upon being 
 given as much of his ward's society as 
 possible. 
 
 " I am selfish, I know," he had said apolo- 
 getically to her once or twice ; " but sick 
 people may be selfish, and you will tell me 
 when I have become too exigeant." 
 
 But Ethel had not told him so yet ; and 
 Mr. O'Neil evidently still considered him- 
 self at liberty to indulge his selfishness. At 
 all events, they had spent pretty nearly the 
 whole of this morning together, — not 
 talking the whole time, for Ethel had been 
 reading aloud to him, — but still talking a 
 little. 
 
 There had come some rather interesting 
 letters that morning, one of which had ap- 
 parently "afforded not a little satisfaction to 
 Mr. O'Neil. It was from Gen. Mildmay, 
 Ethel's other guardian ; and it contained 
 the intelligence that his return from India, 
 which was to have taken place at the end 
 of January, was now, owing to unforeseen 
 and unavoidable circumstances, postponed 
 to the month of March. " I must therefore 
 beg of you," he wrote to Mr. O'Neil, " to 
 take charge of my dear young niece for tn^o 
 or three months longer, — an arrangement 
 which, I trust, will not inconvenience you 
 or Mrs. O'Neil, and which will add to the 
 already immense obligation I owe to both 
 of you for your truly great kindness to my 
 dear brother's poor child." 
 
 If a little formal and ceremonious, it was 
 yet a kind letter, and evidently kindly 
 meant. But Ethel looked a little grave 
 and sad over it for all that. 
 
 " I wonder what he is like," she said. " I 
 believe I saw him once, years ago, when I 
 was very little ; but I forget him almost en- 
 tirely." And then she looked thoughtfully 
 straight into the fire. 
 
 " At all events," said Mr. O'Neil after a 
 pause, " he has given us a respite. There 
 must be some good in him." 
 
 She smiled. Mrs. O'Neil was right. 
 Ethel Mildmay was a terrible girl. Her 
 smile was the demure, saucy, irresistible 
 smile of old. 
 
 " Then, badly-behaved ward as I am, yet 
 you are not sorry to have me for a little 
 while longer, Mr. O'Neil ? But, though you 
 are not to be rid of me, I shall not be in 
 your power very much longer. Remember, 
 I 6ease to be an ' infant ' — is it not that 
 the newspapers call it? — on the first of 
 January." And she nodded her pretty, fair 
 head playfully. 
 
 " You will be an infant to the end of the 
 chapter, Miss Mildmay. But you are right. 
 Where are we now ? Seventeenth of De- 
 cember, I declare. Fourteen days more, 
 and we are mutually free. Do you know 
 that I am longing for my release V " 
 
 " Indeed 1 " . 
 
 " Positively longing. The duties are too 
 onerous: I could not stand them a day 
 longer." 
 
 Ethel glanced at him a puzzled, rather 
 
148 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 shy glance. " Are you serious ? " she in- 
 quired. 
 
 " I should think so." But he smiled 
 rather suspiciously. " The fact is," he went 
 on then, " that I am and always have been 
 a slave to duty. Very different from you, 
 Miss Mildmay, who don't seem to know 
 even the raeaningof the word. Well, beini; 
 your guardian, I have a certain conception 
 of the dutiesof guardianship, the fulfilment 
 of which I am beginning to feel -^ well, to 
 speak frankly — intolerable. Now do you 
 understand ? " , ' 
 
 Ethel opened her violet eyes. " Not in 
 the least." 
 
 " Come, that is too bad, -When you do 
 understand perfectly. However, I will 
 explain if you like." 
 
 She looked — perhaps ever so little — 
 alarmed. " Explanations are dreadful 
 thinijs." 
 
 " Yes. But one can't always go on 
 living in a fog. A man can do it — when 
 he must — for a certain time ; but there is 
 a limit somewhere. In short, so long as 
 I am your guardian, I don't consider that 
 I can in honor ask you to let me be any 
 thing else to you. Now do you understand. 
 Miss Mildmay?" 
 
 He spoke quite coolly and collectedly, — 
 so coolly, that, though his meaning certain- 
 ly was clear to the meanest capacity, she 
 could yet make a poor little '(eint of not 
 comprehending it. 
 
 " It seems to me that guardianship and 
 friendship go very nicely together," she said, 
 looking straight on before her. 
 
 " Oh, yes I very nicely, admirably, — 
 twin-sisters, in short, with a joint sort of 
 life. You'll see that when one dies the 
 other will die too, Miss Mildmay." 
 
 " Mr. O'Neil 1 " 
 
 " A fiict. Something tells me, that, when 
 I cease to be your guardian, I shall cease 
 to be your friend," he went on, laughing. 
 " That is, if I am your friend at all." 
 
 " You are : you know you are 1 " 
 
 " Am I ? Once upon a time I was not, 
 at any rate : at least, not with your leave ; 
 though perhaps I was without it. Once 
 upon a time^you looked upon me more in 
 the light of an enemy than of any thing else, 
 I think." 
 
 " Once upon a time I was a fool. You 
 are very ill natured to talk about that," 
 Ethel said with tremulous petulance. 
 
 " About what ? " 
 
 " About that time at Nice." And she 
 jumped up suddenly, as if she were going 
 to run away. 
 
 But he put out his hand, and caught her 
 just in time. " At all events we are good 
 
 friends now ; will be good friends for a little 
 while longer, will we not ? " he asked her 
 with a smile. 
 
 " We are — we will I Mr. O'Neil, what 
 do you mean ! she exclaimed with sudden 
 alarm. " I have no friend in the world but 
 you, — you and Mrs. O'Neil ; and, if you 
 get tired of me and give me up, what is to 
 become of me ? " 
 
 " Get tired of you ! Give you up I Turn 
 you out in the frost and cold on the first of 
 January ! Well, and supposing we do, 
 where will you go to. Miss Mildmay ? " 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 She said it with a sudden sadness, stand- 
 ing before him with sudden, bright tears in 
 her eyes. " I don't know." There was an 
 unconscious pathos in the desolate little 
 words. 
 
 A pathos which evidently , affected Mr. 
 O'Neil rather overpoweringly, for he grew 
 whiter than before. " Turn you out in the 
 frost and snow," he repeated with a tender 
 little laugh. " Poor child ! Poor child I " 
 
 There was a pause. Her face was 
 averted, and her head drooping, — rather 
 a forlorn and melancholy sort of droop. 
 There was something in her attitude, some- 
 thing hard to describe or to express, but 
 which meant that she was feeling just then 
 desolate and lonely and abandoned, — feel- 
 ing herself to be the orphan she was. 
 
 " Poor child 1 " repeated her guardian 
 with that strange, tender, painful laugh. 
 
 Quick as lightning the young girl turned 
 on him. " Not so poor 1 " she exclaimed 
 with a gay, saucy smile, — " not so poor as 
 you think. I have a friend ; yes, I have, — 
 a friend who will be very glad to see me 
 if you do turn me out. Christine Barbier 
 is her name ; and I have a letter from her 
 in my pocket this very minute, in which 
 she says that she hopes I will soon go 
 and visit her and stop with her. Tliere ! 
 Would you like to see it ? " And she flour- 
 ished Madame Barhier's letter triumphantly 
 in his face. 
 
 One instant on the verge of sentiment, 
 forlorn, and tearful ; the next, mocking, 
 gay, defiant. No doubt about it, whether 
 as ward or friend or beloved. Miss Mildmay 
 was not an easy girl to deal with. 
 
 " So you have a friend actually,'' her 
 guardian said, with, perhaps, a shade of 
 pique in his tone. For to men the quick- 
 silver natures of women are inexplicable, 
 and they find it totally impossible to com- 
 prehend the ease and quickness with which 
 the youngest and most innocent girl will 
 know how to glide out of difficult situa- 
 tions. " Actually you can boast of a friend. 
 Well, Miss Mildmay, do you purpose to 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 149 
 
 accept Madame Barbier's hospitable invi- 
 tation ? " 
 
 "I'll think about it. If you and Mrs. 
 O'Neil show symptoms of being tired of 
 me, I certainly shall." 
 
 " Make use of your freedom, and, the 
 instant you get your twenty-one-years-old 
 wings, fly away from the cage. It has 
 been a dull cage for you, undoubtedly, poor 
 bird I" 
 
 " Yes, it has," she answered frankly. 
 
 " And you will be glad, very glad, to 
 make your escape V " 
 
 She laughed and flushed, and did not 
 reply. Then, after a pause, " Mr. O'Neil," 
 she said suddenly. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " There is a puzzle that puzzles my 
 brain terribly. May I tell it to you ? " 
 
 "By all means." And he looked curi- 
 ous. 
 
 " How is it — Why did you not marry 
 Christine ? " she inquired abruptly. 
 
 A somewhat overwhelming and startling 
 question apparently. Mr. O'Neil stared at 
 her, amazed. " Because — I was not 
 thinking of marrying in those days," he 
 answered shortly. 
 
 "I have often wondered about it," pro- 
 ceeded Ethel thoughtfully. " Christine was 
 such a dear, clever, good girl, and " — 
 
 " And — apres, mademoiselle f " 
 
 "■Yjoa know that she did not care about 
 that horrid M. Barbier," Ethel said vehe- 
 mently. 
 
 " And therefore I was to marry her. Is 
 that your notion of logic. Miss Mildmay ? 
 But I did not care for her, — in that way, 
 you know." 
 
 "It was a pity," Ethel said demurely. 
 
 " Do you think so ? " And he laughed a 
 little uneasily. " Yes, it is true," he went 
 on thoughtfully after a pause, " Christine 
 is all yoli say, — clever, charming, good. 
 She would perhaps, too, have married me 
 had I asked her ; but — I tell you I never 
 thoupfht about it," he said frankly. 
 
 "No?" 
 
 " No. A man can't make himself like a 
 woman. At least, I never could." 
 
 " But he can make a woman like him ? " 
 
 " He can try." 
 
 " And what if he fails ? " 
 
 " He can break his heart." 
 
 Ethel laughed. " Hearts don't break so 
 easily." But her laugh broke off in the 
 midst rather abruptly, and ended in a short 
 little sigh. 
 
 It was at this point in the conversation, 
 that Mrs. O'Neil came bustling into the 
 room after her confabulation with the doc- 
 tor, — bustling in, looking important and 
 
 anxious. " The doctor has gone to have 
 a look at James's sore finger," she an- 
 nounced , " bat will be here in a minute." 
 And Mrs. O'Neil glanced suspiciously from 
 Ethel's face to that of her son, both of which 
 looked a little flushed and disturbed by her 
 abrupt entrance. 
 
 " How red you are, child 1 — red as a tur- 
 key-cock I " she exclaimed with more irri- 
 tation than discretion. 
 
 " Am I ? The fire is so hot." And she 
 put her hands to her cheeks. 
 
 " Well, then, go out and get some air. 
 You have been in the whole morning. 
 You'll ruin your complexion, child, if you 
 don't take more fresh air." 
 
 There was no mistaking this broad hint ; 
 and Ethel took it and departed. No sooner 
 had she gone, than Mrs. O'Neil communi- 
 cated the doctor's last piece of intelligence. 
 " What do you think of that, Arthur V " she 
 demanded, crowing gleefully. "Just thiak 
 of that dreadful woman being turned out 
 bodily from the castle." 
 
 Mr. O'Neil looked thoughtful. It had 
 been only a day or two ago that he had been 
 informed of his sister-in-law's arrival in the 
 country at all, the news having been con- 
 sidered too exciting for him. Even then 
 it had excited him more than was good lor 
 him ; now he jumped up from his sofa. " It 
 is intolerable for me to be lying here doing 
 notiiing," he exclaimed : " yet what is there 
 to be done ? " 
 
 His mother soothed him. "Nothing," 
 she said, "nothing, Arthur; and, as Dr. 
 O'Toole says" — 
 
 " The only thing I can do is to be ready, 
 and, thank God 1 I am ready. You have 
 those letters safe, mother ? " 
 
 They are locked up in the wardrobe in 
 Ethel's room. Of course they are safe, 
 Arthur, — quite safe." 
 
 He was silent for a minute or two, think- 
 ing. "In Ethel's room," he repeated. 
 " How came they to be there, mother ? " 
 
 " I gave them to her to read. You told 
 me to give them to her, you remember. 
 And to tell the truth, ever since — all that 
 terrible time when you were so ill — I had 
 not the heart to worry about them." 
 
 He took her hand and stroked it gently. 
 " Poor, poor mother ! You, at least, are 
 fond of me." 
 
 " Fond of you — Arthur ! " 
 
 " Did she read the letters ? " he asked 
 quickly in a low voice. 
 
 " I suppose she did : I never asked her. 
 We never speak on the subject. Of course 
 she read them," went on the old lady med- 
 itatively ; " and, Arthur, what is more, 
 though the child does not say any thing, I 
 
150 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 know what she thinks. She hates these peo- 
 ple Uke poison, as I, God forgive me, hate 
 them myself. Ever since she has heard 
 of them heing in the country, there is no 
 getting her to put her foot outside the house, 
 for fear of meeting them, I'm positively 
 certain.'' 
 
 " And she has never seen them ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " And they have made no attempt to get 
 at her?" 
 
 " Not one. As if they would dare I " 
 And the little lady's eyes flashed with the 
 fire of twenty. 
 
 Her son smiled, but it was an anxious 
 smile ; and he sighed a little wearily " Of 
 course she must know what the truth is," 
 he said. 
 
 "She does, Arthur; she does. And 
 yet" — 
 
 " And yet, mother " — 
 
 " And yet — I tell it to you, Arthur: 
 I must tell it to you," the little lady cried 
 desperately. " It will make no difference, 
 — not a jot. All the Castle Garvaghs in 
 the world would make no difference. 
 Ethel is a giddy girl, a terrible girl ; 
 but she is not worldly : I must give her 
 that credit. She would marry a man to- 
 morrow who had not a shilling to bless 
 himself with, if she only cared about him." 
 
 And Mrs. O'Neil was right, as in those 
 matters a clever woman generally is. 
 There were two men who loved Ethel, 
 each after his fashion, but with all his 
 heart. But their very passion made them 
 blind and brutal and unjust. They both 
 had judged her wrongly. 
 
 "If she only cared about him,'' Mrs. 
 O'Neil repeated. 
 
 He stood up and leant upon the mantle- 
 piece, gazing into the mirror which hung 
 over it. " How dreadfully I look ! " he 
 said, turning away impatiently after an in- 
 stant. , 
 
 His little mother was gazing at him piti- 
 fully. It was true : he did look badly, — 
 ill and white and worn. And alas, alas I 
 those dreadful gray hairs were crowding 
 fearfully to the front. But of course she 
 denied it all roundly. "Not at all!" she 
 asserted stoutly : " you look very nice and 
 young and " — But it was no good. She 
 could not go on. " O Arthur, Arthur I " 
 she exclaimed, standing up on tiptoe, and 
 laying her two little hands on his shoulder. 
 "There was a time when you only cared 
 for your mother and for Castle Garvagh. 
 Tell me that it is so now." 
 
 He looked down at her, smiling. " But 
 jou were always wanting me to marry, 
 mother." 
 
 " So I was ; so I was. God forgive me I 
 I wanted you to marry some nice, sensible, 
 steady girl, who " — 
 
 " Who would have me ; eh, mother ? " 
 She groaned, and wrung her hands. " Oh 
 that terrible child t that saucy minx, — that 
 provoking " — 
 
 " But you are fond of her, mother." 
 " Fond of her ? Of course I am ; of 
 course I am. I can't help it ; but " — 
 " There it is. I can't help it, either." 
 And so it is. Love springs up under some 
 people's feet. Ethel was one of these. 
 With all her faults, with all her foibles, 
 with all her follies, with her violet eyes, 
 and sweet sunny smiles, there was no help 
 for it, — there it was, — one should love her. 
 Ah, who will mend the world's crooked 
 ways, and fashion the hearts of men to 
 sense and justice ? 
 
 CHAPTER XXXni. 
 
 BEYOND a doubt. Lord O'Neil was 
 mad ; a raging lunatic, his cousin, 
 Mrs. O'Neil, decided, when the next day 
 brought what she chose to consider a con- 
 vincing proof that reason had entirely 
 deserted him, — nothing less marvellous 
 than an invitation to Castle Garvagh, — 
 an invitation to herself and her son, and 
 their charming young guest (it was thus 
 that Ethel was designated), to bear him 
 company, as had for a long time been their 
 custom, on the last day of the old year, 
 that so the health of the new year should 
 be drunk by a pleasant family-party. It 
 was a funny, shaky little note, with a de- 
 cided touch of satire in it. The pleasant 
 family -Tparty looked suspicious, and one 
 could imagine the old lord's wicked smile 
 as he penned the words. 
 
 Little Mrs. O'Neil was put into quite a 
 rage by it. "Pleasant family -party in- 
 deed ! " she said, tossing the letter, which, 
 by the way, was written on the shabbiest, " 
 poorest, most miserable sheet of note-paper 
 that could be imagined, back to her son. 
 " Mighty pleasant, to be sure I He means 
 to insult us : of course he does. Such an 
 idea I " 
 
 Mr. O'Neil laughed, and did not at once 
 reply. "It certainly is an odd idea," he 
 said then. " Poor old wretch I " And yet 
 — Do you know, mother, I have half a 
 mind to go ? " 
 
 " To go 1 Arthur, are you mad too ? " 
 
 " Perhaps I am. I don't feel like it ex- 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 151 
 
 actly. But I have rather a prejudice for 
 old customs ; and he takes care to remind 
 us that this is one." 
 
 " Old nonsense I I have not eaten a 
 crust of bread in the house for the last 
 three years, — yes, three years exactly this 
 Christmas, — and I certainly am not going 
 to begin such ridiculous work again. A man 
 who has never given one a shilling's worth ; 
 and all to gratify this absurd whim of his 
 about 'old customs.'" And little Mrs. 
 O'Neil flared up. " Arthur, I'm amazed at 
 you, — positively amazed. And when one 
 thinks of whom one would meet there 1 " 
 she concluded, flushing and frowning. 
 
 Mr. O'Neil was silent for a minute or 
 two. " Yes ; three years," he said then 
 thoughtfully. "The two last Christmases 
 we have been away, you know, mother. 
 At least / have." 
 
 " So have I. Last year I went to Dub- 
 lin on purpose to avoid it. I never thought 
 he would have the audacity to propose such 
 a thing this year, under the present circum- 
 stances ; " and she drew herself up. 
 
 " Well, they are odd circumstances, I con- 
 fess ; " and he laugjied. " Yet now that 
 my sister-in-law is turned out — No : I 
 certainly should not like to meet her." 
 
 "I should think not," interrupted Mrs. 
 O'Neil emphatically. 
 
 "But somehow or other that young fel- 
 low — Do you know, I actually feel some 
 curiosity about him ? I believe I want to 
 know what he is made of, whether — The 
 fact is, mother, I don't feel jealous of him 
 any more, — there 1 That is it, I believe ; " 
 and he laughed. 
 
 " Upon my word 1 It seems to me that 
 you have reason to be jealous of him, then, 
 Arthur," Mrs. O'Neil said with considera- 
 ble asperity. "Just think of him, before 
 the whole country, being installed there as 
 Lord O'Neil's heirl And that is what is 
 given out, I tell you. Oh ! it makes me 
 sick : upon my word it does ; " and she 
 nearly cried with vexation. 
 
 " Oh ! I did not mean that," Mr. O'Neil 
 said a shade impatiently. 
 
 "Did you not? What did you mean, 
 then?" 
 
 He leant back in his easy-chair wearily, 
 for he was weak still, and easily fatigued, 
 but with a smile, — a smile which somehow 
 became more of a smile, when at the very 
 moment, as if in answer to his mother's 
 question, the door opened, and Ethel ap- 
 peared. She came in hesitatingly, actually 
 even a little shyly, as of late she had ac- 
 quired a fashion of doing, — came in as a 
 person does when not perfectly sure that 
 the interruption he is occasioning is a wel- 
 
 come one. But if Mrs. O'Neil frowned a 
 little, and, what is more, gave vent to a dis- 
 mal little groan of extreme irritation, which, 
 however, perhaps the girl did not hear, Mr. 
 O'Neil's smile re-assured her, — a pleasant, 
 glad, welcoming smile as it was, -which 
 ought to have set her at ease at once, had 
 she required to be set at ease. Ethel was 
 what the French call journaliere. To be 
 sure, she always was more or less pretty; 
 but some days she was much prettier than 
 others. To-day was one of her pretty days. 
 Perhaps it was the result of a bright pur- 
 ple ribbon upon her black dress and in her 
 fair hair, which had of late been permitted 
 to relieve the sombreness of her mourning ; 
 or perhaps (and this was nearer the truth) 
 it was this very new-born shyness which 
 had stolen over her, and which gave her a 
 new and peculiar grace, hovering like a 
 light, softening cloud upon a bright, sunny 
 picture. At all events, this morning she 
 looked pretty — distractingly pretty — yet 
 slightly grave and anxious ; and, though 
 she gave her guardian an answering smile, 
 it was a troubled, not perfectly secure one. 
 "I did not mean that," Mr. O'Neil re- 
 peated, speaking to his mother, and looking 
 at Ethel. " You know that I meant some- 
 thing quite difierent, mother." 
 
 " Did you, Arthur ? " And the old lady 
 looked at Ethel too. A bright, radiant, 
 tender face the girl's was, and her fair head 
 was planted firmly and gracefully upon a 
 round, slender throat. Tender and soft, as 
 we know, but with pride and gay defiance 
 lurking at the corners of the soft, red lips, 
 and in the dim depths of her sweet, cloudy 
 eyes. Mrs. O'Neil turned away quickly, 
 and looked at the fire, bobbing her head 
 vexedly. The mother's heart was sore, — 
 sore. Arthur might hope and believe and 
 resolve ; but — Ah I all men were fools ; 
 even he, her heart's darling, — he, the best, 
 the wisest, the cleverest, of them all. And 
 it was she who had harbored this dangerous 
 siren ; she who had, in spite of warning 
 and sense and prudence, taken this second 
 Lorelei home with her to comb her golden 
 hair, and shipwreck the unfortunate navi- 
 gators who ventured within reach of her 
 charmed wavelets. It was too bad, — too 
 bad ! Poor little Mrs. O'Neil could have 
 cried with rage and grief. 
 
 " An invitation has come for you. Miss 
 Mildmay, — actually an invitation to a 
 party," Mr. O'Neil was meanwhile saying 
 to his ward. 
 
 " An invitation ! " And Ethel stopped 
 short in the middle of the room. "Not 
 really ? To what ? " And the girl looked 
 enchanted. 
 
152 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 " A new-year's party, or rather an old- 
 year's," he ropUed. " Ah, mother 1 see how 
 delighted she looks. She is panting lor 
 gayety, poor child 1 " 
 
 "Nothing particularly gay afcout that, I 
 am sure," Mrs. O'Neil said dryly. But 
 her kind heart melted at the glad look that 
 had come into the girl's eyes. " Of course, 
 the child is dull," she said, — "dull to 
 death ; and of course she must have some 
 amusement. After Christmas, we will bring 
 her up to town and about a little. And I 
 tell you what it is, child, I'll present you at 
 court, and show you something of the 
 world ; and no doubt you'll have a dozen 
 of men in love with you in a twinkling." 
 And the old lady forgot all her troubles in 
 the glowing anticipation. 
 
 Ethel laughed and blushed. " I must 
 learn how to make a courtesy, must I not ? " 
 And on the spot she gayly set to work. 
 " Now, Mrs. O'Neil, you will be the court, 
 and — oh 1 I had forgotten. Mr. O'Neil, 
 where is the party really ? " she inquired 
 anxiously. 
 
 '• At Castle Garvagh. Here is the invi- 
 tation." 
 
 " Castle Garvagh I " She looked petri- 
 fied, amazed, — perhaps, even, a little 
 alarmed. Her guardian watched her 
 rather anxiously as she read the short 
 note through. 
 
 " Well," he asked then, " would you like 
 to go ? " 
 
 " Nonsense I " interposed Mrs. O'Neil. 
 " Of course, she would not like to go. He 
 is only joking, child." 
 
 " No : I don't think I should like to go," 
 Ethel said slowly and deliberately, while all 
 at once the sunshine seemed to have faded 
 out of her face. Her guardian looked at 
 her uneasily, wondering — painfully won- 
 dering — what the sudden change meant. 
 As to Ethel, she was thinking of nothing 
 just then but those words — almost threat- 
 ening words they seemed to her to be — of 
 the count's the last time that she had seen 
 him, with which he had told her that he 
 would believe on ; take no refusal so long as 
 she was not of age and her own mistress to 
 give it to him. And on the first day of the 
 new year she would be of age ; and he 
 would be there, ardent, impetuous, elo- 
 quent, backed up by his uncle's favor, as 
 sanguine, confident, impossible to convince 
 of tne truth that she really did not love 
 him — perhaps never had loved him — as 
 ever. " No : I don't think I should like to 
 go," she said ; and all at once the dull, 
 hopeless weight of the O'Neil mystery, 
 and, worse still, the dull, hopeless weight 
 of the perplexing, miserable mystery of her 
 
 own heart, seemed to close in upon her on 
 every side, like a blank, gray, hideous wall 
 which it was impossible to scale or escape 
 from. She was standing in the middle of 
 the room, and she was looking down at the 
 floor thoughtfully. Suddenly she raised her 
 eyes, meeting those of her guardian fixed 
 upon her witi) an expression that not a little 
 startled her, as that peculiar, long, tender, 
 yet slightly imperious glance of his inva- 
 riably did. " Do you mean to go, Mr. 
 O'Neil ? " she asked with a nervous little 
 laugh. 
 
 " We'll think about it," he answered ab- 
 sently ; and indeed h^ was not thinking 
 much of the Castle Garvagh invitation just 
 then. "I don't like to go precisely," he 
 went on ; " and yet something tells me that 
 I shall perhaps go. I have got a presenti- 
 ment — yes, mother, now and then I actu- 
 ally do believe in presentiments — that I 
 shall break bread once more at my uncle's 
 table." 
 
 " Presentiment 1 humbug 1 " quoth Mrs, 
 O'Neil. " It is easy enough for people to 
 pretend they have presentiments when they 
 have quite made up their minds what they 
 are going to do beforehand. And as to 
 breaking bread for the last time I — God 
 forgive me for saying it, and certainly I 
 would not commit the sin of wishing any- 
 body's death, — but we have been thinking 
 that it would be the last time for many a 
 long year." And she sighed a rueful, im- 
 patient little sigh. 
 
 There was a silence after this. Ethel 
 had gone over to the window, and was 
 standing there, looking dreamily upon the 
 outside world. A dull, cheerless world 
 enough it was ; a sad, gray sky, bare trees, 
 brown grass, and a sighing wind sweeping 
 across it all. How long she stood there 
 she did not know; Ethel, we are aware, 
 has a habit of falling into reveries in which 
 time speeds fast. Behind her in the pleas- 
 ant room one or two changes have mean- 
 while occurred. One of them is that Mrs. 
 O'Neil has left it. Poor old lady ! her 
 gentle, loving heart was distracted. Must 
 she not remain ? Was it not her obvious 
 duty to remain, though even she, her son's 
 mother, might possibly be more welcome 
 by her absence than her presence? But 
 must she not save him in spite of himself? 
 — must she not prevent him making a fool 
 of himself, as a horrible instinct made her 
 believe that he was about to do ? Must she 
 not throw her arms round his neck, and 
 rescue him, in spite of himself, fi-om Lore- 
 lei's wicked toils ? Little did Ethel, standing 
 quietly there in that unconsciously pretty 
 and graceful attitude, suspect the storm 
 
ETHEL MILDMAT'S FOLLIES. 
 
 153 
 
 which was raging in her old friend's gentle 
 bosom, and for which she was responsible. 
 Little did each woman guess what thoughts 
 were distracting the other ; about as much, 
 indeed, as we often guess of the hopes and 
 fears, and strange, puzzling secrets which 
 torture the lives of those with whom we 
 live. 
 
 After all, Mrs. O'Neil might as well have 
 obeyed her conscience and remained in the 
 room, as have disobeyed it and gone out of 
 it. The old lady's imagination had run 
 away with her. After the confidence which 
 she had forced last night from her son's 
 unwilling lips, it had pictured a declaration 
 and. love-scene as imminent and inevitable. 
 Such self-restraint as he had practised up 
 to this time was inexplicable to her: to 
 suppose that it could be sternly practised 
 longer seemed impossible. But she was ut- 
 terly mistaken. Now that the door had 
 slowly and reluctantly closed behind her, 
 the situation did not change in the least. 
 Her sou did not, as she perhaps pictured 
 to herself that he would, throw himself pas- 
 sionately at Ethel's feet ; nor did that young 
 lady politely ask him to rise, and then with 
 gay, saucy scorn stab his heart, and tell 
 him that he was an idiot for his pains. 
 Nothing of the sort occurred. Nothing of 
 any sort, indeed, occurred. Ethel stood at 
 the window, quite unconscious of her de- 
 parture ; and Mr. O'Neil calmly opened his 
 despatch-box, and seemed inclined to devote 
 himself to business. First of all he wrote 
 a letter, — a dry, formal, business-letter, — 
 and wrote it, too, with a cool, steady hand, 
 which apparently the proximity of his lady- 
 love in nowise influenced. Mrs. O'Neil, if 
 she had looked through the key-hole knd 
 seen it all, would have probably rubbed 
 her eyes with amazement, romantic, excit- 
 able little woman that she was. Tjaen he 
 proceeded to look over and arrange some 
 papers which the despatch-box contained, 
 putting each one in its place, after, as the 
 case might be, a hasty or a careful glance 
 through it. Finally he turned to the man- 
 tle-piece, upon which lay a certain little 
 packet of letters, tied with a blue string, 
 which his mother had given him half an 
 hour ago, it having been in her possession, 
 or, at all events, to her knowledge, in safe 
 keeping, during his illness ; and which either 
 laziness or languor, or perhaps some secret 
 motive of his own, had up to this prevented 
 him asking her for, and took it down, and 
 held it for a minute or two in his hands, look- 
 in<' at it. He had not even asked her for this 
 packet this morning ; but she had brought 
 It to him of her own accord, sayin" that 
 Ethel had begged of her to take the letters 
 
 from her and give them to him. And now 
 he held it in his hands, and was looking at 
 it. He did not seem quite certain whether 
 he would open it or not at first, for, indeed, 
 he knew the contents of the letters it con- 
 tained off by heart ; and perhaps his eyes, 
 not quite strong yet, did not care to fatigue 
 themselves over the faint, crabbed writing. 
 His first intention was evidently not to open 
 it, for he had all but laid it in a cosey corner 
 in the despatch-box ; but second thoughts 
 prevailed. Perhaps it was a sudden instinct, 
 perhaps a mere idle restlessness : at all 
 events, his thin white fingers at last did 
 slowly untie the string, and the packet was 
 opened. 
 
 It was a curious sound which in about 
 five minutes later roused Ethel from her 
 deep revery, and made her start. 
 
 It was not a call. He had not mentioned 
 her name. It was not a cry, nor a scream, 
 nor even a groan : it was more like the 
 sound of a shudder, — a lonp;, low, shivering 
 shudder. She turned round. 
 
 Her guardian was standing at the table, 
 arid his face was white and ghastly. He 
 looked like a man petrified, frozen. Before 
 him were some papers, upon which his eyes 
 were bent eagerly, devouringly. Ethel was 
 at his side in a moment. "Mr. O'Neil, 
 what is it? What has happened?" she 
 cried. And to rouse him, for it seemed as 
 though he hardly heard her, she put her 
 hand on his arm, and shook it almost 
 roughly. 
 
 "What has happened? Oh 1 what is it ? " 
 she cried over and over again. 
 
 He made no reply ; but he slowly raised 
 his eyes and looked at her. Ethel never 
 forgot that moment, that look. It was pite- 
 ous, piteous ! It was the look of a man 
 in whose heart hope has just died, and de- 
 spair been born. 
 
 "What is it? You must tell me, Mr. 
 O'Neil: you must!" Ethel cried, terrified 
 out of her senses now at last. 
 
 At all events, she had roused him. Slowly, 
 and like a person in a dream, he passed his 
 hand across his forehead. 
 
 " Something has happened very strange, 
 — inexplicable in fact," he said. " I can't 
 make it out. I don't understand it. I — 
 I"— 
 
 All at once a deep flush mounted to his 
 face "> Such villany I such deep, malignant 
 villany ! " he murmured, and with a sigh 
 of exhaustion he fell back upon the 
 sofa. 
 
 Ethel was at her wits'-ends : she thought 
 he was going to faint. But he did not faint, 
 though he grew white again, and closed his 
 eyes. But presently he opened them, and 
 
154 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 met hers, terrified, bewildered, fixed upon 
 him. 
 
 " What is it ? " she cried again passion- 
 ately. 
 
 But before he had answered her, — before 
 even he had opened his lips to speak, — 
 Ethel's question had received its reply: 
 she knew what had happened. 
 
 Knew it by one of those swift, clear, 
 irresistible inspirations which strike the 
 brain now and then, making darkness 
 bright, seizing the intricate knot of the 
 most perplexed mystery, and unravelling it 
 in an instant. Her eyes had followed those 
 of her guardian, and had seen lying upon 
 the table a few scattered sheets of blank 
 paper, and by their side the familiar piece 
 of silk ribbon which had held them together. 
 
 " The letters I " she cried then. " The 
 letters I O Mr. O'Neil 1 " 
 
 They looked at one another in silence. 
 Neither could speak. It was horrible. 
 Ethel felt the room swimming round and 
 round : the floor seemed to rock beneath 
 her. Her brain was on fire ; but it was 
 not stunned or confused. Better perhaps 
 would it have been for her if it had, — less 
 painful, less cruel, than the terrible clear- 
 ness with which the truth stared her in the 
 face. " Oh ! " she gasped at last, " she must 
 have done it, — Madame O'Neil must have 
 stolen the letters, and put those blank 
 sheets in their place. What a fool, what 
 an idiot, I was I Oh the wicked, wicked 
 woman ! " 
 
 She had not meant it for a confession or 
 a self-accusation; yet, now that it was 
 made, it sounded like one, even in her own 
 ears, — a strange, dreadful confession. 
 What did it sound like in those of her 
 guardian V All at once he seemed to 
 awake, — to wake out of a dream. 
 
 " But they were in your possession, — in 
 yours, Miss Mildmay. For God's sake 
 what do you mean ? " he asked. 
 
 She pushed her hair back from her fore- 
 head, and tried to think. Alas ! there was 
 no need to think, — no need to put two and 
 two together, or to seek for the missing 
 links of a t^ain of evidence. 
 
 " Oh I why did you ever give them to 
 me ? " she said passionately. " I did not 
 want them. I wanted not to take them or 
 read them. I" — Then she broke down. 
 " What will you say to me ? what will 
 you think of me?" she gasped. "But I 
 will go to her. I will force them from her. 
 I promise you, Mr. O'Neil, that I will force 
 them from her," she cried resolutely. 
 
 Her guardian had risen, and was stand- 
 ing leaning against the mantle-piece. He 
 seemed to have grown strangely calm. A 
 
 curious change had passed over him. 
 " Force them from her I " he repeated 
 slowly, and with a faint, peculiar smile. 
 " Miss Mildmay, you are mad, or very fool- 
 ish. They have been destroyed long ago. 
 You don't know Madame O'Neil, then ? " 
 
 Ethel covered her face with her hands. 
 " Oh, what is to be done ? — what is to be 
 done ? " she cried. 
 
 There was a minute's silence. Mr. 
 O'Neil again approached the table, and 
 carefully examined the papers. One piece 
 of writing had been left. It was the Irish- 
 woman's dying deposition, which had been 
 sworn to by living witnesses, and within 
 which Mrs. Irwin's letters had been folde<l, 
 — had been folded, that is, on the day when 
 Mr. O'Neil had confided the packet to his 
 mother to give it to his ward ; but now, in 
 their place, nothing but a few blank sheets 
 of note-paper were to be found. 
 
 Ethel did not know then, nor did she 
 ever know, that her guardian was merely 
 gaining time to steady his voice, gaining 
 courage to ask calmly the teiTible question 
 which hung on his lips. At last he made it. 
 " Or rather what has been done ? " he in- 
 quired slowly. " How has it been done ? 
 Miss Mildmay, you know : will you tell 
 me ? " 
 
 Eagerly she began. There was but the 
 one way, — there was but the one possibil- 
 ity of accounting for the extraordinary 
 event. It must have been that morning 
 when Mr. O'Neil had been so terribly ill, 
 and that his sister-in-law had forced her- 
 self into the house. " I was sent for when 
 they thought you were dying, and Mrs. 
 O'Neil had fainted," she tried to explain 
 as clearly and steadily as she could (but in 
 truth it was a sorry failure, and her words 
 were almost unintelligible) ; " and I flew 
 out of the room, leaving her alone in it, 
 and entirely forgetting that the packet of 
 letters lay in that Indian box over there on 
 the console. Afterwards I recollected it, 
 and came back in a great fright, with an 
 idea in my head that she might possibly 
 have discovered them, — that, at all events, 
 it was an imprudent thing to leave her alone 
 in the room which contained them." 
 
 " Rather," observed Mr. O'Neil, with the 
 same peculiar smile. 
 
 But Ethel was too absorbed with her 
 recollections to notice the interruption. 
 " And I at once examined the box, and 
 found them quite safe," she went on ea- 
 gerly, — " at least, I imagined them to be 
 quite safe ; but I did not open the packet 
 (I never opened it from that day to this) ; 
 but I took it to my room and locked it up ; 
 for though Mi-s. O'Neil had said, only a 
 
ETHEL MILDMAT'S FOLLIES. 
 
 155 
 
 day or two before, that the Indian box was 
 a secure place for it, I thought on reflection, 
 that, so long as they were in my possession, 
 I would be happier in having them under 
 lock and key. Ever since, they have been 
 in the press in my room. Nobody can have 
 touched the box, — nobody. I kept the 
 key myself. It must have been that morn- 
 ing that she did it. It must have been I " 
 Ethel concluded in a tone of miserable 
 conviction. * 
 
 A confused, bewildered little narrative, 
 to which Mr. O'Neil listened attentively, 
 and with keen, searching eyes. Somehow 
 or other those eyes of his troubled Ethel 
 strangely just then, made her breath come 
 shorter, and the words seem harder to 
 utter. Wlien she paused, " But how did 
 my sister-in-law know of the existence of 
 such letters ? " he inquired slowly. " Some- 
 body must have told her. When that 
 poor, wretched woman died in America, 
 she assured me, and I believed her, that 
 Madame O'Neil believed them to have 
 been destroyed long ago. Knowing well 
 what a clever, unscrupulous woman my 
 sister-in-law is, and how she would stop at 
 no means to attain an end, I had meant 
 (and, had fancied, too, that I was success-, 
 ful) to guard the knowledge of their exist- 
 ence jealously from her." 
 
 " I never told her," Ethel cried. " Nev- 
 er I I could swear " — 
 
 But all ,at once a sudden recollection 
 pierced her brain, and she paused abruptly. 
 She had not told Madame O'Neil, it was 
 true; but was it true that she had not 
 told the count ? 
 
 Her guardian looked at her steadily, pit- 
 ilessly. '' You did not tell her ? " he re- 
 peated eagerly. " You did not betray me, 
 then ? O Ethel I what is it ? " 
 
 The girl had grown suddenly white as 
 death. Her hands convulsively clasped the 
 back of a chair : otherwise she must have 
 fallen. " I did not tell her — no," she said 
 in a low, hollow voice ; " but I did tell 
 
 Count O'Neil. 
 I did. ■ And 
 her ! " 
 
 There was 
 Ethel pitied 
 
 Yes, I remember now that 
 he — he must have told 
 
 an awful, cruel silence, 
 her guardian then, more 
 even than she pitied herself; for slie saw, 
 she felt, that she had dealt him the cruellest 
 blow that it was in her power to deal. 
 
 But he was strong and brave, and knew 
 how to bear it well. There was a sharp 
 struggle, a desperate, proud fight for self- 
 command. For a moment he hid his face : 
 when he lifted it a^ain, it was quite calm 
 and very white. "You told the count ? " 
 he repeated. " You had seen him, then ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " How often ? " 
 
 " Twice." 
 
 « After I had fallen ill ? " 
 
 "No. The first time was the evening 
 before, — the evening that we walked home 
 together from the Widow Moore's cottage. 
 We passed him on the road, and afterwards 
 he came to me when I was walking in the 
 avenue alone. The second time was the 
 next day." 
 
 She seemed to take a cruel pleasure in 
 the full details of her confession. 
 
 " And you did not think fit to tell me at 
 the time i " Mr. O'Neil inquired gently. 
 
 " He begged of me not to do so. I could 
 not refuse. I did not know how to refuse 
 him." • 
 
 A little pause. Then she went closer to 
 him, and looked up in his face pleadingly. 
 
 " Mr. O'Neil, will you forgive me ? I am 
 sorry," Ethel said. 
 
 This was too much. The time was gone 
 by when a soft word or a deprecating glance 
 could soften him and bring him to her feet 
 in an instant. There is such a thing as 
 the last straw on the camel's back ; and his 
 ward's sudden, sweet humility was the 
 overflowing drop of bitterness in her guar- 
 dian's cup. He gave her a stony glance. 
 
 " Forgive you 1 But there is nothing to 
 forgive," he said icily. " I quite under- 
 stand that you did not feel yourself at 
 liberty to betray the secrecy which your — 
 your fi:iend wished to preserve. On that 
 score there is nothing more to be said. 
 About those unfortunate letters" — > He 
 paused. 
 
 " They can be recovered ; they must be 
 recovered," Ethel exclaimed. 
 
 He laughed a short impatient laugh. 
 '•Absurd, quite absurd, Miss Mildmayl 
 Of course they are destroyed. At all 
 events, my eyes will never again see them. 
 No, no. Let us look things in the face. 
 That mischief is irreparable." 
 
 " And I am accountable for it ! " Ethel 
 said. 
 
 He did not contradict her, but merely 
 laughed again. " Every thing is fair in love 
 and war," he said. " I suppose you con- 
 sidered yourself justified in acting as you 
 did. Well, you have your reward ; and I 
 may as well let you enjoy it to the full. 
 Miss Mildmay, I am not quite sure yet ; but 
 it is my opinion, my strong opinion, that 
 my last chance of Castle Garvagh is gone 
 now." 
 
 He spoke with calm recklessness ; and 
 there was recklessness in his face and eyes, 
 as well as in his voice. 
 
 Ethel recoiled from him as though he had 
 
156 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 given her a hard blow. Suddenly she grew 
 crimson. 
 
 "Mr. O'Neil I " she gasped. 
 
 He looked at her defiantly. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Mr. O'Neil, you don't mean to say, 
 you can't mean to say, that you believe that 
 1 have been guilty of any thing but unpar- 
 donable carelessness, that," — her voice fal- 
 tered and fell, — " that I betrayed your secret 
 knowingly and willingly ; that I was an 
 accomplice to" — 
 
 " A sort of sleeping partner in the busi- 
 ness ; eh. Miss Mildmay 1 " and he laughed 
 lightly. 
 
 " You do believe it, then ? " 
 
 He hesitated, and ch^^nged color. " I have 
 not accused you," he began. * 
 
 " You do believe it ? " she persisted. 
 
 He turned from her sharply. Truth to 
 tell, he could not bear the indignant, pas- 
 sionate reproach of her eyes. 
 
 "I bring no accusations," he repeated 
 unsteadily. Then he gave her a quick 
 glance. " Ethel, I do not believe it," he 
 said with sudden tenderness. " But — but 
 — oh, my God ! I am a ruined man I And 
 he buried his face in his hands. 
 
 " But you did believe it, you actually 
 did ; you really believed me capable of such 
 treachery," the girl went on with tremulous 
 vehemence. " Mr. O'Neil, I pity you from 
 the bottom of my heart ; but never, never, 
 no, never, so long as I live, will I forgive 
 
 youl" 
 
 Her passion struck him dumb, rooted 
 him to the spot : he could not speak nor 
 stir ; and with stony, stupid eyes he watched 
 her, as, with a swift step, she turned from 
 him and left the room. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 AN hour or two later, at luncheon, said 
 Ethel to Mrs. O'Neil, " I am going to 
 ride this afternoon ; " and she said it with 
 the peculiar intonation of a person who 
 knows that the proposition she has ad- 
 vanced will infallibly meet with contradic- 
 tion. And true enough it did. 
 
 " To ride, child ! Nonsense ! On such 
 a day as this ? I won't hear of it." And 
 the old lady seemed to consider the matter 
 settled. 
 
 " It is a dreadful day, gloomy and dreary 
 and — But it is not actually raining, and 1 
 am going to ride," repeated Miss Mildmay 
 calmly. 
 
 Mrs. O'Neil peered at her through her 
 spectacles. The young lady's serene ob- 
 stinacy perplexed her ; but it irritated her 
 too. 
 
 " You'll do nothing of the sort, child. 
 Bless my soul I what are you thinking of? 
 You have got a cojd as it is ; and, if it is 
 not raining now, it will, beyond a doubt, 
 pour down in an hour. Don't be silly, 
 Ethel I " 
 
 " I iim not silly ; but I must ride. I want 
 to ride. I want to go over to Castle 
 Garvagh," replied Miss Mildmay in tones 
 clear as a bell. 
 
 " To Castle Garvagh 1 " 
 
 Mrs. O'Neil looked simply aghast. She 
 was incapable of uttering a woi-d. 
 
 " Yes, to Castle Garvagh. I have par- 
 ticular business there ; and the days are so 
 short, and the ride is so long, that I think I 
 had better start at once. Will you excuse 
 me, Mrs. O'Neil? " And, without waiting 
 for an answer, she pushed her plate from 
 her, rose from the table and left the room. 
 
 A dead silence followed her exit. Mrs. 
 O'Neil sat, the hand conveying a glass of 
 wine to her lips suspended in the air, her 
 mouth open, her breath taken away with 
 amazement. Her son seemed to be busy 
 with his plate; but somehow it appeared 
 that his attention was more anxiously 
 directed towards cutting its contents into 
 tiny morsels than towards conveying them 
 to his mouth. As to Ethel's plate, her food 
 lay upon it untasted. She had hardly 
 eaten any thing. Suddenly Mrs. O'Neil 
 became conscious of it all, became distinctly 
 aware that something very wrong and 
 terrible must have happened ; and of course 
 it could be but the one thing. 
 
 " Arthur I " she cried, and her fair 
 face flushed crimson : " O Arthur I have 
 you really, really, done it ? " And the old 
 lady's voice shook with a hardly suppressed 
 sob. 
 
 He looked up at her with a smile. 
 " Done what, mother ? " 
 
 " Done it, — asked that girl to marry 
 you. And she has refused, — the audacious 
 child has refused 1 " she gasped. 
 
 " No, she has not," very quietly said. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " She 'has not refused to marry me. I 
 have not asked her ; and I don't mean to 
 ask her, either : so she never will refuse. 
 There, mother I " And he spoke and 
 laughed a little impatiently. 
 
 " My goodness 1 Then, what is the mat- 
 ter ? " she demanded testily. 
 
 " Nothing in the world. Nothing is the 
 matter. Why should you think it ? " 
 
 " Because you don't mean to ask her,'' 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 157 
 
 repeated his mother curiously. " But only 
 yesterday, Arthur, you told me — you know 
 you did." 
 
 " Told you what ? " he interrupted hastily. 
 " Told you that I was fool enough to care 
 for her '? But a man may now and then 
 rhapsodize to his mother without meaning 
 every thing he says to be looked upon in the, 
 light of gospel truth," pursued Mr. O'Neil 
 with a careless little laugh. " I do care for 
 her, I suppose. She is attractive and 
 pretty and — Put it out of your head, 
 mother. It is all nonsense, utter nonsense, 
 wild folly," concluded Mr. O'Neil a little 
 vaguely, and standing up suddenly. 
 
 His mother rose too. Appetites were 
 nothing to boast of that day at Mount 
 Druid, at all events. 
 
 " Then you are not thinking of marry- 
 ing her V You don't want to marry her, 
 Arthur ? " the old lady inquired eagerly. 
 '■ What does the girl mean ? What on 
 earth does she mean by such conduct?" 
 she exclaimed suddenly, as the sound of 
 horses' hoofs made themselves heard upon 
 the gravel outside, and Eclipse appeared 
 saddled, coming round to the door. 
 
 Mr. O'Neil looked out of the window. 
 " It is a dreadful day, gloomy and dreary," 
 he remarked, exactly repeating the words 
 which his ward had made use of a few 
 minutes ago. " But still it is not actually 
 raining. Miss Mildmay is strong, mother. 
 I dare say a ride won't hurt her." 
 
 " It will hurt her. She will get drenched, 
 I know she will. Besides, what on earth is 
 bringing the child to Castle Garvagh ? " 
 she broke out indignantly. " How had she 
 face — the impudence to tell me that she 
 was going there '/ I will forbid her. I will 
 order her to do nothing of the sort." And 
 Mrs. O'Neil attempted to throw up the sash 
 of the window, doubtless intending to issue 
 her commands on the spot to Ethel, who at 
 that very moment appeared equipped upon 
 the steps. But Mr. O'Neil gently held 
 back her arm. 
 
 " No, don't, mother. It is not worth 
 while. Let her do as she likes." 
 
 " As she likes, Arthur ! " 
 
 " Yes. Kemember that in another fort- 
 niofht, or a little more, our — my authority 
 will have expired. It is not worth while 
 exercising it for the short time that remains. 
 Yes, let her do as she likes," he repeated, 
 shortly and rather sternly. 
 
 " But it is shameful, disgraceful 1 " gasped 
 Mrs. O'Neil. " The idea of her braving 
 us to our very faces, and going after those 
 people I Arthur, you should not allow it : 
 you really should not. Ah ! " as Ethel, 
 Ught as a feather, jumped into her saddle. 
 
 and gathered up her reins in preparation to 
 depart. " And on the horse you gave her 
 too ! Actually making use of your own 
 present to her to insult you I " she con- 
 cluded, reaching this climax with a groan. 
 
 He laughed rather dryly and bitterly. 
 There certainly was an element of the 
 ludicrous in Miss Mildmay'S audacity ; but 
 to judge from the curious expression of his 
 eyes, following her as she cantered briskly 
 away down the avenue, it was Composed of 
 one or two other elements as well. 
 
 " Well, it is better that she should do 
 whatever she does do openly and frankly 
 than deceive us. You will allow that, at 
 least, mother, will you not ? " he said care- 
 lessly. " And there is nothing else for her 
 to ride but Eclipse, you know. I dare say, 
 if there were, that Eclipse would be left in 
 her stables readily enough," he added with 
 another little laugh, and half under his 
 breath. 
 
 And, indeed, his surmise was perfectly 
 correct. Ethel, bounding away through 
 the chill, damp air upon her steed, felt her 
 cheeks burn as she remembered whose gift 
 the pretty horse had been, and, with a 
 strange instinct, guessed the thoughts which 
 were at that moment passing through her 
 guardian's mind. But, as he himself had 
 said, there was nothing else for her to ride ; 
 and so what could she do but pocket her 
 dignity and her pride, and ride Eclipse 1 
 At all events, it would be for the last time. 
 Never again would she ride her ; no, never 
 again. Never again would she put it in 
 her guardian's power to confer an obligation 
 upon her. Never again would she owe 
 him a pleasure, a joy, a gladness. Never 
 again would she permit him 1o humble her 
 by overpowering her with kindness, n,or to 
 heap coals of fire upon her head by prac- 
 tising the Christian maxim of returning, as 
 he had always insisted upon returning, 
 good for evil, charity and love for injury 
 and rebellion No, never again. Miss 
 Mildmay had told him to-day that she 
 never would forgive him, and she had told 
 him only what she believed to be the strict 
 truth. She would not forgive him 1 She 
 could almost have laughed, only that she 
 was actually crying, — crying hot, blinding 
 tears at the foolish, mocking words. She 
 would not forgive himl And he — what 
 had he to forgive her ? or rather, what had 
 he not to forgive her ? Ah, this was the 
 thought that was too intolerable to bear, — 
 the thought that trampled her silly pride in 
 the dust. It was this thought which cut 
 through Ethel's, heart like a cold, sharp 
 knife, and with its keen, stinging pain ban- 
 ished every other thought from her mind. 
 
158 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S TOLLIES. 
 
 "When things come to their worst, they 
 begin to mend." After all, Miss Mildmay 
 was young ; and presently, when she was 
 out in the wide, bleak country, bravely 
 facing a chilly, damp wind, on her road to 
 Castle Garvagh, and urging Eclipse to her 
 speediest paces, her spirits began to rise 
 just ever so little, and this consoling prov- 
 erb recurred to her. Things indeed seemed 
 to be at their very worst now. Let her 
 think as hard as ever she could, she could 
 not think of any thing worse that could 
 possibly happen. It seemed to her as 
 though Fortune must have exhausted her 
 persecutions, and that, even if she were 
 willing, she was powerless to work greater 
 woe and mischief than she had already 
 done. From despair springs hope ; and 
 strange to say that Ethel began to hope now. 
 What she hoped for, it would have been hard 
 to say ; but hope she did. For, otherwise, 
 why would she now be braving wind and 
 weather? why would she have incensed 
 Mrs. O'Neil, and insulted her guardian (as 
 she knew she had done, and as she wanted 
 to do) ? Why, if some spark of hope was 
 not lurking at the bottom of her heart, 
 would she now be sallying forth on this 
 wild-goose, dreary, dreadful expedition to 
 Castle Garvagh ? 
 
 Why, indeed 1 Somehow if her spirits 
 had, during her ride, risen a little, and her 
 courage made a bold front, they both sank 
 again us she approached the end of her 
 journey. She had ridden so fast, that she 
 even surprised herself, not to speak of the 
 punting groom behind and the 'panting 
 horse beneath her, by the quickness with 
 which she reached Castle Garvagh. Here 
 she was already at the great gaunt gate ; 
 and here was the long, straight avenue, 
 pointing, as it were, sternly and forbiddingly 
 to the huge mass of gray building just, but 
 only just, visible in the dim distance. Ethel 
 went on boldly, — outwardly that is, for in- 
 wardly she was a coward, — and a strangely 
 unpleasant sinking was at her heart. On 
 she went briskly cantering, and never draw- 
 ing rein till she had reached about midway 
 up the avenue, where a narrower avenue 
 divei'ged to the right from the main one, 
 plunging into a thick, tangled wood, and 
 winding beneath overhanging trees and 
 greenery. Here Ethel did pause at last, 
 and for an instant hesitated, debating 
 whether she would pursue the straight 
 road before her, or turn into the side 
 one. But she had already all but made 
 up her mind, and it took her only an in- 
 stant to decide. Then she took the path to 
 the right. 
 
 It was necessary to go slowly now. The 
 
 avenue was a narrow one, and evidently 
 neglected, and but little used. Here and 
 there it was almost choked with trailing 
 branches, and weeds and grass flourished 
 in full liberty. In some places, indeed, the 
 path was barely distinguishable, and Ethel 
 had to keep her eyes open to see it. Eclipse 
 was docile and well trained, and she picked 
 her way daintily along it ; but she did not 
 lilce it for all that, and not seldom cocked 
 her pretty white ears, and started and 
 shied at some protruding bramble, or at the 
 shivering sounds of the falling leaves which 
 the wailing wind was carrying to the ground 
 in the woody depths on either side. For a 
 little while, they went on thus, cautiously 
 and slowly. Then, when the path seemed 
 almost to have hopelessly lost itself, it 
 suddenly cleared, and emerged within a 
 few yards of a small gray, gloomy house, 
 to the h^U-door of which a flagged, weed- 
 grown footway led. 
 
 What a gloomy house it was I Never, 
 even on the brightest day, with a blue 
 heaven above, and the forest green and 
 fragrant around, could it have been any 
 thing else but gloomy. But to-day, beneath 
 that dull leaden sky, and buried in the 
 midst of those bare, ^ray trees, it was the 
 saddest, dullest, most hopeless-looking habi- 
 tation one could imagine. Ethel shuddered 
 as she contemplated it, and marvelled how 
 two daughters of fair, sunny, joyous France 
 could survive a single week's residence in 
 it. Yet Mrs. Irwin had lived there many 
 years of her life, — for it was her husband's 
 home, — and was actually living there now. 
 So was her sister, Madame O'Neil. Turned 
 out by the old lord's capricious, imperious 
 will from the castle, they had been forcefl 
 to, or at all events had chosen to, take 
 refuge here. 
 
 It was a mysterious, uncanny place, that 
 looked a secret in itself, — a sort of place in 
 which one could not suppose it possible to 
 laugh, or even to smile, or almost to talk 
 above one's breath. Ethel pictured to 
 herself the two women within, with dark, 
 crafty, silent Denis Irwin to keep them 
 company when now and then he was able 
 to escape from his arduous duties over at 
 the great house. How could they bear it ? 
 How, at least, could Madame O'Neil — 
 accustomed to sunny climes, and bright, 
 cheerful houses, and the exciting bustle of 
 busy, active life — bear being buried alive 
 in this silent, dreary tomb ? Miss Mildmay 
 felt that she could hardly bear it herself for 
 another moment ; and with a quick, im- 
 petuous determination, a sort of desperate 
 resolve not to let her courage fail her, and 
 to go through with the work she had under- 
 
ETHEL MILDMAT'S FOLLIES. 
 
 159 
 
 taken, she jumped off her horse, and hastily 
 approached the door. 
 
 It was closed. Moreover, the bell was 
 broken, and the wire hung helplessly from 
 the handle. There was no knocker, and 
 the girl looked round in vain for a sign of 
 life. But she was a young lady of deter- 
 mination, as we know; and, having once 
 made up her mind to get into the house, 
 get into it we may be quite sure she will. 
 And so, after a brief consultation with the 
 groom, who was young and stupid, and 
 could throw no light whatever on the situa- 
 tion beyond asseverating "that he was 
 mortal sure that there was not a living 
 craythur in the place," Miss Mildmay 
 raised her small, tender hands, and began 
 battering with all her might against the 
 door. No response. But repulse only 
 made her the more resolved. Presently 
 her hands got quite sore and stiff, and her 
 breath came a little short with her exer- 
 tions. In vain. It was like knocking at 
 the entrance of a tomb. Nothing but 
 dead echoes seemed to reply. Yet — yes 
 — here at last was coming an answering 
 sound, — the sound of a slow step, and of 
 an uncertain, fumbling hand. And then 
 the door opened, and Mrs. Irwin's pale 
 face appeared. 
 
 Neither woman was surprised (for Ethel 
 had been half-prepared to be met by Mrs. Ir- 
 win, and Mrs. Irwin had already surveyed 
 her visitor from behind a screening curtain) : 
 yet both started back at the sight of the 
 other, — Miss Mildmay with a start of pure 
 fright and nervousness ; Mrs. Irwin with 
 one deliberately and carefully acted. The 
 little woman colored with a slight natural 
 color, however. " Miss Mildmay I " she 
 exclaimed. " Is it possible, is it possible I 
 Ah, you have been caught, doubtless, by the 
 rain, and desire shelter. It is a poor place 
 you have come to, — a poor, dull place, but I 
 can offer you shelter at least ; " and she 
 laughed nervously. " Ah, there is the 
 rain ! " as Mrs. O'Neil's prediction was veri- 
 fied, and some heavy drops fell, — " there is 
 the rain ! and it looks, too, as though it were 
 more than a shower. Certainly it will con- 
 tinue all day, and all the evening now." 
 
 Mrs. Irwin, in spite of her offer of shelter, 
 seemed, truth to tell, but very little inclined 
 to give it ; for she stood at the entrance of 
 the narrow little hall, and made no sign of 
 ushering her visitor in. 
 
 But Miss Mildmay advanced boldly. " It 
 is not shelter I want, Mrs. Irwin," she said. 
 " I want to see Madame O'Neil. I have 
 ridden all the way over from Mount Druid 
 to see her. Will you tell her that I am 
 here?" 
 
 She spoke flurriedly, and a little pleads 
 ingly too, as though she had a pre.sentiment 
 that her request would be refused. 
 
 Mrs. Irwin looked at her hesitatingly. 
 " My sister is not very well to-day," she re- 
 plied after a little pause. " She is suffering 
 from nervous headache, and is — But will 
 you not walk into the drawing-room and 
 rest yourself a little ? " she invited her at 
 last. 
 
 Ethel followed her into the dark, cheer- 
 less little room in which, though empty 
 now, she fancied there were traces of its 
 having only just been vacated. A fire, the 
 one cheerful object visible, was burning 
 briskly ; and drawn up closely to it were a 
 couple of low easy-chairs, apparently hold- 
 ing friendly gossip together. Ethel gave 
 them a suspicious glance. Something told 
 her that Madame O'Neil had been sitting 
 in one of them five minutes ago. 
 
 " What can I get you ? " Mrs. Irwin was 
 inquiring hospitably, — " a glass of wine, or 
 a cup of tea ? Something you must cer- 
 tainly take ; and I will, with pleasure, lend 
 you a waterproof and an umbrella to pro- 
 tect you during your long ride home. " 
 
 She was nervous and flurried, and ill at 
 ease. Ethel felt her own courage rise in 
 proportion to the discomfiture of her com- 
 panion. " It has been a long ride here," 
 she said, giving her a steady glance ; " and 
 as you may suppose, Mrs. Irwin, I have not 
 taken it without an object. I want to see 
 your sister. Will you not let her know 
 that I am here ? " 
 
 " My sister is not well. I think she will 
 see no visitors," Mrs. Irwin replied) dili- 
 gently poking the fire. " I am very sorry, 
 Miss Mildmay, as she will be too when she 
 hears you have been here. But her head 
 aches badly. It is impossible, I fear." 
 
 " Only for five minutes. I will not ask to. 
 see her for longer. Mrs. Irwin, I must — L 
 really must see her." 
 
 The Frenchwoman shook her headi. 
 " She is in great pain, and is in bed. Miss; 
 Mildmay, 1 am truly sorry. But I cam 
 carry a message, perhaps. Will not thati 
 do ? And what will you have ? — a cup of.' 
 tea ? I will see that it is at once prepared." ' 
 And she geemed inclined to escape from the- 
 room. 
 
 But Ethel would not let her go. " I will' 
 take nothing, thank you; nothing.' I only 
 want to see Madame O'Neil. Why will 
 you not allow me to see her, Mrs. Irwin ? " 
 
 " Mon Dieu ! She is suffering, and sees no 
 
 one, — no one. Hardly have I been in her- 
 
 room all day. Noise disturbs her, andi 
 
 brings on the pain. What will you ? My 
 
 I sister is strong, and enjoys excellent health ; 
 
160 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAT'S TOLLIES. 
 
 but she is subjebt to these attacks occasion- 
 ally." 
 
 " I must see her," Ethel repeated imper- 
 turbably. Strange to say, slie had not the 
 remotest, faintest doubt that Madame 
 O'Neil's illness was an invention of her 
 facile imagination. 
 
 " I must see her. It is absolutely neces- 
 sary." 
 
 " Then it is a matter of great importance, 
 
 — too important to trust me with a message, 
 is it 1 Well, I regret it not. For my part, 
 I detest mysteries," Mrs. Irwin said with a 
 forced laugh. 
 
 " It is no mystery. You know my errand 
 as well as I do -myself: Madame O'Neil 
 knows it too. Mrs. Irwin, have you not 
 enough on your conscience already ? " she 
 broke out. " Willyou not save yourself 
 this last crime ? Will you not help me to 
 get back those letters that have been stolen 
 from Mount Druid ? Yes, stolen ; meanly, 
 shamefully stolen 1 " And in her excite- 
 ment the girl seized Mrs. Irwin's hands, and 
 pressed them convulsively, 
 
 The pale little woman changed color, 
 and trembled.; but her deep sunken eyes 
 looked defiant and resolute. 
 
 "Letters ! Stolen ! " she repeated. " I 
 protest I know not what you mean ; no, not 
 in the least. It seems a strange speech 
 that you have made, — very strange, and in- 
 sulting even. Madame O'Neil will perhaps 
 understand : I will go and ask her. Is that 
 your message which you wish me to repeat. 
 Miss Mildmay ? " 
 
 " Ask her to let me see her, — only for 
 five minutes, only for five minutes. That 
 cannot hurt her surely. She forced herself 
 upon me when Mr. O'Neil was dying," she 
 added indignantly, " and surely she cannot 
 refuse to see me now." 
 
 But this remonstrance was addressed to 
 empty air. Mrs. Irwin had left the room 
 
 — tairly run away. Mrs. O'Neil had been 
 right in judging Mary Anne Irwin to be 
 but a poor creature, — one of those beings 
 weak in every thing save the power of 
 bearing in dull submission a lifelong load 
 of guilt and misery, who are sent into the 
 world to be the passive tools of superior 
 minds. All her life she had been a slave, 
 and now the chains were too firmly riveted 
 to be broken. But she was a slave only. 
 She could obey and submit ; but she was 
 incapable of personal action or of self- 
 guidance. 
 
 And so now she ran away from Ethel's 
 eager, flashing eyes, and vehement deter- 
 mination. The girl sat impatiently await- 
 ing her return, counting the minutes, listen- 
 ins for a sound. In vain. The house was 
 
 as still and silent as though no passionately- 
 beating hearts, and anxious minds, and 
 resolute wills were in it. She had not to 
 wait long. In a very few minuses the door 
 opened noiselessly, and Mrs. Irwin glided 
 in. 
 
 " It is impossible. My sister is sleeping," 
 she said. " She has taken some drops to 
 make her sleep, and I could not venture to 
 disturb her." 
 
 Ethel flushed. " I will wait," she said 
 shortly. 
 
 " Wait, Miss Mildmay 1 But it is four 
 o'clock already, and it grows dark. Surely 
 that is folly, madness I Besides, Madame 
 O'Neil will now probably sleep for several 
 hours." 
 
 Ethel looked out. True enough, the idea 
 of waiting was mere folly. The evening 
 was setting in wet and wild ; and, if she 
 meant to return to Mount Druid at all, there 
 was no time to lose. 
 
 " Mrs. Irwin I " she exclaimed, suddenly 
 turning round on her, " do you know the 
 dreadfiil thing that has been done, — done 
 by your sister ? Why, I saw the letters 
 myself, — your letters, — read them with my 
 own eyes ; and now, and now, they are — 
 Where are they, Mrs. Irwin ? " 
 
 But, if she had vaguely hoped to throw 
 the little woman off her guard, she was 
 disappointed. In the dim light Ethel saw 
 her color, but that was all. 
 
 " Letters — my letters 1 " she repeated. 
 " I tell you. Miss Mildmay, that I do not 
 even know what you are alluding to. In 
 business-matters I never interfere. I leave 
 all that to my husband and sister ; and I 
 suppose it is something about business 
 which is distressing you. Can you not 
 write to my sister ? or, better still, in a day 
 or two she will probably be quite recovered, 
 and able to see you, and then all can be 
 settled and explained. Pray calm your- 
 self. Miss Mildmay, and you will see that 
 what I propose is quite reasonable." 
 
 Ethel was defeated. She knew she was. 
 From this pale, dark, timorous, crushed lit- 
 tle woman nothing was to be extracted', and 
 she could not break into Madame O'Neil's 
 bedroom. What could she do ? Nothing 
 — absolutely nothing. Half an hour ago 
 full of foolish hope, now a blank wall of 
 despair seemed to have sprung up right in 
 front of her. 
 
 "Is Count O'— Is the count here?" 
 she inquired suddenly. 
 
 Mrs. Irwin smiled, — a rather disagree- 
 able smile. " Oh, no 1 He is at the castle 
 with his uncle. Lord O'Neil is so attached 
 to him, that he cannot let him out of his 
 sight for hardly a minute. Perhaps you 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 161 
 
 would like to call at the castle, Miss 
 Mildmay," she inquired a little satirically. 
 The shaft made Ethel's blood tingle ; but 
 . she would not notice it. " It is too late for 
 me to do any thing but get home," she re- 
 plied with dignity, and gathering up the 
 skirts of her habit. " I have a long ride 
 before me." And when Mrs. Irwin, feeling 
 now secure of her victory, and relapsing 
 into obsequiousness, again pressed some 
 refreshment on her, " No," she said frank- 
 ly. "I will take nothing from you, — 
 nothing. It is open war between us now, 
 Mrs. Irwin, — open war. You may tell 
 your sister so. Tell her — pray do — that 
 my eyes are opened at last, — thoroughly 
 opened. I would not taste a morsel of 
 food in this house, not if it were to save my 
 life." 
 
 And with this bold challenge falling 
 from her lips in clear, ringing tones. Miss 
 Mildmay marched out of the room without 
 a word of farewell. 
 
 A bold challenge, indeed, but a very 
 vain one. Oh, how vain she felt it to be, 
 when once more she found herself upon 
 Eclipse's back, and with her face turned 
 homeward I O pen war I — yes, it was open 
 war. But the victory was already on one 
 side ; and the other was hopelessly, igno- 
 miniously defeated. What was the mean- 
 ing of war when the battle was already 
 fought out and lost ? Oh, what a wretched, 
 dreary ride the girl had of it home I It 
 was pouring rain ; and the wind was howl- 
 ing and sighing, and the black night was 
 settling down upon the bleak, wild bogs. 
 It was pitch dark, and she was drenched 
 through and through by the time Mount 
 Druid was reached at last. Oh, if she had 
 only been happy ! if only she had not this 
 dreadful heartache, this intolerable weight 
 upon her brain I If she were only happy, 
 how joyously and pleasant the red, warm 
 lights of Mount Druid would welcome her ! 
 how thankful and glad she would be to 
 pass from the wretched, cold outside world 
 into this bright, cheerful home I But Ethel 
 was quite sure now, at all events, that she 
 never could be happy again. She had 
 thought so more than once before, and had 
 found out that she was mistaken ; but this 
 time there could be no mistake : she had 
 quite made up her mind upon the subject. 
 
 There seemed to be a little stir going on 
 in the house when she arrived. Hannah, 
 helping her to take off her soaked things, 
 and bemoaning her sorry plight, informed 
 her of the cause of it. Mr. O'Neil was 
 going up to town by the mail-train that 
 nio-ht. The covered car was ordered for 
 ninfe o'clock to take him to the station. 
 11 
 
 Ethel felt dismayed, relieved, sorry,' glad, 
 all at once. But when she remembered 
 the state of his health, and the dreadfbl 
 night it was, she felt frightened and sorry, 
 and nothing else. 
 
 Needless to say what were his mother's 
 sentiments with regard to the proposed 
 journey. But she had exhausted every 
 argument, every entreaty, — even the en- 
 treaty of being allowed to accompany him, — 
 in vain. " I am only going for a few days 
 on business. You know that I had always 
 intended to run up for a few days before 
 Christmas," he had replied to her. " And 
 I would rather be alone, mother; I really' 
 would." 
 
 In short, it was one of the rare occasions 
 when Mr. O'Neil's determination was 
 proof against even his mother's arguments 
 to shake it. 
 
 Once only before he left that night did 
 he speak directly to Ethel. It was when 
 he was bidding her good-by. His mother 
 was out of the room looking after his 
 wraps ; and they were alone. 
 
 "Don't tell my mother about — about 
 this unfortunate occurrence," he said to 
 her. "It would break her heart, and — I 
 would rather she did not know. Please 
 don't tell her, Miss Mildmay." 
 
 Ethel was very pale and calm and cold. 
 " I will not tell her," she promised. 
 
 Mr. O'Neil gave her a quick glance; 
 but the giyl's face was a riddle. It baffled 
 him. He could not read it. " Good-by, 
 Miss Mildmay," he said after a little pause. 
 
 And she laid her hand in his for an in- 
 stant, and said " G!ood-l)y " as calmly as 
 though she was not wishing herself dead 
 a hundred times over rather than standing 
 there looking at him. The next instant he 
 was gone. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 IT sometimes happens that little ills 
 prove a wonderful comfort when they 
 happen to come to us in the midst of great 
 ones. Ethel found that a little ill that 
 came to her just now in the shape of a bad 
 cold, which kept her for the next iew days 
 a close prisoner to her bed, was rather a 
 pleasant little event than otherwise. 
 
 It was only a cold, but a severe one. 
 And everybody knows that a severe cold 
 prostrates both body and mind for the time 
 being, and renders both equally incapable 
 of exertion. 
 
 Mrs. O'Neil was irritable, triumphant. 
 
162 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'3 FOLLIES. 
 
 " I told you that you would catch your 
 death of cold, child, by insistiilg on riding 
 out in such weather," she said ; " and was 
 I not right? But please yourself. It is 
 easy to see that you care precious little 
 about pleasing anybody else." 
 
 This was a severe speech, and severely 
 spoken. Ethel was weak and ill and un- 
 happy ; and her eyes filled up with tears as 
 she heard it. But the old lady either did 
 not or would not see them. She was angry 
 with the girl, angry and hurt and aggrieved. 
 First of all, she was morally certain, that, 
 in one way or another, Ethel had displeased 
 her guardian, and that her conduct was 
 responsible for this mad running-away of 
 his from Mount Druid. Secondly, the girl's 
 obstinacy and audacity in paying that visit 
 to Castle Garvah spoke its own language 
 sufficiently clearly. Thirdly, she felt thai 
 she was being kept in the dark, — excluded 
 from her son's confidence as well as that 
 of Miss Mildmay. Surely here were wrongs 
 and grievances enough : the old lady's 
 curiosity was on tenter-hooks, her heart 
 was bursting, — sore and bursting. No 
 wonder that her temper broke down a little, 
 and th.it sharp words escaped from her now 
 and then. On this occasion, having made 
 this cruel little speech, and administered a 
 cup of delicious hot gruel nicely sweetened 
 (by way of an antidote doubtless) to her 
 patient, she hastened to confide her >voes to 
 JFlaherty's ever-sympathetic bosom. 
 
 " She knocks the men about like nine- 
 pins, Flaherty ; she does indeed," the poor 
 lady groaned mournfully. 
 
 And the faithful Flaherty shook her 
 head, and pursed up her mouth, and venom- 
 ously gave it as her solemn opinion that 
 her master's ward ought to be sent to school 
 to learn to behave herself. 
 
 And meanwhile Ethel lay languid, weary, 
 and hopeless in bed. She was glad to be 
 ill ; glad to have the excuse of lying still ; 
 glad to be left alone in a quiet, darkened 
 room ; glad not to have to speak or stir ; 
 
 flad to be let be miserable at her ease, 
 low that inaction was forced upon her, 
 inaction seemed to be as good a mode of 
 action as any other. Where was the use of 
 being active ? Madame O'Neil still con- 
 tinued ill, at least she said so. The even- 
 ing of the day of her fruitless attempt to 
 see her she had written to her, and in due 
 time her letter had received an answer. 
 To Ethel's accusations, a distinct, indignant 
 denial was returned. To her prayers and 
 entreaties, a few cold words were vouch- 
 safed. Mrs. Irwin had faithfully, it ap- 
 peared, transmitted her parting message, 
 and Madame O'Neil had taken up the 
 
 gauntlet. It was war between thpm now; 
 and both belligerents pretty well knew who, 
 in such a strife, was likely to come off second 
 best. 
 
 Madame O'Neil would not see her for the 
 present, at all events. That was cle^r. 
 She said she was too unwell to do so ; but 
 she promised an interview, if Miss Mildmay 
 particularly desired it, so soon as she 
 should feel herself sufficiently recovered. 
 From Madame O'Neil, however, Ethel 
 knew well enough how little there was to 
 be hoped. As she had told Mrs. Irwin, her 
 eyes were thoroughly open now, — opened 
 wide at last in spite of themselves ; opened 
 to see with what an opponent she had been 
 mad enough to enter the lists, and to know 
 what an enemy she had so rashly challenged. 
 
 Perhaps those few days of involuntary 
 repose taught Ethel one or two homely and 
 useful lessons. At least, they gave her 
 ample time for reflection, — that sharp but ' 
 wholesome medicine, — when reflection 
 means regretting past mistakes, encouraging 
 humility and selt-distrust, and teaching us, 
 as it tau.^ht Ethel then, that, on the To,ad 
 through life, it is as well now and then to ac- 
 cept the assistance of a helping hand, and 
 to listen to a friendly worU of advice when 
 it is offered us. PoorE.hel I She is scold- 
 ing herself, so we will spare her ; her own 
 troubles and perplexities and regrets being 
 the most eloquent sermon that could be 
 preached to her. Let us only trust that 
 she listened to it meekly, and profited of it 
 diligently, and so learnt through experience 
 to become a better and a wiser woman than 
 when we first made acquaintance with her. 
 
 Reflection 1 Indeed, she had plenty of 
 that, poor child ! She reflected till her 
 brain ached, and she could think no more, 
 — thought of the past and of the future too. 
 But if from the former at least a moral les- 
 son was to be derived, what advantage or 
 what consolation could be extracted from 
 the future ? 
 
 It seemed a blank. No ray of light would 
 dawn upon it ; not a single bright spot 
 could she discern in it, till at last one day, 
 when she was nearly well again, and up and 
 dressed, a ray of light did certainly dawn 
 upon it, and a wild, foolish hope darted into 
 her bosom, and illuminated her brain, where 
 indeed it had been lying in a dormant state 
 for the last few days, though she had half 
 unconsciously refused to Took it boldly in 
 the face. 
 
 It was Christmas Eve, and a bright, white 
 Christmas Eve it was. True enough, dark 
 shadows had treacherously stolen into 
 Motint Druid, and had set themselves down 
 between fond friends and loving hearts, — 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 163 
 
 stolen in like crafty thieves to rob the 
 precious flowers of joy and trust. Yet a 
 bright Christmas is a happy thing in itself, 
 and the old house was alive with a fictitious 
 outward semblance of cheerfulness ; ser- 
 vants were in good humor, charities were 
 being dispensed, hungry mouths g'adlyfed. 
 Mr. O'Neil', too, was coming home. Alto- 
 gether that Christmas Eve was less gloomy, 
 at all events, than the days that had gone 
 before ; and Ethel, looking out at the white 
 world glistening in the unwonted gush of 
 sunshine, and thinking a certain great 
 thought which was growing apace in her 
 brain, felt a va^ue faint thrill of something 
 like gladness once more. 
 
 Her guardian, however, thought her 
 looking pale and sad enough when he saw 
 her that evening. Her cold had made her 
 thin ; and blue lines were under her eyes. 
 But she made nothing of it all, and cut his 
 anxious inquiries short by prolessing her- 
 self quite well, — cut them short rather 
 abruptly and stiffly, as though they either 
 displeased her or embarrassed her. As to 
 him, his journey seemed to have been of 
 service to him. He looked better than a 
 week ago, — better in health, that is ; though 
 an indescribable alteration seemed to have 
 taken place in his appearance, which was 
 perhaps not entu-ely an improvement. 
 Ethel wondered what it was. He looked 
 stronger ; and ther« was more color in his 
 face, and energy and activity in his walk, 
 and more tone and strength in his voice. 
 For some time she could not make out what 
 the change- was; but suddenly it flashed 
 across her, and she was able to define it. 
 It was that he seemed to have grown older, 
 — ten years older. His hair was grayer, 
 and there were new lines of thought or 
 anxiety or grief upon his forehead. 
 
 Ethel counted them one by one, and felt 
 that each one, as she did so, printed itself 
 over again upon her heart. 
 
 They met very calmly and quietly, with 
 perfect outward composure on both sides. 
 Mr. O'Neil was evidently quite resolved to 
 obliterate the past, and to start a new line 
 of conduct towards his ward. He was 
 friendly and kind, and cold and guardian- 
 like. He had forgiven her. Ethel knew 
 that he was at least trying to forgive her. 
 There it was 1 But she would not, for all 
 the world contained, be forgiven on those 
 terms. Better frank resentment and eter- 
 nal, war than such a magnanimous pardon, 
 such a hollow, miserable truce as this. 
 
 Yet there was no help for it. For all 
 her wild, interior rebellion, she was, in spite 
 of herself, compelled to follow the lead 
 which he gave her, and to respect the bar- 
 
 riers witliin which he had calmly and 
 sternly intrenched , himself He rarely 
 spoke to her. They were never alone 
 together. Ethel was high-spirited and 
 brave, and not easily downcast ; but grad- 
 ually her heart sank, and in secret she 
 pined and withered from day to day be- 
 neath the touch of Mr. O'Neil's calm, 
 serene coldness. 
 
 It was on the day after Christmas Day 
 that Mr. O'Neil informed his mother that 
 he was contemplating another journey. 
 
 " The truth is," he told her, '• that Dr. 
 
 , whom I saw, you know, in town, said 
 
 that it would be madness for me to risk the 
 spring in Ireland this year. He says I am 
 tolerably right at present, but that a few 
 months of real sunshine are absolutely 
 necessary for me." 
 
 Mrs. O'Neil listened to the announce- 
 ment in gloomy silence. Poor old lady I 
 It was useless pretending any longer. This 
 miserable teint of living day after day as 
 though nothing were the matter when every- 
 body knew and felt that something, and 
 something dreadful too, was the matter, 
 was rapidly becoming impossible. She, 
 too, for a little while had played her role to 
 the best of her power, and partly from 
 pride, and partly from a nervqus dread of 
 diving into unpleasant mysteries, had 
 closed her eyes and seen nothing. Now, 
 to her son's dismay and amazement, she 
 burst into tears. 
 
 "It is a shame, a cruel shame, for you 
 and Ethel to make my old age miserable in 
 this way," she cried : " it is indeed 1 I won- 
 der you have not more pity on your old 
 mother, Arthur." 
 
 " What can I do ? What have I done ? " 
 he asked; but he comforted her after a 
 fashion of his own, and presently the tears 
 ceased. 
 
 Then it came out — of course it was a 
 secret, a profound secret. Ethel had made 
 her swear not to reveal it ; had told it to 
 her only on the most solemn promise not to 
 betray her. Only an hour ago, she had 
 confided to her, that, so soon as she was of 
 age (which event would now take place in 
 a few days), it was her intention also to go 
 abroad, and to pay her friend Christine 
 Barbier a visit at Nice. " You and Mr. 
 O'Neil will be very glad to get rid of me 
 for a little," the girl had said with a tremu- 
 lous little laugh. " I know you will. I am 
 only in the way here. Remember, Mrs. 
 O'Neil, that you were very happy together 
 before I came to you, bringing worry and 
 annoyance and unhappiness to you; and 
 you will be happy again when I'm gone." 
 
 " And it is true, Arthur : God knows 
 
164 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 what the child says is quite true," the old 
 lady said, repeating Etnel's words to her 
 son. " She has brought nothing but worry 
 and annoyance to both of us ; and yet I'll 
 be lonely after her when she has left me. 
 And now you want to leave me too, — both 
 of you I " she concluded with a strangled 
 little sob. , 
 
 Then suddenly, " Am I mad ? " she in- 
 quired. " Maybe you are playing some 
 sort of a farce," she cried, " and you are 
 both going together." 
 
 Mr. O'Neil actually laughed — what he 
 had not done for some time — at the notion. 
 
 "Hardly," he replied. Then, after a 
 moment or two of thought, " I had no idea 
 of Miss Mildmay's plans," he remarked. 
 '■ Of course, 1 will not leave you under those 
 circumstances. I took it for granted that 
 she meant to remain with us till her uncle's 
 return." 
 
 " You may always take the contrary to 
 what you suppose for granted where that 
 child is concerned," said the old lady 
 crossly. " Yes, chi:d, I am speakiijg of 
 you," as Ethel at the moment entered the 
 room ; " and I have broken my promise too. 
 I could not help it. 1 have just told Ar- 
 thur what you told me ; and indeed I must 
 say, that, considering he is your guardian, 
 he has the right to know." 
 
 Ethel grew red, then pale. " Of course 
 he has the right to know. I meant to tell 
 him," she said in a low voice. " But I only 
 received Christine's answer, saying that she 
 would be glad to have me, to-day." 
 
 " I am sorry you are going to leave my 
 mother. Miss Mildmay ; but it will be for a 
 little while, will it not? You will come 
 back to her ? " 
 
 " I don't know. I " — she looked hesi- 
 tatingly at the old lady, and her eyes filled 
 up with tears. " Mrs. O'Neil, I will come 
 back to you whenever you want me. 1 will 
 indeed ! " she cried ; and she threw herself 
 upon the old lady's neck, and kissed her 
 passionately. 
 
 Mrs. O'ISeil was astounded at this sudden 
 outburst. For days she and Ethel had been 
 on distant terms, and had treated one 
 another with cool civility. Needless to say 
 that she was completely mollified by it too. 
 
 " Children, children 1 " she groaned. 
 " Why can't we be all happy together as 
 we were before ? " she inquired pathetically. 
 " What has come over us all ? " 
 
 Nobody answered her question. Who 
 could? And, when the painful silence 
 which followed it was at last broken, it 
 was by Mr. O'Neil discussing with Ethel 
 her intended journey. But he spoke no 
 more of his own. 
 
 Every thing comes to an end sooner or 
 later. Those wretched, painful days came 
 to an end at last. Miss Mildmay's approach- 
 ing departure from Mount Druid was com- 
 mon intelligence now. " For a few weeks 
 only," it was given out that she was to be 
 away. Nobody knew, or, at all events, no- 
 body pretended to know, not even her 
 guardian (though he well knew it), that 
 she was paying Mount Druid a long fare- 
 well, and that, on the day his guardian- 
 ship would expire, they meant to become 
 strangers to one another. Ethel had told 
 Mrs. O'Neil, that, whenever she wanted her 
 to come back to her, come back she would. 
 But she had told him nothing of the sort, 
 nor had he asked her to return. She was 
 free now to do as she pleased, and he, 
 too, was free. The bonds which had bound 
 them to one another were dissolved : they 
 were unnatural, galling bonds ; and both 
 were glad to be relieved of them. Guardian 
 and ward ! — that hated relationship had 
 ceased at last, and henceforward they were 
 to be nothing to one another. Until her 
 uncle's return from India, there did, of 
 course, still exist a non)inal guardianship ; 
 but it was a mere name, and simply meant ' 
 that Mr. O'Neil -would still hold himself 
 accountable for her welfare and safety. 
 But he had no power to control her move- 
 ments, no power over her person or prop- 
 erty. On the day she was twenty-one, by 
 her father's will, Ethel Mildmay was her 
 own mistress. 
 
 Poor, foolish Col. Mildmay I How well 
 he had loved her I Haw fiandly and blind- 
 ly he had trusted her even to the last ! It 
 was Ethel's fate to be loved and petted and 
 trusted. The worse she behaved, the more 
 resolved were those who were fond of her 
 to confound her by their confidence and 
 generosity. Those to whom it was her 
 cruel destiny to bring grief and disappoint- 
 ment were the very ones who trusted her 
 best still. Miss Mildmay, as we see, seems 
 pretty well to know how to make use of 
 her new-born liberty, and to try how far 
 her now full-grown wings will carry her. 
 Here she is making ready to start across 
 Europe, bidding her late hosts a polite 
 farewell, and wandering forth from the 
 kindly, safe shelter of their happy home 
 into the wide world amongst strangers. 
 But she has something to do before she 
 leaves them: there is yet another arrow 
 for her bow. And Miss Mildmay is rub- 
 bing up her courage, and trying to firid a 
 brave heart and a steady hand with which 
 to discharge it. 
 
 And so that sad Christmas week dragged 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 165 
 
 itself to an end, and it was the last day of 
 the old year, — the day upon which Lord 
 O'Neil's family-party was to take place. 
 As his cousin, Mrs. O'Neil declared, the 
 world was topsy-turvy ; and she, for her 
 part, did not know whether she was stand- 
 ing on her head or her heels. This asser- 
 tion was made as she stood at the hall-door 
 watching her son and his ward drive off to 
 Gastle Garvagh for the purpose of accept- 
 ing its master's hospitable invitation. 
 Since the day upon which it had arrived at 
 Mount Druid, little more discussion had 
 taken place concerning it. Mr. O'Neil had 
 said that day that he meant to accept it ; 
 and he had not altered his. mind since. 
 Ethel, on the contrary, had announced her 
 determination to decline it ; but she had, as 
 we see, exercised the privilege of her sex. 
 The old lady herself, however, had been 
 positive in her determination not to be of 
 the party. She was too old, she said, for 
 " gadding about," and was afraid of ex- 
 posing herself to cold. These were, at 
 least, the excuses which she made to Lord 
 O'Neil for her absence ; though, as she told 
 her son, her fingers itched to write him the 
 truth. But Mr. O'Neil coaxed and argued 
 her into employing the common forms of 
 civility, being firmly determined that nei- 
 ther he himself, nor any one belonging to 
 him, should give the old lord the satisfac- 
 tion of supposing they resented the favor 
 with which he chose to treat his rival. 
 Ethel, as she sat silently by her guardian's 
 side in the high mail phaeton which he was 
 driving, and from time to time cast furtive 
 glances at his grave, stern profile, mar- 
 velled to herself what was the secret of his 
 strange determination to dine at Castle 
 Garvagh that day, and felt a strong im- 
 pulse to ask him to account for it. But 
 she was afraid, — actually afraid, — Ethel 
 Mildmay was afraid! All her native au- 
 dacity had melted into thin air, and 
 she was silent and subdued. Her com- 
 panion's set, impassible face frightened 
 her, and her own heavy heart deprived 
 her of even a wish to overcome her fear. 
 But, if she was frightened, she was also 
 curious, desperately curious, — curious to 
 know what he was thinking of; what 
 he thought of her; whether he really 
 hated her as she deserved to be hated; 
 whether the loss of the lettersi was the ir- 
 reparable loss he had at first supposed 
 it to be, or whether the hope of his life was 
 still alive,. and he believed that he yet 
 .might one day be master of Castle Gar- 
 vagh. Since the day of the fatal discovery, 
 they had never had a word of private con- 
 versation : ier guardian had even, she 
 
 knew very well, sedulously avoided her 
 society. 
 
 And now was this hour and a halPs tete- 
 a-lete to pass in total silence ? Of course 
 not. She, a woman, could not stand such 
 a thing. If he would not satisfy her curi- 
 osity, she at least would satisfy his. She 
 would break this hard mass of ice beside 
 her, and send it shivering into a thousand 
 pieces. If her guardian really detested 
 her, he should at least detest her actively 
 and openly, and not kill her with this over- 
 powering coldness and reserve. And so, 
 after about half an hour's tremulous con- 
 sideration, she began. "Mr. O'Neil," she 
 said in rather a low, shaky voice, " I want 
 to explain something to you." 
 
 He had evidently been thinking deeply ; 
 for he started and turned round quickly. 
 " Do you, Miss Mildmay Y " 
 
 " Yes. I want to tell you what is bring- 
 ing me to Castle Garvagh to-day. I think 
 I had better; for, after all, you are my 
 guardian still." 
 
 He laughed slightly. "I' release you 
 from any obligation," he replied. "It is 
 only forestalling your rights by a few 
 hours. To-morrow " — 
 
 " Yes, of course, I know that I am free 
 to-morrow ; but that does not make me so 
 to-day. I choose to tell you, Mr. O'Neil." 
 
 "As you like. Well?" Very .coolly 
 said, — so coolly indeed, that she crimsoned 
 angrily, and made a sudden find of courage. 
 
 •' I want to see Count O'Neil — you 
 know whom I mean," with a shade of hesi- 
 tation, " most particularly ; and so I — I — 
 In fact, I have made an appointment with 
 him." 
 
 Her guardian actually turned round in 
 his seat. If Ethel wanted to astonish him, 
 she had succeeded in doing so. "I do 
 know whom you mean, and I marvel at 
 you," he began indignantly ; then he 
 checked himself. " What a fool I am ! " 
 he said impatiently. 
 
 "I think so," Miss Mildmay said de- 
 murely. 
 
 Mr. O'Neil bit his lip's, and again con- 
 templated his horses' Heads. " It was 
 needless trouble to make an appointment," 
 he observed very coldly after a little pause. 
 " The young man is staying at the castle : 
 of course you will meet him there." 
 
 " Yes. But we have settled to meet at 
 the old abbey beforehand. In the castle 
 we might be disturbed ; and I have some- 
 thing very particular to say to him. He is 
 to be there at four, and — Oh, dear me ! " 
 looking at her watch, "it is after three 
 already. Please drive a little fast, Mr. 
 O'Neil." 
 
166 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 Her guardian made no reply; but he 
 administered a sharper admonition to bis 
 horses than they were accustomed to. 
 Ethel's command was obeyed : they drove 
 at full speed to Castle Garvagh. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 AND soon they reached it. Not another 
 word had been spoken between them ; 
 and Ethel was the first to speak now. 
 " Please let me down here, Mr. O'Neil," 
 she said, as they reached a path which led 
 by a short cut from the avenue to the 
 abbey : " this is my way." 
 
 The phaeton was stopped, and the girl 
 jumped lightly out. The roads were so 
 bad, and the nights so dark, that it had been 
 arranged that they were to sleep, as well as 
 dine, at the castle, and drive home to the 
 New- Year's breakfast at Mount Druid in 
 the morning. Hannah, who was in the 
 back-seat with the groom, noticed that her 
 young lady's face was singularly pale, and 
 wore a peculiar expression when she reached 
 the ground, and stood for a moment in the 
 road. She had, it appeared, still a word to 
 say to her guardian ; for, j ust as he was 
 driving off, she detained him. What that 
 word was, much as she would have liked to 
 hear it, the maid did not hear ; for Mr. 
 O'Neil bent down to catch it, and it was 
 said in a low voice. 
 
 " Mr. O'Neil, will you come to fetch me 
 at the abbey in half an hour ? I should 
 be so much obliged to you ! " the young lady 
 requested. 
 
 He had given up being astonished, but 
 for the life of him he could not help being 
 angry. " I am afraid it is impossible. Miss 
 Mildmay. I have my uncle to see, and 
 several things to do." 
 
 " Do come, Mr. O'Neil : I want you." 
 
 " Hardly, I think ; " and he laughed. 
 " Pray what do you want me for ? " 
 
 " I want you to — to formally release me 
 from your guardianship. Do your duty, 
 Mr. O'Neil; you had no right to become 
 my guardian unless you meant faithfully to 
 perform your duty to the last ; " and her 
 eyes sparkled, and her foot stamped the 
 earth petulantly. " You promised papa, — 
 poor papa, you know," — she said suddenly 
 and with a gasp. 
 
 He grew rather pale. " That is true ; 
 but " — 
 
 " I will expect you," Miss Mildmay said, 
 turning away abruptly, and with her queen- 
 
 liest step marching down the side-path 
 which led to the abbey. 
 
 It was a dull, sombre day. The snow 
 and brightness had melted away ; and the 
 old year was calmly dying, enveloped in a 
 vast, gray, leaden shroud. It was horribly 
 sad and still and dreary, and the old abbey, 
 when Ethel reached it, which she did in a 
 few minutes, looked the picture of solitude 
 and desolation. 
 
 But it was a pretty place, for all that; 
 though Ethel was not thinking much about, 
 or even, perhaps, seeing, its beauty just 
 then. In the far horizon the sun, now near 
 his setting, was struggling to escape from 
 his cloud-imprisonment; and the sea was 
 quivering beneath, — a dim, yellow, mys- 
 terious expanse. But the abbey was still 
 in solemn, gloomy shade, its ivy-covered, 
 ruined walls, picturesquely crowning the 
 gentle eminence upon which they stood, 
 and keeping, as it were, silent, watchful 
 guard over the old churchyard, in which 
 the hopes and fears, and once beating 
 hearts of centuries, lay now, peacefully 
 hushed to rest forever. 
 
 But Ethel's heart was beating still. 
 What was it to her that all these around 
 her were dead, when she was alive ? The 
 girl was a little before her time, nobody 
 was there, yet ; and she sat down to wait 
 upon the grass-grown graves, and looked 
 about her with eyes suddenly grown strange- 
 ly lustreless and blank and hopeless. What 
 were all these lived lives, these mysterious, 
 untold secrets of the past, to her? She 
 was alive and she wanted happiness : she 
 wanted the blue sky, and the bright, smiling 
 earth, and love and joy and happiness. 
 This universal grayness, above, around her, 
 was too much for her, — was breaking her 
 heart, she thought, at last. Hot tears 
 started to her eyes, and slowly trickled 
 down her cheeks, and fell upon the few 
 pale, shivering little Christmas flowers 
 which were growing amongst the graves. 
 But they did not flow for long : soon the 
 sound of a quick, familiar step made her dry 
 them hastily, and extinguish them with 
 smiles. It was the count, dressed as if for 
 an afternoon stroll upon the Boulevarts, 
 breathless, radiant, excited. " I have made 
 you wait. Will you ever pardon me ? But 
 need I tell you that it was not my fault ? " 
 he exclaimed eagerly. " That ancient 
 coquin is jealous of every hour that I am 
 out of his sight. My position is rapidly 
 becoming intolerable, — simply intolerable ; 
 and I have resolved, right or wrong, to 
 bolt. Just think of my being totally un- 
 able for this last fortnight to go over 
 to see you, mademoiselle, — I, whose sole 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 167 
 
 object in coming to this confounded, un- 
 blessed country was to be near you I " 
 
 Evidently, feather-head that he was, 
 their last tragic meeting and parting had' 
 made no impression on him ; or perhaps the 
 effect of Ethel's having, of her own accord, 
 sought this interview, had obliterated all 
 resentment and alarm from his mind. 
 
 " You are resolved to leave Lord O'Neil 
 then, are you?" she inquired, calmly 
 ignoring this last pointed speech. 
 
 " Certainly. My mother may preach 
 patience and resignation as much as she 
 pleases ; but another ten days of this work 
 would be the death of me. He is com- 
 pletely mad, — completely, poor old wretch ; 
 and insane people," and he heaved a sigh, 
 " live forever. It is miraculous, — posi- 
 tively miraculous. The old lunatic has a 
 constitution of iron. It will never wear 
 out." 
 
 " But how will you escape ? " Ethel asked, 
 hardly able to suppress a laugh. "Lord 
 O'Neil will not let you go." 
 
 " Mon Dieu ! I will quite simply evade 
 myself, without a word to anybody, — not 
 even my mother. She would wish me to 
 gratify this mad, affectionate whim of his 
 forever, and stay on. But it is impossi- 
 ble. I would end by going mad and sui- 
 ciding myself ; or perhaps," and he shud- 
 dered slightly, " my uncle would kill me. 
 He looks at me sometimes with a furtive, 
 wild glare that chills my blood. And then 
 the castle is triste,^oh, so desolatingly Iriste! 
 In a word, life is insupportable under the 
 circumstances." 
 
 " But how is it that you have borne it 
 so long, count ? " Miss Mildmay inquired a 
 little satirically. 
 
 He had sat down by her side. Now, 
 suddenly, before she knew what had hap- 
 pened, he had seized her hand, and cov- 
 ered it with kisses. "Mademoiselle, you 
 ask me ! — you make me such a question ! 
 You are cruel." 
 
 She let her hand lie in his. "I don't 
 mean to be cruel," she said in a low voice. 
 
 " Ethel, dear Ethel, you know what has 
 made me bear it ; you know what has 
 brought me and kept me here ; you know 
 that I swore, that, on the day you were 
 free to marry me, I would ask you to be my 
 wife." 
 
 " And that day is to-morrow," Miss 
 Mildmay said after a little pause, quietly. 
 " Well, count ? " 
 
 He looked at her pale face and cloudy 
 
 eyes, puzzled. What did they mean ? 
 
 What did her calm, strange behavior 
 
 mean ? 
 
 He flushed up. " Mademoiselle, the last 
 
 time I saw you," he said, talking very fast, 
 " you said some strange things to me ; but 
 I have forgotten them : now I remember 
 nothing but that I love you. Mademoi- 
 selle, I humbly offer you my hand : will 
 you accept it ? " 
 
 "She looked at him with a half-smile. 
 " But do you like me, count ? " she inquired. 
 
 " Mademoiselle ! " 
 
 " Because if you do, if you really like 
 me, I will " — there was a pause, a long 
 pause — "I will marry you 1 " 
 
 " Ethel 1 " 
 
 " Wait a minute," she said, — " wait. 
 Count, I am a vain, foolish girl, as you 
 know : why on earth you ever took the 
 trouble of liking me is a puzzle which per- 
 plexes me, and will perplex me to the end 
 of the chapter. But since you do like 
 me," and one of the sweet, old deprecating 
 smiles flitted momentarily across her lips, 
 " I will, as I say, marry you, on condition 
 that you will give me a proof of your love. 
 In the old days, you know, knights used to 
 win the smiles of their lady-loves by fight- 
 ing for them ; and now " — 
 
 " And now," he interrupted impetuously, 
 "in these new days, there are true and 
 brave knights still. Mademoiselle, I will 
 fight for you to the death . " 
 
 " Ah ! but," .Ethel said, shaking her head, 
 and laughing a little sadly, " it is not a case 
 of fighting : it is a case of — will you listen 
 to me, count ? " 
 
 She was very calm and composed, but as 
 white as the soft white feather in her hat, 
 which was the only bit of color she wore. 
 Her companion was, in spite of himself, 
 subdued by her grave, quiet ways, so 
 strangely different from her usual petu- 
 lance and vivacity. They made him un- 
 easy, vaguely alarmed : he could not make 
 them out. Now, in answer to her question, 
 he merely bowed his head. 
 
 "Listen to me patiently I mean," she 
 went on, " without growing angry, or inters 
 rupting me. I am afraid, though, I shall 
 make you angry." 
 
 " You could not ! " he said promptly. 
 
 She smiled. " A rash promise, count," 
 she said, — "a rash promise ; but it can't 
 be helped. And now listen to me : what I 
 must say I will say in a very few words. 
 When, nearly two years ago, 1 first knew 
 you, and consented to become your wife, I 
 believed you to -be what you told me you 
 were, — Madame O'Neil's son, and Lord 
 O'Neil's heir. Now I know that you are 
 not this." 
 
 The young man jumped to his feet, his 
 eyes flashing like two live coals. " Made- 
 moiselle, do you mean to insult me ? " 
 
168 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 " Ah 1 " she said, " your promise, broken 
 already ! Let me finish, count, it will not 
 take long ; and, if you will but have patience, 
 you will see that I do not. This is nothing 
 new to you : the last time we met I told 
 you the same thing. I know that you are 
 not an O'Neil ; I know that you are not 
 Madame O'NeH's son ; I know that your 
 name is Irwin, and that you are her sister's 
 son, because I have held the proofs that it 
 is so in my own hands, and read them with 
 my own eyes. I know that, as sure as my 
 name is Ethel Mildmay, yours is not O'Neil ; 
 and yet here I am ready to become your 
 wife, and to swear that I will be a good 
 and faithful wife to you, on one condition, 
 — that you will renounce your false claims, 
 and acknowledge yourself to be *hat you 
 are." 
 
 She expected an explosion ; but none 
 came. The fiery young man seemed sud- 
 denly to have been turned into stone. 
 "Pray continue," was all he said, as she 
 paused. 
 
 Her voice fell, and trembled a little. 
 " On this condition I will marry you," she 
 went on. " I am rich, — at least, rich enough 
 to marry a poor man : I will do my best to 
 make you happy, and perhaps I may suc- 
 ceed. At least, you will be happy in the 
 conseiousness of having acted well and 
 nobly ; and I " she suddenly gave him her 
 hand, — "I will be proud of you, and even 
 papa will forgive and bless me." 
 
 But he flung it from him. " What farce 
 is this we are playing ? " he said indig- 
 nantly.. " Mademoiselle, we are not on the 
 stage ; nor is there an admiring audience 
 around to admire and applaud these noble 
 but impossible sentiments." 
 
 She colored. "It is no farce," she ex- 
 claimed warmly, " but the sad, sober truth : 
 all your life you have been deceived ; but 
 you must be forced to see the truth at last. 
 Madame O'Neil is a bad, scheming woman. 
 Happier, far happier, are you in your own 
 real mother, who does, I know, love you 
 with all her heart, than in this false, ambir 
 tious, heartless, pretended mother of yours. 
 Listen to me ; you must let me finish : she 
 is false and wicked, and not worthy to be 
 your mother. All your Ufe you have been 
 her dupe : your mother, Mrs. Irwin, has 
 been her suffering tool. Surely it is better 
 for you to know the truth, painful, dreadful 
 as it is, but still the truth, to know it even 
 now, than to go on acting this miserable, 
 lying part you have unconsciously acted all 
 your life." 
 
 In her eagerness the girl had laid her 
 hand upon his .arm* The young man was 
 chafing and champing like some wild animal. 
 
 " A thousand times over it is a lie — a 
 lie I " he cried. "You talk of proofs, show 
 them to me : if your eyes have seen them, 
 may not mine see them too ? " 
 
 " You have not seen them, then ? " 
 
 " You make the question seriously V " 
 
 "What am I thmking ofV Of course 
 she would not show them to you. You 
 ought to thank God on your knees that that 
 woman is not your mother. Count, she has 
 stolen them, — yes, stolen them, like a thief, 
 from my guardian's house." 
 
 He stared at her as though he believed 
 her mad. Poor Ethel felt just then as 
 though she were mad, as though they were 
 all mad, and the whole world a vast lunatic 
 asylum. 
 
 " Why are you a woman, and not a man ? " 
 he broke out impetuously. " Why am I tied 
 hand and foot, and forced to listen to such 
 insults as these ? " 
 
 She drew back and laughed. " Five 
 minutes ago," she said, " you swore to me 
 that you would lay down your life for me, 
 and now you would like to send a bullet 
 through my head, — ah, Ernest I " 
 
 It was the first time he had ever heard 
 his name pass her lips, and he suddenly 
 grew pale, tears started to liis eyes. " You 
 are bent on driving me distracted," he ex- 
 claimed angrily. "It is true, I would will- 
 ingly hate you, and yet " — 
 
 " You will marry me, and give up Castle 
 Garvagh. Surely of the two, I am the 
 most worthy of your choice ; " and she drew 
 near to him again and smiled. 
 
 " Give up Castle Garvagh ! Give it up 
 to whom ? " 
 
 " To the rightful heir, — Arthur O'Neil, 
 my guardian." 
 
 The name was like setting a match to 
 gunpowder : he grew red as fire. " Never I " 
 he exclaimed, — " never ! I swear it." 
 
 "Very well," she said coldly; "that is 
 my condition. You will not accept it; 
 then we part. And this is what you call 
 love 1 " she added with a light, stinging 
 laugh. 
 
 " Or rather it is what you call love," the 
 young man retorted. " I have heard of the 
 capabilities of a woman's self-sacrifice, 
 henceforward I will believe in it, mademoi- 
 selle ; " and he made her a low bow. " I ad- 
 mire ; but I confess candidly that I do not 
 feel in me the strength to imitate." 
 
 Ethel looked at him, only vaguely guess- 
 ing at his meaning. " Then to marry me 
 would be to you a self-sacrifice ? " she in- 
 quired warmly. 
 
 " For you to marry me would- be one. 
 Mademoiselle, let us at least be frank ene- 
 mies, if we cannot be frank friends : you 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 169 
 
 have wearied of me ; I have ceased to 
 please you." ^ 
 
 Ethel colored. "I have told you that 
 I am willing to marry you : what more do 
 you want V " 
 
 The young man was silent. Suddenly he 
 looked up with a laugh. " I declare, here 
 comes one, wonderfully a propos, who will, 
 perhaps, help us to elucidate this terrible 
 mOrrogU/y we have got into, and answer your 
 question," he said. "Mademoiselle, will 
 you kindly present me to my uncle ? " 
 
 Ethel turned round aghast. The half- 
 hour had sped far too rapidly away. Yet 
 dismayed as she was, and gladly as she 
 would have dispensed her guardian from so 
 punctually obeying her behests, she was not 
 quite insensible to a little thrill of triumph 
 at his submission. 
 
 It was, indeed, Mr. O'Neil; and he and 
 the count were face to face again, as they 
 had been on that memorable day in the gay 
 gardens of Monaco, with Ethel Mildmay 
 between them. 
 
 The girl had rashly brought about the 
 situation ; but she was incapable of uttering 
 a word or making a sign. It was Mr. 
 O'Neil who broke the silence first. 
 
 '' We must dispense with the ceremony 
 of introduction, I see, sir," he said with a 
 cold poUteness, and then he turned to 
 Ethel. " Miss Mildmay requested me, for 
 some reason only known to herself, to meet 
 you here ; and so here I am." 
 
 The count bowed. " I am as much in 
 the' dark as you are yourself, sir, " he re- 
 plied with a dry laugh : " doubtless, made- 
 moiselle your ward will kindly explain." 
 
 He seemed transformed, -^ another man. 
 Wounded vanity had suddenly given him 
 strength and dignity to play his difficult 
 part, and had abruptly given him the key 
 to the perplexed position. 
 
 Ethel stared at him amazed. 
 
 " I have nothing to explain, — nothing I " 
 she broke out with a little strangled sob. 
 " I have only made another mistake, that is 
 all, in believing that you ever cared a pin 
 for me." 
 
 It was not a very dignified ebullition ; 
 but Ethel could be dignified up to a certain 
 point, though not beyond it. Melancholy 
 to relate, now she was on the verge of tears. 
 
 But this reproach was too much for the 
 poor count's endurance. 
 
 " Not care for you I " he repeated : " is 
 that fair, is that just, mademoiselle ? — and 
 when you, too, have just been at such ex- 
 cessive pains to prove to me that I am 
 totally indifferent to you ! " 
 
 " I have not told you so." 
 
 " Not in so many words, perhaps, but yet 
 
 so clearly that none but an idiot could any 
 longer misunderstand your meaning."' 
 
 They were like a pair of children quar- 
 relling. Kather impatiently Mr. O'Neil 
 looked from one to the other. " Come, 
 what is it all about ? " he inquired a little 
 satirically. 
 
 " I have no objection to tell you : on the 
 contrary, I desire that you should be umpire 
 between us, sir. What say you, mademoi- 
 selle?" And he gave Ethel a peculiar 
 smile. 
 
 She reddened. " This is folly — Mr. 
 O'Neil knows nothing about it — it is 
 strictly between ourselves," she said, ner- 
 vously tearing a little bunch of pale flowers, 
 which she had found amongst the graves, 
 to pieries. 
 
 " But I must defend myself, must I not ? " 
 the count went on, gradually losing his self- 
 control, and waxing warm. '! Sir, made- 
 moiselle, has just accused me of not caring 
 for her ; listen to the facts. I do care for 
 her, God knows how well," and his voice 
 faltered, " but not sufficiently, I confess it, 
 for the sake of winning her, to renounce 
 my mother, to proclaim myself and her im- 
 postors, and without a struggle to. resign 
 into your hands the property to which, 
 doubtless in good faith, we both consider 
 ourselves heirs. I love her, but she does 
 not love me ; and yet she is willing, actually 
 willing, to become my wife on such mad 
 conditions as these. As I have told her, 
 sir, it is an amount of self-sacrifice which it 
 is simply impossible that I should accept. 
 There, do you understand now ? " 
 
 Mr. O'Neil shook his head. " Not in the 
 least," he said coldly. 
 
 The count looked from one to the other. 
 Perhaps the truth flashed across him, and 
 that a ri^ally generous impulse prompted 
 him to speak ; perhaps he spoke because 
 silence cost him too much. 
 
 " Then I will enlighten you," he said 
 vehemently, — " enlighten you at my own 
 expense. We have been rivals on more 
 subjects than one : on one, victory still 
 hangs in the balance, but, to speak honestly, 
 it appears to incline more to my side than 
 yours. On the other " — he paused, then 
 he laughed, and offered Mr. O'Neil his 
 hand — "I acknowledge myself beaten : it 
 is a game at which one must lose. I have 
 lost; but still I can be generous enough 
 to congratulate you on your success." 
 
 " How silly I " Mr. O'Neil said the 
 words with an impatient^ disgusted, sigh. 
 "In Heaven's name, have we not had 
 enough of all this V " he asked.- 
 
 But the count could not restrain his 
 mortification and irritation . a . moment 
 
170 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 longer. " Silly I — perhaps so," he said, 
 shrugginw his shoulders, " but true for all 
 that: ask mademoiselle herself to deny 
 it if she can." 
 
 Ml-. O'Neil had been glaring at the young 
 man angrily ; now, suddenly, he looked at 
 Ethel, who was standing, white as snow, 
 a few steps apart. 
 
 " Don't mind him I " she said with a faint 
 smile : " he is angry with me, — angry with 
 me because I know the truth, and wanted, 
 at any price, to save you." 
 
 There was a long pause. 
 
 " How silly ! " Mr. O'Neil again repeated, 
 sharply and coldly. 
 
 The count looked first at one, then at the 
 other; finally at his watch. "Excuse me," 
 he said : it is late, and I dare not remain 
 longer absent from my great-uncle. Au 
 revoir, sir; au reooir, mademoiselle. We 
 shall presently meet again at the castle." 
 And he walked away, bravely humming an 
 opera air. 
 
 " How silly, how excessively silly ! " Mr. 
 O'Neil exclaimed sharply for the third 
 time. " What do you mean, Miss Mildmay, 
 by asking me to be witness to such a foolish 
 scene as this V " 
 
 This was the reward of her self-devotion. 
 Ethel turned from him, for he had taken a 
 few hasty steps toward her, with a little 
 shivering sob. 
 
 " It was silly of me," she said humbly ; 
 " but I fancied that he really cared for me 
 enough to give up Castle Garvagh for my 
 sake." 
 
 And she said it so meekly, and looked 
 so crushed and sad, that, somehow or other, 
 his heart was pierced through 'and through. 
 
 " Why did you let him suppose that you 
 did not like him ? " he asked with quick 
 kindness : " of course that made him angry. 
 Come, don't cry. The mistake is soon 
 remedied. I will call him back." 
 
 Ethel caught his arm. " But I do not 
 care for him, Mr. O'Neil I " she exclaimed 
 eagerly. 
 
 " And yet you said you would marry 
 him." 
 
 " Oh, how stupid you are ! " she cried 
 with sudden petulance — " how stupid and 
 dull you are I Don't you see that I wanted 
 him to take me, and leave you Castle 
 Garvagh ? It was the only thing I could 
 do, Mr. O'Neil ; the only thing I knew how 
 to do ; the one single way I could think of 
 to reward J'bu for all your goodness to me, 
 and to make up for all the evil I have done 
 you." 
 
 There was a deep flush upon her cheek, 
 and there were great bright tears in her 
 eyes. There was sometl^ing else in them 
 
 too ; something strong and sweet and deep, 
 that made him stagger like a drunken man, 
 and vrow suddenly as pale as death. 
 
 " You do not care for him ? " he repeated 
 slowly. " Is that true V " 
 
 "It is. O Mr. O'Neill it is true 
 indeed." 
 
 " It is not too late. Shall I call him 
 back ? " he said in a low, strange voice. 
 
 A tremulous, tearful smile was on her 
 lips. 
 
 " If you like, Mr. O'Neil," she replied 
 with a faint, faint flash of her own demure 
 sauciness. 
 
 "If /like I" 
 
 The last day of the old year was dying 
 out in a grand crimson glow. The sun had 
 gone to sleep in the pale, misty, solemn sea, 
 and was kissing with its red farewell kisses 
 the gray old abbey and the grass-grown 
 tombs. Long shadows were lying about. 
 But these two walked from the shadows 
 out into brightness, and understood one 
 another at last. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVn. 
 
 THERE must always be a fool in the 
 middle. Happiness is unfortunately 
 generally bought at somebody's expense. 
 
 But the count bore up bravely. Vanity 
 occasionally serves one instead of pride; 
 and, though he was not a proud man,* he 
 was, as we well know, a vain one, and so 
 was in no wise disposed to wear a poor 
 mouth over his defeat. 
 
 On the contrary, when they all met at 
 dinner that day, he congratulated Ethel 
 with the best possible grace. " Only, 
 mademoiselle, it was not fair or kind 
 of you, considering our — our old intimacy, 
 not to have let me into your confidence 
 before," he said with gay reproach. 
 
 Miss Mildmay, to do her justice, looked 
 a little shamefaced. " How in the world it 
 has all come about," she said, shaking her 
 pretty head thoughtfijUy, " is more than I 
 can understand. One tact I am very clear 
 of, count, is, that you did me the honor of 
 refusing to marry me to-day. Talk of 
 French gallantry after that I " 
 
 Smiling, happy villages live in the path 
 of the lavarstream which will one day 
 destroy them. Men and women have' 
 danced, and will to the end of the chapter 
 dance, on volcanoes. Young people will be 
 young and gay under any circumstances. 
 This was supposed to be a sort of testival, a 
 cheerful family-gathering ; and they all felt 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 171 
 
 that it/ was manners, jf nothing else, to 
 forget and lay aside for the nonce all per- 
 sonal sentiments, and for once in their lives, 
 at all events, to be friends all round. 
 
 Somehow or other it did not seem to be 
 a very difficult undertaking. Perhaps it 
 was Lord O'Neil's rare, delicious old wine, 
 unearthed for the occasion from the most 
 rftnote and carefully-guarded cellar, which 
 helped to promote charity and good-will 
 amongst the men. Or perhaps it was, that 
 some mysterious attraction, stronger even 
 than the rivalry, which, in spite of them- 
 selves, made enemies of them, existed 
 between them. At all events, Ethel during 
 dinner that day came to the conclusion that 
 she would never, so long as she lived, be 
 surprised at any thing again. 
 
 What a strange meal it was 1 What a 
 queer little family-party they four made of 
 it ! Needless to record that she, the only 
 lady, was treated with all due honor, and 
 that the old lord paid her the most marked 
 attention. He was in great good-humor 
 that evening. Afterwards it was remem- 
 bered, and made a note of, that for months 
 and months, even years. Lord O'Neil had 
 never been less grim, less peculiar, less of 
 a lunatic, than on this particular night. 
 Now and then, indeed, his eye gleamed a 
 little wildly ; and a curious, furtive expres- 
 sion; which, whenever she perceived it, 
 made Ethel shiver in the midst of her hap- 
 piness, crossed his face. But on the whole 
 he was calm and kindly, even faintly jo- 
 vial, and did not by word or deed betray 
 any symptom of insanity. 
 
 The dinner was worthy of a cordon-bleu. 
 The wine, as we know, was delicious. It 
 was the one occasion of the whole year 
 that the old man threw off his miserly 
 habits, and that lavish expense took the 
 place of revolting stiiiginess. The table 
 groaned beneath delicacies which came 
 from beyond the sea. Choice fruit and 
 flowers, handsome plate and glass, adorned 
 it ; and it stood tiny, sparkling, and gor- 
 geous in the midst of the great banquet- 
 hall of Castle Garvagh, wWch was lit up 
 with the brilliancy of daylight. 
 
 There were, however, as may be ima- 
 gined, a few eccentric incongruities in the 
 midst of all this splendor. One of the 
 attendants, old John, the Mount Druid 
 coachman, was the master of ceremonies. 
 His subordinate was Biddy, the blue-eyed, 
 broad-shouldered girl whom Ethel had seen 
 with a basket of turf upon her head the 
 first memorable day she had passed the 
 threshold of Castle Garvagh, and who 
 now pitched about the rare old family 
 china and handsome plate upon which all 
 
 the good things were served with a reck- 
 lessness truly appalling. Hannah, hover- 
 ing about the distant corners of the 
 immense room, but too " mindful of her 
 position," as she afterwards explained to 
 her young mistress, to approach the table, 
 or take part in the actual duty of serving, 
 did her best to assist the feeble John, and 
 to restrain the impetuous Biddy, who, in 
 honor of the great occasion, had squeezed 
 her great feet into an unaccustomed pair 
 of boots which creaked violently. Need- 
 less to say that Miss Mildmay went off 
 more than once into subdued fits of laugh- 
 ter over the countless amusing and quaint 
 incidents of this strange repast, and that 
 over and over again she mentally rubbed 
 her eyes to make sure that she was really 
 awake, and not dreaming some fantastic, 
 extraordinary dream. 
 
 Taking advantage of one of the many 
 crashes that occurred, and of the temporary 
 direction of Lord O'Neil's terrible eyes to 
 Biddy's proceedings, the count managed to 
 inform the others of the cause of the 
 uncouth native's presence. 
 
 -" Denis Irwin is, you know, the one ser- 
 vant — male servant — in the castle," he 
 explained ; " and he waits upon us as well 
 as every thing else ; but my greafy 
 uncle seems somehow or other to have 
 taken him, too, en grippe latterly, and to- 
 day he insisted upon his going home and 
 spending the evening en famille. Ma foil 
 I made no objection, I assure you," pursued 
 the young man with a comic shrug. " It is 
 not particularly pleasant for a sensitive 
 fellow like me to be served by his own 
 uncle. Prejudices are foolish things, but 
 they exist for all that ; and it costs me 
 something even to eat this excellent dinner, 
 which, I tell you in confidence, has been 
 cooked by my aunt," he concluded with a 
 laugh. 
 
 " I fancied Irwin never left the old man," 
 whispered Mr. O'Neil. 
 
 " Nor does he, except very rarely. Lat- 
 terly, as I say, our respected uncle seems 
 rather to dislike him ; and they say Irwin's 
 influence has passed to me. Certainly, 
 once or twice lately, I have succeeded in 
 soothing him when Irwin has failed." 
 
 " What means do you employ ? " Mr 
 O'Neil inquired. 
 
 " Oh, that depends ! When he becomei 
 very excited, I generally have recourse to 
 the organ. Music hardly ever fails to calm 
 him ; and I believe that my being some- 
 thing of a musician accounts for his habit- 
 ual docility to me. It was a clever idea, 
 was it not, of my mother's, to insist upon 
 my studying the organ last winter in Paris. 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 I wonder, sir, that nobody ever made you 
 learn the organ," he added with a rueful 
 laugh. 
 
 Mr. O'Neil laughed too : so did Ethel, 
 as their eyes met, which they did pretty 
 often now. 
 
 There was time for no more. Dinner 
 was over. Biddy, with her creaking boots, 
 Hannah, and John had all retired. A pro- 
 found silence reigned through the vast, 
 bright room. 
 
 With a cracked, quavering voice Lord 
 O'Neil broke it. Raising with a shaky 
 hand his glass, filled with dark, rich wine, 
 to his lips, " I wish to propose a toast," the 
 old man said. " Let us drink to the health 
 and happiness of the heir of Castle Gar- 
 vagh I " And the poor old creature cast a 
 malicious glance round the table. There 
 was a brief pause. Ethel's heart jumped 
 into her mouth. Then why or how it hap- 
 pened, nobody ever knew ; but Arthur 
 O'Neil and the count looked at one 
 another, touched their glasses across the 
 table, and drank in silence. 
 
 Probably the wicked old lord was disap- 
 pointed by this unexpected demonstration 
 of amity between the rivals. At all events, 
 he was amazed : so, indeed, were they all, — 
 the performers no less than the spectators. 
 
 " Life is short ; quarrels are odious, 
 troublesome necessities," soliloquized the 
 count when they had all adjourned after 
 dinner to the drawing-room, and Lord 
 O'Neil was busy doing the honors of his 
 entertainment to Ethel. " I assure you, 
 uncle, I am glad of this opportunity of 
 telling you, that, for my part, I hate strife 
 and contention, and would, if I could, will- 
 ingly live in peace with all the world." 
 
 And, so saying, the young man threw 
 himself luxuriously back in an easy-chair, 
 and yawned despondingly. 
 
 Mr. O'Neil could not repress a smile. 
 "I am qmte of your way of thinking, 
 count," he said ; " but unfortunately " — 
 
 " Ah, yes, there it is I Unfortunately we 
 are forced to quarrel, and there is no help 
 for it. Mon Dieu ! If even the game were 
 worth the candle ! " And he sighed and 
 laughed. 
 
 " And you don't think it is I " 
 
 " I suppose it is. My mother tells me 
 that it is. But" — and he shrugged his 
 shoulders — "I am not ambitious myself; 
 and I confess to you that this vast, gloomy 
 house, and this dreary, wretched country 
 possess no atractions for me. What will 
 you? One can't alter one's inclinations, 
 and I give you my word of honor," he ex- 
 claimed with sudden frankness, " I believe 
 I sometimes wish the whole business — 
 
 Castle Garvagh, wealth, prospects, conten- 
 tions, O'Neils, all and every one of them, 
 myself included — at the bottom of the 
 sea." 
 
 Mr. O'Neil laughed ; but he gave him a 
 curious glance. " Most people would think 
 these prospects of which you speak so 
 slightingly rather pleasant ones than other- 
 wise," he said quietly. * 
 "I suppose so. But I agree with Sol- 
 omon, — all is vanity. By the way, what 
 is your opinion of these same prospects ? " 
 he demanded suddenly. 
 
 Mr. O'Neil was a little taken aback by 
 this frank inquiry. " My opinion ? " he 
 repeated. 
 
 " Which has the best chance, — you or I ? " 
 Very calmly, and with a steady glance, 
 Mr. O'Neil replied, " You have, I think — 
 now." 
 
 The young man jumped up. • " I am sorry 
 for you, then : you care about it much more 
 than I do. The quarrel has been not of 
 my seeking, but has been forced upon me. 
 However, I'll fight it out for my mother's 
 sake, — and a little for my own too," he 
 added with a laugh. " After all, I suppose 
 there are some advantages in being rich 
 and the ' head of the family.' " 
 
 Mr. O'Neil winced a little. " A few," he 
 said dryly. • 
 
 There was a short pause. Mr. O'Neil 
 was looking across the room at Ethel's fair 
 head, which was bent over a book of old 
 prints which Lord O'Neil was showing her. 
 The count's eyes were thoughtfully fixed 
 upon the fire' : suddenly he raised them and 
 extended his hand. " To-night, the last of 
 the old year, we are friends ; but we shall 
 have to, begin the new year by hating^ one 
 another again," he said abruptly. " There 
 will probably never be another opportunity ; 
 so let me profit of this one to tell you that 
 I am the victim to circumstances, and that 
 I boar you no ill will, not even, uncle, for 
 the mauvais tour you played me to-day." 
 Perhaps there was something slightly the- 
 atrical in the speech and act ; but, if there 
 was, Mr. O'Neil did not see it. He took the 
 young man's hand and shook it warmly. 
 
 " It is true," he said, " we must be ene- 
 mies indeed ; but at heart we may be friends. 
 You have more to forgive me, count, than 
 I you." 
 
 " And victory can afford to be generous ; 
 eh, sir V " And the count laughed. 
 
 At the moment Ethel raised her head, 
 and glanced a little anxiously towards the 
 two men ; but, when she saw that they were 
 laushjn", the cloud cleared away from her 
 forehead, and she smiled. 
 « Yes," Mr. O'Neil said, " I will fight for 
 
ETHEL MILDMAT'S FOLLIES. 
 
 173 
 
 Castle Garvagh still, — fiAt probably to 
 lose. But I am content to lose, now that I 
 have got her." 
 
 " I believe you. So would I, if she had 
 only had the good taste to prefer me." 
 
 " She could not care for us both, you 
 know." 
 
 " C'est vrai," and the count whistled and 
 laughed. 
 
 But he turned away abruptly, and Mr. 
 O'Neil did not see his gay, handsome face 
 asain for, a minute or two. 
 
 Ethel lay in bed a long time that night 
 before she fell asleep, — the first time she 
 had ever slept in Castle Garvagh; the 
 last, as she very well knew, that she would 
 ever sleep there again. It was the same 
 room to which she had been carried on the 
 day of Tinker's disaster and her own acci- 
 dent ; and now she lay, vainly trying to 
 sleep, in the very same bed with its nod- 
 ding, hearse-like plumes, upon which she 
 had, on that day, first opened her eyes 
 after her fainting-fit, and seen Mrs. Irwin's 
 pale face leaning over her. 
 
 Ethel liked neither the room nor the 
 bed, and was longing to be back in her 
 own bright, cheerfiJ little apartment at 
 Mount Druid. Truth to tell, those sad, 
 dark plumes over her head were frighten- 
 ing her. Terrors of ghosts and apparitions 
 were filling her excited brain ; and not even 
 the bright flame of a blazing fire, nor the 
 close proximity of Hannah, as evinced by 
 that personage's peaceful snores, were sufli- 
 cient to make her feel happy and at ease. 
 Mr. O'Neil had insisted that Hannah 
 should sleep with her. Ethel, brave enough 
 in anticipation, had laughed at his anxious 
 care, and had declared that sh^ did not 
 know what it was to be frightened at night. 
 But he had laughingly reminded her that 
 Castle Garvagh was haunted, and that 
 ghosts were particularly lively on the last 
 night of the old year, and had, in fine, or- 
 dered Hannah not to leave her young lady's 
 room. 
 
 " I have a right still to do so," he re- 
 minded her with a smile. "Remember, 
 you are my ward still." 
 
 " Till to-morrow," Miss Mildmay replied 
 with a toss of her head, — " till to-morrow, 
 Mr. O'Neil." 
 
 He laughed at her sauciness. "Till 
 to-morrow," he repeated ; " and then " — 
 
 Ethel looked down, then up. "Mr. 
 O'Neil," she said, "only for me, Castle 
 Garvagh would be yours." 
 
 "Would it?" he replied; "but, Ethel, 
 
 you have made me forget that I ever cared 
 for Castle Garvagh now.'' 
 
 The pleasant sound of these pleasant 
 words was ringing in her ears now, min- 
 gling with the weird music of the other 
 sounds which filled the night. Sad, strange 
 sounds they were. The wind was sighing 
 plaintively through the trees, reminding 
 her with its low, piteous wail of the keen 
 of the Banshee, which a wide-spread and 
 firmly believed-in superstition asserted was 
 often heard in the neighborhood of the 
 castle. The waves were plashing upon 
 the beach with a dull, monotonous chant. 
 Now and then the wild screech of some 
 passing night-bird, or the growl of a dog, 
 or one of the inexplicable noises by which 
 the spirits of the dark hours are wont to 
 remind us of their presence, -^ the creaking 
 of some old piece of furniture, the shudder- 
 ing sighs, the faint whispers, the rustling 
 of garments, in fine, the countless sighs of 
 that strange, unknown, mysterious language 
 which was spoken at Castle Garvagh that 
 night, — kept Ethel for hours wide awake 
 with listening, sharp-edged ears, and a 
 beating, tremulous heart. How gratefiil 
 she was to her guardian for his persistency 
 about Hannah now ! How re-assuring and 
 pleasant did the girl's sonorous, mortal 
 snores sound in the midst of this weird, 
 uncanny concert I What a comfort it was 
 to know that she had a flesh-and-blood 
 companion close at hand, and that she was 
 not alone in the midst of the strange, bodi- 
 less company with which her excited nerves 
 had peopled the air 1 
 
 At last she slept too, and dreamed; or 
 was it dreaming or waking that made her 
 fancy, thati through the depths of the night, 
 other sounds rose, gently at first, sweet and 
 low, but swelling presently into a grand 
 burst of harmony in which every other 
 lesser sound was lost ? The girl lay, list- 
 ening to this wonderful, beautiful music in 
 a sort of trance, marvelling whether it was 
 real music, vaguely asking herself whether 
 she was awake or asleep. Either the organ , 
 was being played, or she was dreaming 
 that she heard it. Now it T^as faint and 
 tremulous and sweet and low ; and now it 
 grew and swelled till it seemed to fill every 
 corner of the great house, echoing through 
 its vast corridors with a grand rush of 
 sound which swept through them like a 
 strong wind. 
 
 Dreaming or waking, Ethel listened 
 spell'bound, — first amazed and frightened, 
 then strangely soothed and charmed. 
 Then suddenly there was a deep, intense 
 quiet, in which the fall of a pin would have 
 
174 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 made itself heard, and Ethel had turned 
 upon her pillow with a deep, peaceful sigh, 
 and was really asleep at last. 
 
 How long did she sleep ? It seemed to 
 her to have been a long time. Now she 
 was wide awake, sitting up in her bed. 
 Something had awakened her. What was 
 it Y Hannah was snoring still. The bright 
 fire had all but expired, and a feeble flicker 
 was the only light in the room. It was bit- 
 terly cold, she had time to feel that, — cold 
 with a cold that seemed to freeze her blood, 
 and to make her teeth chatter. Oh, what 
 had wakened her ! What was that shudder- 
 ing rush of sound which was coming to her ? 
 What was that terrible red glare which 
 suddenly illuminated the surrounding dark- 
 ness ? What was that voice, which, like the 
 sweetest music that ever was, all at once 
 made her feel strangely brave and com- 
 posed and collected. 
 
 "Ethel," the voice said from the door, 
 " come to me. You have only one minute. 
 Awaken Hannah, and come to me here." 
 
 The words were said so quietly that they 
 hardly frightened her. How it was done 
 she did not know ; but in a minute she and 
 her maid, clothed somehow, were at the 
 door. 
 
 " That is right," Mr. O'Neil said approv- 
 ingly. " Now, dearest, close your eyes, don't 
 be frightened, and trust yourself to me ; and 
 you, Hannah, stick (.lose to us. Hold your 
 tongue ! " as the terrified maid set up a wild 
 scream. " The house is on fire ; but, if you 
 only do as I tell you, you are perfectly 
 safe." 
 
 The house on fire ! Ethel did as she was 
 told, and closed her eyes ; that is to say, 
 she closed them for an instant or two, while 
 Mr. O'Neil took her in his arms as though 
 she were an infant, and carried her swiftly 
 down the broad corridor which led to the 
 
 freat staircase. Then she opened them. 
 [e had paused, perhaps to take breath ; 
 perhaps because — O God I what was it 
 that she saw ? One wing of the staircase 
 was in flames. The hall beneath was thick 
 with a black, blinding smoke. It seemed 
 as though one wing of the house, that in 
 which her room was not situated, was al- 
 ready a mass of living fire ; and when she 
 cast a glance behind, down the long pas- 
 sage through which they had just come, she 
 fancied that she saw a lurid glare kindling 
 at the farther end of it. 
 
 Suddenly an awful thought crossed her 
 mind. " Arthur," she cried, " Arthur, the 
 count I Oh I let me down. He sleeps down 
 there. He told me that his room was there, 
 — a few doors lower down than mine, — at 
 the far end of that passage." 
 
 Her guardian obeyed, and put heron her 
 feet. JHe was not strong, and could per- 
 haps not bear her weight longer. They 
 stood for half a second on the top of the 
 staircase, in the midst of that roar of 
 clashing noise, in that intolerable glare and 
 heat, looking at one another ; Hannah 
 clinging to them, screaming madly. 
 
 "Down there I " repeated Mr. O'Neil. 
 " Ethel, he slept in the other wing of the 
 house, near Lord O'Neil. His room was 
 next to his, and unless he has already es- 
 caped, God help him I he is lost." 
 
 " No, no, no I " Ethel cried. " His room 
 was next Lord O'Neil's ; but he did not 
 occupy it. He told me that he would not 
 sleep near him for all the world ; and last 
 night, before I fell asleep, I am sure I heard 
 his step going past my door." 
 
 " You imagined it. There is no time to 
 lose. Come." And he caught her up in 
 his arms again. 
 
 But she freed herself from him. " Ar- 
 thur I " she cried. " Arthur I " 
 
 He looked at her pale as death. " What 
 would you have me do V " he asked. 
 
 " Save him I Save him ! " 
 
 He glanced over the banisters, which 
 were already smoking, down into the hall. 
 
 " The staircase will not hold much 
 longer. The one chance of escape is the 
 hall-door. What do you want me to do ? " 
 he asked again. But he did not wait for 
 a reply. " Take Hannah's hand," he went 
 on. " Go down the stairs. Don't mind 
 smoke, flames even. Go straight to the 
 hall-door, open it, and " — 
 
 " Never," she cried, — " never I I will not 
 leave you, Arthur. I will wait for you 
 here." 
 
 "You must." 
 
 " I can't. O Arthur, I cannot I I am 
 afraid." 
 
 Again he looked down into the hall. 
 " The staircase will hold two minutes 
 longer," he said. " Wait then for me here, 
 while you count sixty moderately quickly, 
 but swear, that, if I have not then returned, 
 you will do as I have told you." 
 
 " Arthur 1 " 
 
 " Swear," he cried, " or I will not stir an 
 inch." 
 
 And swear it she did, because, in truth, 
 she could not help it. 
 
 " Begin," he said : " One, two, three.'' 
 
 And when tremblingly she repeated the 
 words after him, — 
 
 " God bless you, then I " he said. " He is 
 not there I think ; but, to satisfy you, I will 
 try." And he was gone. 
 
 It takes long to describe : it took a sec- 
 ond to act. " Four, five, six, seven." Quick- 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 175 
 
 ly, "though not hurriedly, she counted the 
 numbers with her eyes closed, with her 
 hands firmly clasping those of her maid, 
 who, frantic with terror, was struggling to 
 escape from her. But Ethel held her fast, 
 knowing well what she was doing. The 
 door of the castle once opened, the rush 
 of air through the house would kindle the 
 flames, and the whole staircase would be in 
 a blaze. Oh those moments 1 How did 
 she live through them ? How did she 
 stand there like a statue, with the frantic 
 girl at her side screaming and tearing, with 
 that scorching heat growing hotter and 
 hotter, with that awful rush and roar of 
 flames around her? How did she stand 
 there with terror paralyzing her limbs, 
 with her brain growing dizzy, with that 
 intolerable thought at her heart — oh, it 
 was that that was hardest to bear of all 1 
 ^- that she had madly sent her guardian 
 into danger, perhaps to death ? 
 
 Till then she had never known how well 
 she loved him. " Fifty, fifty-one, fifty-two I " 
 Already she had all but reached the fatal 
 number. " Sixty ! " She opened her eyes. 
 Flames were above, around, beneath, every- 
 where. But she was in the midst of them 
 with Hannah alone. Mr. O'Neil had not 
 come back. 
 
 Then Ethel felt that death itself were 
 better than this thing she must now do. 
 Escape without him ! Escape, leaving him 
 behind in this burning mass I Escape to 
 life, having sent him to death ! And yet 
 her oath — how could she break it ! She 
 knew that she was safe. She knew that 
 Mr. O'Neil had counted time with accurate 
 precision, and that he had wrung this prom- 
 ise from her, knowing well that she would 
 not venture to break it, and that its ob- 
 servance would insure her safety. And 
 Hannah, too, wh'o now was totally incapa- 
 ble of action or self-guidance of any sort — 
 how could she sacrifice another life as well 
 as her own? How could she commit a 
 deliberate murder ? 
 
 Oh, if he would but come ! " Arthur," 
 she cried, going a step or two back into the 
 passage, pf which the farther end was now 
 a blaze of light. " Arthur, oh, come ! " 
 
 But, though it was a scream that might 
 have called the dead to life, it did not 
 bring him to her. 
 
 And so she must do it, — she must go 
 into that dark region below, filled with 
 smoke black as pitch. She must pass 
 throuo-h flames, even if she saw them, 
 rather than delay. She must open the 
 great door of the castle, and by that very 
 act close up, most probably, the single 
 means of escape behind her. Oh I how 
 
 could she do it ? With her foot upon the 
 first stair she began the descent, still tightly 
 clasping her maid's hand. She could not 
 do it. She turned back again, and — 
 Heaven was merciful after all — at that 
 very instant she saw Mr. O'Neil's tall, 
 dark figure appear against the background 
 of red light which closed the remote end 
 of the passage. 
 
 Afterwards she told him that the great 
 joy and thankfulness of that instant made 
 her entirely oblivious of the terrors which 
 surrounded her. In a second he was , by 
 her side. 
 
 "I was right. He is not there," he said. 
 "I tried every room; and the flames are 
 as yet only in the lumber-room at the ex- 
 treme end." 
 
 " He must have escaped." 
 
 What happened after that she scarcely 
 knew. She was conscious of being clasped 
 in his arms, of a wild confusion, of terrible 
 suffocation, of blinding smoke, of an intol- 
 erable heat. She was conscious of the 
 danger of an awful death ; and yet she did 
 not fear. She knew that at last they had 
 reached the door, and that she and Han- 
 nah stood clinging to one another, while 
 Mr. O'Neil unbolted and unbarred. And 
 then — oh the blessedness of the next mo- 
 ment ! The exquisite joy of the cool, dark 
 night and the stars, and the delicious 
 draught of fresh pure air 1 It was worth 
 having lived through that fearful agony, 
 and to have learnt, even at such a price, 
 what the sweetness of life is. They were 
 safe. Flames and death were behind 
 them ; but the tranquil night was greeting 
 them, and danger was no more. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVm. 
 
 FOK them at least. But there was no 
 time then for selfish joy, no time for 
 any thing but a brief prayer of passionate 
 gratitude. Oh ! what a strange, terrible, 
 beautiful scene was before them I — dark 
 figures running wildly to and fro in the 
 brilliant glai-e of that splendid blaze of 
 fire ; shouts and screams of human voicts 
 rising high and piercing above the crash 
 and hell-like din of falling timber, of 
 breaking glass, and of raging flames. It 
 was awful ; but it was beautiful. One 
 side of the house was abeady half con- 
 sumed ; the other, that fi"om which they had 
 just escaped, was not burning yet, except, 
 strange to say, at the extreme end', whence 
 
176 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 a black column of smoke was mounting. 
 But, even as they looked towards it, a sud- 
 den jet of flame burst out, which the wind 
 carried along with fearful rapidity. In 
 another minute, that side too was in a blaze. 
 But it was in front of the other part of the 
 house that a crowd of darki objects was 
 congregated. Mr. O'Neil implored of Ethel 
 not to approach ; but a horrible fascination 
 attracted her, and she clung to him, and 
 dragged herself after him. The whole 
 upper story was burning madly : evidently 
 the flames had first broken out in that 
 particular portion of the buildinp; ; it was 
 that in which were situated tie rooms 
 which Lord O'Neil occupied. In another 
 minute it was easy to see that the roof 
 would fall in ; as it was, part of it had 
 already given way. Ethel to her dying- 
 day never forgot the awful spectacle which 
 she saw then. At one of the windows of the 
 long range of the upper story, two men 
 were struggling frantically in one another's 
 embrace. Behind them was a red, lurid 
 glare, which told but too plainly that the 
 back portion of the room must be burning. 
 They were Lord O'Neil and the count. 
 The old man, his long white hair streaming 
 wildly behind him, and with the strength of 
 a maniac, was clasping the count in liis 
 arms ; while he was evidently desperately 
 attempting to free himself from the terrible 
 embrace, and to get out on the window-sill. 
 People were screaming wildly for ladders. 
 One had already been placed against a 
 portion of the wall to which the flames had 
 not yet reached ; but it was a short one, and 
 did not go within several yards of the fatal 
 window. Ethel shut her eyes ; but she saw 
 all the same, — saw that fearful, fearful 
 sight. Lord O'Neil would not let him 
 escape : he was bent upon the young man's 
 destruction. With all his might he seemed 
 to be dragging him back into the burning 
 room, and even from that distance the 
 terror-stricken spectators below could see 
 the wild, maniacal expression of the old 
 man's face, which could not let them doubt 
 that reason had entirely deserted him, and 
 that he was a raging madman. It was 
 awful, unbearable. Frantic women were 
 shrieking ; men were loudly calling on God 
 for help. Not one of those then present 
 ever forgot that cruel moment, — that grim, 
 frantic struggle. Suddenly a deep, solemn 
 silence fell upon them all. Youth is 
 strong ; the instinct of life is deep. With 
 one desperate effort the count had freed 
 himself, flinging from him the arms of his 
 would-be murderer. He is out on the window- 
 sill. Another, ladder has been ibund, and 
 placed against the wall ; but it, too, ig yai-de 
 
 too short. For half a second he hesitates 
 but the madman is behind him, and in 
 another instant will have clutched him 
 back. He jumps. They just see his figure 
 cleaving the air ; and tlien — with a terrible 
 crash the roof has fallen in; and Lord O'Neil 
 has disappeared. 
 
 Afterwards the country-people asserted, 
 that, at that supreme moment, an almost 
 unearthly scream had been heard to rise 
 piercingly high above the din and clamor, 
 
 — the scream of a mother calling to her 
 child. And they swore, too, that it had not 
 come from the lips of the cold, white, 
 handsome woman, who like a statue had 
 stood there motionless, looking on at that 
 dreadful scene. When Ethel looked again, 
 Madame O'Neil was motionless still. Her 
 sister was crouched at her leet, and on her 
 knees lay the poor count's white, solemn 
 face upturned to the stars. The girl's 
 heart stood still. She had seen that same 
 hushed and solemn look upon a face before, 
 
 — upon her father's as he lay dead in the 
 big drawing-room of the villa at Nice. 
 
 The pale dawn of the new year was 
 faintly tinging the eastern sky. Castle 
 Garvagh was burning still, and the stars 
 were looking quietly down at it all. But 
 he lay there upon lus mother's lap at rest. 
 
 The terrible mystery of that awful night 
 was of course never fully explained. The old 
 prophecy was fulfilled : peace was restored 
 to the family of the O'Neils ; but Castle 
 Garvagh was for the third time burnt to the 
 ground. One tiling could not be doubted : 
 the conflagration had not been accidental, 
 and it was on all sides accepted that Lord 
 O'Neil had been its author ; clearly he had 
 intended Arthur O'Neil's destruction, as 
 well as his own and that of the count, and 
 in his cunning lunacy had devised this lear- 
 ful hecatomb for them all. The flames had 
 broken out in different parts of the castle 
 simul taneously ; but, by a fortunate accident, 
 that portion of it in which his guests were 
 sleeping had not ignited so rapidly as the 
 other part of the house. Providentially, 
 too, no other lives were lost but the count's 
 and his own : the few servants in the castle 
 effected their escape. 
 
 How Lord O'Neil had diabolically man- 
 aged to seduce the unfortunate count into 
 his own apartment at that hour of the night 
 was never known ; but it was clear that a 
 mad caprice had converted his affection for 
 the poor young man into a deep hatred, 
 and that he had laid some cunning scheme 
 for his ruin. 
 
 A blue sea, a blue sky, and the deep 
 
ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 177 
 
 purple mountains again. Once more it is 
 carnival time at Nice ; and the world, gay 
 and gaudy as of yore, is sunning itself 
 upon the Promenade. Gay and gaudy, and 
 thoughtless, too, as of old, all unheeding 
 of the gaps which years, as they go swiftly 
 and silently by, make in its ranks, and of 
 the many voices which once have lightly 
 echoed along the same path, and which are 
 now silenced forever. 
 
 One or two old friends of our own are 
 there. Amongst them the baron, brisk as 
 a bee, and not a day older than five years 
 ago. He is sheltering himself from the 
 sun's burning rays under the identical white 
 umbrella lined with gree» beneath which 
 we first made his acquaintance ; but, unlike 
 then, his companion now is a lady whose 
 smart little parasol renders her independ- 
 ent of the baron's tent. It is Madame 
 Barbier, trim, plump, smiling. Christine 
 was right after all, and had known what 
 she was about when she had resolved upon 
 making the experiment of life in company 
 with Jules. 
 
 The baron was as gallant as ever : at this 
 very moment he was complimenting Ma- 
 dame Barbier on her appearance. " Your 
 cheeks are as fresh as roses, madame," he 
 was telling her, " and your eyes have stolen 
 some of the brightness of the day. And 
 then the toilet ! Ha, ha I JiVe^ are be- 
 coming coquette, I see, in our old age. Ma 
 foil I'll have to give Barbier a hint to 
 keep his eyes well open ; " and he chuckled 
 gleefully as of old. 
 
 " The toilet is new and my best," Chris- 
 tine confessed. " To be sure, baron, one 
 does not come to the Promenade trapped 
 as a grandmother. No, no : I come sel- 
 dom ; but, when I do come, I like to make 
 a good appearance." 
 
 " True, madame, you show yourself but 
 seldom ; you and your Jules preferring evi- 
 dently to coo together in a happy retire- 
 ment like a pair of turtle-doves. Pray, what 
 has coaxed you out of your nest to-day ? " 
 
 " You know. To meet my friends the 
 O'Neils. They will be here presently." 
 
 " Then they really have arrived at last ? " 
 the baron inquired eagerly. 
 
 " To be sure I Late last night. I saw 
 them for an instant this morning. Ethel 
 is longing to meet you, baron." 
 
 " And I her. Is she as charming and 
 distrac " — 
 
 He paused : his question was answered. 
 A carriage containing two ladies and a 
 gentleman had drawn up close to where 
 he and Madame Barbier were sitting ; and 
 a sweet, fresh young voice was calling out, 
 " Barron, baron I " 
 
 12 
 
 The violet eyes, the sunny smile, the 
 bright wavy hair, — they were all there. 
 Ethel O'Neil was as pretty and charming 
 as Ethel Mildmay had ever been. Old 
 Mrs. O'Neil remained in the carriage ; but 
 Ethel and her husband left it to join their 
 friends. She was dressed from top to to'e 
 in black velvet, but black velvet so rich and 
 soft and perfectly made, that the sombre 
 attire was tlie most becoming thing she 
 could have worn, and, as in the old days, 
 admiring, eager eyes followed her every- 
 where. 
 
 " And well, madame, how goes the world 
 with you ? " the baron inquired presently, 
 when the first excitement of the meeting 
 had somewhat subsided, and he and Ethel 
 were walking on together a little in front 
 of Christine and Mr. O'Neil. " But I need 
 not ask ; " and he eyed her with a signifi- 
 cant smile from head to foot. 
 
 " Well, baron, — remarkably well ; " and 
 she blushed and laughed. 
 
 " And the handsome guardian too ! Ah I 
 mademoiselle, — I beg pardon, — madame, 
 I mean, what a clever old fellow I was ! 
 Don't you remember how I guessed the end 
 of the story before even it had well com- 
 menced ? " 
 
 " Baron, did you guess it really ? " 
 -" " To be sure I I saw what our friend 
 there was about from the beginning ; and 
 one has but to look at him to see that he 
 is a man to carry out a purpose. He fell 
 in love with you at first sight. Eh, 
 madame ? " 
 
 " So he says ; " and Ethel smiled de- 
 murely. 
 
 " Of course he did. How could he help 
 it ? So did others too ; but nobody had a 
 chance against him. Ah the poor little 
 count 1 the poor little count I " and the 
 old man sighed a half-melancholy, half- 
 amused little sigh. 
 
 His companion suddenly paused in her 
 walk, and her eyes were thoughtfully fixed 
 upon the opal waves which were rippling 
 gently upon the white beach. When she 
 raised them, they were dim with gathered 
 tears. " The poor count ! " she repeated 
 slowly. " Ah, baron 1 what a strange, de- 
 lightful, sad, sad world it is I " and she 
 shuddered slightly. 
 
 The baron, as we know, was sceptical, 
 and believed in nothing, — less in the 
 strength and length of a woman's memory 
 than in any thing else. Ethel's pale face 
 and tears dismayed him. 
 
 " Come, come, madame," he said with 
 cheerful philosophy : " the wheel of life 
 can't bring good fortune to everybody. Hea- 
 ven disposes best. How cOuld he have been 
 
178 
 
 ETHEL MILDMAY'S FOLLIES. 
 
 happy had he lived ? Sooner or later, the 
 fraud would have been discovered. Mon 
 Dieu ! " as she still -wept : " what on earth 
 will your husband say ? Husbands are not 
 fond of tears when they are not wept for 
 themselves, — selfish brutes I " and the baron 
 looked at her with an amusing mixture of 
 alarm, dismay, perplexity, and curiosity. 
 Let us tell the truth. For a moment he 
 believed that he had suddenly sprung a mine, 
 and made the terrible discovery of an un- 
 happy menage. But the next instant the 
 suspicion was dispelled to the winds. Just 
 then Arthur O'Neil turned round, and, 
 when he saw his young wife's tears, came 
 quickly to her side. " What is it, Ethel ? " 
 he asked anxiously. Greatly interested 
 was our old friend ; but, truth to tell, he 
 was quaking in his shoes, for O'Neil was 
 looking irith grave inquiry at him. 
 
 Ethel's answer explained all. " The 
 baron and I were talking of old times, 
 Arthur," she said. Then a sunny smile 
 shone through the tears. " Baron, I am 
 the happiest woman in the' world," she 
 said; " but the present cannot make me 
 forget the past. Arthur knows it," she 
 added simply. 
 
 The band struck up a lively strain, the 
 world whirled merrily round. The sun 
 and the sky, and the earth and the sea, were 
 all smiling and sparkling. Pale, sad ghosts 
 haunted the dim, distant past ; but hap- 
 piness was there, close at hand, serene and 
 strong, and Ethel and her husband looked 
 at one another and smiled. The Baron 
 was re-assured, disappointed, perplexed, be- 
 wildered. He believed in love — or in 
 something that was uncommonly like it — 
 at last. 
 
I'f:'-.' 
 
 4' - - "^ 'A