^*> 
 
 
 
CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 Professor B, S, Monroe 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PS 2179.K209 
 
 Our detachmentia novel. 
 
 3 1924 022 024 784 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tiiis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924022024784 
 
OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 ^ Nonet 
 
 By KATHARINE KING, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE QUEEN OF THE REGIMENT," &c., &c. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 FRANKLIN SQUARE. 
 1875. 
 
OUE Detachment. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A SUBALTERN ALONE. 
 
 I WAS on duty that day, and couldn't get out, 
 and awfully dull work I found it, leaning out 
 of my window, and trying to catch a glimpse of 
 the town and its inhabitants, over the top of the 
 horrid blank wall that bounded our horizon — in 
 an earthward dn-ection I mean, for looking up- 
 ward, certainly there was plenty of a blue sum- 
 mer sky to be seen, flecked with white fleecy 
 clouds ; but I had seen lots of that kind of thing 
 any day this hot summer ; and though I won't 
 deny it is pretty, still a fellow can't always be 
 star-gazing ; or if he is, he is pretty sure to fall 
 into some desperate grief here below — worse even 
 than the old cove we used to read about in our 
 Grecian history. 
 
 Then there were distant mountain-tops in 
 view, looking so sunny and heathery and tempt- 
 ing that they were an aggravation rather than a 
 solace— more particularly as I knew that just 
 under them lay a beautiful lake, renowned for its 
 fishing ; and that on that veiy delicious day my 
 captain. Lord Claude Feversham, had gone to 
 inspect it, and try his luck. "At any rate, it's a 
 bad day for, sport," I mused — "too bright alto- 
 gether; and I'm glad of it, for it's a beastly 
 shame to leave me mewed up here alone, and all 
 the other fellows off amusing themselves. I'd 
 bet five bob Mayleigh will be able to tell, when 
 he comes in, the whole history and antecedents 
 of that pretty pair of feet I saw yesterday as we 
 marched into the town. It is too bad, for it 
 was I saw them first, and pointed them out to 
 him, and now he will take all the credit of the 
 discovery to himself. 
 
 "I say, there's an old hag selling gooseberries 
 just outside the gate. I wonder could I hit her 
 with a bit of plaster off the wall here, and make 
 her bring me some. They'll be down on me 
 now for barrack damages, I suppose ; but Fev- 
 ersham needn't think he can shut up Madcap 
 Dan'ell a whole afternoon alone, in such a con- 
 founded dull hole as this, without seeing a little 
 alteration in the place when he comes back. 
 Bravo! that Iiit her. Now she is looking this 
 way. I say, you ! Biddy, Peggy, whatever your 
 name is, how do you sell those tilings ?" 
 
 "Two-pence a quart, your honor, bless your 
 pnrty face, ray little master," answered the old 
 thief, with a grin that showed all her toothless 
 gums. 
 
 '•Confound her impudence!" I thought — 
 " what does she mean by speaking in that way to 
 me, Vivian Darrell, junior ensign in Her Majesty's 
 
 — th foot." So I answered her stiffly, as I flat- 
 ter myself I can on occasion : 
 
 "Come, I want none of your chaff. Eemem- 
 ber, you are addressing ah officer in Her Maj- 
 esty's service, and I'll have you placed under ar- 
 rest if you don't keep a civil tongue in your 
 head." 
 
 "Och! murder, yer honor!" she cried, bob- 
 bing a series of courtesies, and crossing herself 
 as she looked up at my window. " Sure it's no 
 offense I meant, my purty dear; but I thought 
 as you were the Captain's little boy, as I'd heard 
 tell about — him as came down a day or two ago, 
 and got a house in town, your honor. Sure and 
 I could only see your head and shoulders, dearie, 
 so I couldn't tell if you were bigger nor him. 
 But don't fell the min to take me up, agra ; for 
 a purtier dear I never seen, and I've seen a 
 many, being sixty years old next Lady-day. 
 Devil a lie I'm telling you, yer honor. " 
 
 There the old harridan stood, gazing up with 
 her blear eyes at my window, and though pre- 
 tending to put up her wares, evidently not with 
 the least intention of moving as long as I would 
 listen. However, her aspersions on my appear- 
 ance and dignity were more than I could bear, 
 and I made up ray mind I would even do with- 
 out the goospberries, and the amusement they 
 might have afforded me, rather than by buying 
 them encourage this woman in the beHef I was 
 little Ussher; though why men shouldn't eat 
 gooseberries as well as boys of ten or twelve, I 
 couldn't think. Indeed I knew they did, for I 
 had seen our sergeant-major half an hour before 
 investing, in some, whjch he swallowed skins and 
 all — the beast — if I'm not much mistaken. In- 
 deed, I don't believe I'd have thought of getting 
 them but for his example. So I said, with great 
 dignity and severity, 
 
 "You may go now, good woman. I sha'n't 
 take any of your fruit ; and you'd better learn to 
 know an officer when you see him before you 
 come into barracks again." 
 
 "Sure now, and didn't j'our honor call me?" 
 she answered, with the greatest assurance. ,, ' 'And 
 may be, if you'll not be afther taking the berries, 
 you'll give me the price of a plaster. Captain dear, 
 for the place where your honor hit me with a 
 stone, when I was sitting there bej'ant." 
 
 "I never threw a stone at you, you fool!" I 
 cried, angrily. I give you my word the thing 
 she called a stone was a bit of mortar about an 
 inch square, and it hit her on the old rag of a 
 shawl she wore round her shoulders. I don't 
 like to be Imposed on, and I would give her the 
 money in a minute when she chose to recognize 
 
8 
 
 OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 me as an officer in Her Majesty's service, only 
 that she asked for it on that plea, so I went on : 
 
 "It was only a bit of plaster off the window 
 here struck you ; and it is not for your hurt you 
 want it, for you were not hurt, but to get a glass 
 of whisky, or something. Get along witli you 
 out of barracks. Do you think I don't know the 
 whole set of you!" 
 
 As I spoke I got tip from the chair in which I 
 had been sitting, intending to leave the window, 
 and so end the discussion, as there were several 
 of the men hanging about, and they were rather 
 inclined to laugh, I thought. But when the har- 
 ridan saw me standing up, perceiving by my 
 height, I suppose, that I really was what I had 
 given myself out to be, she uttered a howl, and 
 catching up her basket, hurried oft^ crying out, 
 
 " Holy Mother of Moses, he's coming afther 
 me! Bad luck to ye, ye yellow-skinned, black- 
 eyed spalpeen, that wouldn't give an old body 
 that's sixty come next Lady-day a penny-piece 
 to cure the blow you gave her ! Faix it's meself 
 believes his mammy doesn't give him money yet, 
 till he gets big enough to take care of it." 
 
 This was too much ; so, putting my head out 
 of the window again, I called out, 
 
 "Hold hard there, you old thief! Por the 
 credit of Her Majesty's service I suppose I'd bet- 
 ter give you something; so take that, and get 
 drunk as soon as you like ; only don't let me see 
 you in the barracks again, or I'll have you arrest- 
 ed." 
 
 Jiist as I uttered this threat, and threw half a 
 crown to her at the same time, who should pass 
 across. the square but our sergeant-major, and he, 
 overhearing my threat, burst into a most disre- 
 spectftU laugh. 
 
 "Come," I said, turning to him, "let me hear 
 no more of that, Green. Do you think you were 
 sent here to ridicule your officers ? I'll let Cap- 
 tain Feversham know how you behave, and we"ll 
 see what he says to such conduct. Ah ! she's 
 gone now. I say. Green, like a good fellow, 
 don't let her in again. She's an awful old wom- 
 an, and she'd turn the barracks upside down in 
 no time." 
 
 Now perhaps yon may think this all very ex- 
 traordinary, but I'll tell you the whole state of 
 the case, if you will keep it dark ; only I don't 
 want the ladies to know, as they would call me 
 a boy, and laugh at me. ~I am Vivian DaiTcll, 
 the only son of Viscount Traveraoourt, and you 
 see they made such a piece of work about me at 
 home that I was never allowed to go to school, 
 or any of those places, but always had a tutor. 
 He was a good fellow, too, and was up to a lark, 
 so that we got into no end of scrapes together. 
 When Claude Peversham came to spend last 
 Christmas with us, and advised my going up for 
 my examination for the line, I rather think my 
 parents were not quite sorry to have a chance of 
 a quieter house in future. I passed, as you know, 
 or else I should not be here, and was gazetted to 
 the -^th, my cousin Claude's regiment. He is 
 my captain, and the joUiest brick going ; but I 
 wish I had a way of paying him out for leaving 
 me alone lilce this, our first day in a strange 
 town. 
 
 I always tell our fellows I am twenty, and I 
 think they believe it, because I am veiy dark, 
 which makes a man look older ; but this is what 
 I am going to confess, and which I hope you will 
 
 keep secret — the truth is, I was only eighteen the 
 other day. I begged Claude not to' betray me, 
 and though I could not get him to promise, yet 
 I think he will not, and that is the only thing 
 that keeps me fiom having my revenge on him 
 for his beastly selfishness in going ofi' to take his 
 pleasure, and leaving me to take care of the bar- 
 racks. You see he might tell all about me, if I 
 was to bo very hard on him, and I don't think 
 it worth while paying a fellow otf, unless I can 
 come down on him well. 
 
 We marched into this little country town in 
 the south of Ireland yesterday. I don't go in for 
 praising scenery, you know — it looks spoony; 
 but I don't mind allowing the mountains are very 
 fine, and I am told there is fishing both by lake 
 and river, yachting, shooting, and, for ladies' men, 
 croquet and dancing. I am not a lady's man, 
 you understand. I believe I once had a weak- 
 ness that way just after I joined ; but when I 
 proposed, while helping my pai'tner and the ob- 
 ject of my admiration to a Champagne-cup at a 
 ball, she answered, with a laugh, " Thank you ; 
 but I do find little boys just into jackets so 
 troublesome, and as I have two little brothers of 
 that age to mind, I don't feel equal to undertaking 
 care of a third." 
 
 You can imagine what I suffered then, for 
 really the girl was as pretty as any girl could be, 
 witli lots of fair hair, like spun glass. After that 
 cruel answer, she went off to dance with a tall, 
 dark fellow in the Blues she was flirting with ; 
 and I heard she married him afterward. Can 
 you wonder that since then I have hated the sex, 
 and that a constant puzzle to me, whenever I let 
 my thoughts revert to that painful subject, is how 
 she found out my age ':" Foi' I had taken good 
 care a few minutes before to tell her I was three- 
 and-twenty. 
 
 As I said, we came in here yesterday. On our 
 way from tlie terminus to the barracks, I pointed 
 out to Mayleigh a pair of the prettiest feet and 
 ankles possible to see, walking a little way in 
 front ; but we had not overhauled them when we 
 were obliged to turn up a by-street, and so lost; 
 sight of them. Now I know well it is after those 
 feet Mayleigh went out to-day, saying he was 
 just going to see the town, and take a stroll ; and 
 JFeversham has gone out fishing, as I said ; and 
 Ussher is somewhere mooning about with his 
 wife, I suppose : the other two fellows said they 
 were going up the lake, and perhaps they did, 
 but they agreed to come back to lunch, and order- 
 ed me to have some for them. Catch me, that's 
 all ! I've had no walk to give me an appetite, so 
 I'll let them wait till I get one. I must have 
 some gooseberries. 
 
 " I say. Potter," I cried to a soldier passing, 
 "just run and get me a gallon of gooseberries 
 from that old woman ; but don't tell whom they 
 are for, as I don't wish to encourage her hanging 
 about the barracks." 
 
 So he went and bought me the gallon of goose- 
 berries, and for a time I got on very well, having 
 found a note-book of Mayleigh's, which I began 
 illustrating with extracts from his histoiy, cal- 
 culated to drive him rabid, when he should see 
 all his little weaknesses figuring in highly-finish- 
 ed etchings, and exhibited round the table. As 
 I drew I sucked my fruit, and worked away till 
 my fingers got stiff; even my liking for the 
 dainty before me could not induce me to finish 
 
OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 9 
 
 them. What should I do with them ? I would 
 not give them to the others, for I was sure they 
 did not deserve them. Stayl I have it!' I 
 rushed oif to our mess-man, got a large flat dish, 
 poured what remained on to that, and then pro- 
 ceeded to Feversham's room, where I concocted, 
 for his henefit, a very clevei-ly constructed bed 
 of the apple-pie kind. My tutor had taught me 
 how to make them, with this difference — he had 
 never used a dish of gooseberries as the founda- 
 tion of his structures. It would have been im- 
 possible, when all was finished, to guess there 
 was any thing unusual in the bed, and I danced 
 a frantic pas seal of delight at the success of my 
 stratagem. . 
 
 It wasn't done much too soon, either; for I 
 had hardly returned to my own room again, and 
 resumed my post by the windows, when May- 
 leigh, Flower, and Preston entered the squai'e, all 
 together. They were very busy talking, and did 
 not perceive me until I hit Mayleigh in the eye 
 with a goosebeny-skin. 
 
 "There is that confounded young monkey, 
 Madcap, at his tncks again !" said Mayleigh, loud 
 enough for me to hear. " I'll spoil his black lit- 
 tle figure-head some day for him, if he doesn't 
 mindj". . . 
 
 "I hope you have not been very dull. Mad- 
 cap?" called Flower up to me. "'I expect the 
 barracks are not the better for being under your 
 care so long. How many fights have you got up 
 since we went out this morning ?" 
 
 " Stow that chaff, Flower, will you ?"i I retort- 
 ed, sulkily. You see, it is a shame' to be always 
 bringing up a fellow's old ignorances against him, 
 and this is what Flower was alluding to : ' 
 
 One day, not long after I had first joined, I had 
 been left alone as I was to-day, and roaming in a 
 very idle frame of mind about the square, I came 
 suddenly on two of the men quarreling. They 
 were calling each other no end of bad names, and 
 looked mischievous enough ; so I said, 
 
 " Well, there's no good in you two fellows go- 
 ing on like that ; hard words break no bones, 
 and give no satisfaction either, I think ; you are 
 so evenly matched at them. Try a round or 
 two, and I'll be umpire." 
 
 No sooner said than done ; and they were 
 hard at work at it, the little fellow walking well 
 into the bigger one, when who should turn in, 
 right on to us before we saw him coming, but 
 Flower. 
 
 "What on earth is.all this ?" he cried. " Dar- 
 rell, what's up ?" 
 
 "Only these two fellows were abusing each 
 other, and I told them to take a turn with their 
 fists while I acted umpire." 
 
 "You two stop this instant," Flower said, 
 turning very sharp on the men; "and mind, if 
 I hear any more of this, you will be punished. 
 And now, for heaven's sake. Madcap, come away, 
 and don't let me hear of your doing this kind of 
 thing again. It can't be allowed, indeed, and 
 you will get into awful hot water if you go on in 
 that wav." 
 
 "Well, I don't see," I answered, " that it is 
 any worse their pommeling themselves a little, 
 and getting all rancor beaten out of them, than 
 to go on calling each other ill names, and keep- 
 ing up a constant spite." 
 
 This is what he was bringing up at me again; 
 and I don't like it ; though still, you see, I, think 
 
 I was right. Besides; as I told him then, my 
 tutor always said every Englishman should know 
 how to use his fists, and should use them too, if 
 occasion required. Now, of course, you know, I 
 understand it wouldn't suit the discipline of a 
 regiment, but I don't think he need always be re- 
 minding me of the one or two little mistakes I 
 made on first joining. Indeed, I know he was 
 as bad, for he was always called Baby, and I 
 should like to know which is worst, that name or 
 Madcap? It riles him uncommon to call him 
 Baby, so I put my head out of the window again, 
 and shouted out, so that the sentry and every 
 one should hear, 
 
 - "I say, Baby, did your nurse take good care 
 of you out? You would have been better, I am 
 sure, in with me, and it would be much more 
 manly than going out in leading-strings." 
 
 " You infernal young monkey, won't yon catch 
 it if I get at you !" roared Flower, coming in hur- 
 riedly, for some of the men about wei-e laughing. 
 "I'll break every bone in your little slippery body, 
 if once I lay hands on you!" As he spoke ha 
 turned the key in the lock, so that I might not 
 have the chance of escaping by the door. 
 
 Then a frantic chase commenced, which was 
 hard work to him, as I suspect he had always been 
 too good a boy to go robbing orchards and climb- 
 ing trees for nests, like other fellows. It was a 
 prime lark forme, however, and a good excuse 
 tor trying the springs of Mayleigh's arm-chair, 
 which always occupied a comfortable position 
 near the fire ; for I had gone down to the an- 
 teroom when I saw Flower coming in a rage. 
 Bound and round the room we went, without 
 ever, on my part at least, touching the floor— from 
 chairto table, from table back to chair, and so on, 
 till I saw Flower was getting thoroughly pump- 
 ed ; then, making him a profound bow, I called 
 out, " Good-bye, Baby dear; this sort of thing 
 is too much for. your constitution, so I think I 
 had better cat it short. I hope it will have got 
 over its fractiousness by dinner-time." So say- 
 ing, I sprang on to the window-sill, and dropped 
 into the court-yard below. It was not much of 
 a drop, about seven or eight feet, but I knew my 
 friend would not follow me. Fortunately I had 
 snatched up my forage-cap as I left my room, 
 so now the world was before me where to choose, 
 and kissing, my hand to Flower, who leaned 
 out of the window in a white heat, I dashed out 
 of the barracks and down the steep, dirty hill 
 that led into the town. 
 
 It was not a bad place for an Irish country 
 town, and I assure you I was quite astonished to 
 see how respectable most of the inhabitants look- 
 ed, my mother having mourned over me as one 
 going, among cannibals when she heard we were 
 under orders for Ireland. She even wanted me 
 to exchange into the Guards ; but thsit I refused 
 to do, for I should have lost the society of Claude, 
 and with all his faults I like him ; besides, I 
 think it is good for him to have somebody always 
 near to look after him. I think him a little in- 
 clined to bo susceptible, you know, and am con- 
 vinced my friendly ridicule saved him from mak- 
 ing a regular mess of himself once or twice be- 
 fore now. Besides, I told the mum I wanted to 
 see a little active service, and, if any thing hap- 
 pened to me there I should be nearer home than 
 if I was to go to any other savage country ; so, 
 after a good deal of lussing and crying over ftie, 
 
10 
 
 OUK DETACHMENT. 
 
 she consented to my Roing, after making ma 
 swear solemnly I would neither get shot nor be- 
 come so contaminated by bad examples as to 
 shoot any one myself; and also that under no 
 circumstances whatever would I leave off the 
 flannels, of which she had provided me with a 
 stock, or turn Roman Catholic. As I said, I was 
 astonished to see the respectable - look of the 
 inhabitants, and that there were actually two 
 churches, nice - looking ones too, besides schism 
 shops of various denominations, and plenty of the 
 regular religion of the country also. Why do 
 some of those fellows wear petticoats ? It is not 
 a compliment to the old women they resemble, 
 for however well it may suit the old women, it is 
 very unbecoming to them. 
 
 There were shops too — grocers and butchers 
 and bakers ; fruit shops, where, only that I had 
 already. had so many gooseberries that morning, 
 I should have been tempted to spend some mon- 
 ey on strawberries, which were really very fine. 
 There were also millinery and tailoring establish- 
 ments, and at length, just after crossing a second 
 bridge, and remarking that the water in the riv- 
 er was very low, I came on the queerest little 
 hole, and the wonderful variety of articles dis- 
 played in the window tempted me to enter. 
 
 Such an odd fish as I found in possession ! He 
 capered round his counter, bowing and scraping 
 the whole time as he did so ; then he brought for- 
 ward a chair, placed it before me, and requested 
 me to sit down. This I did, while he, returning 
 to his seat behind the counter, offered me some 
 chocolate-cream bonbons, which I was pleased to 
 accept. You see, that is another thing I don't 
 like talked about, but I don't mind telling you : I 
 am awfully fond of sweets, though before people 
 I generally pretend I can't bear them^that they 
 spoil one's palate for distinguishing the flavor of 
 wines, olives, and such-like things. I hate olives 
 like poison, you know, but I alvvaj'S cat them 
 when they appear at table ; its looks epicurean, 
 and like a hon-vivant, who has had his tastes ed- 
 ucated at Paris. Mercifully, here in the country 
 they never have them, so I am spared that. 
 
 By-the-way, this queer little wretch I had 
 hunted up was called by the most magnificent 
 name, out of those old histories,you know. John 
 Hampden was up over his shop-door, and he as- 
 sured me every one called him so. Then you 
 must imagine a person five feet nothing in height, 
 yellow-skinned and dried up, with a whining voice, 
 and queer, skipping, hopping, bustling move- 
 ments ; a man, I should say, who devoted more 
 of his energies to the collection of gossip than to 
 the business of his trade. 
 
 He told me he kept a pass-book with the bar- 
 racks, and I might get any thing I liked. Of 
 course it would all be entered in the book at 
 whatever price he chose to put on the articles af- 
 terward ; but we would not be pressed for pay- 
 ment till the regiment was leaving. ■ 
 
 "That is a very convenient way of dealing 
 with gentlemen like the officers," he went on ; 
 "for, you see, often, young fellows come here 
 not very flush of money, and if they could not 
 get credit they would buy nothing. You are Cap- 
 tain Ussher's young gentleman, aren't you, sir 1 
 Would you ask your papa to favor me with his 
 custom, whenever he wants any thing in my 
 line?" 
 . "I am no connection of Captain Ussher's," I 
 
 answered stiflSy, rising and leaving the chocolate 
 creams behind me, so great was my indignation. 
 "I am one of the officers, and if yon are not 
 more respectful in your manner of speaking to 
 me in future, I shall be obliged to give up com- 
 ing here; it lowers the dignity of the sen'ice 
 when its officers are treated with familiarity." 
 
 "Oh, surely, sir, you are right," replied the 
 little. man, with a face expressive of the deepest 
 concern. My determined conduct had evidently 
 cowed him. "You see, sir, the last regiment 
 was here, sir, they were such nice, friendly gen- 
 tlemen, and took eveiy thing in good part. I 
 used to have great fun with them, and was al- 
 ways up at the barracks ; but, you know, I was 
 the only man in Belmiirphy they were so friend- 
 ly with. Every one's good to John Hampden, 
 however, particularly the ladies ; they would not 
 get their things at any other shop in town. Ah ! 
 here come the Miss Dashaways. Good-moniing, 
 ladies ;" and then he began the same bowing per- 
 formance over again to which he had treated me. 
 
 The girls were pretty, certainly, but bad style ; 
 one of them tall, with dark hair and a very good 
 complexion ; the other dark also, but short, with 
 fine eyes and pretty dark hair; both of them 
 decidedly good-looking, but not the style I care 
 about. 
 
 They looked at me for a minute very hard, 
 then turned away and began business with the 
 English patriot, while I rose and went out, de- 
 termined to see more of the town, and mentally 
 registering a vow that I would twist young Us- 
 sher's neck for him some day, if his father kept 
 him down here ; and how such a mistake could 
 have been made when I was in undress I could 
 not conceive. 
 
 "At any rate," I concluded, "as these fellows 
 can not recognize an officer in Her Majesty's 
 service when they see him, I will take preciously 
 good care never to go out in ' mufti ' while I am 
 here, except in the evening." 
 
 Having taken this resolution, I wandered on, 
 climbed a high green hill on the outskirts of the 
 town, that commanded a most delicious view of 
 the country around, and finally returned to bar- 
 racks, meeting, on my way back, several pairs of 
 very pretty girls (I've said before that I don't care 
 for the ladies ; but it sounds well to comment on 
 beauty, even if you don't know one face from the 
 other) ; and I arrived just ih time to get ready 
 for mess, where I discovered that Feversham had 
 not yet returned, and that Elower had recovered 
 his wonted good humor. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A EENCONTKE. 
 
 Of course they were all down on me the min- 
 ute I came in, wanting to know what I had seen 
 and done. I had not much to tell them, as you 
 know; they, had found out my friend John 
 Hampden before me, but not the feet. No ; to 
 my great gratification, Mayleigh was obliged to 
 own he Iiad failed in all his endeavors to unearth 
 the possessor of that captivating pair of under- 
 standings. 
 
 And Feversham did not come home till late — 
 not that it mattered much, for I knew I must 
 make up my mind to wait some time before I 
 
OrE DETACHMENT. 
 
 11 
 
 could see my ruse crowned with success. There- 
 fore I was not impatient, when Claude returned in 
 the highest possible spirits^ and evidently greatly 
 amused with his day's sport, though. all that he 
 had caught, as far as we could see, was one wretch- 
 ed trout, about two inches long. 
 
 We used to mess at half-past six, and it was 
 long after that when Feversham returned. We 
 were able to question him about his day's adven- 
 tures, as we sat over our wine afterward. Then 
 his well-pleased air attracted attention, and May- 
 leigh asl;ed, in his usual inquisitive manner, 
 
 " What's up, Captain ? You look as pleased 
 as if you had discovered a gold mine." 
 
 "So I have," answered Feversham, with his 
 quiet smile, as he passed the decanter before him. 
 "At least, if it is not a gold mine, it is a mine of 
 amusement well worth its weight in gold, iu this 
 dull place." 
 
 " Tell us all about it," we cried in chorus. 
 "You would not keep such a treasure-trove to 
 yourself." 
 
 "You will find it out, my good fellows, in 
 time, even if I tried to keep it ever ao dark. It 
 is not a light that will allow itself to be kept un- 
 der a bushel, I can assure you. " He paused for 
 a momeut, and looked round on our attentive 
 faces, with an amused glitter in his dark eyes ; 
 then he went on: "You know when I went to 
 Lough Glenty this morning, I had no permission 
 to fish there, which I suppose I ought to have 
 had ; however, they told me here in town it he- 
 longed to General Bamhridge; and that he was 
 not very particular about preserving it. The day 
 was too bright for doing much, but I got out my 
 tackle, set it to rights, and then amused myself 
 admiring the scenery, which is really magnificent. 
 The lake is long and narrow, lying in the centre 
 of a valley, shut in between such steep mountains 
 that a great part of their height is sheer precipice, 
 while the lower slopes, though steep enough too, 
 are clothed with woods that just now are bright 
 with the young summer green, and scented with 
 thousands of flowers. Mountain torrents dash 
 over the frowning cliffs that overhang the woods, 
 looking like silver streamers, waving in dazzling 
 white against the cold gray liinestone, and losing 
 themselves in the woods at the base, through which 
 they glide with a low drowsy murmur into the 
 lake. Oh ! if I was a painter, I could find sub- 
 jects enough even in that narrow valley to gain 
 me a name ; and as I am, having none of the, art- 
 ist faculty, I made more use of my eyes, watching 
 the mountain-tops, than looking for the likeliest 
 hole for fish, or gazing in hopes of a bite as I 
 made a cast. So absorbed, I heard no one ap- 
 proach me — indeed it almost seemed to me as if 
 there was no living thing within miles but the 
 lark singing gayly fur up in the blue heavens. 
 Suddenly a soft voice, with a veiy merry ring in 
 it, exclaimed close to my ear, 
 
 " 'Now I wonder who gave you leave to fish 
 here, sir ? Have you permission ?' 
 
 " I turned round with a start, for I felt i-ath- 
 er guilty when so questioned ; besides I was real- 
 ly taken by surprise. Standing before rae was a 
 tall, elegant-looking girl. Her bearing and car- 
 riage were most graceful, and I can tell you her 
 face was to match. Not perhaps strictly beauti- 
 ful, but sparkling — ^yes, that is the terra to apply 
 to it; with large, liquid, dark-blue eyes, pale, 
 clear complexion, and wide, smiling mouth, dis- 
 
 playing a most perfect set of teeth. She was 
 dressed in simple, serviceable attire, well suited 
 to the country and to the pursuit in which she 
 seemed to be engaged ; yet with an indescribable 
 air of taste and fashion in every fold of her neat 
 get-up. In one hand she carried a light driving- 
 whip, and standing a little way off on the high- 
 road was the vehicle she had been charioteering 
 when attracted by my poaching appearance. 
 
 " ' Come,' she continued, flourishing her whip, 
 ' you must get out of this at once. Do you hear ? 
 My father does not allow poaching in these wa- 
 ters. And soiTy as I am to disturb you from 
 quarters that seem to suit you so exactly, I yet 
 must beg you will retreat, without compelling me 
 to take any more energetic steps in the matter.' 
 
 "She drew the lash of the whip through her 
 hand while speaking, in a manner that seemed 
 to intimate she could use it, if necessity occur- 
 red, and a kind of suppressed merriment glitter- 
 ed in her eyes as she made this threatening ges- 
 ture." 
 
 "Well, that is a queer adventure!" burst in 
 Flower, his mouth wide open in intense astonish- 
 ment, and his whole expression what the French 
 call Aahi. "Are all the young ladies in the 
 country like this specimen, I wonder ? If they 
 are, a fellow will have to be cautious how often 
 he dances with them, and be veiy sure of his 
 ground before he ventures to ask for a flower." 
 
 "Which will cut at the root of your httle 
 amusements. Baby," went on Claude. "Yes, I 
 advise you to be careful, especially with Miss 
 Bambridge, for, by Jove! she is dangerous in 
 more ways than that one. However, I rose to 
 go as I was told, and was in the act of winding 
 up my line, when the young lady, who remained 
 standing by, as though detennined to see the last 
 of me off the ground, again broke silence. 
 
 " ' You are one of the, ofiicers just come with 
 " the army " to Belmurphy, are you not ? You 
 are,' she went on, guessing my answer almost 
 before it was spoken. ' 'Very well, as you have 
 behaved properly, and done as you were told 
 without any demur, I will reward yon in a way 
 I am sure you'll like. Come home to lunch with 
 us. I will introduce you to my father, who I am 
 sure will be most happy to give you the permis- 
 sion I denied you, and you shall see my mother, 
 and Clarissa too. Take care of yourself, however 
 — Clary's dangerous.' 
 
 "An invitation such as this, and given in so 
 curious, and off-hand a manner, I could do no 
 less than accept. A minute or two more, there- 
 fore, saw us beside the vehicle, which turned put 
 to be a mail-phaeton, drawn by two fine-looking 
 horses, that I soon saw required plenty of driv- 
 ing, which indeed they got at the hands of my 
 new acquaintance. 
 
 "I. found them a pleasant family: General 
 Bambridge, very fond of field-sports ; indeed I 
 may say the same of Mrs. Bambridge, who is a 
 mighty fisher, and, I fancy, generally has the best- 
 filled. basket at the end of a day's sport. The 
 dangerous Clarissa was a very pretty girl, with 
 the same odd, brusque, frank manner that dis- 
 tinguished her sister. ■ Her prettiness, as regards 
 mere , feature and beauty of coloring, .was the 
 greatest, but she did not take me quite as much 
 as my first friend. Altogether they are an orig- 
 inal family, very far removed from what one sees 
 generally, and all the'more interesting on that ac- 
 
12 
 
 OtIE DETACHMENT. 
 
 count. We were very jolly, and bad the merri- 
 est conversation, the most sparkling music, and 
 the heartiest laughing I have enjoyed for some 
 time. They hope to make acquaintance with 
 all of you ere long, and I am sure you will be 
 as charmed with them as I was." 
 
 Mayleigh laughed. 
 
 "Hard hit. Captain, eh? I didn't think you 
 were the sort to go down so easily, though Mad- 
 cap will maintain that you are susceptible;' I 
 shall begin to believe it now, however." 
 
 Claude laughed, and shook his head gayly, 
 with an assumption of indifference that almost 
 imposed on me. " 
 
 "By Jove!" he went on, "you should have 
 seen that girl's look and manner when she order- 
 ed me off!" 
 
 "I would rather you had met her than I," I 
 broke in. "I shoidd like to see any woman 
 threaten to turn me off, nolens volens. I would 
 let her know Vivian Darrell is not to be insulted 
 with impunity. Claude, I had thought better of 
 you than to imagine you would allow Her Majes- 
 ty's uniform to be treated with contempt in your 
 person, and all because the offender had dark 
 blue eyes, a merry smile, a fine figure, and per- 
 haps a heavy hand, forsooth. The last was what 
 mastered you, I know. • You did not care to have 
 that stinging lash laid across your shoulders." 
 
 Claude cast a contemptuous glance at me, 
 while I thought to myself, "Yes, it is all very 
 fine, now you have the laugh on your side, but 
 wait till to-night, and you will wish you had not 
 annoyed me — that you had allowed the couchant 
 lion to slumber in peace, in fact." 
 
 There was a, pause, which Claude broke by 
 saying, 
 
 " How are the horses after their journey, Mad- 
 cap ? Have you been down to see them lately ?" 
 
 " I went to look at my own," I replied ; " but 
 I did not know whether you would care for me 
 to inspect yours." 
 
 " I dare say you are right, and it was better to 
 leave them alone," answered Feversham, with a 
 smile. He was thinking of that time at home 
 when I let out a young four-year-old of his ; it 
 took every man in the place six hours hard labor 
 to catch the beggar again, but I assure you his 
 escape was an accident. I would not have done so 
 mischievous a thing on pui-pose on any account. 
 
 I can not sit up late, Claude says,' because I 
 am not done growing ; though why that should 
 make me so sleepy I can not understand. This 
 night, even, when I would willingly have staid 
 up, sleep ovei'poweved me, and I was obliged to 
 turn in long before the captain thought about 
 such a thing. Never mind, I reflected, I shall 
 hear all about it in the morning, and I dare say 
 I shall come in for squalls, as I am quite sure it 
 'H'ill be put down to me. Every thing is laid at 
 my door — I am sure I don't know why. 
 
 Having settled matters thus in my mind, I was 
 certainly considerably astonished at finding my- 
 self taken by the back of the neck, and coolly 
 lifted on to the floor in the middle of the night, 
 while the perpetrator of this outrage proceeded 
 to take possession of my comfortable nest. I 
 was so bewildered by sleep and surprise that I 
 could only gasp out, 
 
 "I say, what is this for, my good fellow? and 
 who are you, I should like to know ? You will 
 just walk ofl' faster than you came, if you please, " 
 
 I went on, proceeding to try to roll out the in- 
 truder. , 
 
 "I say, stop that!" shouted Claude Feversh- 
 am's voice. "You know well why I am here, 
 and all about it. Did you think you were going 
 to make my cot a mess with your honid goose- 
 berries, and not catch something for it? I sat 
 down on the bed before I knew they were therej 
 so every thing is in an awful state, and I am go- 
 ing to sleep here for the night; you can take 
 your own handiwork to sleep in. Good-night. 
 1 hope you will be wiser next time." 
 
 In vain I pulled at hini, trying now and then 
 to soften his hard heart by piteous entreaties that 
 he would make a shake-down for himself on the 
 sofa, and leave me my own quarters ; he was not 
 to be moved, and pretended to sleep soundly, 
 though I know quite ■well he ■«'as shaking with 
 laughter whenever my pleading was particularly 
 earnest. ■ At last there was nothing for it but 
 that I should take the sofa myself, which I did, 
 mentally registering a vow that my next trick on 
 Feversham should be one which he could not 
 tui'u against me quite so easily. 
 
 I dare say I looked a little foolish — I am sure 
 I felt rather awkward, when next moraing the 
 captain told at breakfast eveiy thing that had 
 happened — all about my beautiful plot, how nice- 
 ly it had been planned and executed, and finally 
 its ignominious failure. How they all laughed. 
 Flower in especial! I hope they may not get 
 hold of the beginning of the story, all my difli- 
 culties about obtaining the fruit, etc. 
 
 That afteraoon, as I went out for a walk, I 
 met, coming up the hill to the barracks on horse- 
 back, Miss Bambridge and her father. The gen- 
 tleman, no doubt, was going to call on us, but 
 what the lady was up to I could not quite make 
 out, unless, being exceptional in evei-y thing, she 
 had decided to inaugurate a fashion of ladies 
 calling on the officers. Well, I will not be hard 
 on her, for as I passed I heard her say, 
 
 "What a nice little boy, papa — so gentleman- 
 ly and good-looking ! I wonder who he is ! " 
 
 "Thanks for your good opinion!" I mentally 
 exclaimed ; " but you shall not think me a lit- 
 tle boy very long. And she really is very hand- 
 some, this Miss Bambridge. I don't wonder at 
 Claude's admiring her. It is such a gay, sweet 
 face, not at all regularly beautiful, but twice as 
 charming for that." 
 
 A most unconventional young lady surely, I 
 thought, as, passing the barracks shortly after, I 
 perceived her riding up and down the street, wait- 
 ing for her father to come out ; she did not seem 
 in the least embarrassed as passers-by gazed cu- 
 riously on her and her horse ; indeed I thought 
 I could perceive a saucy, half-triumphant expres- 
 sion in the smile which curved her lips as she 
 looked nonchalantly around. However, I was 
 amusing myself trying to find out the humors of 
 the place, so I did not waste my time looking at 
 her then, but passed on, mentally determined that 
 before long we should be better acquainted. 
 
 I had not long to wait either ; an hour or two 
 later, as I was returning from a stroll along the 
 country roads, whom should I see riding toward 
 me but Miss Bambridge, and this time alone, her 
 escort having, as I afterward learned, stopped in 
 town for a game of billiards. 
 
 She was riding very slowly, and as I approach- 
 ed she pulled up, leaned toward me, and said, 
 
OXJE DETACHMENT. 
 
 13 
 
 "Look here, boy ! Come round and tighten 
 this strap for me ; the saddle feels loose, some- 
 how. See if you can girth it better." 
 
 I came round accordingly, and found that, as 
 she said, the saddle was very loosely girthed, ftnd 
 I did not think it well put on either. I there- 
 fore offered to settle it as it should.be, if she 
 would dismount and allow me to arrange every 
 thing properly. 
 
 No sooner said than done. Before I could get 
 round to assist her, she had sprung lightly to 
 the ground, and waited, holding the horse by the 
 head while I set matters right. It was not an 
 easy job for me either, as I dare say she saw, for 
 nothing is more tiresome to any one unaccustom- 
 ed to the work than girthing a side-saddle prop- 
 erly. 
 
 I knew how it ought to be done, however — 
 thanks to the long visits Kate Merriton used to 
 pay us at home, she being a first-rate horsewom- 
 an, and very particular about her equipments, on 
 which subject she had given me many a lecture. 
 
 It was settled at last, and then came what to 
 many men would have been the most anxious 
 moment of all — namely, the mounting. I had 
 graduated in that too, however — thanks to the 
 same instructress ; so when she drew back a lit- 
 tle from ray proffered assistance, fearing she was 
 too heavy, and that it would be better to lead 
 the horse up to a wall, from which she could seat 
 herself on its back, I said, 
 
 "Have no fear. I assure you I can mount 
 you quite easily." 
 
 Without any more demur, she placed a very 
 neat foot in my hand, and, light as a bird, sprang 
 to her seat., 
 
 "Are you fond of goodies, my little man?" 
 she asked, as she settled herself and gathered up 
 the reins. "I am sure you must be, so take 
 that and get yourself something nice at the shop 
 on the bridge. Many thanks for the trouble you 
 have taken." 
 
 Before I could utter a word, she tossed me a 
 shilling, and was off and away at a long, sling- 
 ing trot. 
 
 As for me, I stood for a minute or two dum- 
 founded, wondering what on earth I should do 
 with her money, or whether I should leave it 
 there for the next passer-by to pick up; Sud- 
 denly, however, an idea struck me, and acting on 
 it, I took the shilling, tied it carefully in a cor- 
 ner of my handkerchief, and continued my walk 
 home. 
 
 They say all men about my age ai-e impres- 
 sionable, but that they get over impressions easi- 
 ly. I do not know how that may be with oth- 
 ers, but of this I am sure — it was not so with 
 me. I was. too light-hearted, too mischievous, 
 had, as my comrades said, too much of the mon- 
 key in me, to be susceptible ; and though at an 
 age when most young fellows h.ave had some 
 fleeting experiences of the tender passion, I had 
 never as yet cared to look round after the pret- 
 tiest face or the neatest figure. that had ever 
 crossed my path in England's gayest assemblies. 
 
 Therefore, when, with a half-mischievous, half- 
 tender idea in my head, I stooped to pick up 
 Miss Bambridge's coin, it never occurred to me 
 I was taking the first step along that road which 
 every man follows at least once in his life. It 
 would have made no difference, very likely, had 
 I known ; but thus in blissful ignorance of whith- 
 
 er I was tending — from the prospect of such a 
 route I should have shrunk in alarm had I but 
 understood, as one more experienced might — I 
 stepped briskly back to town, murmuring merry 
 snatches of song as I went, and drawing in the 
 balmy summer air, with a. keener enjoyment of 
 its perfumed sweetness than when I left barracks 
 that afternoon. I do not remember seeing any 
 of ouv fellows when I came in ; indeed I believe 
 I went to my room, and occupied myself piercing 
 a hole in the coin tossed to me by Miss Bam- 
 bridge so short a time before. It did not take 
 long to do, so that, by the time we assembled at 
 mess, the precious piece of silver was suspended 
 round my neck, and hanging near my heart, 
 where I intended it should remain — at least un- 
 til I knew the donor better, and got an oppor- 
 tunity of showing her to what use her present 
 had been turned. 
 
 "What has happened to Madcap since he 
 went out ?" exclaimed Mayleigh, suddenly. "I 
 have never known him silent for so long. togeth- 
 er, or seen him look so grave since he joined. 
 What mischief are you concocting now, pretty 
 one?" 
 
 If there is one thing I hate more than another, 
 it is Mayleigh's odious, inquisitive way of asking 
 people questions whenever he sees they have any 
 thing oh their minds. I was not in a mood to 
 bear it now, so I answered, 
 
 " Stow that, Mayleigh, will you ? You are al- 
 ways poking that sharp nose of yours into other 
 people's business, and neglecting your own." 
 
 It was not a civil answer certainly, and I fan- 
 cy if any other subaltern had so spoken to his 
 senior officer, he would have caught fits for it ; 
 but, by common consent, they seemed to have 
 agreed that I should be treated as a spoiled child, 
 and so I gave them plenty of it. It will not do 
 much longer, however — it is high time I should 
 be treated as a man, and I shall insist on being 
 so. 
 
 "We had visitors to-day," began Feversham, 
 after a curious look at me, that seemed to say 
 the child is more out of temper now than usual. 
 "General Bambridge — Miss Bambridge waited 
 outside. Did you see her, Mayleigh ?" 
 
 "Bather," answered the lieutenant, dryly. 
 "A proper flirt, I should say, to judge by the 
 way she glanced about her, and the empress^ re- 
 ception she accorded you. Captain, when you 
 went down with her father on leaving." 
 
 "Miss Bambridge is a lady, I am sure," I in- 
 terrupted ; " and I think you should refrain from 
 saying any thing disparaging about her, May- 
 leigh, till you have some certain charge to bring 
 against her." 
 
 "Whew!" whistled Mayleigh, in long-drawn 
 intonation. "Is the wind in that quarter, eh? 
 I did not know you were acquainted with the 
 lady, or I would have spared her char.«ioter, out 
 of consideration for your feelings. By, Jove! 
 this is a queer thing! Madcap Darrell in love, 
 and with a girl he has never even seen, as I be- 
 lieve." 
 
 "Have I not, then?" I .asked, with my most 
 impudent air. "I saw her to-day as she rode 
 up, and I don't mind betting a pony I will cut 
 all you fellows out in her favor, bar one, Claude 
 here, who I think has made strong running with 
 her already." 
 
 " By Jove ! there is a plucky youngster," said 
 
14 
 
 OUE DETACHMENT. 
 
 Flower. "However, I back Mayleigli to win, 
 for I don't think young ladies are generally par- 
 tial to boys only just out of the nursery." 
 
 " We shall see," I replied, quietly. " I don't 
 want you to lose your money, Flower, but I fear 
 you won't win mine. What do you say, Cap- 
 tain?" 
 
 "That you are more conceited. Madcap, than 
 I gave you credit for. You count too much on 
 the success you have always had among your 
 ftiother's friends. But this is quite dillerent, and 
 you may not find youreelf so much the spoiled 
 darling of the boudoirs here as there." 
 
 "That is hard of you, Claude," I answered. 
 " I see you have not forgiven me the gooseberries 
 yet. But perhaps you may find me a rival some 
 day, though I know at present you can carry all 
 before you. 'That dear Captain Feversham,' I 
 heard Miss Moneybagg say the other day. ' What 
 beautiful eyes he has ! Is it not a pity he's so 
 taken up with fiirting Miss Wildman. She will 
 never have him. And it is very sad such a de- 
 lightful man should break his heart about a girl 
 like her.' By-the-bye, I have been intending 
 ever since to ask if Miss Wildman did refuse 
 you ? Is it true, old fellow ?" 
 
 Claude laughed his sly, quizzical smile, and 
 answered slowly, 
 
 " It is unfeeling of you, DaiTell, to bring up 
 such a subject ! A broken-hearted man can not 
 bear his grief to be lightly spoken of." 
 
 "You look broken-hearted! I begin to think 
 it was you who were the flirt, and poor Miss 
 Wildman did not desei-ve all the blame she got. 
 For shame, Claude ! A male flirt is the most 
 despicable of his kind, as I have often heard my 
 aunt. Lady Tabitha, say." 
 
 "My dear fellow, don't distresj^yourself ; it 
 was a case of diamond cut /^j:^md. Besides, 
 we poor fellows are Aften j«rrcecrt?flirt in self- 
 defense. Never fear MtbeSraing-teSies are well 
 able to take care pf/niemsw'es ; and I don't 
 think any broken heai'ts among the other sex can 
 — at least nowadays — be laid to our charge. " 
 
 " I don't know that," I answered, more, I must 
 confess, for the sake of contradiction than because 
 I believed a word I was saying ; "it seems to me, 
 as far as I have yet studied the female character 
 — and you know, not going in for ladies' society 
 myself, I occupy the position of looker-on, and 
 therefore see most of the game — it seems to me 
 that women are not as susceptible as we are — do 
 not give away their heai'ts at once and on the 
 spot, charmed by some outward attraction ; but 
 when attention and devotion become marked, 
 they gradually, with many doubts and fears, are 
 drawn into the net from which few afterward es- 
 cape. From the very, gradual growth of their 
 feelings arises, I think, the main cause of their 
 constancy. Love, slowly ripened and brought to 
 perfection, stands bravely against the storms and 
 hardships of life, while that which is sudden and 
 fierce, as that of most men is, fades away quick- 
 ly, and wears out and changes while yet young." 
 
 "Well done, youngster!" cried Mayleigh, his 
 wicked eyes sparkling with a satirical meaning 
 that made his ugly face still uglier. "What a 
 devoted squire of dames you will be! You see, 
 my ideas on the subject are not so exalted. I 
 agree with Feversham — the pretty creatures are 
 as well able to take care of themselves as we are 
 —yes, and a precious sight better too. As for 
 
 this Miss Bambridge, take my word for it. Cap- 
 tain, she is dangerous ; let me advise you to keep 
 cool and wary when near her, or you will be 
 brought to book before long." 
 
 " Thanks, Mayleigh ; I think I can take care 
 of myself. . I forgot to tell you, they asked us all 
 to go over there to-mon-ow, for a little croquet. 
 I said we would go. And now let ns take a stroll 
 before it gets dark : this soft twilight is so invit- 
 ing." 
 
 CHAPTER in. 
 
 THE CROQUET PAKTT. 
 
 A LOVELY day was the next ; not that glaring, 
 overbearing sun that parches up eveiy thing and 
 makes all exertion impossible, but a soft, gray 
 day, with glimpses of the sunlight lying on the 
 mountain-tops here and there, and a breeze just 
 enough to lift the hair ofl' heated foreheads, and 
 fan the heightened color in fair cheeks refresh, 
 ingly. 
 
 We went to General Bnmbridge's place — End- 
 ley, of course — and found no one but ourselves 
 had been asked. 
 
 "A little quiet croquet, just to make acquaint- 
 ance and learn to know each other," explained 
 Miss Bambridge. "A large party is so stiff, and 
 we should never have become more intimate if 
 you had been lost among a crowd." Just then 
 her eye fell upon me. She blushed a little, with 
 a charming expression of the faintest possible 
 shade of embaiTassment, mingled with a great 
 deal of amusement, as she held out her hand, 
 saying, " What ! are you here? I did not know 
 you belonged to the baiTacks." Then, in a low 
 tone, she continued, "Forgive me my rudeness 
 last night ; I did not mean any impertinence, be- 
 ing quite in the dark as to who you were." 
 
 Feversham and the, others would have given 
 their eyes to know Vvhat was the meaning of this 
 aside, but I merely smiled at them with my most 
 important air, and stepped back as Miss Bam- 
 bridge turned to speak to the otiiers. 
 
 "Well, little boy, who are you?" asked Miss 
 Clarissa, stopping in front of me, and giving me, 
 for the first time, an opportunity of inspecting 
 her. "You look lost, all alone," she went on, 
 good-naturedly; "come over to the window and 
 tell me all about yourself. ■ You are one of Cap- 
 tain Ussher's children, an't you ?" 
 
 "You are mistaken, Miss Bambridge," I re- 
 plied; "I am an ofiicer in this regiment. My 
 name is Darrell, and I am a cousin of Feversh- 
 am's. That is about all I know of myself. : You, 
 I presume, are Miss Bambridge — Clarissa — 
 whom your sister stigmatized as dangerous to 
 Captain Feversham." 
 
 " Did slie?" laughed the giri, merrily. " Well, 
 and which do you consider the most' dangerous 
 of the two ? I fancy Gwendoline's fascinations 
 are the most potent, to judge by your captain's 
 face at this moment. Do you think I could cut 
 her out if I made strong running ?" 
 
 She asked this question so gayly, with so much 
 carelessness and meriy indifference to whatever 
 the answer might be, that, though not a little as- 
 tonished at such a conversation on first acquaint- 
 ance, I entered into the spirit of it at once, and 
 replied, "If I were to judge his heart from my 
 own, I should say all other visions would be chased 
 
OTJE DETACHMENT. 
 
 15 
 
 from his mind by the one now present before me ; 
 bat as I fear, if he were attainable, I should be 
 cast aside, I pray sincerely he may find your sis- 
 ter's attractions the most fatal of the two." 
 
 "Well done, Mr. Darrell," she laughed, toss- 
 ing her head gayly. "Look now at that ugly 
 little man talking to my mother. Who is he ? 
 Mayleigh, did you say ? Isn't he like a ferret ? 
 I would not care to be a rabbit near him ; and 
 see, he does not half like our chatting together 
 here ; he is your senior, I suppose, and thinks he 
 ought to be taken more notice of. Then the oth- 
 er young man, who is looking as if he wished papa 
 in Jericho, in order that he might come and join 
 us. Who is he?" 
 
 " Oil ! that is Flower ; he is just above me, and 
 a good fellow enough, but soft. If it was not for 
 me, he would be terribly put upon." 
 
 She smiled, and looked, at me all over as she 
 answered, "Well, you do look sharp enough. 
 See, we are going now out to the garden. You 
 like fruit, don't you ? I do; so come along." 
 
 I followed her as desired, and in a fewminutes 
 we were scattered all over the garden, deep in 
 strawberries, and hiding behind gooseberry-trees, 
 gradually separating from each other, till at last 
 I found Miss Bambridge beside me, and Clarissa 
 nowhere to be seen. 
 
 " Oh ! Mr. Darrell," she said, " how ashamed 
 I am of offering you money yesterday ; you must 
 have been rather aniused. But I hope you got 
 the goodies, as I told you ?" 
 
 "I am ashamed to say I did not," I replied ; 
 "but would you like to see what I have done 
 with the money ? Mind, I would show it to noue 
 but you." 
 
 "Yes, do let me see," she cried, eagerly. "I 
 was so taken aback when I saw you to-day, but 
 as you are not offended, it does not matter." 
 
 "Here it is," I went on, slowing drawing the 
 precious , coin from its hiding-place. "I shall 
 wear it against my heart by night and day, while 
 life lasts ; and if ever I part with it, I shall no 
 longer be the Vivian Darrell who stood by the 
 roadside looking after you, as you rode away 
 through the soft summer evening." 
 
 " You foolish boy," she laughed, seeing by ray 
 manner that, solemn as were the words, the af- 
 fair was a mere jest, "I hope it may prove a 
 Ltlisman to you,. and keep you out of danger; 
 turn away bullets from that susceptible heart in 
 battle, and otherwise reward you for your con- 
 stancy. But, child, you arc too young to be 
 romantic : do let me lecture you a little, and do 
 not be angry with what I say. I do not like to 
 see so young a boy talking sentiment — it is out 
 of place, and makes him look ridiculous. I like 
 you, and think it is a pity you should spoil 
 yourself in that way, so take my advice and 
 drop it." 
 
 I sullted, or at least would have done so had 
 I thought such a performance manly, and an- 
 swered, "I am not so young as you think; ask 
 any of our fellows, and they will tell you I am 
 'twenty ; so I do think I may be as romantic as I 
 have a mind to be. Besides, you know, tempta- 
 tions may. be too strong," and I pnt as much 
 meaning into my glance at her and Miss Claris- 
 sa, who just then appeared near us, as I could. 
 She laughed, and shook her head. "Is it possi- 
 ble you are twenty ? Then I. forgive you ; I took 
 you to be between fourteen and fifteen. I am 
 
 sorry too, foi; I can hardly talk in so, motherly a 
 strain to one as old as myself." 
 
 " Oh, but pray do ! " I begged, eagerly. ' ' That 
 need make no difference, and I like being lectured 
 by you ; it makes me feel so good — just as if I 
 was a eat, and you stroked my fur the right way." 
 
 "Poor pussy!" she said, making a motion 
 with her hand as though she was caressing the 
 animal in question; "does it like it? Then it 
 shall have it sometimes, when it is good. And 
 now let us join the others." 
 
 We did join the others, as Miss Bambridge 
 suggested, and again she paired off with the cap- 
 tain, leaving me to the tender mercies of Miss 
 Clarissa. What fun we had that bright sum- 
 mer-day as we walked together to the croquet- 
 gi'ound, and afterward sat about in groups on the 
 short soft turf, chaSBng, talking nonsense, pelting 
 each other with balls of daisies, and, in fact, do- 
 ing eveiy thing in the world but the thing to do 
 which we had been invited to Endley. 
 
 No one so much as looked toward the croquet 
 tools, while Miss Clarissa sat enthroned on an 
 old moss-grown stump, like a queen surround- 
 ed by her court; at a. little distance apart, Fev- 
 ershamand her sister appeared to lose all con- 
 sciousness of our presence, in the charms of a 
 very earnest flirtation. • 
 
 What a girl Clarissa Bambridge was ! I think 
 I can see her now, and can hear her droll and 
 sometimes very startling sallies, her merry peals 
 of laughter, provoking a response even from in- 
 nocent Flower, who, as a rule, was more addicted 
 to sentiment than merament. 
 
 How she cut np the oddities of the county 
 notables and imitated their peculiarities ! — ^not ill- 
 naturedly, be it understood, but more, as it seem- 
 ed, because her sense of the ludicrous was so 
 strong she could not help noticing and remem- 
 bering traits that would escape others less gifted 
 with the dangerous power of satire. And how 
 pretty she was ! The color excitement and high 
 spirits brought to her cheek was like the inside 
 petals of a blush-rose, her long blue eyes were 
 positively dazzling under their dark, curled lash- 
 es, her full red lips took the most charming forms 
 as she uttered her daring sallies, while her slight 
 girlish figure, in its simple white dress, was with 
 every, change of her attitude more perfect than 
 before. 
 
 In spite of all this, however, and though my 
 eye recognized the beauty of the picture- as a 
 boy's eye beauty can recognize while his heart is 
 untouched, ray attention wandered incessantly to 
 the pair seated under a wide-spreading beech; 
 their faces were more serious than onrs, though 
 now and then a smile would light up the girl's 
 gravity, till her sweet face seemed so ablaze with 
 merriment I felt inclined to think the former so- 
 berness must have been assumed in deference to 
 her companion, over whose quiet countenance no 
 trace of amusement passed. . I was not astonished 
 at this, as I knew Feversham's turn of mind was 
 almost always serious, when he could find any 
 one to indulge him in that line. I could see 
 plainly he fancied he bad now found a kindred 
 spirit, and was going into the affair over head 
 and ears, as is the fashion of such grave, quiet 
 natures.' 
 
 ■ It annoyed me a little, I must say, when I saw 
 the case promised seriously. BJi-st of all, I knew 
 his mother would be perfectly distracted at the 
 
IG 
 
 OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 mere thought of such a thing ; and really I was 
 aware myself it was not desirable he should mar- 
 ry an Irish girl, no matter how good or beautiful 
 she might be , for what would all his friends in 
 England say to such a thing? — and I, being his 
 cousin, could not but feel with all his other rela^ 
 lives, and decide it would not do. 
 
 While I thought thus and watched them, they 
 both rose and came toward us. 
 
 "How merry yon are here!" cried Gwendo- 
 line. I was already calling her so in ray mind. 
 "I am perfectly bewildered philosophizing with 
 Captain Feversham ; finally he has propounded 
 a question I can not solve without help, so I have 
 brought it over here, in the hope that some of you 
 will assist me. The case is this: suppose you 
 had a friend in trouble of any kind ; that you 
 were acquainted with tlie wrong — if wrong there 
 were— and were questioned about ii ; suppose 
 that, in fact, it became necessary in any way — 
 no matter how — that for the good of a friend you 
 should deny the truth, would you do so ? Cap- 
 tain Eeversham says not ; I said I would, if there 
 was no other way. I dare say I might repent 
 and be veiy sorry afterward, more particularly 
 if the falsehood did not serve the end I desired ; 
 but still, if I saw a friend in dire distress, or with 
 evil, though unknown to himself, impending over 
 him, and knew that a bold and barefaced lie — 
 there is no other name for it," she apologized— 
 "from me would save him, I think I should tell 
 it." 
 
 "So would not I," broke in Miss Clarissa, 
 gayly. " My friend ought to be able to face and 
 fight his diflSculties Iiimself ; and if the thing was 
 discovered, what a nasty mess it would get one 
 into, and what a lot of mischief it would do one 
 in the eyes of the world ! No ; truth pays best, 
 and though I might be sorry for the unlucky in- 
 dividual,! could not help him at that price." 
 
 Feversham smiled. 
 
 " My reasons for refusing the lie are quite dif- 
 ferent from yours, Miss Clarissa. It is because 
 truth ennobles and purifies a man, falsehood de- 
 bases and degrades him, that I would avoid it. 
 I would refuse to speak what I knew that might 
 injure my friend ; I would serve him in any oth- 
 er way, even to the death, but I could not tell a 
 falsehood for him : it would leave a stain on my 
 conscience, that, even though unknown to all the 
 world, would be a constant reproach to me before 
 other men. Besides, a falsehood can not stand 
 alone ; it draws others around it, till their name 
 becomes legion. If you did it once, you must 
 either acknowledge your sin afterward, or go on 
 adding to it day hy day, till all that once was up- 
 right in your character had become obscured by 
 the foul sin." 
 
 He looked very noble standing there, with his 
 head up, and his eyes fixed on the distant hills, 
 as he preached his stem moral code ; and I could 
 see by a side-glance that Gwendoline Bnmbridge 
 turned her head, and seemed ashamed of the sen- 
 timents she had avowed, while an unconvinced 
 expression still lingered round her mouth. It 
 was as though she said mentally, "I am sorry I 
 let them know my opinion ; but if the case arose, 
 I should do it all the same." 
 
 Flower and Mayleigh listened silently to the 
 discussion, but evinced no desire to speak; so, 
 after waiting a minute, I broke in : 
 
 "You take a very high tone, Claude, and no 
 
 doubt you are right — for one, at least, who can 
 put a restraint on his feelings strong enough to 
 see trouble come on a beloved head, which he 
 might have averted by the sacrifice of his mor- 
 al purity in some slight way. To me the end 
 would justify the means, and not only that, but 
 if driven by circumstances to such a resource, I 
 would stand by il^ — that is to say, if by so acting 
 I could- achieve the welfare of one dear to me." 
 
 "Pshaw! You don't know what you are 
 talking of. Madcap," answered Feversham, rath- 
 er angrily. "I should be sony to think those 
 were really your ideas on the subject. In a man 
 a keen sense of honor is all-important, and once 
 admit that what is untrue can be right in one 
 place, there is no reason why it should not be 
 correct in all." 
 
 "No," broke in Miss Bambridge, "I think 
 you wrong both him and me, Captain Feversh- 
 am. One could not do it for one's self; that 
 would be cowardice, and therefore even more de- 
 grading than the breach of truth by itself would 
 be. But for the sake of one who had been true 
 to you, and whom you had loved and believed in, 
 it would be possible. However, it is no good 
 talking over a hypothetical case; only I agree 
 with Mr. Darrell, and could even see a certain 
 nobility in such conduct in a good cause. Let 
 us have some music ; Clary and all of you join 
 in the chorus." 
 
 Soon we were gay again, but I could see Fev- 
 ersham was startled and uneasy, keeping more 
 apart from us than before, and indulging no long- 
 er in tStes-U-tete with Miss Bambridge. I was 
 very glad of this, for she took me up, and we 
 chatted away as merrily as though we had known 
 each other for j-ears.' There was a great deal of 
 similarity between her and her sister, not only in 
 manner, but in style of thought and bias of mind, 
 only I could see that where Clarissa was satirical 
 and inclined to be severe, Gwendoline was pitiful, 
 passing over failings in silence, or making allow- 
 ance for them. She had the most heart. Miss 
 Clarissa the most cleverness. 
 
 It was veiy pleasant wandering by the lake 
 alone with her, while the others followed lazily, 
 their bui-sts of laughter pealing down to us on 
 the evening breeze, and her low voice talking 
 with the unrestrained confidence of friendship 
 on every topic we lighted upon. 
 
 It may seem strange to you that I, Madcap 
 Darrell, should have cared for this kind of thing ; 
 to tell the truth, even while I listened to her voice, 
 and followed her ideas with wrapt attention, I 
 wondered now and then, with a curious feehng 
 of anxiety, why I did not find it slow. If Kate 
 Merriton were to see me now, how she would 
 laugh, I thought ; but Kate is a goose, not worth 
 a sensible man's attention, and I really do feel 
 like a man to-night. 
 
 So I listened and talked in my turn, sometimes 
 nonsense, sometimes sense. At length she asked 
 me, "Is Lord Feversham generally liked? His 
 ideas are noble, but a little severe at times. Do 
 his brother ofiicers care for him ?" 
 
 " There is not a better fellow going than Fev- 
 ersham,"! answered; "ho is the jolliest, kind- 
 est-hearted, most forgiving man in the world. 
 We all delight in him, for he is up to every 
 thing; riding, driving, shooting — winning the 
 men's hearts that way, for no one thinks of be- 
 ing jealous of him, he is so unassuming; as to 
 
OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 17 
 
 the ladies, they all adore hira: his dancing is 
 perfection, I ,am told, and besides, I do . not 
 think he objects to a quiet flirtation. You took 
 him on his steniest side to-day, but don't think 
 the worse of him for that. He is a true friend, 
 and, in spite of his talk, I think it would go hard- 
 ly with hira to keep up to his standard in such 
 a case as you described. " 
 
 "You don't seem a bad friend yourself," she 
 smiled, looking at me approvingly. "He is 
 your cousin," she went on. "Are' you fond of 
 him ?" , 
 
 "Rather,"! answered. "I would not go into 
 any other regiment than this, because I wished 
 to be with him. He has such a jolly place near 
 ours ; you should see it ; such trees, such a river 
 for trout, and no end of deer and things of that 
 kind, such as ladles like. I don't like it as well 
 as Longhui-st — that is our place — bjit it is the 
 next best in the county ; indeed I don't tliiuk 
 there are many such places in England." 
 
 She pumped me pretty well, as I must have 
 known, had I not been too much pleased and 
 flattered by the attention she was paying me to 
 think of any thing else ; but let me do her the 
 justice to say I don't think it was with any mer- 
 cenary view she cross-questioned me ; rather, I 
 think, it was that her fancy was already attractr 
 ed by my handsome cousin, and she naturally 
 interested herself in all concerning him. Of 
 course it was pleasant to hear he was a. rich 
 man, and owner of a fine place, but the mis- 
 chief was done before then, and she gave ample 
 proof, in time, of disinterestedness such as I think 
 iew women would exhibit. 
 
 I see this all now plainly — then I did not, but 
 thought she liked me at least quite as much as 
 she did him, so that by the time I left that night, 
 I was in a kind of delicious dream, not seeing 
 before me the certain shipwreck of all my hopes, 
 which would have been apparent to any of my 
 comrades, had they but known my thoughts. 
 Yet I was not in love, or at least did not know 
 that I was ; all that I understood and felt was 
 th.1t she, a bright, clever, intelligent girl, one 
 whom I knew to be courted and sought after in 
 society, had talked to me, and listened to me, as 
 though I was the equal in mind and experience 
 of the men who flocked around her. She had 
 accepted my decision of a vexed question, as one 
 that appeared to her right and just;, she had 
 talked confidentially of their life in the country, 
 had confided to me her opinions on numberless 
 subjects — rsome grave, some gay ; in fact she had 
 treated me as a friend, suited to her in mind and 
 habit of thought, till I felt the ladies' society had 
 a charm of which formerly I had been ignorant, 
 and that the loveliest, wittiest, most captivating 
 woman I had ever met was Gwendoline Bara- 
 bridge. I felt that any thing she commanded 
 m3 I could perform, and that to win her ap- 
 proval and commendation there was nothing I 
 could not attempt. I was very silent during 
 our drive home, hardly hearing the conversation 
 around me, thongh the others were criticising 
 our late entertainers, and praising the grace and 
 beauty of the young ladies, with an enthusiasm 
 that I must have agreed in, had I listened; 
 though probably I should not have cared to hear 
 them so freely discussed. Eeversham, too, was 
 very quiet, putting in a word now and then, gen- 
 erally by way of silencing Mayleigh's biting re- 
 2 
 
 marks, but otherwise seeming to be buried in his 
 own thoughts. 
 
 "How quiet Madcap is!" cried Mayleigh at 
 length, when, stopped in some ill-natured speech, 
 he sought a fresh object to torment. " Has he 
 fallen head over ears in love with the fair Gwen- 
 doline, or have his calf's brains been stolen by 
 the bewitching Clarissa ? Poor fellow ! What 
 will Lord and Lady Traverscourt say, when they 
 hear the hope of the family is hopelessly in love 
 with a fast Irish siren ? Which is it, Darrell ?" 
 
 " Come, Mayleigh," I answered) with a strange 
 feeling of firmness rising in my breast,"! don't 
 care what you say about me, or how disagreeably 
 you make yourself— it is natural to you, and you 
 can't help it ; but ! won't have you say any thing 
 nasty of the Misses Bambridge. If they are 
 merry, they are lady-hke, and have in no way 
 laid themselves under the lash of your censorious 
 tongue." 
 
 "Bravo! young one," cried Feversham. "I 
 did not know you could speak like that. I de- 
 clare you are getting quite a man. Your mother 
 won't know you when you go home again." 
 
 I smiled, but did not answer. It was pleas- 
 ant to hear that even Feversham recognized the 
 change from a boy to man that I felt within 
 myself. . I could not help wondering what had 
 caused it, and if he knew ; but a secret jealousy 
 of any prying eye discovering what was hidden 
 from myself restrained me from asking his expe- 
 rience to come to my assistance. 
 
 Altogether it had been one of the pleasantest 
 days of my life, and ! had jumped off the car at 
 the barracks with a feeling of regret that it was 
 so soon over — ^legret, however, that did not pre- 
 vent my locking Mayleigh's room on the outside, 
 and then pushing the key under the door on my 
 way up stairs — a feat which kept that gentleman 
 in a white-heat for half an hour, and called fortli 
 sundry unseemly execrations ; he had not the 
 least idea how it had happened, as I managed 
 the matter during the two minutes he stopped 
 below talking to the driver, while I dashed up 
 stairs two steps at a time, and was in my own 
 room, and half into my smoking costume, before 
 he found out what had happened. 
 
 After this we made acquaintance with no end 
 of county notabilities — went to balls, picnics, cro- 
 quet parties, every kind of device for making coun- 
 try life pass gayly ; and wherever we went we met 
 the Bambridges. Besides, we were at their ,own 
 place very often, and the more we saw of them the 
 greater grew our infatuation. Gwendoline and 
 Claude had become fast friends — not that she 
 ever neglected me either ; her greeting was just 
 as hearty and cordial to me as to him. Had it 
 not been so, I should hardly have dared to build 
 the castles in the air that now occupied all my 
 thoughts, for I could not even think of any per- 
 son or any thing but of her alone. Eor her, and 
 to be worthy of the favor I theught she bestowed 
 on me, I cast the boy as much away from me as 
 possible, and strove in all things to think and act 
 not only as a man, but as the man should think 
 and act who could hope to win her. My very 
 nature seemed changed — all the volatile impul- 
 siveness and feverish energy of my character 
 turned to a deep, passionate devotion that cen- 
 tred itself pn her, and made all other things sub- 
 servient to her. I cared nothing that Mayleigh 
 and Flower laughed and said, "The young one 
 
18 
 
 OUK DETACHMENT. 
 
 is desperately hard hit." I did not even pfty any 
 attention to the fact that Peversham was striv* 
 ing for the same prize. I knew it was so, but I 
 thought I had as good a chance as he, and I telt 
 as though I could do battle with a brother even 
 in Such a cause. Sometimes indeed my hopes 
 would fail me, as I saw her dark eyes turned to 
 Claude's handsome, manly face, and watched, 
 with hate and jealousy gnawing at my heart, 
 their lengthened converse ; then ray hopes would 
 spring np at a bound as, with a ringing laugh 
 and a merry gesture, she would turn toward me 
 and say, "Vivian, come and help me to over- 
 whelm your cousin. He talks dreadful nonsense 
 sometimes, and must be put down." 
 
 Then she would tease him, and pet me, till his 
 brow would grow dark and angry, and he would 
 walk away, saying sulkily, 
 
 " That young scape-grace will get into trou- 
 ble some day ; he talks too much about what he 
 doesn't understand." 
 
 Did she know what she was doing, that dark- 
 eyed, sweet-faced girl ? Did she know she was 
 waking a passionate man's heart a world too soon 
 in a young, careless breast ? Did she know she 
 was sowing distrust and strife between hearts 
 once fondly united? Did she know that the 
 course she was pursuing must end in disappoint- 
 ed hopes and a blighted life, to one at least of 
 those striving for her favor ? 
 
 Hard questions these to answer, and perhaps 
 the truest solution of them would be that she 
 never thought about them at all, or rather that 
 the boy's devotion seemed to her an absurd and 
 fleeting passion, that would pass away at t!ie 
 sight of the next pretty face, and transfer itself to 
 a new object. In the mean time he was pleasant 
 and lively, and saw no light in eai-th or heaven 
 but the brilliance of her eyes. She was flattered, 
 amused too; so she encouraged him, and only 
 noticed the look of pain that would cross his face 
 as she talked to his rival, to soothe it away with 
 a fresh dose of captivation, never considering the 
 day must come when the pain would be perma- 
 nent, the relief beyond her power to administer. 
 Only Miss Clarissa seemed to pity me sometimes. 
 She would draw me away when she saw me 
 watching, with angry, glowering looks, Feversh- 
 am and her sister chatting confidentially on the 
 seat under the beech-tree, and, calling me after 
 her, would wander off, wasting her wittiest sallies, 
 and indulging in her most daring satires, in the 
 vain hope of calling up a similar spirit in me. 
 
 She was very good to me, though I had before 
 said she had no heart. Now I began to think 
 she must have one, and a pitiful heart too, else 
 why did she take so much pains to rally me from 
 my idle dream ? All her eiibrts were vain, how- 
 ever, and she saw they were so. Therefore, one 
 daj', as we roamed along by the shore of the lake, 
 Gwendoline and Claude in front, slie said, 
 
 "Lord Teverslfam seems to admire Gwen. 
 Don't you think so ?" 
 
 I was taken by surprise at her putting the ques- 
 tion so boldly, though the fact was apparent 
 enough. I stammered and hesitated before re- 
 plying, then answered, 
 
 "Yes, he does admire her. How could he help 
 it ? She is very charming ! " 
 
 I tried to speak calmly, but blushed as only a 
 boy can blush, when speaking of the one dear to 
 his heart for the first time. She glanced at me. 
 
 and took in all my confusion and my secret, 
 though that, no doubt, she knew well before. 
 
 "I think he likes her," she went on, "and I 
 think Gwen likes him — at least as well as any 
 man she knows. I would not care to be a can- 
 didate for her hand under the circumstances. 
 He is too dangerous a rival. Don't you think so, 
 Vivian?" 
 
 "No," I answered, with my blood up, for I 
 thought I caught a look thrown back to me from 
 the subject of our conversation. ■ "He would in- 
 deed be a poor-spirited hound who would give up 
 the chase because the struggle was severe, and 
 the antagonist formidable. All the more honor 
 to the one who wins. It is hard for the vanquish- 
 ed too," I muttered, not thinking, however, even 
 then, that would be my lot. < 
 
 "You understand, of course," Clarissa contin- 
 ued, " our conversation is quite private. Gwen 
 would never foi'give me if she thought I had pre- 
 sumed to guess her feelings." 
 
 "You may trust me," I answered, thinking, 
 with satisfaction, "it is but a guess, after all, 
 and one she would not like her sister to know." 
 Then the pair in front turned and joined us, I be- 
 ing at once raised to the highest pitch of hope 
 and happiness by the bright looks and pleasant 
 words of her I loved so dearly. 
 
 Yet all this while I never acknowledged to 
 myself that I was in love. I was almost too 
 much of a boy still, lived too entirely in the pres- 
 ent to form any schemes for the future, or to 
 think of how all this must end ; that some day 
 we would be ordered off, and then all our pleas- 
 jint intercourse would cease, unless — But I nev- 
 er went as far as that in my day-dreams, or surely 
 my eyes would have been opened. 
 
 Sometimes, when a jealous pain rose in my 
 heart, as I watched Claude's attentions and the 
 looks with which they were received, I question- 
 ed myself for a minute or two as to what this 
 might mean. Why should she not be pleased 
 at his evident admiration ? She smiled equal- 
 ly on me. "Yes," I answered myself; "but I 
 fear she likes him best. If I was only sure her 
 friendship for me was the greater, I would be 
 content." 
 
 Foolish boy that I was, cheating myself with 
 the word friendship, and talking of content. 
 What man in love, ay, or boy either, for that 
 matter, was ever satisfied with any thing less 
 than full and absolute possession of his idol? 
 And I was not more wise, or less ardent, than 
 others; only my heart was yet untried, and I 
 was ignorant of its depths. 
 
 I can see now, looking back through a vista 
 of years, how foolish and absurd this infatuation 
 of mine must have appeared to dispassionate 
 lookers-on ; how intensely aggravating it must 
 have been to my cousin, who, loving hsr with 
 the love a man should have for the woman he 
 wishes to make his wife, found himself perpetu- 
 ally thwarted and interrupted in his progress in 
 her friendship by a lad of my age ; who, how- 
 ever intensely devoted, could not, to the eyes of 
 calm common sense, hope to succeed. But com- 
 mon sense is rarely an attribute cultivated by 
 lovers ; and while I refused to see that my pur- 
 suit was ridiculous, he was equally unable to 
 comfort himself by knowing that it was so ; and 
 many a smothered malediction was showered on 
 my head in consequence. 
 
CrUB DETACHMENT. 
 
 19 
 
 For all this, and though I thought myself so 
 ranch of a man, and tried to persueide myself I 
 had left all my school-boy pranks behind me, 
 Flower and Mayleigh, often aggravated me with 
 their chaff till I was driven to make reprisals ; 
 and then it was amusing to hear them growling 
 and saying, "That young monkey had been at 
 his pranks- again," and they wished " Miss Bam- 
 bridge would teach him better manners." 
 
 The mention of that name always sobered me, 
 and I would be profoundly sorry I had been led 
 into any escapade that could give those fellows 
 an excuse for mentioning her, or talking in their 
 light, joking fashion of her influence over me. 
 
 Claude saw, as well as the rest, all that was 
 passing within me. I was inexperienced, and 
 had little worldly wisdom. I could not for my 
 life hide my rapture when she called me to her 
 side, or conceal my jealousy and mortification 
 when my captain ousted me;, but I think that 
 Feversham, even had he not been my rival, would 
 still have .tried to keep me from pursuing this 
 will-o'-the-wisp of my imagination. 
 
 He knew no more than I did, I really believe, 
 which of us two she liked best ; and he was sav- 
 agely jealous, with a man's cruel, vindictive jeal- 
 ousy ; but he knew also better than any one ex- 
 cept myself how young I was, and that, desire it 
 as I might, it would be impossible for me to mar- 
 ly before I came of age. Therefore it .seemed to 
 him cei-tain that I stood in his light without any 
 advantage to myself; and one sunny afternoon, 
 meeting me out walking, we both being alone, he 
 turned to accompany me, and began : 
 
 "Vivian," he said — and his voice was harsh 
 and stern, as it never used to be in the old days 
 1 — ' ' when are you going to cease this folly ? Dog- 
 ging Miss Bambridge like her shadow, spending 
 day after day at their house, and never inquiring 
 whether your presence there is welcome or oth- 
 erwise. I gave you credit for more good sense, 
 thinking that though you are still but a school- 
 boy, yet that you had plenty of the keen Trav- 
 erscourt wit to show you when you were making 
 a fool of yourself. And remember, though Miss 
 Cambridge may amuse herself with you, j'ou are 
 far too young for her ever to think of you in any 
 other light than as a pleasant pastime for idle 
 hours." 
 
 I felt my face glow all over at this speech, re- 
 minding me so scornfully of what I felt to be 
 the greatest drawback in my way, and answered 
 hotly, 
 
 "I won't ask if Miss Bambridge is your au- 
 thority for speaking to me in this way. I know 
 she is pleased to see me every day, and at all 
 hours. As to sense, in what particular is mine 
 worse than yours ? If it is wise and right you 
 should admire her, why should it be folly in 
 me to do so? She and I are about the same 
 age, and have, therefore, many ideas and pleas- 
 m-es in common, and I might as well, and per- 
 haps with quite as much truth, advise you to be- 
 ware of wearying her. Until I hear from her 
 own lips that my society is irksome to her, I shall 
 continue my visits there. That is ray answer, 
 Feversham., You can act as you choose. " 
 
 "Thanks for the permission," he replied, 
 haughtily; "but remember, my fine young fel- 
 Jow, I have been letting you off duty since we 
 have been here — ^have been indulging you in ev- 
 ery way, in fact : that is over now. , To-morrow 
 
 is your day in barracks, and we are going to dine 
 at the Bambridges'." 
 
 So saying, with a malicious smile he walked 
 off, leaving me overwhelmed at the intelligence. 
 I should have to stay at home on duty, and he 
 would make as much running as he liked with 
 Gwendoline. The thought made ray blood rush 
 wildly through my veins; and I determined, come 
 what might, it should not be as he had planned. 
 
 But how to prevent it? — that was the rub; 
 and I walked on thoughtfully mile after mile, 
 turning the matter over in my mind, and ti-ying 
 to arrive at a solution of the difficulty. At last 
 a plan shaped itself in my brain. I will not 
 say it was a good one — indeed, if carried into 
 execution, it would entirely rest with my com- 
 manding ofiicer whether I should get into great 
 trouble about it or not. But I was wild and reck- 
 less ; it seemed to me a little matter, losing my 
 commission in exchange for one short evening in 
 her society ; and besides, a profession was noth- 
 ing to me. I, Vivian Darrell, would be wealth- 
 ier than most of the men around me, and have as 
 good a position, whether I left, the army or not. 
 So I made up my mind, and returned to barracks 
 with a defiant, desperate feeling in my heart, and 
 a dash of insolence in my manner whenever I was 
 obliged to address my cousin. 
 
 This, however, he would not notice. To do 
 him justice, he was never harsh ; and it must 
 have been a wild spasm of jealousy indeed that 
 induced him to act so unkindly by me in this in- 
 stance. 
 
 Next day I was on duty, as Claude had told 
 me I should be. I moped about the barracks, 
 looked as wretched as I could, and otherwise 
 tried to conceal the daring defiance that really 
 reigned in my breast. 
 
 ' So the day wore on till about five o'clock. I 
 knew the car for the others was not ordered un- 
 til six, but I wished to get a start of them before 
 they returned from their walk. I dressed, there- 
 fore, and, slipping a top.- coat over all, walked 
 quietly off in the direction of Endley by a back 
 road. I had told a car to be in waiting for me 
 about a mile out of town ; but, not wishing to ar- 
 rive too early at my destination, I had ordered 
 it for six o'clock. I had about half an hour to 
 wait, thei-efore, when I arrived at the appointed 
 place ; but the evening was fine and warm, so I 
 sat down by the roadside to rest, the quiet beau- 
 ty of the scenery soothing the tumult of angry 
 feelings in my breast. 
 
 Every thing went right ; the car came at the 
 appointed time, and I arrived at Endley about a 
 quarter of an hour before the others. 
 
 "Why have you come alone?" questioned 
 both the sisters in one breath ; "where are the 
 others ?' 
 
 "They are coming after," I answered, with a 
 laugh. "" I could not wait any longer ; it seem.s 
 such an age since I have seen you." 
 
 "The day before yesterday was the last time 
 we met," laughed Gwendoline ; "it is an age, as 
 you say. Why did you n ot ride over yesterday ?' ' 
 
 "I feared to intrude by coming so often," I 
 stammered, but led to speak freely by her man- 
 ner. "If I thought you wished it I should have 
 been only too happy- to come." 
 
 "You are always welcome," she replied, with 
 her soft smile. . "I'll tell you when I'm tired of 
 )-ou, if that will satisfy you." 
 
20 
 
 OUK DETACIiMENT. 
 
 " Only I should die if you weve to tell me so," 
 I answered, in a low, trembling voice, as I seat- 
 ed myself beside her. 
 
 I had never dared to say as much to her be- 
 fore, and now my agitation said a thousand things 
 I could never have found words to utter. I 
 had glanced at her face to see liow she took it. 
 ' She blushed, and there was a slight expression 
 of surprise in her eyes that seemed to say, " You 
 are coming on very fast ;" but she answered, 
 
 "If you wait for death till then, rest assured 
 you will live to n. ripe old age. Ah ! here are 
 the others." And rising, she went forward to 
 meet them. . 
 
 I knew by Claude's expression that he had 
 seen me the instant he entered the room, but he 
 said nothing; and as the rest had always been 
 allowed to go out — even when they were on 
 duly — in our quiet country quarters, they thought 
 my presence there was all right. 
 
 After dinner, however, and before we joined 
 the ladies, Feversham took me by the arm and 
 drew me toward the window, leaning out of it 
 to cool his heated brow in the balmy summer 
 twilight. 
 
 "Do you know, Vivian," he began gravely, 
 "what you have done? Sometimes I wonder 
 whether it is sheer folly gets you into so many 
 scrapes. Do you know that, if I was to report 
 this last escapade, you would be tried by court- 
 martial for deliberate disobedience of orders ?" 
 
 "I know it," I answered, with a sullen pride 
 in the admission. " I know you can have me 
 tried, if you please. I counted the cost before 
 I did it. But you don't think I could have sat 
 quietly in barracks, knowing you were here ? It 
 was more than my blood could stand j but I am 
 willing to bear any punishment. " 
 
 Claude looked at me gravely in the dim twi- 
 light, and it seemed to me there was a tremor in 
 his voice when at length he answered, 
 
 " I can't hurt you, DaiTell, and you know it. 
 Yon acted as I would have done myself; only 1 
 wish you had a little more confidence in me. 
 When the time, came round I thought the trial 
 was too hard, and went to your room to give 
 you permission to accompany me. You were 
 gone then, however; I guessed whither, and I 
 was right, as I saw at once on entering the 
 drawing-room here. Only be careful, child. 
 Many would not have forgiven such an act of in- 
 subordination ; and, if any one else had known 
 the state of the case, I should have been obliged 
 to make an example of you. Don't do so again." 
 "You are too good to me, Claude,"! cried, 
 thoroughly overcome by his kindness, now that I 
 was completely in his power. I had hardened 
 myself to bear angry accusation, and threats of 
 court-martial only too likely to be can'ied into 
 execution, but this I had never expected, though 
 it was like Claude, too, and like none but him. 
 Mrm as he could be when it was required, there 
 was none who knew better when gentleness 
 might be used ; and kindness was more natural 
 to him than severity. "I wish,"! continued, 
 passionately, "I could do something to please 
 you — could make some sacrifice that would show 
 how I feel your goodness ; but the only sacrifice 
 you would care for I can not make. It is 
 stronger than I am. You must forgive me still, 
 for, while hope remains, I will fight against 
 you." 
 
 He smiled a little sadly as he replied, " So be 
 it, then ; but let it not breed a quawel between 
 us. Was there ever woman yet worth a breach 
 between two hearts that had once known and 
 valued each other ?" 
 
 I interrupted him hotly. 
 
 "You do not know what love is if you ask its 
 worth — it can not be bought or measured. It 
 may prove delusive and false, but while it lasts, 
 the glory, the beauty, the faith with which it sur- 
 rounds the beloved object are worth more than 
 all the world besides. You who count the cost 
 leave her to me, who would do and dare all for 
 her sake." 
 
 "This is the first blind, wild adoration of 
 ft fresh young heart," he answered. "What a 
 pity that it can not last! — that as surely as the 
 sun will rise to-mon'ow over the hill-tops the il- 
 lusion must fade and pass away, never to return 
 in all its first purity and force. Come, let us go 
 to the ladies." 
 
 So we joined them, and passed a meny even- 
 ing. Gwendoline was most impartial in her at- 
 tentions ; while Clarissa kept the othera fully 
 amused, she being quite equal to entertaining 
 any number of people at once. What a pity such 
 pleasant moments pass away so quickly. We 
 bask as it were in the sun for a few short hours, 
 and then begin again the strife and turmoil and 
 bustle, the conflicting emotions that we call life. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 COMING TO AN tJNDEKSTANDING. 
 
 The days passed on, and still the situation 
 remained unaltered between Feversham and me, 
 with the difference of a slight change in Miss 
 Bambridge's manner toward us. She iad been 
 accustomed to be equally friendly, equally socia- 
 ble, equally mirthful in her manner to both ; but 
 latterly there had been a change — a change that 
 had excited my buoyant, sanguine nature to the 
 highest pitch, and that aroused Feversham's deep, 
 brooding jealousy more frequently than ever. 
 And the change was this — she avoided him some- 
 times pointedly, she seemed occasionally ill at 
 ease in his presence, and anxious to escape those 
 tetes-k-tete with him that had at first pleased her 
 apparently so much. , 
 
 But she never avoided me, she never seemed 
 weary of my society ; her eyes would meet mine 
 with the frank, upward look that set all my young 
 blood boiUng with passionate adoration ; and 
 when she most shunned him, then more than ever 
 she sought my society. She and her sister had 
 both taken to calling me Vivian, without any spe- 
 cial conversation on the subject, dropping into it 
 in a casual way that flattered me immensely, and 
 made me think it the prettiest name in the world, 
 when I heard it uttered in their soft, musical ac- 
 cents. If I had been thoman I had flattered my- 
 self I had become, I should perhaps have known 
 better how to interpret these signs. I should not 
 have been stirred by them into the wild, feverish 
 exultation, the maddening belief in my eventual 
 success, that took possession of me. Eather, if 
 I had read them aright, might I have known 
 that no woman, not even one so fearless and out- 
 spoken as Gwendoline Bambridge, would have 
 shown so clearly her preference for the man she 
 
OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 21 
 
 loved; and from all tins lavishly bestowed favor 
 I would have drawn the ti-ue conclusion, that she 
 looked upon me as the boy I was in point of age, 
 and fancied that this devotion of mine would be 
 passing and transient, as boyish passions usually 
 are. 
 
 But Feversham was as much deceived as I was 
 — he was too cruelly in earnest to read the real 
 meaning of her new-born shyness and timidity 
 with him. At times still, when they were una- 
 voidably thrown together, she was as kind and 
 fiiendly and attentive to him as ever — more so 
 even than she was to me, and he knew it. But 
 then again she would shun him, and he would 
 persuade himself either that she loved "the boy" 
 best, or that a, mischievous demon of coquetry 
 had possession of her, stirring her up to torment 
 him, and raise the mad devil of jealousy within 
 him, that all his strong self-control could hardly 
 master. 
 
 His manner to ns both became capricious and 
 variable : at times I know he hated me. I almost 
 think he felt so to her also when deeply stung, 
 but if he did the feeUng was transient, and the 
 next minute he would condemn himself savagely 
 for having dared to think harshly of her. She, 
 in her bright, happy ignorance of the wild storm 
 of passion she had raised in two hearts once 
 closely united by friendship, doubtless intended 
 110 evil, was not to be blamed for such if it arose; 
 could not, in fact, be judged by the plain, clear 
 laws of conduct, meant to govern people less 
 charming, or more aware of their power. At 
 times he would think leniently of my share in 
 the matter, would acknowledge,' perhaps, that I 
 was not to blame for following this temptation, 
 that had proved too strong for him ; and then 
 he would try to show his sorrow for former se- 
 verity to me, by renewed kindness of look and 
 manner, whenever we came across each other. 
 Sometimes, if he had been fortunate, and she had 
 greeted him witli a return of their first friendly 
 intimacy, he would brighten up into his own ge- 
 nial self, feel once more that such a mere lad as 
 I could have no possible cliance against him, and 
 would even treat me with a kind of pitying man- 
 ner, that I, blindly secure, allowed to pass with- 
 out letting it ruffle my temper. 
 
 We were sitting over our wine after mess one 
 evening. Claude was in his joyous temper ; he 
 had been out the whole day at Endley, and I 
 had not been there. Consequently, as I told my- 
 self, Gwendoline had been able to give him her 
 attention, and he was happy because it had been 
 so. I was not uneasy or alarmed; I had told 
 her the day before that I should not be able to 
 see her that day, and she had said she should be 
 sorry, that she should miss me: that was quite 
 enough for me, and I could afford to laugh at my 
 captain's triumph over me. 
 
 I ami not much of a wine-drinker ; of course 
 I give my opinion if I hear wine spoken of, and, 
 thanks to hearing people at Longhuret discussing 
 the subject, I can say something very mucli to 
 the point on most of the ordinary vintages one 
 meets with in this country ; and I think it makes a 
 fellow appear more of a man of the world to know 
 something about the matter. To say the truth, 
 I don't care to support my opinions by drinking 
 much of what I uphold, and so I generally have 
 a good deal of spare time on my hands as we sit 
 round the table of an evening. They do say in 
 
 our mess that most of the broken wine-glasses at 
 table are due to me, but this is a calumny ; and I 
 hope what I am about to relate will not be taken 
 against me in the matter, as it was quite an ex- 
 ceptional occurrence, and not my fault besides. 
 Indeed as you must have seen, the other fellows 
 put all their scrapes down at my door, so that 
 even in this little country town, where I have 
 lived more quietly than I ever lived before, ev- 
 ery one talks of Mr. Darrell as being the most 
 unlucky young gent for getting into scrapes that 
 ever was seen in the country. And that is all 
 Mayleigh's fault, as I will show you presently. 
 
 The other fellows were talking all round the 
 table, and passing the decanters now and then 
 before me. I was not minding them ; I was very 
 busy tiying to execute a trick I had seen Caven- 
 dish and some other fellows of " ours " perform, 
 and which I was always rather unfortunate over. 
 The thing seemed simple enough, till one came 
 to try it. It was only this : fdl your glass, pile 
 three or four wine-glasses on it, one on top of 
 another, and then drink your wine without dis- 
 turbing the balance and arrangement of j'our frag- 
 ile column. As I have said, I had never suc- 
 ceeded well with this trick ; but on this particu- 
 lar occasion a serene, triumphant feeling that 
 possessed me seemed to have given an unusual 
 steadiness to ray hand, and I really believe I was 
 about to do the trick, and insure to myself last- 
 ing satisfaction frorathe consciousness of possess- 
 ing so much skill, when a fragment of biscuit well 
 aimed, and thipwn hard, hit the topmost glass, 
 and the next minute my elaborately reared struc- 
 ture was strewed, a mass of fragments and splin- 
 ters, over the table. 
 
 ' ' Halloo ! young one, " cried Mayleigh's sneer- 
 ing voice — and I should have known by his voice, 
 even had I riot caught sight of his uplifted hand, 
 that he was the delinquent — " four broken glasses ; 
 six times four is twenty-four; just two dozen 
 glasses you owe our mess. It is a good thing for 
 you you have plenty of money, or this kind of 
 work would soon make a hole in your pocket. " 
 
 "You ought to pay for them all, or at least 
 half," I retoi-ted, raising a rather flushed face, for 
 I was angry. I had long set my heart on accom- 
 plishing this trick, and I am sure but for him I 
 should have succeeded on that occasion. Since 
 then I have never again been so much in the 
 vein for that kind of thing. " I would not have 
 broken one," I continued wrathfuUy, "but for 
 you. Not that I mind the expense, or our good 
 motto, 'Who breaks pays,' but that you are al- 
 ways mixing yourself up with other people's bus- 
 iness or amusements, and I tell you I won't stand 
 it much longer." 
 
 "Why, I thought you were too much of a man 
 now. Madcap, to set your heart on tricks of that 
 kind, or of course I would not have spoiled your 
 little amusement," laughed Mayleigh. "And, 
 besides, it was so jolly to see the glasses tumbUng 
 all down about your absorbed face." 
 
 "I don't cai-e," I answered, rather more an- 
 noyed than mollified at this allusion to my man- 
 hood. You see, I looked at the trick' as a trial 
 of skill, and not at all as a childish amusement, 
 and I was not inclined to have him poking fun 
 at me, because I thought I saw Feversham laugh- 
 ing. "Look here. Captain," I continued, " don't 
 you think Mayleigh bound to make good half 
 those glasses ?" 
 
OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 I knew Mayleigli was a screw, find would not 
 laugh when he found he had to pay for his cock- 
 shot. 
 
 "Well, really,'' said Feversham, laughing, "I 
 suppose if you go into the right of it he is, since 
 it was he, not you, broke them ; but you looked 
 so tempting a mark, I don't wonder he did not 
 resist the temptation. Flower and Preston were 
 in the act of raising their hands to have a go in 
 at you, when his shot took effect ; so you see he 
 wasn't singular. But come, I have news for you 
 that I received in a letter that arrived just before 
 dinner. Attention, please, till I make the an- 
 nouncement. The authorities have discovered, 
 qr think they have discovered, that this is a veiy 
 disturbed, unsettled neighborhood, and our head- 
 quarters are to be moved down here. I heard 
 this from Colonel Annesly, so you may be sure 
 it is con-ect. How will j-ou like that, my boys ? 
 Ho more shirking duty then, no outing for the of- 
 ficers of the day." 
 
 He looked with a smile at me as he spoke, and 
 I answered, defiantly, 
 
 "No more unfortunate ensigns kept in out of 
 their turns. All share their duties in proper rou- 
 tine then. Hun-a! for Captain Annesly and 
 head-quaiters ! " 
 
 "Confound head-quartere and Horse-Guards, 
 say I, for sending them here," gi-owled Flower 
 and Preston. "A man won't be able to call his 
 soul his own, once Annesly puts in an appear- 
 ance. It will be drill, and marching, and pipe- 
 clay, and drill again, etcetera, everlastingly. 
 What has our regiment done, above all other 
 regiments, to be afflicted with such a eolonel?" 
 
 "I am sure," added Mayleigh, "Madcap here 
 has done all he can to prevent our being thought 
 a pattern corps, in any respect." 
 
 " Oh ! never mind Annesly," said Feversham. 
 " I admit he does keep one up to the collar when 
 he is with us, but you know as well as I do he 
 will be getting leave for the partridge shooting 
 presently, and will leave us under Harvey, who 
 is a jolly, easy-going fellow, as we all know." 
 
 This was a comforting view of the case, but it 
 would have comforted me much more had I at 
 all been able to fathom the meaning of my cous- 
 in's curious and unusual self-content. Content 
 to him meant discontent and pain to me. Clear- 
 ly he thought he had cause to be pleased with his 
 day, and nothing but Gwendoline having shown 
 him vmusual favor would please him, I well knew. 
 What was it that had happened? Long after- 
 ward, when Feversham was in trouble from oth- 
 er causes, and thought himself very secure with 
 her, he confided to me what had happened, which 
 I may as well repeat here, in the order in which 
 it occurred ; but I knew nothing of it, be it re- 
 membered, ifor some time, and therefore contin- 
 ued to consider myself favored, and my cousin as 
 an unwelcome intruder in all our interviews. 
 
 That day, at Endley,' Gwendoline, Clarissa, 
 and Feversham had gone out for a walk after 
 lunch. It was a very hot day in the beginning 
 of July. Climbing the mountain was warm 
 work; and presently, having arrived on the brink 
 of a picturesque mountain stream, Gwendoline 
 proposed that they should sit down, and defer the 
 rest of the walk ad iftfinitum. Claude agreed 
 willingly, but Clarissa, after a few minutes' pause, 
 declared she must go on. 
 
 "You two lazy ones," she said, "can stop 
 
 here; I want to find the green -stemmed fern 
 that grows somewhere about, and shall hunt for 
 it while you are resting." 
 
 Gwendoline, finding she was about to be left 
 alone with Claude Feversham, tried to rise and 
 follow her sister. 
 
 "Let us go on," she said. " I am also inter- 
 ested in the finding of that fern." 
 
 "Sit down," he answered, without attempting 
 to stir. Gwendoline then perceived that a comer 
 of the skirt of her dress was under his elbow, on 
 which he was leaning, and he made no move- 
 ment to allow her to withdraw it. ■ She sat doAvn 
 almost frightened. Lord Feversham had been 
 very odd lately, and she really felt a little alarmed 
 about what he might be going to say, for it was 
 evident ho was going to say something. Was it 
 possible he would rebuke her for allowing Vivian 
 Dan-ell to make such a fool of himself about her ? 
 Well, if he was she could not help it, and, what 
 was more, she did not think that Darrell would 
 be easily shaken off, or made to keep aloof, unless 
 she was really to be unkind to him, which she 
 could not be. 
 
 "What has made you avoid me of late?" he 
 asked, nervously plucking the long grasses that 
 grew near. "You used to be good friends with 
 me at fijrst — now yon never speak to me." 
 
 "I — I didn't mean to avoid yon," she said, 
 with hesitation ; then an irresistible feehng com- 
 pelled her to look at him, and their eyes met. 
 Under the magic of that look she was impelled 
 to correct herself and speak the truth, and she 
 continued, with downcast eyes and a heightened 
 color : " at least, if I did, it was not because I did 
 not like you." 
 
 "Then it was because you did like me," he 
 answered, in a tone of the fullest content, laying 
 his hand for one minute on hers, and then rapidly 
 withdrawing it. He saw she was frightened, un- 
 easy, and he feared to say more just then, for fear 
 of losing his cause from precipitation. 
 
 There was silence for a few minutes, Gwendo- 
 line looking down into the brown waters of the 
 brook at her feet, apparently studying the out- 
 line of the stones, seen clearly through the trans- 
 parent water, but in reality feeling in every nerve 
 of her body the long, silent, passionate gaze of the 
 man beside her, whose look seemed to pierce into 
 her inmost soul, and there stir up strange feelings, 
 half terror, half rapture, that were altogether new 
 to her ; of the possibility of experiencing which she 
 had hitherto been unaware. It was like awaken- 
 ing into a new life ; every sense seemed quickened 
 to a tenfold power and keenness of appreciation ; 
 and yet she was as one in a mesmeric trance, un- 
 able to resist the will of the mesmerizer. When 
 he spoke at last, in a low, murmuring voice of in- 
 tense happiness, saying, " What a strange way 
 you have of showing hking — I shall want you to 
 try another plan in future," she felt as if no an- 
 swer was possible to her but to turn and look 
 once more into the handsome brown eyes, that 
 were gazing so eagerly at her face. 
 
 There was a smile in those eyes as she met 
 them, and she, though still frightened, feeling that 
 she was jnst passing through a crisis in her life, 
 could not restrain a faint, timid, answering smile, 
 a mere ghost of the responsive feeling his look 
 should have called up, but her heart was too full, 
 to open freely yet, oven to him. She wanted to 
 be alone a little with the happy, the joyful dis- 
 
OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 23 
 
 covevjr slie liad just made, before she could dis- 
 close its full importance to him, even if he were 
 to question her about it. Happily for her, she 
 thought, he did not ; he was inexpressibly con- 
 tented and satisfied ; for a while eveiy longing 
 of his heart was silent from pure happiness, and 
 he lay back among the grass and ferns at her 
 feet, gazing to his heart's content on her beautiful 
 downcast face, and following with enraptured eye 
 the graceful outlines of her perfect figure. 
 
 One beautiful hand rested among the fems 
 close to him. How he cursed, mentally, the well- 
 fitting kid gbve that conceiUed its beauties of 
 shape and color. AVhat were gloves made for ? 
 They were an outrage on good taste, and a mere 
 profanation of nature. He. wondered that Gwen- 
 doline Bambridge, superior as she was to the rest 
 of her sex in every tiling, stooped to obey the im- 
 perious decrees of fashion in such matters. One 
 as beautiful and perfect as she could surely afford 
 to set fashion at defiance, or lead a fashion of iier 
 own. He had not courage to ask her to remove 
 her glove, and might have gazed at the pearl- 
 gray covering with ungratified Ipnging for the, rest 
 of the evening, had not a happy idea suddenly 
 struck liim. Close by grew a low-growing bush 
 of the dog-rose, profusely covered with pinky-white 
 blossoms. Beaching forward suddenly, he gath- 
 ered two or three of the prettiest buds, and silent- 
 ly presented theni to her. Equally silently she 
 took them, thanking him with a hurried, timid 
 look, that Mfould have seemed to him much more 
 delightful had it been more prolonged. Then he 
 discovered that a thorn from one of those happy 
 roses had penetrated his finger deeply, sinking 
 below the surface, so that there was no hope that 
 his unaided efforts could get it out. 
 
 "What is the matter ?" asked Gwendoline, as 
 he moaned a little over it, pretending to suffer 
 severely from it. 
 
 "Only a thorn," he replied — "it has got in 
 deep ; but if you had a needle or pin, you might 
 get it out for me. I assure you it smarts pain- 
 fully." 
 
 "Let me see,'' she answered, "I have only 
 the pin of my brooch ; but if the operation is not 
 a difficult one, I might manage to do what you 
 want with that." 
 
 As she spoke she drew off her gloves, laid them 
 beside her, and took out her brooch. The 
 wounded finger was held out for inspection, was 
 pitied duly, and after a little probing was pro- 
 nounced to be an incomprehensible case. 
 
 "I don't think there is any thorn in it at all," 
 said Gwendoline, after a careful investigation. 
 " It seems to me there is the mark of a severe 
 prick-^a thorn ran in, and was pulled out again 
 as you withdrew your hand — there is nothing 
 there." 
 
 "Do you think so?" asked Feversham, anx- 
 iously, bending over to inspect the invalided mem- 
 ber more closely, and thereby bringing their two 
 heads into a close proximity, the effect of which 
 was immensely amusing to Clarissa, who, perched 
 on a rock higher up the mountain, was looking 
 down with mischievous delight, on the scene be- 
 low. "I am sure it is still there," he continued 
 discontentedly, as Gwendoline gave signs of be- 
 ing about to give up the search. "Do just look 
 again," he pleaded. 
 
 Gwendoline complied, but again without dis- 
 covering any thing. Suddenly looking up, she 
 
 encountered his eyes fixed upon her — not with 
 the expression of petulant pain he had before as- 
 sumed, but brimful of a mirthful contentment 
 which at once revealed to her that she was the 
 victim of what Lord Feversham doubtless consid- 
 ered a pious fraud. Coloring a little, with a half- 
 vexed, half-amused expression, she dropped his 
 hand, saying, 
 
 " I don't believe there is a thorn there at all, 
 and you knew it. For shame! I thought you 
 were too honorable, too unblemished, to soil your 
 conscience with a falsehood." 
 
 He laughed, but colored all over his broad, open 
 brow. 
 
 "All's fair in love and war," he answered; 
 " but I must acknowledge you have brought my 
 words against me well. What are you looking 
 for?" 
 
 "For my gloves. I laid them down some- 
 where here." 
 
 "I have got them," he answered quietly, as 
 though he were announcing the most ordinary 
 eveiy-day occui-rence, drawing them out of his 
 pocket as he spoke, stroking them between his 
 hands, and looking at them with a very different 
 expression from that with wliich he had regarded 
 them ten minutes before. . 
 
 "Oh! thank you," she said, holding out her 
 hand for them. " I was afraid they were lost. 
 Give them to me.'' 
 
 "Not yet," he replied, putting them again 
 into his pocket. "Ypu don't want them here; 
 and you might really lose there. I will keep 
 them for you till we are going back to your 
 home." 
 
 " But I want to put thero on." 
 
 "That is exactly what I wish to prevent," he 
 answered . with provoking coolness; then they 
 looked at each other again, and Gwendoline did 
 not know whether to be angry or amused. Grad- 
 ually the expression ofFeversham's look changed, 
 and though he had assured himself a few.min- 
 utes before that the time when he might, plead 
 successfully had not yet arrived, and that he must 
 not be precipitate, he now lost all coolness and 
 self-control. Passionate, loving words rushed 
 to his lips, and would next minute have been 
 spoken, when a handful of long tangled grass, 
 neatly fastened round a small stone, fell at their 
 feet, and Clarissa's merry, tinging voice was heard 
 exclaiming, 
 
 "A good shot, Gwen, wasn't it? I have 
 found my fern,, and as it is now getting late, I 
 think we had better set out, if we wish to be in 
 time for dinner." 
 
 "Why, what o'clock is it?" asked Gwendo- 
 line, nervously, as though she had been caught 
 committing some enormity. In truth, if it was 
 late, she must feel very guilty, for the time had 
 slipped by as though it were but half an hour, 
 and they h.id not talked so much either. It was 
 those long treacliorous silences that had devoured 
 the hours in such an incomprehensible manner. 
 
 "Just five o'clock," sang Clarissa, with a most 
 provoking look ; while Feversham drew out his 
 watch, and glanced at it, with the air of one 
 who believes all ladies' watches to be wrong, and 
 is confident he will find this particular one wrong 
 too. " We came out at two o'clqck," continued 
 Clarissa, "so we have been here very nearly 
 three mortal hours. What you two people could 
 find to talk about all the time, I can't thinH— 
 
21 
 
 OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 indeed, I believe you botli went to sleep — or at 
 least Lord !Keversiiam did, and you, Gwen, were 
 afraid to awake him. I would not be as quiet 
 as you are, Gwen, about such things — I would 
 wakeu up any one that treated me in that way, 
 I can tell you." 
 
 "How would you do it?" asked Feversham, 
 wishing lively Miss Clarissa a hundred miles 
 away. Gwendoline, he knew, wanted her gloves, 
 and he could not take them out of his pocket 
 under her sister's eyes and present them to her. 
 Yet the more he wished for her absence, the 
 more he felt constrained to be polite, and make 
 himself agreeable, and try to act as though he 
 desired her presence. He paused, looking up 
 for an answer to his question, but in reality spec- 
 ulating whether, if Clarissa kept by them the 
 whole way back to Endley, he might carry ofif the 
 gloves without returning them to their owner. 
 The thought cheered him, and. when Clarissa an- 
 swered gayly, ' ' Try me in that way, and I will 
 soon show you what I would do," he laughed, as 
 though she had said something intensely witty. 
 
 " What did I say that was so amusing?" she 
 asked, looking from one to the other with a puz- 
 zled, innocent air. Tlien, seeing GwendoUne 
 was as bewildered as she was herself, she contin- 
 ued, "I don't believe you know .what you are 
 laughing at. Lord Feversham. This is levity, 
 which I never encourage. Come, Gwen, he will 
 recover quickly when he finds himself alone ;" so 
 saying, Clarissa caught her sister's hand, and 
 drew her down the narrow path after her, Fev- 
 ersham quickly following, as she had predicted. 
 
 In spite of pressing invitations to remain to 
 dinner, Feversham insisted on returning to mess. 
 There were several reasons for this, the principal 
 of which was that he could not hope to have her 
 to himself any more that day, and he had arrived 
 at a stage when, seeing her in company, sur- 
 rounded by people who prevented private con- 
 versation, was more of a penance than a pleasure. 
 Then he was well aware also that he could not 
 ti-ust himself any longer witli her alone — he would 
 infallibly say more than at present it was wise 
 he should say, and might fail in obtaining what 
 he desired from over-anxiety to gain it. He was 
 not by any means sure yet that she cared suffi- 
 ciently for him to insure him against all chance 
 of a refusal, and, like most men, he was morbid- 
 ly sensitive on that point. It was true she had 
 that day shown very planily that she liked him, 
 and he could not doubt that she understood he 
 loved her; but for all that, women had been 
 known to lead men on, and , refuse them when 
 they had been certain of success, and he did not 
 care to be one of the number so deceived and 
 deluded. 
 
 It was rather a selfish kind of pride — one that 
 he would not perhaps have liked to own to, that 
 most men would feel rather ashamed of, if its 
 true causes and bearing were explained to them, 
 and yet that influences most of them immensely 
 in their dealing with women. It would be a cu- 
 rious study for investigators of such curiosities to 
 ascertain how often, since the fashion of proposal 
 and rejection began, have women been vituper- 
 ated and censured for having encouraged and 
 thrown over men, when the real impedihient to 
 a happy and satisfactory arrangement of the case 
 has been that the man, in his intense dread of 
 refusal, has failed to explain his meaning clearly 
 
 to the object of his love ; wrapping up a plain 
 simple demand for marriage in such enigmatical 
 form as would require an CEdipus to unravel. 
 
 The woman meanvvhile, besides bearing to the 
 man and his fellows the imputation of heartless- 
 ness, has had to bear the wearing, aching load of 
 hope deferred, to experience the pangs of a pained 
 wonder, dull at first, but growing every day more 
 keen — as to the reason of the coldness that has 
 sprung up between hearts once so dear to each 
 other. A wonder perhaps doomed never to be 
 satisfied or enlightened — perhaps after long years 
 destined to be relieved, when too late, by the 
 intervention of some common friend, who can 
 throw on trivial words long forgotten some gleam 
 of light gathered from acquaintance with the 
 mind of the man who, once frightened away, can 
 rarely, if ever, be recalled. 
 
 Claude Feversham did not think of matters in 
 this liglit as he drove merrily home, but he did 
 determine to wait a little longer, and make him- 
 self more sure of his ground before he ventured 
 on the fatal step. Still matters appeared well for 
 him at present, as he had seen them that day, 
 when that monkey Madcap had not been near to 
 intrude; therefore Feversham had been almost 
 condescending to me when he met me that even- 
 ing at mess. 
 
 Gwendoline Bambridge was sitting alone in 
 her room ; she had dressed for dinner, and was 
 absorbed in what seemed to be a pleasant reverie, 
 while waiting for the gong to sound. Suddenly 
 the door opened, and Clarissa flitted into the 
 room : both these girls were peculiar in their 
 manner of moving and walking about a room. 
 Gwendoline always reminded me of a clipper- 
 ship under press of canvas — she literally sailed 
 along the ground, seeming to me also like a swan, 
 piloting itself gracefully over the clear waters of 
 the lake ; but Clarissa flitted, or flew — it was 
 more the rapid, graceful motion of the swallow, 
 intensely swift, with nothing of hurry or exertion 
 discernible ; she was at the door as you looked 
 at her; the next instant, without your knowing 
 how, she was at your side. They were pretty 
 and distinctive peculiarities, and I had often no- 
 ticed them, deeming them suggestive and char- 
 acteristic. In one minute Clarissa had flitted, or 
 skimmed, over to her sister in her rapid, noiseless 
 way, and laying a hand on each of Gwendoline's 
 shoulders, was looking down into her sister's 
 eyes, with her own brimful of fun and merriment. 
 . There was a long pause. Clarissa evidently 
 expected Gwendoline to speak, and Gwendoline 
 remained pertinaciously silent. Isn't it provok- 
 ing that people always will do exactly what they 
 are not wanted to do ? 
 
 "Well?" asked Clarissa at length, seeing that 
 her sister would not initiate the conversation. 
 
 " Well!" replied Gwendoline, impenetrably. 
 
 "Has not our grave and gracious friend pro- 
 posed this afternoon, Gwen ? I am sure I gave 
 him ample time to do it in, and do you know it 
 is slow v»'ork fern-hunting alone. I should not 
 have minded, if dear little Vivian had been with 
 me ; but then, of course, ho would ■ have been 
 miserable at seeing you alone with his cousin. I 
 do wish, Gwen, you would be' quick' and hook 
 this fish, if you are going to have him, because 
 you draw all the best men in the place, and leave 
 me no chance ; if you were married, I should 
 have a little fair play, and begin to do business 
 
OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 25 
 
 on my own account. What did he say ? Is the 
 matter decided ?" 
 
 " No," answered Gwendoline, trying to look as 
 if she felt more doleful than -was by any means 
 the case. "You know, Clary, I always tell you 
 there is nothing in it ; we are not thinking of 
 each other." 
 
 "Ha, ha!" laughed Clarissa; "I know very 
 well when you say there's nothing in it, it is sure 
 to be something very serious for the poor man 
 concerned, and he generally gets his dismissal a 
 few days afterward. But he should have pro- 
 posed to-day, when I did every thing on pur- 
 pose ; " and leaving her sister, Clarissa walked 
 over to a cheval-glass, and began turning herself 
 round and round before it, singing "Why don't 
 the men propose ?" 
 
 Satisfied with the arrangement of her skirts, 
 she turned away presently, and continued, " That 
 lover of yours is a very handsome fellow, I ad- 
 mit, but not nearly as good-looking as my little 
 darling Madcap. What eyes that boy has, to be 
 sure ! If I were you, I should be in love with 
 him, over head and ears. How can you go in 
 for that sentimental, grave, dignified, long-legged 
 stork? I have never made out what animal ho 
 is like, for, thoiigh I call "him a stork, his face is 
 not like one ; but one name's as good as another. 
 As for dear little Vivian, in spite of his good 
 looks; any one can see with half an eye he be- 
 longs to the monkey tribe. If Mr. Darwin had 
 been acquainted with him, I could forgive him 
 for his theories respecting the origin of man. By- 
 the-bye, I'll ask Vivian if he knows Darwin." 
 
 "And he will tell you he does — meaning of 
 course his book. How can you be so absurd, 
 Clarissa ?" laughed Gwendoline. " I don't think 
 Vivian like a monkey at all ; he is more like a 
 rough Scotch terrier." 
 
 " Oh, it is all the same thing ; he is a little 
 darling, whatever he is like, and I wish you would 
 throw over the solemn captain for him. I should 
 like him for myself if I could get him, but failing 
 that, he would make a beautiful brother-in-law. 
 Now I am disgracing myself by my levity, I sup- 
 pose," she added ; "old Mother Botters would 
 tell me so, were slie here. What a mercy she is 
 not, or I should never be able to resist the tempta- 
 tion of scandalizing her ! Ah! there's the gong," 
 and Clarissa, pirouetting two or three times on 
 one toe, vanished suddenly from the room, before 
 Gwendoline had time to get out of her chair. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 NB W-COMEKS. 
 
 A FEW days after Feversham had announced 
 to us at mess the forthcoming arrival of our head- 
 quarters, thelittletownof Belmui'phy wasthi'own 
 into a most miusual and unprecedented state of 
 excitement by the incoming of what was, to the 
 inhabitants, a real army, and not the puny rep- 
 resentation of military pomp and parade they had 
 been accustomed to dignify by that high-sound- 
 ing title. You would never have' believed the 
 town could have contained such crowds of old 
 women, children, and small boys as it poured 
 forth on that occasion. These all put in an ap- 
 pearance at the station, and afterward accompa- 
 nied the troops through the streets, keeping up 
 
 as best they could, according to their several ca- 
 pacities ; the small boys managing best in that 
 line, and varying the monotony of the march by 
 turning wheels, standing on their heads, and such 
 accompaniments to the pomp and circumstance 
 of war as were in vogue in Irish country towns, 
 or were suggested by ready Celtic wit. 
 
 I was glad to see some of my old comrades 
 again — not that I had known them very long be- 
 fore being sent down here, but still their faces 
 were familiar. With one of them I had always 
 been friendly ; there was one man, whose kindly 
 handsome face I could see beaming on me out 
 of a carriage window before the train drew up in 
 the station ; he, next to my cousin Claude, had 
 always been my particular chum in the regiment. 
 In fact, there is no doubt that, in some ways, he 
 was more to me than Claude had ever been, or 
 than it was now likely he ever could be. We 
 were more of an age, had many tastes and ideas 
 in common, which my sterner captain would have 
 looked upon as childish; in fact we suited each 
 other; that is the shortest way of putting it, and 
 no other way explains the matter as well. 
 
 But Claude had once asked me why Cecil 
 Egerton suited me, and what I saw in him to 
 like: with the provoking manner of things in 
 general, I could, at that minute, think of no rea- 
 son for my liking, that Claude could not poke a 
 hole in with one word. According to his account, 
 every other fellow was as good as Egerton, and 
 better too; becailse they had none of his weak- 
 ness, which I am bound to admit was his great 
 fault. 
 
 Claude's questions and cynical criticisms had 
 the effect of making me think a little about char- 
 acter for the rest of that day. I have never 
 studied human nature much, for though some 
 fellow says "The proper study of mankind is 
 man," still the subject appears to me so deep, 
 there is in it such an infinite, variety, that I find 
 it comparatively useless to reason from analogy. 
 If I try to classify my observations, I meet im- 
 mediately some one who upsets all my pet theo- 
 ries which I have evolved with much cigar-smoke 
 out of my inner consciousness. That is provok- 
 ing, you know ; a fellow does not like having his 
 theories upset, and I have found that mine begin 
 and end in — smoke. 
 
 But these observations of Eeversham's did 
 make me think a little on the matter, in spite of 
 my preconceived determination not to lose my- 
 self in its depths any more ; the result of my 
 thought was, I began to perceive that, as no man 
 can be really a great man who has not firmness 
 — a mental backbone to his character — so also 
 none can be great who has many petty weak- 
 nesses, no matter how fine an appearance he 
 present to the world. The little flaws, though 
 hardly perceptible, work themselves through the 
 nobler metal^ and prevent it ringing true when 
 struck full and hard in the battle of life. 
 
 There is Claude, now. He is as perfect as 
 most men — perhaps, in natural character, as great 
 as a man can be — but he has a flaw that often to 
 me, who know him well, spoils all his really good 
 points. He has firmness, uprightness, candor, 
 generosity, good-nature, and no alloy of the pet- 
 ty vanity that so often spoils good-looking and 
 clever men. But the very strength of his nature 
 causes its defects ; he has no toleration for weak- 
 ness, no sympathy or pity for those less strong 
 
26 
 
 OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 than himself. He will be Jielpful and kind to 
 them, but he despises them ; nnd contempt, un- 
 less exhibited for something in itself base and 
 unworthy, is a meanness. 
 
 Cecil Egerton is Claude's opposite in many- 
 things. More clever in some ways, even better 
 looking, he is distrustful of himself, and humble 
 always ; as generous, as candid, as upright, where 
 he himself is concerned, but more sympathetic, 
 and weak as water in opposing the wishes of 
 those to whom he is attached ; like all such gen- 
 tle, artistic natures, very loving, very impression- 
 able. Perhaps Claude would not speak or think 
 so hardly of him, were he aware of J3gerton's his- 
 toiy ; and did he know how much that timid, 
 vacillating manner is the result of .hardship and 
 toil from early childhood — of a precarious living 
 earned with difficulty. 
 
 His father and mother had always been poor 
 ever since he remembered them ; but they had 
 been well-bred and refined, in spite of poverty. 
 His mother had been disowned by her family, in 
 consequence of her marriage with Mr. Egerton, 
 who was an artist, a man possessing considerable 
 ability. and some genius, which had been almost 
 crushed outof him by the stern hand of necessity 
 at the time Cecil began to remember him. 
 
 He did not know him long, however; when 
 Cecil was ten years old Mr. Egerton died of over- 
 work and over-anxiety— ra combination that has 
 proved fatal to many talented, sensitive men ; 
 and then little Cecil and his mother were left to 
 pull on together as best they might, when de- 
 pendent entirely on the exertions of a feeble, 
 lieart-broken woman. But help came to them 
 when they least expected it ; and when the bur- 
 den laid on his mother had become too heavy to 
 be supported by the earth-wearied shoulders, or 
 borne by the toil-worn brain much longer. An 
 elder brother of Mrs. Egerton's, one of those men 
 who had cast her off on the occasion of her mar- 
 riage, hearing of her husband's death, now came 
 forward, offering to provide for her and the boy 
 in the future. 
 
 For her own sake, had she been alone, Mrs. 
 Egerton would have accepted nothing from one 
 who had allowed her husband to die of want, 
 when he could easily have procured him some 
 eraploypient that would have relieved their pov- 
 erty^ biit for the sake of the child whose inter- 
 est she was bound not to neglect, she availed her- 
 self of the proffered assistance, and tried to school 
 herself to gratitude. Her time was come, how- 
 ever ; pleasures and luxuries arrived too late to 
 one who had worn out her power of living, in 
 stern battle with necessity. Two or three months 
 after she and her son had been established under 
 Mr. Vansittart's roof, she passed away, glad, but 
 for the anguish of parting from her child, to gain 
 tlie promised rest so long prayed for, so much 
 needed. 
 
 It might be thought the boy was too young 
 then to understand much of what was passing, 
 but sorrow is a wonderful sharpener of young 
 wits, and little Cecil comprehended what he had 
 never heard expressed in words : namely, that his 
 uncle Vansittart had hated his dearly loved father, 
 who was gone, that he had let him die without 
 endeavoring to save him, and. that his after-nt- 
 tention to his mother and himself had come too 
 late to save her life. He knew that his uncle 
 entertained no liking for him on account of his 
 
 resemblance to his dead father, and he hated Mr. 
 Vansittart with an impotent, childish hatred, 
 that was the more bitter because he felt it to be 
 futile and impotent, when he would so gladly 
 have had it active and hurtful. He did not see 
 much of his uncle. He was sent to school im- 
 mediately after his mother's death, and there he 
 remained — except when some of his school-fel- 
 lows asked him to then' homes for the holidays 
 — from year's end to year's end, until after he 
 was eighteen years of age. Then one day, with- 
 out any previous warning, he was sent for to ap- 
 pear in the master's room ; and he found him- 
 self, after the lapse of eight years, standing face 
 to face with his uncle, Eoderick Vansittart. 
 
 Mr. Vansittart, as .he . thus came before the 
 eyes of his nephew, now a lad of nearly eighteen 
 years of age, seemed -rather a different person 
 from what he had appeared to the boy of ten. 
 Cecil was bound to admit that some of his ideas 
 on the subject had been warped and prejudiced, 
 and that hate had had too much to do with the 
 estimate he had formed of this his only relative, 
 who had taken no notice of him, and had only 
 helped him to live. 
 
 Mr. Vansittart was a tall, spare man, with 
 dark hair, very plentifully sprinkled with gray, 
 and iron-gray whiskers ; his cold blue eyes were 
 keen and quick, his forehead was high and nai- 
 ]'ow, and his thin drawn-in lips gave to a rather 
 large mouth a compressed, trap-like appearance. 
 In dress he was scrupulously neat, always at- 
 tired in perfectly fitting, dark -colored clothes. 
 Ill - natured people had been heard to aver he 
 possessed but one suit, but if that were so, then 
 must that one suit have been made of self-renew- 
 ing cloth, endowed with perennial youth, for no 
 one ever saw any thing shabby upon him. His 
 large white hands were as spare as Iiis body, and 
 were always wonderfully clean and spotless ; they 
 furnished him with a favorite object for contem- 
 plation, and he was engaged in minutely inspect- 
 ing them when his nephew entered the room. 
 
 Mr. Vansittai't's visit was more to Dr. Per- 
 cival, the school-principal, than to the lad, and 
 had for its object to ascertain what progress 
 young Egerton had made in his studies^ and 
 whether he was lifcely.to be a credit to his uncle, 
 and repay him for the money that had been ex- 
 pended on educational purposes. 
 
 "If he promises to turn out well," Mr. Van- 
 sittart had explained, "I will place him in the 
 army, and, having interest, I will get him pushed 
 on. We have not in our family favored the mil- 
 itary profession ; but it has always seemed to me 
 that, with interest, it might turn out a good thing, 
 and a man who rises rapidly in the army always 
 enjoys a certain consideration among outsiders, 
 who may not see how the wires that work' the 
 puppets are pulled. There is to be an examina- 
 tion for the line in the course of the next three 
 months : if it is your opinion. Dr. i'ercival, that 
 Cecil is competent to pass thiit examination, it 
 would be my wish that he should go up for it." 
 
 And in order that this wish should be an- 
 nounced to him, young Egerton had been sum- 
 moned down from the intense and absorbing la- 
 bor of composing a poem in Latin verse, that 
 was to be sent in for competition for Dr. Perci- 
 val's special prize. 
 
 Mr. Vansittart did not appear in quite so bad 
 a light for some days after this announcement. 
 
OUE DETACHMENT. 
 
 27 
 
 Dr. Pei'cival had expressed his belief that Eger- 
 ton could not fail to pass, had praised his abili- 
 ties very highly, and had particularly commend- 
 ed his aptitude for every branch of drawing and 
 design. 
 
 "He will make a splendid draughtsman in a 
 few years' time, when he has gained a little more 
 knowledge and experience," continued the good 
 doctor, undisturbed by the gathering frown on 
 Mr. Vansittart's brow. "I am always glad to 
 see a young man exhibit such a talent ; it keeps 
 him out of mischief, and gives him an object, 
 when otherwise his life would be aimless and des- 
 ultory." 
 
 " It is at the root of all vagabondage and evil- 
 doing!" thundered Mr. Yansittart, startling the 
 doctor out of his prosy platitudes, and the lad out 
 of his dreams of gold and scarlet, cold glittering 
 steel, and bullion embroidery. "Art is another 
 name for meanness of every kind, fortune-hunt- 
 ing and dishonesty included." 
 
 " It is false !" shouted Cecil, springing from the 
 window, where he had been standing. "My 
 father was an artist, and you know it. It is his 
 memory you slander when you speak as you 
 spoke just now. Before me you shall never do 
 it, or I will leave you and your hateful benefits, 
 and seek my own livelihood from a world that 
 can not be more cruel than you." 
 
 He stopped speaking, and then the spirit that 
 had borne him up in the moment of excitement 
 failed, and he turned again to the window, rest- 
 ing his head against the panes, that the tears that 
 flowed, in spite of his eftbrts to keep them back, 
 might not be seen. 
 
 Mr. Vansittart had almost quailed under the 
 vehemence of the boy's attack.. When he fin- 
 ished speaking and turned away, his uncle with 
 difficulty restrained himself; but Egerton's ap- 
 pearance was very striking; the old man had 
 no heir ; and it had struck him that if the boy 
 turned out well, and made a figure in the world, 
 he could not do better than adopt him. It 
 was but natural that the lad at first should not 
 see all the advantages that would accrue to him 
 from strict subservience to all his uncle's moods 
 and whims, and the flash . of fiery spirit pleased 
 the old man, as being a suitable thing in one 
 who was to succeed in the army, make a figure 
 in the world, and finally inherit the splendid Van- 
 sittart property of Beaumanoir, and the Vansit- 
 tart name. Eor even the change of name at 
 some future period had already formed part of 
 the old man's scheme. 
 
 " Come here, Cecil," he said, after a few min- 
 utes' silence, during which the doctor looked 
 from one to the other nervously. " I was wrong 
 to speak before you as I did just now. My zeal 
 for your future welfare led me astray. I will not 
 allude to the matter again ; only let me see no 
 artist tendencies in you, and pass your examina- 
 tion in November." 
 
 The frank acknowledgment that he had been 
 in the wrong touched the lad's impressionable 
 lieart, he being utterly incapable of conceiving 
 how entirely conventional the expressions of re- 
 gret had been, how little real meaning there was 
 in them. His uncle was raised to a higher place 
 in his esteem forthwith, and he even began to 
 think his conduct in former days might be par- 
 doned, if Mr. Vansittart should really repent the 
 course he had pursued, as the lad's sanguine 
 
 heart led him to believe was probable. Eor Ce- 
 cil was prone to judge every one by himself, and 
 supposing to be possible what was impossible, 
 namely, that he should knowingly act cruelly or 
 unkindly to any one, he would have been after- 
 ward overcome with remorse; this exceptional 
 tenderness of conscience the foolish boy believed 
 was common to every one, as well as to himself. 
 
 The examination came, and Cecil passed 
 through it triumphantly, taking a veiy high 
 place — third on the list — to the intense pride 
 and delight of his uncle, who at once wrote him 
 a very friendly letter, asking him to Beaumanoir, 
 there to pass the time that must elapse before he 
 could be gazetted. Cecil had no other home to 
 which he could go, and he therefore accepted the 
 invitation, his ill feelings toward his relative still 
 further dissipated by the really friendly wording 
 of the note. 
 
 But once established at Beaumanoir, old asso- 
 ciations, familiar scenes, forgotten incidents re- 
 called, and closer acquaintance with his uncle, 
 revealed sentiments, opinions, and characteristics 
 eminently distasteful to a young and ardent 
 mind, full of poetic and Quixotic fancies ; and 
 the old dislike not only returned, but deepened. 
 Mr. Vansittart was mean ; in fact, he was made 
 up of meannesses, and he, judging others by him- 
 self, deemed that every one around him was com- 
 pounded of the same ingredients. He had a fa- 
 vorite theory that money was every thing in- the 
 world. ' He said it represented not only power, 
 influence, fame, all the many mercenary interests 
 of the world, but that it meant also all those 
 closer and more cherished sentiments that men 
 pretend (according to him) to set such store by. 
 It meant, in his reading of the word, honor, trnth, 
 friendship, devotion, constancy, love; all that po- 
 etic or heroic souls have ever dreamed was com- 
 prised to him in that sordid word. With such a 
 ci-eed, what could the man be ? Was it not rath- 
 er a wonder that he was what he was, that he had 
 not dried up into a miser pure and simple, that 
 he had any feelings left that could prompt him 
 to give his sister's child an education ? To him 
 all men were knaves or fools, all women wicked 
 and weak. With a world peopled as he believed 
 it to be around him, it was only a wonder that 
 he had in himself kept up the semblance of an 
 outward respectability, and avoided falling into 
 those glaring sins from which, according to his 
 creed, none were kept, except by a fear of expos- 
 ure, the result of the hypocrisy he deemed inher- 
 ent in man. 
 
 " I would not trust any man in the world with 
 a woman or gold, or any woman in the world 
 with a man or gold," he said, deliberately, after 
 dinner, on the night of his nephew's arrival, ex- 
 pounding to him his strange doctrines. "Act 
 as if every man in the world were your enemy, 
 whom you must deceive, and as if every woman 
 were your slave, whom you must cow. 'They 
 act so toward you ; do you pay them in their 
 own coin.'' 
 
 Cecil -Egerton looked at his uncle's narrow, 
 cunning face with astonishment. 
 
 " I don't know much of the world,I suppose," 
 he said, "but still, perhaps, from having been so 
 long poor, I have seen more than most lads of 
 my age ; and though I know we rubbed shoul- 
 ders with many queer characters in those days, 
 still I never thought them as bad as you say. 
 
28 
 
 OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 Indeed, as fur as their means went, they were 
 good to me." 
 
 "Because they hoped to make something out 
 of you," Mr. Vansittart answered, with his low, 
 self-contained laugh. "And now, with your 
 youth >ind inexperience, you will be more ex- 
 posed to the attacks of sharpers than ever. Hold 
 tiiith with no map, as long as you can escape de- 
 tection, or where detection will not harm you ; 
 but if you are found out in any mess, I warn you 
 I will not stand by j-ou. I believe in roguery — 
 we are all rogues — but then I will only have to 
 do with clever ones." 
 
 "I have only wit enough to be honest," an- 
 swered the lad, with his frank laugh. "I had 
 rather be the person deceived than be the de- 
 ceiver. I hope I may never adopt your creed, 
 sir." 
 
 "You will in a little time, hoy," replied Mr. 
 Vansittart, laughing quietly to himself; "indeed, 
 I doubt not you practice it now on me in a mild 
 way, by tiying to make yourself out more hon- 
 est than yon are. Well, that is a paying line ; a 
 rogue of unimpeachable integrity will fleece more 
 fools to his one brain in a year than six doubtful 
 characters would in ten years. So, if you can 
 act the thing without believing the cant the char- 
 acter obliges you to talk, you will do well." 
 
 "But it is no cant," cried Cecil, earnestly; 
 then, meeting his uncle's cold stare of incredu- 
 lity, he looked down at his plate and remained 
 silent. 
 
 Day by day brought out some trait in the old 
 man's character more and more distasteful to his 
 nephew. The natural result of his views with 
 respect to people, in general was that he distrust- 
 ed every one, imputing bad motives for the most 
 trivial acts of kindliness. Young Egerton soon 
 found, to his disgust and indignation, that his 
 sweet, obliging temper and ready good-nature 
 had caused him to be branded in Mr. Vansit- 
 tart's eyes merely as a rather more skillful and 
 successful hypocrite than most men. 
 
 After this discovery there was very little more 
 friendliness between them : Cecil trying to show 
 by his manner how little he eared for his uncle's 
 opinion, how independent he was of the merce- 
 nary motives imputed to him, and Mr.Vansit- 
 tart endeavoring, by threats and arguments, to 
 coerce him into the state of mind and feeling for 
 which he believed hie nephew was formed, and 
 which he approved, as one that frequently led to 
 success in life. Two such ill-assorted characters, 
 brought thus into the close proximity of a coun- 
 try house, could not fail either to quarrel or to 
 influence each other very materially. Egerton 
 was not quarrelsome, but he was weak ; he had 
 not suflScient sti-ength of mind and purpose to 
 maintain a steady, silent opposition to the insid- 
 ious workings of a strong mind over his Weaker 
 one, and he would without doubt soon have suc- 
 cumbed, had he not been gazetted to the — th, 
 just two months after he arrived atBeaumanoir. 
 
 How delighted he was to receive that long 
 blue, official -looking envelope, marked on the 
 outside, "On Her Majesty's Service!" It was 
 like an order of release to a long pent-up prison- 
 er ; lie felt as if escaping from the contact of his 
 uncle's vice-imbued mind would bei as a breath 
 of air from fresh, heathery mountain-tops to the 
 captive long confined in the close air of a dun- 
 geon. 
 
 His uncle was with him at the breakfast-table, 
 in the long dining-room at Beaumanoir, when 
 Egerton received the letter. His cheek flushed 
 and his eye sparkled, but he passed ovev the en- 
 velope and its contents without a word. As the 
 old man took the announcement and looked over 
 it, Cecil glanced round the room as though to 
 take the well-remembered furniture that had 
 seen long ago his bitter sorrow into his confi- 
 dence about his great joy. The low French 
 window at one end of tho room was Open, and 
 through the opening came the sweet-scented 
 morning air and the golden gleam of the early 
 sun. Every thing looked brighter and more 
 cheerful than it had done an hour before — even 
 his uncle's face was pleasant, he thought, as Mr. 
 Vansittart i-etumed the letter, saying, 
 
 ' ' Very good ; the — th is a fine corps — a light- 
 infantry regiment, and considered rather fast, I 
 believe. There are some good men in it from 
 the neighborhood around this. By-the-bye, you 
 never met any of my neighbors, I think ; it 
 doesn't much matter, as the young men, such as 
 Lord Eevershara and some others, are in your 
 regiment, and you will meet them there. They 
 will of course pay you attention, knowing you to 
 be my nephew. I should have liked you to see 
 Longhiu'st ; but it is a very long drive from this 
 — fourteen miles, at least. Some people think it 
 almost as fine as Beaumanoir : I can't say I do. 
 I like land lying toward the south — it gets so 
 much more sun. Longhurst lies westward — a 
 pretty aspect of a summer's evening, but gloomy 
 in winter ; and in England, winter certainly 
 claims three-fourths of the year. I hope you 
 will remember all I have been telling you when 
 you enter your regiment : in a society of young 
 men like that, the overreaching principle, the 
 desire to make as much as possible out of every 
 one, is always at work, no matter how skillfully 
 it may be concealed. Don't forget that; and 
 remember, the aggressor always has the best 
 chance : just as the man who tells his story first 
 always makes most way in men's opinions, and 
 often gets a prejudged favorable verdict before 
 the other side of the question has been heard at 
 all." 
 
 Cecil looked gloomy ; his brilliant ideas and 
 high aspirations were being sadly damped by this 
 view of the companionship he should acquire in 
 exchange for that of his uncle. ' He had not ta- 
 ken, up his uncle's ideas personally, despised them 
 still, and would have resisted any temptation to 
 act on them ; but by dint of constant repetition, 
 he had come to think there might be some truth 
 in them, as regarded others. Already the mis- 
 chievous doctrines he heard propounded every 
 day began to work. He was angry with him- 
 self, how'ever, for having allowed them to acquire 
 any hold of his mind, and he did not choose his 
 uncle to see their effect, therefore he remained 
 silent. 
 
 Breakfast over, he roamed out to say fare- 
 well for a time to the old place, and the haunts 
 of that brief period of his childhood when he 
 and his mother had been all in all to each other 
 here. The sun was shining brightly, and the 
 day was soft and warm, though it was only the 
 end of January. It was one of those few days 
 that come sometimes with the beginning of the 
 year, to delude us with the hopes of the near ap- 
 proach of spring. 
 
OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 29. 
 
 Cecil Egerton strode on briskly, stepping out 
 toward the far blue, hazy outline of hills upon the 
 horizon, trying to listen only to the joyful voices 
 in his heart, and not to the dreaiy calumnies 
 scattered broadcast ty his uncle over every true 
 and noble feeling of his nature. He was to leave 
 the next day but one, and sincerely did he re- 
 joice at the prospect. Mr. Vansittart had been 
 kind to him in his way, but the young man felt 
 he was expected to do welljto make a name, in 
 fact, In order that he might merit this kindness, 
 and that it might be continued to him. If the 
 world was such as his uncle described, it was 
 pretty certain he must go to the wall and be no- 
 where ; for, liad he the will, Egerton felt in him- 
 self he had not the mental force or strength to 
 be a successful man in the manner in which his 
 uncle desired him to be successful. 
 
 He was right tliere, and more right than he 
 knew himself to be. As soon as he walked into 
 our anteroom, after reporting himself, a few 
 days later, Eeversham, looking at him, said to 
 Preston, in an under-tone : 
 
 ' ' Weak as water ; how did he ever find strength 
 of mind enough to pass his exam ?" 
 
 "I don't see that," answered Preston; "he 
 has an Intellectual face. Don't you think so? 
 Look at his brow." 
 
 " Follow the line of the jaw and the expres- 
 sion of the mouth rather, and you will see I am 
 right Do you observe, he seems pei-petually 
 about to speak, and then says nothing ?" 
 
 ' ' Which is, at least, better than if he spoke 
 with nothing to say," Preston returned, laugh- 
 ing. 
 
 •' Wait a day or two — ^he will come to that 
 presently," answered Claude, in a cold tone of 
 disapproval. "No man with that face could 
 keep in any idea, no matter how feeble or futile, 
 that came into his head." 
 
 "You are too hard, Feversham. How would 
 you like strangers to judge you so ?" 
 
 Feversham laughed a contented laugh. 
 
 "I despise weakness," he said. "Why can't 
 a man know his mind and act on it ? At any 
 rate, no one can laugh at me on that score. " 
 
 Preston thought not, but he was not going to 
 flatter Feversham, so he did not answer him, but 
 went over to speak to the new-comerj who was 
 looking rather ill at ease, surrounded by a crowd 
 of quizzical subs. He did not mean to do any 
 thing, or make fun of him in any wa}', but some- 
 times the spirit of mischief gets into young fel- 
 lows and they can not help themselves ; besides 
 he was a good deal younger then than he is now. 
 That is quite six years ago. At any rate, how- 
 ever it happened, or whatever tempted him, he be- 
 gan presently to cram Egerton with some won- 
 derful story about the major, who was a goodfel- 
 low enough, but eccentric. His anecdote seemed 
 to stir up some recollections in Egerton's mind, 
 for he presently assented to a rather unworthy 
 proposition of Preston's with regard to the ma- 
 jor's character, saying thai he had heard things 
 were so in the world, and particularly in the 
 army ; but that, if the case were so, all he could 
 say was, that he thought the army, and the rest 
 of the world with it, had better be at the bottom 
 of the sea than that men should avow and prac- 
 tice such doctrines. 
 
 Preston was a little startled, for he had only 
 been chaffing, and had not imagined any one 
 
 could really take him to be in earnest. But, 
 from whatever cause it had happened, he had 
 been believed, and it was evident that the suppo- 
 sition of wickedness such as he had described 
 distressed the new-comer, therefore he could not 
 be a bad fellow. 
 
 Rather amused and interested, Preston tried 
 to explain that his stoi-y was an allegory, a ro- 
 mance, or whatever he liked to call it. 
 
 "Ah!" Egerton said, when Preston had fin- 
 ished his explanation, " then you are one of those 
 who like to take advantage of the ignorance of 
 others." 
 
 Preston was struck dumb ; the rejoinder had 
 a certain truth about it that gave it a bitter 
 flavor, and yet it was good ; something might be 
 learned from it, he felt at once, though he was 
 too confused at first to know exactly what. 
 
 "I did not mean to take advantage of you in 
 any wrong manner," he stammered, hardly know- 
 ing what to say ; "I only meant to make a little 
 fun." 
 
 "And I was stupid enough to take your ran- 
 dom assertions literally, and fancy that things 
 were worse here than they really a*e. I am too 
 matterrof-fact in any thing concerning every-day 
 life to understand chaff at present," he contin- 
 ued, pleasantly, " and I have had a bad instruct- 
 or lately on such subjects, so you must pardon 
 me when I make mistakes, and misunderstand 
 you. I have been told lately that truth and hon- 
 or are unknown in the world, that every man's 
 hand is against his neighbor ; and though I bad 
 not believed such assertions before, yet your ac- 
 count seeming to ratify and indorse that judg- 
 ment, I began to fear I had been moi-e incredu- 
 lous than I should have been." 
 . His look and manner, as he answered, were so 
 frank and winning, that Pi-eston forgot the diffi- 
 culty in which he had just been placed. He saw 
 also that Egerton was just the character who 
 would soon be a prey to Mayleigh's keen, sarcas- 
 tic wit, and who would be likely to suffer thereby 
 if he was not warned. He answered, therefore : 
 
 "If our fellows find you believe all they tell 
 you so easily, they will not explain things to you, 
 but will probably make matters appear worse and 
 worse. Don't believe them, and do not let any 
 thing they say bias your conduct, or you will be- 
 come a perfect weather-cock, veeringnowone way, 
 and now another." 
 
 After that they had some more conversation, 
 and every minute Preston was more and more 
 struck by the incongruities his companion's char- 
 acter presented. He had noble, lofty principles, 
 in which he implicitly believed ; he had the fii'm 
 desire and pui-pose to do right, and a naturally 
 sweet, good disposition ; and with all these fine 
 points, an extraordinary weakness of purpose, 
 that allowed him to be swayed from what he 
 knew to be right with every passing word, even 
 if the speaker of that word was a man of whom 
 he knew nothing, or, as I afterward found, whom 
 he knew to be capable of evil. But I liked him 
 when I joined and came to know him, though I 
 could see Claude Feversham sometimes looking 
 up from his paper to listen to our conversation, 
 when he happened to be in the room ; and as 
 soon as Egerton left, he would rise from his chiiir 
 impatiently, saying, 
 
 " What a fool that fellow is'! How such men 
 are allowed into the army is a puzzle to me. If 
 
30 
 
 OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 he was in the act of cutting down an enemy in a 
 skirmish, and any fellow passing by called out 
 ' Let the fellow oft',' he would do it, and perhaps 
 be bowled over by the same man half a minute 
 after. Unstable as water, would describe him 
 well." 
 
 I would laugh, Claude's disgust was so ex- 
 treme, but it did not change the opinion I had 
 formed of Egerton, that he was a nice fellow, 
 and clever in all save that one point, which is, I 
 almost think, an essential, if cleverness, or, more 
 properly speaking, talent, is to bear any fruit. He 
 became a great friend of mine ; he suited me very 
 well, for though I rather condemned his weak- 
 ness, still I found it pleasant to have a compan- 
 ion always obedient to ray wishes, and who nev- 
 er offered an opinion of his own in contradiction 
 to one of mine. And this man had now anived 
 at Belmmphy, and into his sympathetic ear I 
 promised myself I would pour all my hopes and 
 feai-s as soon as he had got comfortably settled in 
 his new quarters. 
 
 I do not think Cecil had ever been in love, but 
 he was of a romantic, poetical turn of mind, that 
 made me often wonder he had not at least fan- 
 cied himself smitten often before now ; at any 
 rate, this tendency to romance made him sym- 
 pathetic, and I was certain he would listen with 
 interest to all I had to tell him. 
 
 And I was right; he listened to my sorrows 
 eagerly and intently, and was inclined to pass a 
 hai-sh judgment on Feversham for interfering. 
 He and Feversham were cruelly distrustful of 
 each other. They had never taken to each oth- 
 er or become friends,which to me seemed strange, 
 as they had many tastes in common ; and Claude, 
 though always contemptuous on the score of my 
 new chum, admitted that he only wanted a men- 
 tal backbone to turn out a splendid fellow. Ce' 
 cil, I think, was afraid of Feversham, feeling his 
 captain's hardly concealed contempt, and avoid- 
 ing him in consequence ; always regarding him 
 with a feeling approaching to reverence and awe. 
 Of late they had become better friends, and 
 Claude was always kind to him. None of the 
 other fellows were as intimate friends of mine as 
 this man, though I got on well with all of them. 
 I am afraid this was not due to my own meric, 
 because I know I was often a troublesome mon- 
 key ; but it had been unanimously agreed that it 
 was no good correcting Madcap ; he might steady- 
 in time, but until then it would be necessary to 
 put up with him. They were very good to me — 
 much more so than I deserved; and jiist at this 
 time, not being at all happy, I am sure I was not 
 pleasant to them very often ; indeed Cecil told 
 me they all wondered what had happened to Mad- 
 cap, to make him so captious and irritable, par- 
 ticularly with his chum and Captain Claude Fev- 
 ersham. 
 
 Cecil soon understood why it was so, but un- 
 less questioned, he was not very talkative, and 
 therefore kept my secret well. I often blamed 
 myself, however, thinking I had been indiscreet 
 in telling him ; fearing that, when he heard con- 
 jectures afloat about me, he might perhaps be 
 tempted- to say what he knew. My fears were 
 unnecessaiy, however ; to me Cecil was true as 
 steel. 
 
 CHAPTER Vr. 
 
 Clarissa's conquest. 
 
 Op all the new-comers to Belmurphy belong- 
 ing to "ours," the most important personage in 
 the eyes of the neighborhood, and the one who 
 also ought undoubtedly to have been the most 
 important in our eyes, was Lieutenant -colonel 
 Dropmore, the ofiicer at that time in command. 
 He was a widower,' but, before I joined, his wife 
 and he had been great characters in the regiment. 
 She had been a person of tart, severe disposition, 
 of whom the subs stood greatly in awe, and whom 
 Mayleigh had named one day, in an inspired mo- 
 ment, Acid Drops. The name was a good one, 
 and it stuck ; the colonel, a good-natured fellow 
 himself, going by the name of Acid Drop's hus- 
 band, or more generally, for shortness, A. D.'s 
 husband. She, poor soul, had been dead for two 
 years ; and though it might be thought such an 
 experience would have cured Dropmore of any 
 fancy toward matrimony, it was now well known 
 that he was very anxious to make a second trial,, 
 and generally offered himself to every eligible 
 young lady that appeared upon the scene. 
 
 He was a short, stout man, with a handsome, 
 good-humored face, in .which, howevei', all the 
 indications of a quick, hot temper were visible. 
 Indeed, Acid Drops (the name, though a mis- 
 nomer, had descended to him) was a veiy pep- 
 pery individual, but his fits of passion blew-over 
 very quickly. 
 
 He and several other of the new-comers were 
 asked to dinner at the Bevyleys' the day after 
 they arrived in Belmurphy. . We were to follow 
 them later in the evening, and have soirie dan- 
 cing. We knew most of our lady-friends would 
 be there, and we were quite curious to see which 
 of them all would make an impression on old 
 Drops's susceptible heart. Claude and I had 
 vei-y little doubt who must be the attraction to 
 every body, and I am sure both our hearts beat 
 faster at the thought. Claude ought to have 
 been certain enough, as I knew afterward ; but 
 I was entirely in the dark as to the position J! oc- 
 cupied ; and I fancied it was quite possible our 
 handsome colonel, in spite of his stumpy figure 
 and choleric disposition, might prove more at- 
 tractive than an ensign, so very juvenile as to be 
 constantly mistaken tor a boy. 
 
 All the same I felt almost inclined to quarrel 
 with old Drops for his bad taste, when I anived . 
 at Bayview next evening, and found him a de- 
 clared admirer of Miss Clarissa. It was such 
 outrageous 'stupidity of the man to look at her, 
 when her sister was near. I felt quite angiy at 
 first, but presently became very much amused, 
 watching how she managed him, and twisted 
 him round her finger, and laughed at him all 
 the time, without his for one minute suspecting 
 she did not admire him quite as much as he did 
 her. 
 
 "He is such fun, that colonel of yours," she 
 said to me later in the evening. "He baa been 
 telling me all about the late Mrs. Dropmore — 
 how sincerely he was attached to her, how long 
 they 'were married, how he lamented "^er loss, 
 what a good wife^ she made him, ending by 
 pointing out that a'good wife makes a good hus- 
 band, and vick versa. That seemed to be a spe- 
 cial point with him, and matrimony is evident- 
 ly his hobby. You call him Acid Drops, but 
 
OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 31 
 
 after the conversation to-night I would recom- 
 mend you to change his name to Pear Drops, 
 only .I<a.ra afraid you will be shocked at such a 
 '•frightful pun." 
 ~ I laughed. 
 
 " I suspect that conversation had seiious in- 
 tentions, Miss Clarissa, and that you will find he 
 • d'esigns for you the honor of asking you to be the 
 second Mrs. Drops. It is an honor that has been 
 offered to a good many, so that you will not even 
 have the gratification of thinking you are alone 
 in your gloiy." 
 
 "You provoking boy! Why could not you 
 have left me that illusion? You will rob "life 
 of all enchantment to me, if j'ou insist on bring- 
 ing me behind the scenes, and making me see 
 the rouge and pearl-powder on the actors' faces, 
 and the care-worn expressions that there take 
 the place of tlie fascinating stage smile." 
 
 "You talk so feelingly, one would think you 
 were an actress youi'self,"! answered. 
 
 "So I am. We are all actors'; every one is. 
 Hamlet discovered that for us a long while ago. 
 But I am more of an actress than most people. 
 It is an irresistible temptation to me to mislead 
 .and bamboozle, by seeming to be something dif- 
 ferent from what I am. ' No, you need not look 
 fiightened. In the first place, you would not be 
 alarmed if I was ever so great a deception ; and, 
 in the second place, I never act to you. »You 
 are too much of a friend forme to find any amuse- 
 ment in wearing the mask with you ; but with 
 Colonel Drops it is different, and I intend to 
 make him give me a little amusement." 
 
 "Don't be too hard on him. Miss Clarissa, "I 
 said; "he is such a good old fellow, though a 
 trifle hot at times. ' I should be sorry if you hit 
 him hard — and you knovvyou do sometimes." 
 
 "Poorlittlethingl has it felt the truth of that 
 remark?" she said, laughing. "If it was hit 
 hard, it was not by me; and, unfortunately, in 
 this warfare it is only the hand that strikes the 
 blow that can cure. Dear me, what a queer 
 place the world is! I wonder shall I ever feel 
 inclined to heal any wound I make?" 
 
 "Heal old Drops," I answered. "It would 
 be such fun to have you at the head of the regi- 
 ment, for you would make a first-rate coloneless, 
 and we should all think it unutterably jolly." 
 
 "Yes, and call me Clarified Drops, I suppose?" 
 she cried, laughing. "Thaiik you — ^you are all 
 too kind ; but though I feel extremely grateful, I 
 fear I must decline such a glorious destiny. Have 
 you been dancing with Gwen to-night ? Doesn't 
 she look handsome now?" 
 
 I followed the direction of her eyes, and saw 
 Gwendoline Bambridge leaning back in a low 
 chair talking to Claude, who sat on the end of 
 a sofa quite close to her. She was indeed look- 
 ing splendidly handsome, and unutterably happy. 
 If I had not been an infatuated fool, I should 
 have known the truth then ; as it was, for a few 
 short minutes I guessed it, and a dull, cold pain 
 took possession of me, making the lights seem 
 pale and dim, the music sound faint and distant, 
 and even the meny voice of my companion lose 
 its silvery tone. Has any one, in a moment 
 of supreme pain, the power to grasp and realize 
 his anguish ? I think not ; and I believe that it 
 is so arranged by wise and merciful dispensatibn. 
 Afterward; when the shock is over and the' mind 
 begins to recover its force, we know where the 
 
 wound has penetrated, and can tell how and why 
 we suffer pain, and what the intensity of our suf- 
 fering is ; but at first we know nothing of all this, 
 and can not even frame words to express our feel- 
 ing, can only moan and writhe, and rebel inartic- 
 ulately against our misery, like the dumb beasts, 
 with- whom we have more affinity in suffering than 
 in joy. 
 
 But as I stood like one stunned beside Clarissa 
 Bambridge, and watched with a fixed stare, the 
 intensity and direction of which was beyond my 
 control, the couple at the other side of the room, 
 Gwendoline looked over at me, smiled, and sign- 
 ed to>me to come to her. The painful deadness 
 that had taken possession of me was banished by 
 that look. I heard the merry measure of the gal- 
 op we had been dancing still ringing out through 
 the ball-room ; so, passing my arm round Cla- 
 rissa's waist, we took a few turns round the room 
 and stopped near her sister. 
 
 ' ' You wanted me ?" I asked, stopping at length 
 beside Gwendoline Bambridge, ana waiting, with 
 my heart in my eyes and ears, for her answer. 
 
 " I wanted to ask you when you are going to 
 dance with me. " I know,"she continued, " that 
 you say I am pass€e; but I never allow any one 
 to flirt with Clary who does not also pay her 
 dear sister a little attention. So you see what 
 you have to go in"for." 
 
 She laughed with an intepsely mischievous ex- 
 pression, while I, utterly miserable and fieicely 
 indignant, answered, 
 
 "I never said you were/joissa; I never even 
 thought it, I assure you." 
 
 Here I almost choked from the intensity of my 
 feelings ; the mere idea of such a term in con- 
 nection 'vyith that bright and beautiful being was 
 sacrilege. , 
 
 "Oh,dt is no good your denying it," she per- 
 sisted. "I know you said I was passee, and that 
 you admired Clary much more than you did me ; 
 but I will forgive you, if you promise to dance 
 the next waltz with me." 
 
 "I am engaged for the next," I answered; rue- 
 fully; "but I don't mind. I will throw her 
 over, if you will promise to tell me who it was 
 who said I had spoken in that way of you." 
 
 I was quite ready to speak out then and there, 
 and tell her I regarded her sister Clarissa's beau- 
 ty as a mere foil to her peerless loveliness,- though 
 I knew Clarissa was standing by listening to all 
 this, and with difficulty restraining her desire to 
 laugh. The fear of offending my divinity alone 
 restrained me. Besides, I could feel Claude's eye 
 fixed on me with a cold, sarcastic expression. 
 
 I turned away hurriedly, saying I would be 
 sure and come in time for the next dance ; but 
 as I went off with Miss Clarissa, I heard Feversh- 
 am say, in a cool, clear voice, that I was cer- 
 tain he meant should reach me, 
 
 "The young one seems rather off his head at 
 present. . Nothing betrays age so much as the 
 style in which a man conducts himself when in 
 love." 
 
 ■ I turned and looked at him for one minute — 
 it was but a minute, but he understood my look ; 
 he knew I had detected him in the meanness of 
 trying to make me appear badly in the eyes of 
 the, woman we both loved, and he had still suffi- 
 cient good feeling left to be ashamed of himself. 
 He colored all over his bronzed face, and bent 
 his head to avoids my gaze, and I p.assed on, 
 
33 
 
 OUE DETACHMENT. 
 
 thinking bitterly tliat Claude was changed in- 
 deed to net thus, to stoop to a baseness that, even 
 in my wildest moments, I would not have sullied 
 myself with. 
 
 But I forgot all annoyance, all pain, when my 
 dance with Gwendoline came round. She was 
 as kind, as merry, as perfectly friendly as ever, 
 and my poor, sore heart was soothed by the magic 
 of her bright smiles, and the caressing tones of 
 her soft voice. 
 
 "Who is that tall, handsome young man 
 standing in the door-way?" she asked, presently. 
 " I never saw him before to-night, yet he came 
 with your party. I suppose he is one of the new 
 arrivals. He is very good-looking. Introduce 
 him to me." 
 
 I looked in the direction she mentioned, and 
 saw Cecil Egerton leaning against the door-post, 
 and talking in his quiet manner to Miss Graham. 
 Now and then he laughed, as that young lady 
 said something that amused him, and I could tell 
 by the expression of his face he was enjoying 
 himself, but in a way peculiar to him, and very 
 different from our frank, outspoken merriment. 
 He always seemed to me as if he felt things so 
 far down below the surface that, except for his 
 irresolution how to act, one would hardly know 
 whether he had felt them at all. At the minute 
 we looked at him we both could perceive he was 
 laboring under the difficulty of deciding whether 
 he should ask Miss Graham to continue the 
 dance, or wliether he should remain there listen- 
 ing to her talk. Fortunately for him, the young 
 lady herself decided the matter, for, as she finish- 
 ed speaking, she put her hand on his shoulder, 
 and he whirled her away among the dancers. 
 
 " Who is he ? Introduce him to me," repeat- 
 ed Miss Bambridge. 
 
 " He is Cecil Egerton, an ensign in our regi- 
 ment, a good bit senior to me. I will introduce 
 him if you like," I answered, sulkily. It seemed 
 to me as if every thing that evening conspired 
 to annoy me. Why should she want to know 
 him ? What business had she to talk of him, 
 and look at him, when she might have talked on 
 subjects more nearly interesting to me, and might 
 have looked at me ? I was very savage and very 
 miserable, and began to think all my special 
 friends seemed to have been created for no other 
 pui'pose than to pain and irritate me. But when 
 the introduction was accomplished, and I saw by 
 Egerton's manner he had no intention of paying 
 particular attention in that quarter, I decided he 
 had no feeling for beauty, and was a kind of out- 
 er barbarian, with whom, in spite of his poetic 
 tastes, I could have nothing in common, and with 
 whomit was surprising I could have lived so long 
 on such intimate teims. 
 
 What weather-cocks we all are, swayed about 
 by every trivial incident, every unexpected look 
 or word ! Why, even Claude Feversham, and I 
 myself, were, in matters of feeling, as unstable 
 and fickle as Egerton was in action. And we 
 had presumed to laugh at him. Before the even- 
 ing was over I had forgotten that Claude was a 
 traitor, that Egerton was soulless and unfeeling, 
 and that I had almost called Gwendoline a co- 
 quette. The thought had tried to take shape in 
 my mind, but I had resisted it ; I would not give 
 it place, and finally I drove it forth in triumph. 
 When we set out on our drive home, I remem- 
 bered nothing but that I had danced three times 
 
 with Gwendoline, that she had been as kind, and 
 merry, and winning as ever to me, and had 
 laughed a great deal with me over Clarissa's new 
 admirer. 
 
 "I shall let Clary keep Colonel Dropmore," 
 she said. "I always make her give up any of 
 her men that I fancy, because, being eldest, I 
 have right of first choice/ If Colonel Dropmore 
 was a good catch, it might be worth mywhile 
 claiming him, but I don't fancy he is. Do you 
 know any thing about it, Vivian ?" 
 
 "If I did, I would not tell you," I answered 
 boldly, looking up in her laughing face. "I will 
 not encourage you in your evil courses ; besides, 
 it isn't fair Miss Clarissa should have nobody." 
 
 "Most Quixotic Madcap, Clary is well able to 
 take care of herself. But really it is amusing to 
 watch those two. See how Clary is snubbing 
 him." 
 
 I did not care to look at them at all, having 
 something much more interesting to me before 
 my eyes ; however, I did as I was told, and watch- 
 ed them for a few minutes. As Gwendoline had 
 said, ^they were too amusing: Old Drops was 
 touchingly devoted, and Clarissa was divided be- 
 tween saucy triumph and approaching boredosn. 
 Now and then I could see she struggled valiantly 
 against a yawn that would come, and then she 
 would turn with a smile to our little colonel, and 
 say something with a serene expression, that 
 could not have been very serene or placid in its 
 wording, to judge by Dropmore's irritated look. 
 It was evident the fish was hooked, and she was 
 playing him skillfully. I suppose that is how we 
 all look when we are caught, so we may comfort 
 ourselves by thinking that even the wisest men 
 in the world have looked at ' least once in their 
 lives like helpless fools. 
 
 That was a consoling reflection to me, know- 
 ing, as I did, that I had probably looked just as 
 idiotic, very likely more so, several times that 
 evening. 
 
 But we were going home, and I was h.ippy. 
 Matters were as doubtful as ever between Gwen- 
 doline and me ; yet her manner had given me 
 confidence. One thing, at least, I had deter- 
 mined on, and that was that I would speak to 
 Claude about the way in which I had overheard 
 him allude to me that evening. It was a very 
 foolish resolution on my part, but I was as fool- 
 ish as most yoimg men in my state of feeling are ; 
 I hoped that shame at being convicted in such a 
 pettiness might make my cousin less pushing and 
 forward in his attentions to Gwendoline in fu- 
 ture. 
 
 Such a fool's hope ! For an answer to it, I 
 need only have asked myself, would any shame 
 have availed to keep me away from her if I 
 thought she cared to have me near her? And 
 certainly she had given Claude that excuse dur- 
 ing the evening. But one always expects one's 
 friends and neighbors to be obedient to laws that 
 one can not see to be in any way binding on one's 
 self, and I was just as exorbitant in my demands 
 on my cousin's good behavior as we all are usu- 
 ally with regard to those around us. 
 
 As Claude was turning into his room, when we 
 arrived at barracks, I followed him. 
 
 " I want to speak to you a minute," I said. 
 
 "Very well," he answered, with an assump- 
 tion of indiiference that convinced me he knew 
 what was coming. As he spoke, he pulled off 
 
OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 33 
 
 his coat, and proceeded to get into his smoking 
 toggeiy. 
 
 " What did you mean by saying to Miss Bara- 
 bridge that I was off my "head to-night ? You 
 also hinted very broadly that I was in love. Will 
 you explain your meaning ?" 
 
 "My good Vivian," he replied, laughing, 
 
 " don't be absurd ; you were rather off your head 
 
 • when I spoke — angry about something,! think — 
 
 and all the world sees yon are in love ; so there 
 
 was no harm in mentioning that." 
 
 "If I am in love," I retorted, "it is nothing 
 to sneer at, let me tell you ; and those who live in 
 glass houses should not throw stones. But I will 
 tell you what it is, Teversham, you have no busi- 
 ness to monopolize Miss Bambridge in the way 
 you do, and prevent any other fellow getting near 
 her. I don't believe she likes it." 
 
 "And I believe she does," said Claude, slowly, 
 with a half smile. "My dear boy, I don't want 
 to pain you, but you are very mad and very fool- 
 ish. You are too young to think of marriage. 
 I love Miss Bambridge, and I think she cares for 
 me ; we understand each other pretty well, and 
 the sooner you give up this hopeless infatuation 
 of yours, the better it will be for you." 
 
 " Have you asked her to marry you yet ?" 
 
 " Well, not exactly ; but I think she knows I 
 intend doing so. I am entirely dependent on my 
 mother for means, and must get her consent and 
 approbation before I can marry comfortably. I 
 intend going over to see her in the beginning of 
 September, telling her all about it, and getting 
 her to make me a good allowance ; until then I 
 shall say nothing to Miss Bambridge ; it is not 
 much more than a month to wait." 
 
 "A most prudent and methodical person, "I 
 replied, sarcastically. "Love has not upset 
 prudence, and an eye to the main chance, in 
 your mind." 
 
 Claude walked up and down the room impa- 
 tienl*y. 
 
 "Take care, Vivian," he said; "you may try 
 me too far, patient as I am. Love does not pre- 
 vent my seeing that it would be desirable I should 
 offer my wife as good a home as that to which 
 she is accustomed ; but failing to secure that, I 
 should still ask her to take me, because, putting 
 all other matters aside, I have let her know my 
 intentions too plainly to be able to draw off now. 
 Not that I should do so in any case, Vivian ; you 
 nnden-ate my feelings very much if you think that 
 possible;' but indeed I fancy you are not capa- 
 ble of understanding them, and that I waste my 
 breath talking to you." 
 
 "Well, you will at least let me know your suc- 
 cess,"! urged. 
 
 " Certainly, if you wish it," he replied, with a 
 confident laugh. " But don't build up hopes for 
 yourself, Madcap ; they will be in vain, and will 
 cause you pain. ! believe solemnly Gwendoline 
 cares for me, and will accept me. ! think she 
 is kind to you only because you are my cousin." 
 This was too much for me; the vanity and 
 conceit of that man, qualities ! had never re- 
 marked in him before, were becoming unbear- 
 able, and I flung out of the room without utter- 
 ing another word. On my way to my own 
 quarters ! met Egerton : we both had to cross 
 the square to get to my rooms, and being bound 
 in the same direction, we walked over together. 
 
 "Was that the Miss Bambridge about whom 
 3 
 
 you have been talking so much, to whom you in- 
 troduced me to-night ?" he asked, as we walked 
 over ; and on my telling him it was, he remarked 
 in his quiet way, "!t is very odd how you fel- 
 lows get into a state of mind about a girl like 
 that. She is handsome, no doubt, but I don't 
 see half the things you have discovered in her ; 
 and what is more curious, though there were such 
 a number of pretty faces there to-night, none of 
 them took possession of me in any way calculated 
 to produce the feeling called falling in- love. I 
 suppose I am not capable of that kind of thing : 
 something wanting in my mental organization 
 prevents me from seeing perfection where it does 
 not exist." 
 
 ! was provoked with this fellow ; he had been 
 specially honored by her ha^ang asked for him to 
 be introduced to her, and he had the audacity 
 to appear almost bored by the honor. 
 
 " 1 am sure ! don't know where you can find 
 any one nearer perfection," I answered, hotly. 
 
 "Perhaps so," he replied ; " but I admire her 
 sister. Miss Clarissa, more. There is no account- 
 ing for taste, my good fellow, so don't enter into 
 a particular explanation of why one sister must 
 be handsomer than the other, as I see you are 
 about to do ; but tell me, did you see how old 
 Acid Drops went in for Miss Clarissa ? !t was 
 first-rate fun watching them — she played him so 
 skillfully. In the end she got tii-ed, and would 
 have liked to get rid of him, but the impression 
 she had made was too deep, and he would not 
 leave her." 
 
 " I saw it," I answered, gloomily. 
 
 I hated fellows who did admire and run after 
 Gwendoline, and was always seized with an in- 
 sane longing to do them a mischief; but I never 
 could bear men who had the bad taste not to ad- 
 mire her — it showed at once they were stupid 
 louts, and stupid people are inteusely irritating 
 to me. 
 
 "Here are my quarters," said Cecil, just as ! 
 was about to express this feeling. " Will you 
 come in and have a smoke and chat before you 
 turn in, or are you going straight off?" 
 
 "Oh! I am off at once," ! answered; and 
 turning away left him, the keen edge of my pleas- 
 ure in the evening completely blunted by his \vant 
 of perception and Claude's vanity. \ 
 
 As to that fellow, Egerton — he was sure to suf- 
 fer for it some day — it was such an absurd thing 
 for him to think that he was not quite as capa- 
 ble of making a fool of- himself as any of us. 
 Of course it was only that he had not happened 
 to meet the right person yet, and being always 
 taken up by drawing and painting, for which ho 
 displayed remarkable talent, he had not time to 
 waste on foolish flirtations, as most of our young 
 fellows had. 
 
 With regard to his artistic abilities, they were 
 wonderful ; and though he had had but few les- 
 sons, ! liked his pictures more than those of many 
 of the swell Academy men. I often asked him 
 why he did not exhibit, and found he had set 
 himself some absurd standard of perfection that 
 he was to attain before doing so — a standard he 
 was never likely to attain, for though his keen 
 perception of the beautiful kept him tolerably 
 straight in the right path, still, in this pursuit, his 
 vacillating, nature injured him more than it could 
 have done in any of his ordinary avocations. 
 Every thing he did had to be changed and alter- 
 
34 
 
 OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 ed, painted and re-painted dozens of times, the 
 matter generally ending by my taking forcible 
 possession of the canvas until he was absorb- 
 ed in something else, when it might be restored 
 to its owner without fes^ipf consequences. His 
 ideal standard, conseqirentlj;,' he would never 
 reach, and there were many beautiful things toss- 
 ing about his rooms that would have won high 
 praise at any exhibition. He was devoted to 
 sketching, and determined to profit by the beau- 
 tiful country surrounding Belmurphy, it promis- 
 ing to afford him ample opportunity for indulging 
 in his favorite pursuit. 
 
 Sometimes he would get leave for a day or 
 two, and start from barracks in a regular artist's 
 get up — portable easel, knapsack, with paint-box 
 and materials, gray tweed clothes, and high felt 
 hat of the brigand shape, so dear to the artist's 
 soul. Particularly handsome he looked in that 
 attire, the dark felt hat suiting the handsome, 
 melancholy cast of his countenance extremely 
 well. 
 
 His uncle, he told me, hated this passion of 
 his, and whenever he was at Beaumanoir he was 
 accustomed to steal off without announcing his 
 departure, and remain away for weeks together, 
 returning as suddenly as he had left. His uncle 
 thought he went up to London to amuse himself, 
 and made no objections to these excursions, which 
 he would have forbidden had he known their in- 
 nocent object. He was even generous enough to 
 offer the young man money occasionally, saying 
 that young men were accustomed to find their al- 
 lowances too small, and he wished his nephew to 
 do every thing handsomely. Lately he had of- 
 fered to keep a horse for Cecil. The offer had 
 been accepted, for, though Egerton knew very 
 little of liding, he was fond of it, and found it as- 
 sisted his sketching trips greatly to be able to go 
 on a quadruped's feet instead of on his own. 
 
 I thought of all this as I growled at Egerton's 
 stupidity that night, and would have wondered 
 that, being an artist, he had not found himself 
 compelled to admire Gwendoline, as one would 
 admire a picture, when I remembered that his 
 particular line was landscape — about portrait- 
 painting he knew nothing. Feeling slightly con- 
 temptuous over Egertoti's short-coming, and re- 
 flecting that if he did fall in love he would change 
 his mind every day, I dismissed the subject, and 
 began to dream of Gwendoline's manner to me, 
 and Feveraham's abominable egotism in fancying 
 that it was regard for him prompted that manner. 
 
 What will become of the world when men are 
 so vain that they can not see another fellow's 
 chance is as good, or better, than their own ? And 
 thinking thus, I fell asleep. 
 
 CHAPTER VIL 
 
 HOSTILITIES. 
 
 Days passed on, and matters went much as 
 they had done before our re-enforcement : that is 
 to say, we fished, and boated, and rode, and 
 drove, and croqueted, and danced, and Egerton 
 mooned about the country roads sketching, and a 
 curious state of affairs sprang up between Claude 
 and myself. It was thus it arose: 
 
 Though Claude persisted that he had never 
 yet spoken distinctly to Gwendoline Bambridge, 
 
 he took upon himself all the monopolizing airs 
 of an accepted lover, and was very fond of talking 
 to me about her, and arranging what he would 
 do when they were manied, as he seemed to take 
 it for granted they would he. His choice of a 
 confidant was at least singular ; he knew the 
 state of my feelings, and should have spared me, 
 and at least not talked of his success to me, if 
 success it was. 
 
 Of this I was not qnite sure, but I was begin- 
 ning to be convinced by his manner. He could 
 never have spoken as he did, had not something 
 passed between them that made him certain of 
 his ground. I was wretchedly unhappy. I list- 
 ened to Claude's confidences because there was 
 a fascination for me in hearing any thing about 
 Gwendoline, even if what I heard was altogether 
 unfavorable to my hopes ; I would listen to him 
 moodily, and hate him for talking thus, and my- 
 self for being so mean-spirited as to stay and 
 hear what he had to say. Then, perhaps half an 
 hour aftenvard, if I met Gwendoline, she was so 
 friendly and so particularly anxious for my com- 
 pany, that I would forget all Fevershara had 
 been telling me, and give myself up to the hap- 
 piness of the moment. Cecil Egerton himself 
 could not have been a more utterly weak-minded 
 fool than I was at that time, living alternately on 
 a pinnacle of happiness and in a gulf of gloom and 
 despair. 
 
 One thing struck -ne particularly, and from it, 
 in my inexperience, I drew a favorable augury, 
 when I might have known, had I been older and 
 wiser, that it was the worst sign possible. 
 
 Gwendoline now never spoke to me of Claude 
 Feversham, as she had been accustomed to do 
 when we first came to the place. On the con- 
 trary, I thought she sometimes avoided mention 
 of him, when she might have been led to allude 
 to him in following a subject. Of course I de- 
 cided she did not interest herself in him, when in 
 fact it was precisely because her interest in him 
 was great that she kept silence. 
 
 Colonel Dropmore had continued his attentions 
 to Clarissa Bambridge. He had explained to 
 her the amount of his income, the settlements he 
 had made on his first wife, and various other lit- 
 tle details that showed plainly what his intentions 
 with regard to her were. 
 
 She had become alarmed ; and from laughing 
 at him, had proceeded to snubbing him regularly, 
 but without much effect. Indeed the poor man 
 seemed to become more and more in earnest 
 the less hope there appeared to be for him. But 
 Clarissa could not keep him from coming to pay 
 visits ; could not keep her people from inviting 
 him ; could not altogether avoid his attentions 
 when he was there. And thus it happened that, 
 one day, as the whole party were in the garden, 
 gooseberry - picking (as Clarissa afterward ob- 
 served), Colonel Dropmore managed to discover 
 that young lady in an isolated corner, all alone. 
 
 "It was very stupid of me to have gone there," 
 she said afterward, to Gwendoline. "I might 
 have known, with Pear Drops in the place, re- 
 tirement of any kind was dangerous. But there 
 was a pet plum-tree of mine in that corner, and 
 the plums are just ripe, and I did not think he 
 would find me. That was a mistake, I must 
 confess. He is sharper than I thought. Having 
 found me, he began, in his odious, direct way, to 
 tell me that he had been fascinated by my many 
 
OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 35 
 
 charms and virtues, and that he designed me the 
 hortor of making me the second Mrs. Dropmore. 
 I can give you no idea of the stilted politeness 
 of his language, or the exquisite composure with 
 which he awaited his answer, quite convinced it 
 would be all he could wish. I was struck diimb 
 nt first, and did not recover myself until he tried 
 to take my hand. Then I drew away and put 
 my hand behind my back, saying, 'Excuse me. 
 Colonel Dropmore, but I don't quite see this mat- 
 ter in the same light as you do. I am convinced, 
 from what you tell me, that you would make a 
 most estimable husband, and I know you are the 
 pink of propriety and consideration, but I have 
 set my heart on something much more unruly 
 and scatter-brained. I could never consent to 
 lead the life of dull decorum that would await me' 
 as your wife.'" , ' 
 
 " 'I will be as uArnly and scatter-brained as 
 you like,' said the poor old' fellow, in answer. 
 ' Indeed, Miss Clarissa, I am very much in ear- 
 nest, and I think you have hardly a right to re- 
 fuse me, after all the encouragement you have 
 given me.' 
 
 "I was very angi-y then," continued Clarissa. 
 "Fancy my having encouraged him, when I had 
 been snubbing him all along as hard as I could. 
 
 " ' I deny that I have encouraged you,' I said. 
 ' I have tried to keep you off, by every means in 
 my power ; and if you don't like what I say to 
 you now, remember you drew it on yourself.' 
 
 "Then he got very angry, and told me he 
 knew I was in the habit of keeping a whole lot 
 of voting fellows dangling after me, and treating 
 them as I had treated him ; but he would put a 
 stop to it, at least in part. 
 
 " ' I will keep them up to their work,' he con- 
 tinued, 'arid not let them go racing off here at 
 every hour of the day. We have had a great 
 deal too little work and too much amusement 
 lately ; but that must be altered now. ' 
 
 "And so I believe it will be," added Clarissa, 
 with a fresh burst of laughing, " for I was so an- 
 noyed at what he said to me that I told him he 
 need never hope to occupy the same place in my 
 regard as his subalterns, who were, most of them, 
 particularly nice young men. He looked so fu- 
 rious then that I got frightened, and ran back to 
 you, Gwendoline. Do you think he will stay to 
 dinner?" 
 
 Gwendoline paused in the act of picking a plum, 
 and looked round cautiously to see that there was 
 no one near, before she answered, 
 
 " I don't care about his staying to dinner ; in- 
 deed I think it would be much better he did not 
 do so. But I hope to goodness he will not be 
 able to prevent our friends coming out to see«us ; 
 it would be too provoking. I could not exist 
 without seeing Vivian eveiy day." 
 
 " In fact, when the — th leave, life will be a 
 burden to you on his account," retorted Clarissa, 
 slyly. " But how about Lord Feversham — does 
 he come in nowhere? I was inclined to think 
 he had quite as much to do as dear Madcap in 
 mitigating the tedium of your existence." 
 
 "Don't be absurd. Clary," answered Gwendo- 
 line, laughing. " There are some subjects pn 
 which even younger sisters have no right to in- 
 trude, if it were only possible to teach them so ; 
 but yon are a hardened offender. Don't think 
 you will get any information out of me, however.". 
 The colonel did go, as Clarissa had expected 
 
 he would ; he told General Bambridge there was 
 urgent business awaiting him at barracks, and he 
 actually hurried away without saying good-bye to 
 the young ladies. 
 
 "What have you been doing to Colonel Drop- 
 more, girls?" asked Mrs. Bambridge, noticing 
 this. "It must be your fault, Clarissa, for you 
 were the one he was last seen with. " 
 
 " Oh ! indeed, mamma," laughed ClarisSa, gay- 
 ly, " don't ask me what has taken him away. No 
 one knows what I have gone through the last two 
 weeks, with the defunct Mrs. Dropmore, her set- 
 tlements, her peculiarities, her devotion, her little 
 touch of spirit, that some ill-natured people call- 
 ed temper, etc. I have lived in hourly terror of 
 being carried off, and made Mrs. Dropmore, no- 
 lens volens, ever since I first met him ; and it is 
 such a relief to me when he takes himself off for 
 a while, that I hope no one wijl mention his name 
 this evening." 
 
 We all obeyed her wishes, and I think it old 
 Drops had known how perfectly we enjoyed oui- 
 selves that evening without him, his frame of 
 mind, as he drove back to the barracks, would 
 have been even worse than it undoubtedly was. 
 And then he did not smoke, and of coiirse felt 
 all his grievances a great deal the more for that 
 abstinence. It does soothe a fellow, you know, 
 and is better than drink as a consoler, being less 
 immediately deleterious in its effects, though the 
 doctors do tell us it is quite as certain. 
 
 It is all very fine saying the mind is the mas- 
 ter of the body ; perhaps in very highly organ- 
 ized natures it may be, but with ordinary every- , 
 day people like the majority of us, I maintain 
 that bodily indulgence; if it be indulgence in any 
 thing for which you have a yeiy strong liking, 
 deadens, and for a time overmasters mental af- 
 fliction. The indulgence may be drink, smoking, 
 eating, riding a good horse, boating, or athletics ; 
 any of those things, in proportion as you enjoy 
 them, make a fellow feel almost jolly as long as 
 they last, and every time the mind is diverted 
 from its trouble the hold of that trouble is weak- 
 ened. 
 
 But our good old man had no such ' consola- 
 tion, and evdn the slashing pace at which the 
 post-horse took him back to town lost the power 
 of gratification it might have possessed, from the 
 fact that the animal that showed such a turn of 
 speed was not his own, but only a wretched hired 
 screw. The colonel's was not a very noble na- 
 ture, though a good-natured one, and Jie was 
 sorely ruffled and annoyed at the manner in 
 which he had been treated. It seemed to him 
 quite impossible that his offer could have been 
 refused, and refused in such a manner. ' It was 
 all the fault of the crowd of foolish boys that fol- 
 lowed the girl about everywhere, and that pre- 
 vented her from thinking seriously of business ; 
 but he would settle that^he would give' those 
 fellows plenty of work now, find them somethingj| 
 to do besides flirtation and love-making. " ? 
 
 Of course when one has the fixed intention of 
 making one's self disagreeable, it is not at all dif- 
 ficult to find an opportunity for doing so ; and 
 this Colonel Dropmore soon found. ' 
 
 His opportunity occun-ed in the following way : 
 We were sitting round the table over our wine 
 after mess one evening, a day or two after the 
 Barabridges' party. It was very curious how ev- 
 ery one guessed that Acid Drops had failed ia 
 
30 
 
 OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 getting a second Mrs. Drops. Miss Clarissa had 
 kept her own counsel, nnd yet we had all read 
 the secret at once, and knew why the colonel 
 was unusually gloomy and taciturn, and why he 
 had not gone near Endley the Inst two days. 
 
 We hiid been talking of all the dances, and 
 other entertainments wo had been at lately, and 
 we had been praising the hospitality of our 
 friends about Belmurphy. Suddenly Peversham 
 looked up from the laborious task of pounding a 
 biscuit into minute fragments, » task that had 
 for some time absorbed all his energies, and said, 
 "It seems to me we ought to do something in 
 return for all their civility. Don't you think we 
 could manage it ?" 
 
 " What shall it be ?" asked several voices. 
 
 "A dance, of course," I suggested, boldly; 
 "nothing else gives such general satisfaction. 
 Ask the old fogies to dinner, and it will not only 
 be dull for us, but all the ladies who are really 
 our best friends in Belmurphy will be left ov 'n 
 the cold ; give a picnic, and we shall have an 
 immensity of trouble, and the midges will eat up 
 the thin-skinned, and the delicate will get their 
 feet wet, and the salt will get into the claret cup, 
 and the wasps into the sweet dishes ; but give a 
 dance, and you are all right — all are safe to en- 
 joy themselves, and it is not nearly so much 
 trouble either to make a thing of that kind pass 
 off well. " 
 
 "A dance!" cried Mayleigh, joining in,<'that 
 will not be much of a return for all the hospital- 
 ity that has been shown us. We shall have to 
 do something more." 
 
 "Why not give a lot of dances?" suggested 
 Preston, languidly, and as if the matter had not 
 much interest for him. He was a sleepy kind 
 of youth, and having shown so much interest in 
 the proceedings, relapsed again into silence. 
 
 " That is not a bad idea," cried Flower. "Let 
 us fix a certain night in the week, and give small 
 early hops every time that day comes round. Say, 
 begin at six and end at twelve. That will not en- 
 tail ipuch dress on the ladies, and people will be 
 more willing to come a distance when they know 
 they can get away early." 
 
 "Bravo! Flower, " echoed from all sides of 
 the table; "you have got an idea there at last. 
 That is the very thing." A little more talk, and 
 Flower's plan was decided on. Thursday in ev- 
 ery week was chosen as the most suitable day ; 
 and Colonel Dropmore not being present, having 
 gone that day to dine with the Graces at Fair- 
 leigh, It was arranged that Feversham should 
 tell him what had been settled next day, and get 
 him to consent to their messing at three o'clock, 
 on that particular afternoon eveiy week until fur- 
 ther notice. 
 
 I don't know that any one expected old Drops 
 would oppose this plan for our amusement, and 
 you may be very sure we were all much astonish- 
 ed when, next evening at mess, on the project be- 
 ing mooted by Feversham, he negatived it very 
 decidedly. 
 
 "Can't have it," he said, in the quick, excited 
 manner he had when put out. "Can't hear of 
 it at all. Quite impossible to mess at three 
 o'clock ; couldn't do it ; should get dyspepsia and 
 all kinds of horrors. Let me hear no more talk 
 about it, I beg." 
 
 "Well, but colonel, it is not necessary you 
 should dine at three ; if we younger follows like 
 
 to do it, I am sure we could manage to get you 
 a snug, comfortable little dinner all to yourself, in 
 some room where we should not interfere with 
 you." So spoke Claude Feversham, looking 
 rather anxious. 
 
 "You young fellows indeed!" growled Drop- 
 more, irritated anew by such an unlucky expres- 
 sion ; "I suppose you think no one is young but 
 yourself, and that it is a proof of youth to dine 
 at impossible hours. It is a proof of folly, if you 
 like. And I know very well what my comforta- 
 ble little dinner would be : fish cold, soup gi-easy, 
 chops black and sooty, bad feeding, and worse 
 waiting, and no company to make matters pleas- 
 anter. No, I will have no folly here, let me tell 
 you." 
 
 "We have a right to the mess-room," I called 
 out, rather Imprudently. " We may dance here 
 if we like." 
 
 "I was not addressing you, Mr. Darrell; 
 when I want information-!- will apply to you for 
 it. Yes, " he continued, With an^minous chuckle, 
 "the ttiuss-voom is yours, and you are welcome 
 to it ; much good may it do you. I wish you 
 joy of it, and of your three o'clock dinner." 
 
 After this he subsided into a series of suppress- 
 ed chuckles, which told plainly he was concoct- 
 ing some scheme against our intended amuse- 
 ment. What his plan was we could not divine, 
 and he kept his own secret ; it was very provok- 
 ing, as naturally we imagined he had devised 
 some way of Interfering with us, and yet not see- 
 ing any move on his part to prevent our design, 
 we proceeded with our preparations. 
 
 Thursday came, and we were just sitting down 
 to dinner, when James, the adjutant, came in 
 hurriedly ; he had been a little late, and we had 
 sat down without waiting for him. "Just listen 
 to this," he cried, as he entered. "That old fool 
 Drops has sent me a rrote, which I received this 
 minute, in which he informs me that he has lent 
 the band to the Eobinsons at Glenlough for this 
 evening, and that, as the drive is a long one, they 
 must start at five o'clock." 
 
 This was a blow indeed ; every body stopped 
 eating, and looked up with a helpless, dismayed 
 expression on their countenances. I was in a 
 blazing passion ; the idea of that old beast think- 
 ing he could spoil our fun at the last minute. 
 Never ! we would teach him better than that. 
 
 Springing on to my chair, I signed to every 
 one to be silent, and proceeded to harangue the 
 meeting. It was necessary to be impressive, to 
 stir up those around me to rebellion, and to ef- 
 fect this object, I knew that I must keep myself 
 cool. This was a hard task, but the cause was 
 wosth it : it would be such a glorious victory if 
 we foiled our adversary with his own weapons. 
 
 "Gentlemen,"! said, with solemnity, seeing 
 every eye fixed on me, more in astonishment, I 
 am bound to admit, than as recognizing me as 
 a leader whom they would be proud to obey — 
 "gentlemen, this is a case of flagrant tyranny, 
 and one that calls for immediate and decisive 
 action. Colonel Dropmore has taken a mean 
 advantage of us; thinks he will at one stroke 
 please his friends and spoil our pleasure. Let us 
 show him that we will not for one moment sub- 
 mit to such an unjust proceeding. He wants the 
 band — that he shall not have ; he is welcome to 
 the bandsmen — they are his ; let him take them : 
 the instruments are ours — we will keep them. I 
 
OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 az 
 
 am afraid he will not find those fellows as con- 
 ducive to haiinony as he may wish when they 
 arrive without our consent and support. It will 
 give him a lesson, I think, and make him take 
 care in future how he promises the band without 
 our leave. As to our dance — don't despair; I 
 know where we can hire n piano and musicians 
 for to-night. Send the bandsmen, James, by all 
 means ; but with my consent not even a cornet 
 shall go with them." 
 
 "Bravo! Well spoken, young one!" was 
 shouted in chorus, as I jumped down. "That 
 is the way to do it ! Old Drops will find he made 
 a mistake this time. It will he a little more 
 trouble to us to get the musicians before six ; 
 but that won't matter ; we will have our dance, 
 and perhaps will enjoy it more than the colonel 
 will enjoy his entertainment." 
 
 We carried out our plan ; the bandsmen went 
 to Glenlongh minus their instruments, and we 
 had a jolly dance. I can not say we were all of ■ 
 us quite without misgivings as to what, wpuld be 
 Colonel Dropmore's retaliation, but we^did not 
 let the thoughts of it interfere with our amuse- 
 ment. 
 
 I believe he was absolutely raving when the 
 bandsmen appeared. The band-master, as soon 
 as they arrived, had the sense to send in for him, 
 iisking to see him as soon as dinner was over ; 
 and on his appearing, handed him a note drawn 
 up by James, and signed by all of us. lie stamp- 
 ed, and raged, and swore, and finally, remember- 
 ing the men were there, told them they might re- 
 main at Glenlough for the night. If they went 
 hack, those fellows would have the use of them, 
 he reflected. 
 
 He then questioned the hand-master, to know 
 if the preparations for the dance had been contin- 
 ued, once it was known the bandsmen would not 
 be there. The man did not know very well how 
 matters had been arranged, but he had heard 
 something about Mr. Darrell having gone down 
 to the town to look for musicians — or some peo- 
 ple of that sort, added the band-master, with a 
 lofty contempt for any musical talent not embod- 
 ied in a regimental band. 
 
 "Always that young cub!" growled Colonel 
 Dropmore between his teeth. "He is the fel- 
 low that is always knocking about with the Bam- 
 bridges ; and now I suppose he will spend the 
 whole night flirting with Clarissa ! Young whelp ! 
 I should like to horsewhip him soundly ! " 
 
 With this remark, uttered so as to be perfect- 
 ly audible to the men. Colonel Dropmore turned 
 away, and went to break the news to the hostess, 
 that the bandsmen had arrived, but not the band. 
 It was too aggravating;- all attempt at dancing 
 had to be given up, as none of the young ladies 
 there present were equal to the task of playing 
 dance music, and there were .no musicians at- 
 tainable at Glenlough, as there had been at Bel- 
 murphy. 
 
 Our dance, on thecontraiy, passsd off splendid- 
 ly, and was even kept up a little later than we in- 
 tended it should be. We issued our invitations 
 for next Thursday before we separated, and re- 
 tired to rest well pleased with the success of our 
 entertainment. 
 
 Next day Colonel Dropmore was moody and 
 silent. He made no mention of the occurrence 
 of the day before, and we did not ihink it nec- 
 essary to allude to it in his presence. But we 
 
 could see he was boiling over with rage, which 
 was all the more dangerous because it was con- 
 centrated in a nature where coticentration was un- 
 usual. Days passed by, and still he made no 
 allusion to what had occurred ; and we began to 
 think he was beaten, and was contented to re- 
 venge himself by strictness in all the minutise of 
 barrack life, and in an excessive overdose of drill 
 which he now laid upon us. 
 
 But next Wednesday, just as we had begun to 
 congratulate ourselves that no attempt would be 
 made to interfere with our amusement next day, 
 he said at mess, 
 
 " I am going to hold a special parade at three 
 o'clock to-morrow, gentlemen. I tell you this 
 that it may not interfere with j'our dinner-hour, 
 which, I believe, falls earher on Thursday than 
 on any other day of the week." 
 
 We all looked at each other in dismay. It was 
 necessary we should get mess over early, as oth- 
 'eK'iae the room would not be ready ; and it 
 seemed this provoking old villain was determined 
 to prevent our dining at the only hour that would 
 suit. We had been very gay, talking and laugh- 
 ing, a few minutes before ; now we all sat silent 
 and annoyed, wondering how we should get over 
 this new difficulty thrown in our way. We could 
 not talk the matter over then, however, and wo 
 waited until old Drops had vanished before any 
 one alluded to the subject. Then there was a 
 perfect Babel of voices, one advising one thing, 
 one another. At length above the clamor rose 
 Claude Feversham's quiet voice, saying, i 
 
 "It seems to me we should have -plenty of 
 time to dine after parade, if we could dine in any 
 room but this ; it is only the difficulty of having 
 the room ready in time. That can be arranged, 
 however, I think. We will order dinner at the 
 hotel; those who have to stay in barracks can 
 make shift to dine somewhere, and thus we shall 
 circumvent Drops again. Don't let him know 
 what we are about, or he will keep us longer at 
 work." 
 
 This proposal 'seemed to meet the difficult}', 
 arid it was accordingly settled the matter should 
 be thus arranged. Claude and I sauntered down 
 to the hotel at once, to give the proper instruc- 
 tions, and the original arrangenvents for next day 
 were counter-ordered. It was really great fun, 
 devising how to get round and counteract the old 
 fellow's schemes ; one felt as if one was an In- 
 dian following a trail, or a detective ti-acking out 
 a crime. Claude and I laughed over it as we 
 went down the town, and laughed still more at 
 the astonishment of the old lady who kept, the 
 hotel when she heard the order. She could not 
 think what was up, and, though no doubt inward- 
 ly delighted at a freak that promised to bring 
 her so much custom, was too intensely curious to 
 know the meaning of it to appreciate its benefits 
 fully. ■ . 
 
 " I have them now," thought Colonel Drop- 
 more next day, when he saw us all assembled on 
 parade at three o'clock. " I will see if they can 
 have things ready in time when I let them go." 
 
 And he did keep us a good time indeed, put- 
 ting us through a whole lot of stupid drill that 
 we knew to the last degree of perfection. We 
 could not satisfy him, however ; he growled and . 
 scolded, and made us go over things again and 
 again. I think, if the men were aware on whose 
 account they were put through all this business, - 
 
OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 they must have devoutly wished us nil at the 
 bottom of the Red Sea. I caught it particularly 
 heavily ; was told I was a negligent, ignorant, 
 brainless officer — a young man who would nev- 
 er make a good soldier, and who had quite mis- 
 taken his profession in coming into the army. I 
 felt rather indignant at bfeing so rated, but, know- 
 ing the old fellow had enough to try his temper, 
 I listened to it all, with as meek an expression 
 as I could assume. Besides, what had more in- 
 fluence with me than any thing else was that I 
 knew, in his present state of mind, he would be 
 quite capable of ordering me into close arrest in 
 my own quarters,if he thought I looked disrespect- 
 ful. So I seemed as doleful as I could, and did 
 my best to please ; but we had a hard time of 
 it certainly until five o'clock, when, thinking we 
 were too late to get over dinner in time for the 
 dance, he let us off. 
 
 He was going out that night himself — going to 
 dine somewhere. He was a bon-vivant, and veiy 
 fond of dining out ; since our row he had hardly 
 messed with us once. But this time he had not 
 requested the attendance of the band. We of 
 course kept our plans veiy secret, and said noth- 
 ing about our wanting it. The colonel would be 
 gone by six, and, once he was off, we would have 
 it in. There was very little time to go down 
 town to get dinner, but Claude arranged with 
 me, I being unable to leave barracks that day, 
 that I should play host, and entertain any early 
 comers, until he and the others returned. 
 
 Every thing went off splendidly. Old Drops 
 cleared out in good time, the band came in as 
 we had arranged, our fellows returned from their 
 dinner just as the first car-load of guests drove 
 up, and we had a very merry and successful 
 evening — an evening that was to me intense- 
 ly happy, for Gwendoline paid less attention to 
 Clande than she had done for some time past, 
 and the attention she withdrew from him she be- 
 stowed on me. 
 
 One rather provoking contretemps the colonel 
 did contrive to produce in this way : There was 
 a Mrs. Grace and her daughters, who were great 
 friends of ours. They had intended to come to 
 our dance that evening, but meeting Colonel 
 Dropmore in town during the morning, they hap- 
 pened to mention their intention. 
 
 " I think," said old Drops, "you will find that 
 there will be no dance at the ban-acks to-night; 
 I have been obliged to order an extra parade 
 that I am afraid will interfere with the arrange- 
 ments, and prevent the dance coming off. " 
 
 "I suppose we shall hear from some of the 
 other officers, if it is not to take place ?" said 
 Miss Grace, inquiringly. She knew the colonel 
 had not been at the last dance, and fancied, there- 
 fore, that veiy likely he knew little about the 
 matter. 
 
 "I don't know how that will be," replied 
 Colonel Dropmore, "but I am pretty sure there 
 will be no dance. In fact, I do not see how there 
 can be." 
 
 That, was decisive enough, and the Graces did 
 not appear that evening at our festivities — a great 
 disappointment to some of the party, who looked 
 out for them anxiously, until it was too late for 
 any further hope. 
 
 They were dreadfully annoyed next day when 
 they heard that the dance had taken place, and 
 it was a long time before the colonel was forgiven 
 
 for what was certainly an unintentional deception 
 on his part. As to old Drops himself, he was 
 rather astonished when he found that, in spite of , 
 nil he could do, we had carried out our plan ; and 
 what irritated him most in it was that the Barn- 
 bridges were constant attendants at our enter- 
 tainments, and that Miss Clarissa had a number 
 of admirers, whom she treated with much more 
 favor than she had ever treated him. He could 
 keep us all much harder at work, and prevent us 
 from getting out as much as we used to do, but 
 he could not prevent the young ladies coming to 
 our hops, nor prevent us giving them, and he 
 began to feel himself beaten. He kept up the 
 three o'clock parade, however, for one or two more 
 Thursdays ; but at last, finding it completely in- 
 efficacious, he gave in, and we were allowed to 
 return to our original plan of early mess, and dan- 
 cing afterward. : Perhaps the only person who 
 regretted the change was the old lady at tlie ho- 
 tel, to whom it must have made a considerable 
 difference, as she no longer supplied us with a 
 weekly dinner. I don't think Colonel Dropmore 
 felt on very friendly terms with us for a while 
 after this ; it would not have been natural that 
 he should ; but by degrees his anger died out, 
 and being a good-natured little fellow, he forgot 
 and forgave the whole matter, only retaining a 
 prejudice against poor Cecil Egerton, whom, in 
 some unaccountable way, he had taken it into his 
 head to consider a ringleader in the rebellion 
 against him, and with whom he continued very 
 sharp and snappish in consequence. 
 
 It was now August. Lots of our fellows had 
 got leave to go off to Scotland for the twelfth ; 
 Claude would have gone too, I think, but for 
 Miss Bambridge. I being such a very youthful 
 individual, did not get the chance. We were 
 prettjf sure to have good shooting where we 
 were, however. It was a good grouse country, 
 and we had many friends who all wanted us to 
 be with them on the twentieth. Indeed we could 
 not divide ourselves among them all, and so ac- 
 cepted General Bambridge's invitation, as being 
 the most attractive. There was something be- 
 sides grouse in it — the certainty of coming back 
 to dinner after the day's sport, and the possibil- 
 ity of luncheon among the heather, with Gwen- 
 doline and Clarissa to brighten the repast with 
 their presence. Besides we heard the shooting 
 was good, so we had a sufficient excuse for yield- 
 ing to the real attraction, which was not in any 
 way connected with the sport of grouse-shooting. 
 
 There is something delightful to me in the 
 balmy, heather-scented mountain air; it raises 
 one's spirits, and makes every thing appear twice 
 as beautiful and exhilarating as the same thing 
 would seem down in the dull, damp lowlands. 
 
 I always did love the mountains, though I 
 confess that in this country some of them are 
 execrable walking, and I should like to know 
 how a fellow can be expected to hit a bird when 
 he is balancing on the extreme point of a con- 
 ical tussock, in a quaking bog, where one false 
 step will plunge him up to his neck in a bog- 
 hole, from whence, if he be not immediately res- 
 cued, he may never be released, as he will settle 
 down into it very quickly, disappearing altogether 
 shortly. I found these little peculiarities in the 
 nature of the ground interfered with my shoot- 
 ing, and what disturbed me still more was the 
 knowledge . that, as I anticipated, Mrs. Bam- 
 
OUB DETACHMENT. 
 
 39 
 
 bridge and her two daughters would bring up 
 the luncheon-basket later in the day. A ren- 
 dezvous had been appointed by a beautiful 
 mountain lakelet, and, like a fool as I was, I 
 let fancy pictures of our little forthcoming pic- 
 nic get between me and all my best shots. 
 Claude was shooting very well ; neither his 
 mental nor bodily equilibrium was so easily up- 
 set as mine, and I looked at him sometimes with 
 wonder, not unmixed with envy. 
 
 "We had with us a Scotch gamekeeper in tlie 
 employment of a neighboring proprietor, over 
 whose land we had permission to shoot; and, 
 besides, we had four Irish fellows, queer chaps, 
 who told you long stories about packs of birds 
 they had seen, that we never by any chance 
 came across, and that we pi-esently became 
 aware were just as apocryphal as the Scotch- 
 man's tales of wonderful setters that had belong- 
 ed to his last employer. 
 
 ' The heather was a mass of pui^ple bloom, the 
 walking, as I have said, was execrable, and the 
 heat fOf the day intense. Claude and General 
 Bambridge did not seem to mind it, neither did 
 Cecil Egerton, who was a wonderful shot — nev- 
 er missed — but spent his whole time regretting 
 lie had not brought his sketching-block, becom- 
 ing every now and then so absorbed in the view 
 that the grouse rose almost under his feet with- 
 out his seeing them. But I must acknowledge 
 I found the work rather hard, and was very glad 
 when we arrived at the tarn, and found the ladies 
 there awaiting us. 
 
 They had laid their table at the foot of a high 
 bank of heather, against which we could rest our 
 backs, and which afforded us a very welcome shel- 
 ter from the blazing August sun. 
 
 Clarissa chaffed me on my fatigue, and on my 
 want of success. 
 
 "I thought you were a good shot," she said; 
 " but I do believe I could do better myself. Shall 
 we try after lunch ?" 
 
 "With all my heart," I answered. "What 
 shall we try at ? Will you join our party and 
 blaze away at the grouse ?" 
 
 "Oh no," she laughed. "I don't pretend to 
 hit any thing unless it will stand still for me. 
 We will put your hat up on a stick and shoot at 
 it." 
 
 "Willingly," I answered, "if yon will put 
 yours on another, for me to take a shot at. 
 That is only fair." 
 
 She took off her hat and looked at it. 
 
 "I bought this hat second-hand," she said, 
 "from a lady who had nearly done wearing it. 
 It cost me two shillings and twopence half-pen- 
 ny, and, as it is becoming, I don't think that 
 dear. How much did youi's cost ?" 
 
 "Clarissa, my dear," interrupted her mother, 
 "put on your hat, or you will have a sunstroke. 
 What are you asking Mr. DaiTell ?" 
 
 "I was only asking him what his hat cost," 
 replied Clarissa, unconceniedly. "He hasn't 
 told me yet. ■ How much was it ?" 
 
 "Ten shillings," I answered, taking off the 
 article in question, and holding it out toward 
 her to examine. "Mine is worth more than 
 yours, it seems, but then I am more likely to do 
 mischief tlian you are, so perhaps, after all, it is 
 pretty fair." 
 
 "You will have to give me a nearer range, 
 though," she continued. "I cduld not take the 
 
 matter up unless you will give it to me at twenty 
 yards, and yon at sixty." 
 
 "'rhat is rather long odds in your favor," I 
 remonstrated. "I don't think I could make 
 such a bargain." 
 
 "All the better for my poor hat, then," she 
 returned, smoothing down the feathers with her 
 hand. "Don't you think, Gwen, it was a very 
 reasonable o0'er?" 
 
 "Very, indeed," replied Gwen, absently, with 
 her eyes fixed on a piece of white heather Fev- 
 ersham liad just ofl'ered her. "Indeed," she 
 added, brightening up suddenly, as though afraid 
 of letting herself relapse into dream-land, "if 
 Vivian gives you such a chance, I will take a 
 shot at it myself. " 
 
 This decided me. Of course she had only 
 entered into Clarissa's ratlier orighial scheme for 
 amusing herself in order to please me (so I told 
 myself), and immediately all the resistance I had 
 prepared against her sister's claim for a twenty- 
 yards' range vanished. Gwendoline might have 
 blown my hat to bits had she ' felt so disposed, 
 and I should only have been flattered. 
 
 I was the more pleased now because I saw an 
 impatient frown pass over Claude's face when 
 Gwendoline announced her intention of shooting 
 with us. It was evident he perceived her parti- 
 ality for me, I thought, and was displeased at it. 
 I think that made me enjoy myself all the more ; 
 it showed that there really was a chance for me, 
 that I was dangerous, and I rose in my own es- 
 timation accordingly. 
 
 What a merry luncheon that was to me ! How 
 we laughed and jested, aiid afterward made the 
 gamekeepers and gossoons sing for us! Then 
 Gwendoline and Clarissa sang, and finally we 
 set about our shooting match. 
 
 Mrs. Bambridge insisted on being in it too, 
 and declared she would beat any of us, Mr. 
 Egerton excepted. He had earned himself a 
 wonderful name as a shot (whenever he did 
 choose to shoot), but, as I said before, he was 
 generally mooning when his gun should have 
 been to his shoulder. 
 
 And my poor hat was to come in for most of 
 it, as none of the gentlemen were in the match 
 but myself; Clarissa vehemently declaring she 
 would not have her most kilhng head-gear de- 
 stroyed by the deadly fire of veteran warriors, 
 as she was pleased to call Claude and Egerton. 
 
 To my sui-prise and great disgust, they con- 
 trived to pepper my new tile in very destructive 
 fashion, and it did not help me to bear the matter 
 better to hear Eeversham grumble close behind 
 mi : 
 
 " Serves the confounded puppy right ! I wish 
 he had come in for a few grains himself!" 
 
 A minute's reflection convinced me he wonld 
 not have said this but for jealousy; and, en- 
 couraged by this idea, I went home that evening 
 perfectly happy. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A FAMILY ARRANGEMENT. 
 
 All this time, while Claude was getting him- 
 self more and more involved in the net of Gwen- 
 doline Bambridge's fascinations, he seemed to 
 forget what his mother would s.iy to the whole 
 
■10 
 
 OUR DETACHMENTl 
 
 iiffuir, and he also censed to vemember a family 
 iirrangement that this infatuation of his promised 
 to upset completely. 
 
 Not very far from the "Castle,'' as Feversh- 
 am's place was called in the county, there lived a 
 family of the name of Prendergast. They were 
 very wealthy, and had one daughter, Mabel, who, 
 as the heiress to such a splendid property, was 
 very much run after. Clande's mother, Lady 
 Feversham, had, however, planned a match be- 
 tween her son and the young lady in question — 
 a match that met with the full approval, not only 
 of Mr. and Mrs. Prendergast, but of Miss Mabel 
 also, the only one who did not see the matter in 
 the most favorable light being the captain him- 
 self. 
 
 The affair had long been arranged, and he, 
 though not intending to marry at present, had 
 never distinctly refused to have the young lady ; 
 only his mother had been unable to work him up 
 to the proposing point, and, until tliat formality 
 had been gone through, the match could not be 
 regarded as quite settled. 
 
 The girl herself was only eighteen, and had not 
 long been out; she had heard, however, quite 
 enough of the plans of the family to know for 
 whom she was destined — an arrangement in 
 which, after meeting and dancing with Claude 
 once or twice, she perfectly coincided. 
 
 Mabel Prendergast was tall, dark, and slight, 
 beautifully made, with pretty hands and feet, im- 
 mense masses of black hair, shaded at the edges 
 with rusty brown, and curious ved-brown eyes, 
 that possessed a strange, inscrutable, sphinx-like 
 expression ; more the eyes of a wild beast than 
 of a human being, but they were capable of great 
 fascination, probably from their very singularity ; 
 a pale complexion, with only the faintest creamy 
 tinge of color in her cheeks, and an indescribable 
 air of coquetry hovering round her pretty mouth, 
 as one who could be saucy and coaxing both, if 
 she thought it worth her while to try. 
 
 This was the girl whose very faintly traced 
 image was rapidly being obliterated from Claude's 
 lieart by the queenly beauty of Gwendoline Bam- 
 bridge ; and so lightly did he regard the known 
 wishes of the families that he never deemed it 
 possible they might look on his lazy indifference 
 to their schemes in the light of acquiescence, and 
 even think him virtually engaged. 
 
 Lady Feversham was fond of Mabel. She 
 liked the girl's strange beauty, she liked her ricli, 
 tasteful dress, and, above all, she liked to listen 
 to the piquant stories and quaint witticisms con- 
 stantly falling, in the softest, most musical tones, 
 from those charming lips. 
 
 Therefore Mabel was with her constanth', rid- 
 ing over from The Poplars unattended, and pass- 
 ing hours of the day in walking round the gar- 
 den with her future mother-in-law, or in the cold 
 weather sitting snugly up to the fire, listening to 
 the latest news from Claude. 
 
 "He does not write me very long letters now, 
 dear," complained the elder lady one day: "he 
 seems amusing himself, however. There is a 
 (reneral Bambridge who appears to be civil to 
 them, and they are constantly at his place." 
 
 "Has he any daughters?" asked Mabel, with 
 a sudden perception of the truth bursting in on 
 her. 
 
 "Yes — two," answered Lady Feversliam; 
 " odd, Irish kind of girls, I fancy. I remember 
 
 his telling me how he first met them. One of 
 them tried to horsewhip him for fishing on her 
 father's ground without leave. Great hoydenish 
 vulgariavis, I imagine they must be; bat, after 
 all, when you have said they are Irish, that is 
 enough to explain the kind of people they are." 
 
 " Do you think so. Lady Feversham ?" said 
 Mabel, softly, but with an accent that plainly said 
 such was not her opinion. "I have heard some 
 people say Irish girls are very charming; per- 
 haps your son finds them so too." 
 
 "Tush, child! I don't know who can have 
 told you such a thing; but I am convinced a 
 Feversham would find nothing fascinating about 
 them ; moreover, my dear, you know my wish 
 with regard to my son and you." 
 
 "Yes, I know," answered the girl, with a 
 smile so careless and indifferent that the most 
 skilled phj'siognomist would have been puzzled 
 to detect any deep feeling beneath it ; but your 
 son may not obey your wish in this instance. And 
 do you know," she continued, with more energy, 
 and a faint, saucy smile dawning on her rosy lips, 
 "I am not quite sure that I should care for the 
 fulfillment of your desire either, if it is only to 
 please you he does it. It is foolish, is it not. 
 Lady Feversham ?" she went on, taking a rose- 
 bud out of a vase and arranging it in front of her 
 dress, "to wish to be married for one's self — not 
 because one has money and it suits the families. 
 But, do you know, I think I am foolish, after all. 
 Let Lord Claude look to it, if he does not want 
 a silly wife." 
 
 So saying, she turned away with a rippling 
 laugh that broke from her only on rare occasions, 
 but then, all the more beautiful for its rarity, it 
 pleased the ear like the tinkling of a mountain 
 stream trickling over a mossy bed. 
 
 "What a strange child it is!" thought Lady 
 Feversham, watching her as she walked over to 
 a sofa and threw herself on it, still laughing. 
 "I hope she may not be tired of waiting, and 
 that Claude will not lose the bonnie bride I have 
 been keeping for him all these years. As to her 
 idea about those Irish girls, it must be absurd. 
 However, I will write to Lady Longwreath about 
 it ; she often goes to that part of the world, and 
 most likely has friends there who give her all the 
 news." 
 
 Lady Feversham, once startled, lost no time 
 in endeavoring to find out the way matters were 
 going on in Ireland. She wrote that night to 
 Lady Longwreath, explaining her anxieties, and 
 beseeching her friend to find out if there really 
 was any danger to be apprehended from those 
 Irish Bambridge girls. 
 
 She had to wait more than a week before she 
 could possibly hope to get an answer, during 
 which time she petted and caressed Mabel even 
 more than usual, so fearful was she of losing the 
 labor of many years — a contingency she had nev- 
 er even contemplated till after Mabel's curious 
 speech the day before. 
 
 As for Mabel, her rosy lips wore their faint, 
 triumphant expression more frequently during 
 those days than ever before. Alentally, she 
 said, "This will decide the matter; something 
 will be arranged ; and at least, if he is infatuated 
 about any bog-tCotting belle over there, I shall be 
 taken up to London, and shall queen it during 
 the season to my heart's content." 
 
 For she was well aware of her power, though 
 
OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 41 
 
 she knew it had done little for her with Claude 
 Feversham : partly because she had never cared 
 to triumph in that quarter, believing the matter 
 secure by family compact. It would have been 
 like making love to one's husband to have shown 
 him any attention, she thought ; only, if she had 
 known, perhaps it might have been worth while. 
 For now that the prize was about to slip from her 
 grasp, or seemed ready to do so, she began to 
 liave an idea that she had lost something that 
 had been pleasant to her. His face was hand- 
 some, his manner gentle ; certainly she had seen 
 none she liked better, and she might have grown 
 to like him more, if he had but felt warmly to- 
 ward her. But that was the annoying part of it 
 all, as she had told Lady Feversham ; she was 
 inclined to be foolish, and now more so than ever. 
 .It was not that she wanted particularly to care 
 for her husband — she could do without that | but 
 it was imperative he should care for her. 
 
 About ten days after, as she sat at breakfast 
 with Lady Feversham, when the post-bag was 
 opened she saw a letter with the Longwreath 
 crest, and waited impatiently while her hostess 
 broke the seal and slowly perused a very lengthy 
 epistle. The red-brown eyes watched Lady Fev- 
 ersham closely as she conned over her friend's 
 letter — so closely, indeed, that before the elder 
 lady had half finished reading it, the younger 
 knew its contents from the expression of her 
 friend's countenance, and knew, moreover, that 
 its purport was unfavorable to her hopes. 
 
 "Well," she asked, when Lady Feversham at 
 length looked up, with a very disturbed face, "is 
 this Irish belle as fascinating as I foretold ?" 
 
 "Do not joke about it, child," groaned the old 
 lady. "This is very serious. Lady Longwreath 
 has not only found out that Claude is really epris 
 with this Miss Bambridge, but she also adds she 
 knows the young lady well herself, and can answer 
 for it that, having obtained an influence over any 
 man, she will not be easily forgotten." 
 
 Mabel flushed up a little more than her wont ; 
 it sounded like a challenge to her, like a slur 
 cast on her powers of eaptivation, that this girl 
 should be so spoken of before her, and she 
 tapped her saucer impatiently with her spoon as 
 she thought, 
 
 "Oh! if only I had him here, he should soon 
 forget his Irish charmer ! " 
 
 It was never her cue, however, to speak out 
 what she felt ; so she asked, carelessly, 
 
 "And what will you do now? I am afraid 
 your wishes can hardly be fulfilled as the matter 
 stands, even were I willing." 
 
 " Oh ! my dear Mabel, don't decide any thing 
 in a hurry," begged Lady Feversham. " It is 
 quite impossible he can marry this girl ; she has 
 no money ; and you know it was I brought all the 
 late Lord Feversham's property to him, and can 
 leave it entirely and absolutely to whom I choose. 
 Therefore, if I was driven to it, I could disinherit 
 Claude, who would find his title a very empty 
 concern, without the money to keep it up. You 
 know, dear, I am afraid, however badly he treat- 
 ed me in the matter, I could not keep up the 
 quarrel with him long. I can be very deter- 
 mined, none more so, for a short time, but, after 
 that has lasted a little while, my resolutions 
 weaken, and I could forget and forgive anything. 
 He knows this as well as I do, and therefore I 
 fear any threat of disinheritance from me will 
 
 be little regarded. Still I cati't allow this mar- 
 riage. How would you advise me to stop it ?" 
 
 Mabel mused a while, and Lady Feversham, 
 watching her, could not help being struck by the 
 curious mingling of expressions visible on her 
 countenance. There was a kind of triumphant 
 look, along with determination and cunning, and 
 even a slight shade of tenderness in her smile, 
 as she leaned her head on her hand and gazed 
 thoughtfully out of the window before her. Af- 
 ter a few moments' pause, slie turned to her com- 
 panion with a quiet, unmoved manner, and an- 
 swered, 
 
 "If you are determined this is not to be, you 
 must make up your mind to go any lengths in 
 support of your authority. For myself I do not 
 care; my feelings, fortunately, were never en- 
 gaged in this scheme ; but if your objections to 
 the match rest on other grounds, and you are re- 
 solved to stop it, I will help you to do so, and can 
 make you almost certain of success, if you will 
 take no step in the matter but such as I advise." 
 
 " I wish you would not throw off all personal 
 interest in the match," answered her companion, 
 pettishly; "if you can stop his marrying her, 
 why can't you take him yourself, as you know all 
 your friends wish ?" 
 
 "No," replied the girl, decidedly; "I will not 
 work in it as a personal affair, and I renounce, at 
 least for the present, all prospect of winning Lord 
 Feversham's affection, or being more to him than 
 I am now. Only under these conditions can I 
 assist you in the matter ; I tliink, if you consid- 
 er, you will see there is wisdom in it, too. If it 
 should ever come to Lord Claude's ears that I 
 had assisted you in separating him from Miss 
 Bambridge, with the understanding I was to mar- 
 ry him as my reward, do you think I should be 
 one whit nearer gaining him than I am now?" 
 
 " If he hears of it, it will tell against you, no 
 matter what your motives may have been," an- 
 swered the elder lady. "We must take care he 
 knows nothing about it." 
 
 " What you say is very true," replied the girl ; 
 but she added, with a little hesitation, "Don't 
 you see that, if I do it with no desire to win him, 
 he can not pride himself afterward on having 
 foiled me, if he takes some other girl to whom 
 you can have no objection. Believe me. Lady 
 Feversham, if I help you at all, it must be in my 
 own way." 
 
 ' ' Very well, " answered her fiiend, "it shall be 
 as you wish. Now what do you recommend ?" 
 
 " That you should write to him without delay ; 
 tell him what you have heard, point out how de- 
 pendent he is on you for all the comforts he en- 
 joys at present, and that you not only can but 
 will exercise your power to the uttennost to pre- 
 vent his marriage with this Miss Bambridge." 
 
 There was intense scorn in the accent with 
 which Mabel Prendergast spoke the last three 
 words, as she rose, fetched paper and writing ma- 
 terials, laid them before Lady Feversham, and 
 continued: "I am going to ride over to The 
 Poplars now ; papa and mamma will be expect- 
 ing me ; I have not seen them for two or tliree 
 days. Write your letter, and I can post it in 
 the village as I go through ; it will leave a mail 
 sooner. Stay, let me give you a draft of what 
 you ought to say ; I am afraid you will not be . 
 sufficiently decided." 
 
 It was a strange sight to see the pretty, grace- 
 
42 
 
 OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 ful girl, with such a hard, detormined look on her 
 delicate face, sit down and dash oft' the lines that 
 the elder lady waited submissively to copy when 
 she had done. Her part of the business finish- 
 ed, Mabel ran lightly to her room to dress for 
 riding ; she was expeditious over her toilet, and 
 when it was finished, paused for a moment be- 
 fore the glass, to survey her own image reflected 
 there. A dainty picture it was ; the slight round 
 figure in its neat, well-fitting habit, the plain high 
 hat perched securely on the massive coils of black 
 hair, the tiny edge of white collar tracing the 
 round of her slender throat — all formed a har- 
 monious, workman-like appearance, that suggest- 
 ed irresistibly visions of a light hand and a grace- 
 ful seat, a fieiy steed and daring rider. 
 
 But she was not thinking of horses and horse- 
 manship at that minute ; she was 'saying to her- 
 self, " I wonder why I am taking so much trou- 
 ble about this business of Claude Feversham's ? 
 Is, he worth it? My friends say he is, because 
 he is rich and titled, but that is nothing to me ; 
 young De Vanx is richer, and will have a title 
 too some day, and he adores me, which haughty 
 Lord Fevershara does not. His mother tells me 
 he is worth it, because a kind son is sure to make 
 a kind husband. Good and true, she calls him. 
 What is that to me, I wonder ? I am not good 
 and true, I am sure," she went on, with a short 
 laugh ; " if I were, instead of trying to chisel this 
 poor girl out of her lover, I should be helping her 
 to keep him. But I should not object to his lik- 
 ing me, I confess ; he is cold, and grave, and gen- 
 tle ; I should like to have power over him, to be 
 able to ruSle that calm of his by my slightest word 
 or smile — to make his heart beat angrily when 
 I was cold, and rapturously when I was kind. 
 Yes, I know now why I care about it ; it is the 
 love of power urges me. I should like to have 
 power over a mind like his, and I will yet, if lam 
 not much mistaken. Does Miss Bambridge like 
 him, I wonder, or is her motive the same as 
 mine 1 If it is, gare a vous, mademoiselle, it will 
 be war to the knife between us, and we shall see 
 which is the strongest." As she finished these 
 reflections she turned away, and, catching up her 
 whip and gloves, tripped lightly down to Lady 
 Feversham. 
 
 In a minute or two more the note was in the 
 pocket of her saddle, and reining in her fieiy 
 liorse with a practiced hand, she sauntered down 
 the avenue. The groom stood for a few minutes 
 watching the impetuous animal she was on, as it 
 snatched and pulled at the bit, backing and kick- 
 ing from exuberance of spirits, in a way that most 
 people would have found unpleasant. 
 
 "She's the pluckiest piece, that one, I ever 
 came across," he soliloquized ; " see how quietly 
 she takes that beast, that half the men in the 
 county wouldn't mount for their lives. Eh ! but 
 she has a rare spice of the devil in her!" The 
 object of this eulogium rode on quietly till she 
 left the domain, then turning into the fields, she 
 set off in a hand-gallop across country, the near- 
 est way to The Poplars, turning neither to the 
 right nor to the left, and riding at every thing 
 with a skill a.id judgment that betokened long 
 practice. At this pace they soon reached her fa- 
 ther's domain, where we will leave her riding 
 slowl/tip the avenue. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A MISADVENTUKE. 
 
 Still the same routine was going on in Bel- 
 murphy ; there were the same dances and picnics 
 and croquet-parties, though the summer was al- 
 most at an end, and the grouse-shooting had begun 
 some time. Not that the shooting interfered in 
 the least with the fliitations carried on during the 
 time of idleness ; on the contrary, it aiforded ad- 
 ditional opportunities for any thing of the kind. 
 First there was the early breakfast, at which those 
 of the ladies wholiked could put in an appearance ; 
 then there was the luncheon-party on the hills, 
 where fun and merriment reigned supreme, and 
 where bets were made in the most reckless man- 
 ner on the luck of individuals. These luncheons 
 also not unfrequently broke up the shooting-par- 
 ty to a fearful degree, for no matter how keen the 
 sportsman might be beforehand, a pair of bright 
 eyes looking entreatingly, when the signal for a 
 move was made, would often produce an entire 
 revulsion in a fellow's feelings, and cause him 
 to pronounce a good day's work confoundedly 
 slow. 
 
 Claude and I had no end of fun at the Bam- 
 bridges', and I am sure, after the first day, my 
 shooting raised me considerably in every body's 
 eyes ; they could not persist in thinking me a 
 child when I rarely if ever missed, and brought 
 home twice as many birds as they did. 
 
 But though of course I felt a little pleased I 
 was too uneasy and anxious to care much about 
 it. Gwendoline still lured ns both on, with so 
 much impartiality, it would have been impossible 
 to say which was most favored. But I feared, 
 and was unhappy; it seemed impossible she 
 should prefer me to one so much more worthy of 
 her in every way as Claude was. How painfully 
 I felt all my short-comings, and how I longed to 
 imitate Feversham's grave, stately ways, and copy 
 his quiet, protecting manner when speaking to 
 her. 
 
 But I felt that part was not for me, that I was 
 nothing if I was not natural ; and so I held my 
 ground as well as I could, though my usually gay 
 spirit would at times sink very low when I real- 
 ized how little hope there was before me. 
 
 One fine morning, about the end of August, I 
 noticed that Claude seemed worried and anxious, 
 as he came down to breakfast : after a time he 
 turned to me suddenly, and said, 
 
 "Madcap, come out for a walk with me this 
 morning; I want you." 
 
 "All right," I replied, wondering what he 
 might have to say, for latterly, though he had 
 been kinder than ever to me, we had spoken very 
 little to each other. 
 
 I was rather surprised, therefore, when, pulling 
 a letter out of his pocket, he handed it to me, 
 saying, as he did so: "Read that, and tell mo 
 what you think of it." 
 
 Wondering, I opened it, seeing it was in my 
 aunt Anna's handwriting. I was no doubt as- 
 tonished when I found she was acquainted with 
 Claude's infatuation (as she called it), but hardly 
 surprised at the light in which she viewed it, 
 not knowing Miss Bambridge or any thing about 
 her. The letter was short, severe, and to the 
 purpose ; ordering Claude to renounce all inten- 
 tion of marrying this girl, on pain of being disin- 
 herited, a threat which the writer then proceeded 
 
OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 43 
 
 to show, in a very business-like manner, it was 
 fully in her power to caiTV out. 
 
 " What shall you do ?" I asked, as I handed 
 the letter back to him. 
 
 "There is but one course open to me," he 
 answered; "I will not sell my love for a crust 
 of bread and a mess of pottage, as Esau of old 
 sold his birthright. I will take this letter with 
 me to Endley, show it to Gwendoline, tell her 
 how truly I love her; I will ask her if she is 
 willing to share what I have got, which is little 
 more than my captain's pay, or whether she cares 
 so little for me that the prospect of poverty fright- 
 ens her. . 1 am not quite sure of my ground, and 
 would have preferred putting off this question for 
 some time longer, but now it must come out. 
 Vivian," he continued, after a pause, in u low 
 tone of stem displeasure, " I know that you care, 
 or fancy you care, for Miss Bambridge — that you 
 imagine yourself my rival ; but even so, how 
 could you have persuaded yourself to act in this 
 manner 1 I trusted you, and you have grievous- 
 ly disappointed me." 
 
 " How ?" I asked, calmly. " In daring to love 
 the same person as yourself, I suppose. Claude, 
 tliat is too absurd ; you are my senior in years 
 and rank both, and I am willing to pay you all 
 requisite deference on that account, but I can 
 not see how you can expect me to yield my own 
 chances of happiness, in order to make yours 
 more certain. It is a demand I should never 
 have expected you to make ; that you know well 
 I would nevet- comply, with." 
 
 "I never made any such demand of you," re- 
 plied Claude, harshly. " What I allude to is the 
 dishonorable means you have used to tiy and re- 
 move me from your path. Two can play at that 
 game, remember, though I would scorn to soil 
 my hands with such a deed, and therefore you 
 think you are safe ; but what would you say were 
 I to write to your mother, and tell her what you 
 are doing here ? In your case it would probably 
 have much the same results as in mine, only that 
 Lord Traverscourt can not disinherit you ; but 
 no doubt they would take some equally effectual 
 steps to save you from the consequences of what, 
 in your case, they might, with some reason, term 
 your folly." 
 
 I stood still with amazement when I saw at 
 what Claude was hinting. How he got the idea 
 into that wise head of his, I. can not conceive. 
 It would indeed have been vastly amusing, had 
 it not been so very insulting. I tried to speak 
 several times, but he would go on ; so at last I 
 waited patiently till he had finished ; then I said, 
 rather angiily, 
 
 "Look here, Claude, I take a good deal from 
 you because you are my cousin, and my best 
 friend; but what you have just been saying is 
 not chaff, and I won't stand it. Don't speak to 
 me in that way again." 
 
 "If I had been yoB," answered Claude, "I 
 would not have laid myself open to being spoken 
 to in that way. It is well for you no one but 
 me knows it, or you would have a bad time of it 
 among our fellows. For the sake of your father 
 and mother, and still more for my own sake, as 
 you are my cousin, I will say nothing about it 
 this time ; but if I ever catch yoa meddling with 
 my affairs, I will first horsewhip you within an 
 inch of your life, and then tell the reason I did 
 so, aftei'ward." 
 
 "Good heavens, Claude! you must be mad!" 
 I cried, really ^thinking there must be a screw 
 loose somewhere, to render him capable of such 
 a supposition. "Why, Claude, you ought not 
 to want such an assurance from me, and I ought 
 not to stoop to give it to you ; but as I am 
 aware that you are upset by this letter, I will act 
 as kindly toward you as I can, and give you my 
 word that I am as ignorant as you are of how 
 your mother became cognizant of the state of 
 affairs here. If you like, you can verify what I 
 say by asking Aunt Anna if I have ever written 
 to her, or from whom she heard it." 
 
 He looked at me hard as I spoke, and I met 
 his glance unflinchingly. I saw that his mind 
 was terribly disordered by the fears that such an 
 interruption to the even course of his love had 
 caused, and I knew that, unless such had been 
 the case, a suspicion of me, such as he now har- 
 bored, would never have entered into his head. 
 
 After a long pause, during which his look: 
 seemed as though it would have penetrated my 
 very soul, he shook his head, as if to dash away 
 unwelcome thoughts, and said, 
 
 "You are true, Vivian, and I ought not to 
 have doubted you. But until you are placed in 
 such a position as mine, you can have no idea 
 what crowds of hateful suggestions jealousy and 
 fear bring into one's mind. A day or two ago 
 I thought myself very sure of her, and now I 
 can not see that I have any ground for hope at 
 all. But I must ask her, and that immediately. 
 After all, if she is what I take her to be, this 
 will make no difference." 
 
 I had perhaps indulged in a hope that he 
 would have given her up, for my heart seemed to 
 stand still as he announced his intention of ask- 
 ing her at once. 
 
 " Why do you tell this to me?" I asked, almost 
 angrily. "You know I do not wish you success." 
 
 "Is it still so?" he answered, slowly. ''I 
 had hoped you might have seen the matter dif- 
 ferently now. Still I thought it fair you should 
 know I was going to speak, and why I do so." 
 
 Suddenly a light flashed upon me. 
 
 "You will have to wait," I cried; "they go 
 to Dublin to-day, for a week or two. There is 
 something going on there they wish to see." 
 
 "True," he replied; "I had forgotten that. 
 Then I must wait till their return. In the 
 mean time, I will write to my mother, and as- 
 sure her that no threats shall prevent my at 
 least trying to win the woman I love, for my 
 wife. There is some baby -faced miss living 
 near us, who will be a great heiress ; and her 
 ladyship has set her mind on my marrying, the 
 child. That, I know full well, is the cause of 
 this violent opposition; but she need not have 
 troubled herself so much, for, even if I can not 
 have Gwendoline, I will never take the prim lit- 
 tle chit she has chosen for me — a mere wax-doll, 
 a kind of puppet, on which to hang fine clothes 
 and jewelry, with as little soul as her own mon- 
 ey-bags!" 
 
 I had, of course, heard of Mabel Prendergast, 
 but had never seen her. I could not, therefore, 
 judge whether his accusations against her were 
 correct, but I felt quite inclined to join in con- 
 demning one whom Claude so despised, though 
 under all a secret wish that her rival claims 
 might prevail gave me a little more hope and 
 courage than I had for long possessed. 
 
41 
 
 OtIR DETACHMENT. 
 
 While we were so occupied with our own dif- 
 ficulties and troubles, the others had been amus- 
 ing themselves more or less well, according to 
 their charactei-s and dispositions. Mayleigh, for 
 instance — keen, cautious, and calculating, with 
 no money but his pay, and a very ready wit — 
 had become welcome in all societies in the place. 
 His forte was to feign a devotion he did not feel, 
 wherever he thought his interests might be fur- 
 thered by BO doing. He had on hand at present 
 a very promising flirtation with the heiress of the 
 district. In that quarter his attentions were un- 
 remitting, having a far greater appearance of 
 devotion than much real affection has. We did 
 not scruple, however, to say that the fascinations 
 of her handsome property were in his eyes the 
 real causes of attraction, though she was a pretty 
 and pleasant girl, well worth attention on her own 
 account. 
 
 One string to his bow would never have sat- 
 isfied Mayleigh, who accordingly was very de- 
 voted to several others when the chief prize was 
 not by. Where his heart could be among them 
 all, we could not make out; but that was his af- 
 fair, not ours. 
 
 Elower was a susceptible youth, and of course 
 was not long without getting up one of those 
 safe flirtations of which he was so fond. The 
 object in this instance was a remarkably pretty 
 girl, who could hold her own in a ball-room 
 against many beauties of experience and repute. 
 The art of flirtation was not unknown to her; 
 and though, no doubt, had there been higher 
 game unmarked, she would have flown at it, 
 yet slie was not disposed to cavil at any thing 
 that promised so much amusement as Flower's 
 infatuation. 
 
 There was to be a picnic up the lake the day 
 after my conversation with Claude, given by one 
 of the notabilities of the place; to this poor 
 Flower was looking forward with the full in- 
 tention of making great play, and taking advan- 
 tage of every facility aflbrded him to prosecute 
 his advances in her favor. 
 
 Not tliat it must be for one minute supposed 
 he had the least intention of going in for the 
 prize seriously ; no, that was very far from his 
 thoughts ; but his was one of those minds that 
 never seem thoroughly happy unless they are 
 balancing themselves, as it were, over an abyss 
 into which the slightest false step will precipitate 
 them on one side or the other. 
 
 The day was fine and sunny ; the young lady 
 was there looking her brightest and best. Flower 
 and Mayleigh were in their glory, while Claude 
 and I, deprived of our usual service, devoted our- 
 selves assiduously to the general good. 
 
 The dinner passed off as picnics generally do, 
 e.>:cept that nothing was forgotten. It might 
 even have been pleasanter than these out-of-door 
 entertainments generally are, but for the prodi- 
 gious swarms of biting insects — ants on the 
 ground, midges in the air, rendering any thing 
 like enjoyment of the meal impossible. How 
 we fanned «nd shook ourselves, and got into a 
 white-heat beating off^ the intruders ! Mosqui- 
 toes are a joke to a swarm of lake midges, and 
 some of our party were really disfigured by their 
 attacks. 
 
 A few of the ladies, however, seemed quite 
 safe from their importunities, and to tliese few 
 it must have been rather laughable, watching the 
 
 frantic gestures of the sufferers. Why are peo- 
 ple so fond of picnics? It seems to me such a 
 waste of time and trouble ; every thing in the en- 
 tertainer's house is turned five times more top- 
 sy-turvy than if they gave a dinner or a dance ; 
 besides which, and over and above the insect 
 plagues, is the fact that people having nothing 
 particular to do, except in the case of very mark- 
 ed flirtations, do not amalgamate well. 
 
 After dinner it was the thing to walk round 
 the island, and every one set off accordingly. 
 This was just what Flower wanted — it would be 
 such a good occasion for the soft, half-sentiment- 
 al nonsense he was so fond of utteiing. They 
 set off, therefore, at a quiet pace, and were soon 
 deep in the language of flowers, when Mayleigh, 
 prompted by the spirit of mischief, and angry be- 
 cause a third person had spoiled his tete-i-tete 
 with the heiress, determined to join Flower, and 
 assist the young lady to annihilate him. 
 
 For Mayleigh, who got on well with the la- 
 dies, knew that Beatrice Graham liked setting 
 down her sentimental squire occasionally, and he 
 guessed by her look there would be some fun to- 
 day. 
 
 ' ' Where is the heiress ?" demanded Flower, as 
 Mayleigh approached. " You had much better 
 be with her. We don't want you here." 
 
 " Oh ! pray don't go, Mr. Mayleigh," broke in 
 Beatrice Graliam. "Mr. Flower is explaining 
 a bouquet to me so nicely. I had no idea the 
 language of flowers could be so interesting. Do 
 yon know any thing of it ?" 
 
 This question she addressed to Mayleigh, turn- 
 ing her large hazel eyes, brimming over with fun, 
 full upon him. 
 
 " I can't say I do," he replied ; " but I would 
 like immensely to hear Flower's explanation. It 
 is never too late to learn, and it might be of use 
 to me some day." 
 
 " Come up here," cried Flower, anxious to 
 change the subject, and leading the way to a 
 precipitous craggy hill that commanded a wide 
 view of the lake. "It's fearfully steep," he went 
 on, holding out his hand to assist Miss Graham, 
 " but the prospect from the top well repays one 
 for the climb." 
 
 He hoped by this manoenvre to shake off May- 
 leigh, who was of a lazy disposition, and averse 
 to hard walking without an adequate motive. 
 On this occasion, scenting amusement from afar, 
 he would not be shaken off, but clambered up 
 along with them. It was indeed steep, as Flow- 
 er had obseiwed, and moreover very slippery, so 
 much so that a single false step would send the 
 unlucky climber sliding to the bottom a great deal 
 more quickly than he had got up ; but thanks to 
 the gentlemen's sticks, which they dug firmly into 
 the ground at every step, the summit was at last 
 gained. 
 
 Here they sat down to recover breath, and felt 
 themselves fully rewarded for their trouble by 
 the scene before them. The lake in its whole 
 extent lay at their feet, nestled in among its 
 shadowy woods, and overhung by lofty mount- 
 ains, the water glistening like a sheet of silver, 
 the boat they came in moored below, with the 
 crew eating their dinner beside it, a yacht spread- 
 ing its white sails far away toward the upper end 
 of the lake, while close below them, at the foot 
 of the hill, the greater number of the picnic par- 
 ty had gathered, laughing and talking, and call- 
 
OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 ing lip to them, to know if it was worth the climb 
 to get there. 
 
 ''We don't want them np,"cried Flower, im- 
 patiently. "Let us say there is nothing worth 
 looking at, and that we are coming down." 
 
 As he spoke he set his foot against a tuft of 
 grass before him, and leaned forward to answer. 
 With the pressure of his foot the grass gave way, 
 and the next minute he was sliding rapidly dowu- 
 waid. rinding himself going, he caught wildly 
 around for something to hold by, grasped a por- 
 tion of Beatrice Graham's di-ess, and holding on 
 to that with the energy of despair, though not 
 knowing in his bewilderment what it was, he 
 pulled her from her seat, and the next moment 
 they would both have been descending the hill 
 pell-mell, when Mayleigh caught her by the arm 
 and drew her back, just in time to save her, but 
 not to save her dress, a pretty light muslin, that, 
 unable to bear the strain put on it, tore with a 
 loud crack, and Flower, once set free, slipped 
 down the hill, gathering impetus every moment, 
 till he glided into the middle of the laughing 
 group at the bottom, dirty, torn, and scratched, 
 very red in the face, veiy confused, and smeared 
 with earth, bat not hurt in any way.- As soon 
 as it was ascertained he had not suffered from 
 the adventure, the laughing was long and loud 
 at his expense, and it did not diminish- when 
 Miss Graham, who had descended with Mayleigh 
 in a slower and more dignified manner, appeared 
 upon the scene, holding up her tattered dress, 
 and saying, 
 
 "How did it feel, Mr. Flower? I hope you 
 are not the worse for it. My poor dress, I fear, 
 has been the greatest sufferer. I think you have 
 some of it in your hand still. Would you give 
 it me?" 
 
 "Eeally; Miss Graham," gasped Flower, hard- 
 ■ ly yet in full possession of his senses, "I think 
 j-ou might leave it to me as a remembrance of 
 : this day." 
 
 Shouts of laughter greeted this speech, and 
 the half-devotional, half- convulsive manner in 
 which Flower pressed the tumbled bit of muslin 
 to his heai't, while Beatrice Graham answered, 
 smiling, 
 
 " I should have thought you might have been 
 able to remember this day without a souvenir, 
 but if the memories connected with it are so very 
 dear, I really think I must allow you to keep the 
 muslin.- Whenever you look at it, you may pic- 
 ture yourself once more on this hill, and recall 
 again the pleasant sensations that took posses- 
 sion of you when you grasped my poor dress so 
 fii-mly." 
 
 This answer seemed to reveal to Flower the 
 fact that we were all there, and laughing at him, 
 for, coloring even more than he had -already 
 done, he looked from Miss Graham to the frag- 
 ment in his hand for several minutes, evidently 
 puzzled what to do with it now he had got it. 
 At last a bright idea seemed to strike him. 
 
 " You are right. Miss Graham," he began. "I 
 need no remembrance such as this to remind me 
 of a happy day ; and you will no doubt want the 
 piece to repair the mischief I have done, though 
 you were kind enough not to refuse me when I 
 asked for it. I will therefore take the liberty of 
 calling to-morrow and returning it to you, if you 
 will allow me." 
 
 " Oh, for shame !" cried Miss Graham, laugh- 
 
 ing — "a gentleman returning a tody's gift in that 
 way ! You deserve to be punished for thinking 
 of such a thing, and I have a great mind to for- 
 bid you my presence for a week in consequence." 
 
 "You couldn't be so cruel," pleaded Flower. 
 " It will be very hard for me to give up this sou- 
 venir, though when I thouglit you might want 
 it I was willing to do so. None bnt you, how- 
 ever, could obtain it from me, and if yon do not 
 require it, I shall keep it and prize it as my most 
 precious treasure." 
 
 Flower tried to look very sentimental as he 
 said this ; but Beatrice Graham, wbo had plenty 
 of wit, and always kept her senses about her, be- 
 gan to see that, though as yet the laugh had been 
 against her admirer, if the matter went on much 
 longer she might come in for her share of ridi- 
 cule; so she answered decisively, 
 
 "You are quite right, Mr. Flower — I shall 
 want it. You may as well give it to me now. 
 It is not too much for me to carry home." 
 
 So saying, she took the scrap the crestfallen 
 young fellow handed to her, and walked off with 
 Mayleigh, Flower following in gloomy silence at 
 a little distance. 
 
 They, made it up again before long, however, 
 as I saw them dancing together that evening; 
 the picnic winding up with a small liop given by 
 our entertainers, the Pearees. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 MATCH-MAKING. 
 
 While relating the events recorded in the last 
 chapters, I have been losing sight of Cecil Eger- 
 ton, which is strange when I come to remember 
 it, as not only was he my most constant compan- 
 ion whenever Claude was otherwise occupied, 
 but also about this time he became mixed up 
 with people and incidents that afterward exer- 
 cised a great influence not only on his life, but 
 also on Feversham's and mine. 
 
 He had only been a few weeks at Belmnrphy, 
 when one morning he came into my room early. 
 I was lazy that day, and was still in bed. We 
 had had very hard work the last few days after 
 the grouse up among the heather, and I was 
 quite worn ^out. Claude was tired too, I know, 
 though he would not allow that it was so. Cecil, 
 of all of us, was the only one who did not seem 
 to mind the severe exercise we had gone through ; 
 and he often told me he thought the life of priva- 
 tion he had led when a boy made him more able 
 to support physical fatigue than most men in his 
 position. It was all such child's-play compared 
 to the misery and wretchedness he had then un- 
 dergone, when helping his parents in their strug- 
 gle for existenqe, and there was now none of the 
 mental effoi-t and suffering that had been worse 
 to bear than physical trial. 
 
 So he only looked fresher and brighter for his 
 week's exertions, while I was glad to lie an hour 
 or two longer in bed, and Claude and others 
 spent some additional time lounging over letters 
 and papers that a day or two before had been 
 glanced at and then thrown aside for considera- 
 tion at a more convenient opportunity. But as 
 Cecil caine into my room that morning I saw 
 that his face did not wear its usual bright expres- 
 sion ; in fact, he seemed perplexed. 
 
46 
 
 OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 "Just read that," he said, tossing me a letter, 
 and sitting down on the foot of the bed. 
 
 " Don't you see a fellow's asleep ?" I answered, 
 rot willing to disturb myself and let the air into 
 my warm nest. "Read it yourself; I'll listen." 
 
 He picked up the letter, and proceeded to read 
 as desired. ■ It was from his uncle, reminding 
 him that it was now six years since he had enter- 
 ed the army, and that during all that time he had 
 only once returned to Beaumanoir to see his un- 
 cle, or thank him for what he had done for him. 
 Not that the writer expected thanks — at least he 
 said he did not. Gratitude, according to him, 
 was the most foolish of all those foolish perver- 
 sions of intellect called virtues ; in fact, it could 
 only be excused in any rational being by the ren- 
 dering, " a lively expectation of favors to come ;" 
 but in that light it was entitled to consideration : 
 if his nephew had learned any thing by his con- 
 tact with the world — which Mr. Vansittart was 
 inclined to doubt — in that light he would consid- 
 er it. His uncle went on to say that he should 
 be glad of his nephew's company for a few weeks : 
 he had some arrangements to propose to him — 
 looking upon him as his possible heir — and he 
 would be glad if Cecil would make it convenient 
 to come to him soon. 
 
 When Egerton had finished reading, he looked 
 at me with a very gloomy expression on his gen- 
 erally cheerful countenance. 
 
 "A rum old chap the fellow must be that wrote 
 that letter, " I said when he had finished ; "Iwish 
 he would offer to adopt me ; I feel convinced 
 his peculiar views, as exemplified by that produc- 
 tion, would suit me down to the ground. I won- 
 der you have not made up to him more, Cecil." 
 
 "I hate him,"replied Egerton, with a kind of 
 suppressed vehemence ; ' ' yon know how he treat- 
 ed us while my father lived — let him die of neg- 
 lect to gratify his vindictive spite, and in so act- 
 ing, caused my mother's death also ; but that is 
 not all, though it is enough to make me wish to 
 avoid him, to make me hate the advantages he 
 off'ers me. Besides that, he would insure my 
 moral death if he could, kill eveiy thing upright 
 or honorable in me, and make me the human 
 reptile he is himself. Surely, Darrell, living in 
 the same county with him, you must have heard 
 something of him ; you must know the estimation 
 in' which he is held, and which clings to me like 
 Deianira's poisoned shirt, wherever I am intro- 
 duced as his nephew. I have seen people look at 
 me askance, and whisper, when some kind friend 
 has told them I was brought up by Mr. Vansit- 
 tart, and am to be his heir ; for every one in those 
 parts believes that is to be so, though I myself 
 think he has no such intention, but only holds 
 out the hope of it as a bait to lure me into obe- 
 dience to his wishes, to conformity with his 
 views." 
 
 "I have heard abo'ut him," I answered, not 
 caring to pursue that side of the conversation 
 further. I remembered hearing no measui-ed 
 terms of reprobation used when speaking of him, 
 and I could not recollect ever having known any 
 one say a word in his praise. " You will go to 
 Beaumanoir, of course," I continued, hoping to 
 make him look at some brighter aspect of this 
 visit. 
 
 " I suppose I must," he answered. " It is true 
 I owe every thing I am to him ; I often wish so 
 much I did not; it hangs like a chain I'ound my 
 
 neck, to think his money has provided for me for 
 so many years. I ought to be able to pay it back 
 some day; I would not try to do so to any one 
 else, but he has no feelings to hurt, and I think 
 it would please him. I know some of my sketch- 
 es would sell, if I could work myself up to the 
 point of oftering them for sale, but foolishly I 
 feel shy about doing so. However, I shall spend 
 a few days in London on leaving Beaumanoir, 
 and will then try what I can do. Mr. Vansittart 
 thinks I have never been on leave all these years, 
 that I am devoted to the ai-my and my comrades, 
 as indeed I am ; but he is far from suspecting 
 that I am still an artist at heart, and prosecute 
 my studies in that line as vigorously as ever. 
 He thinks he has quite eradicated the hereditary 
 taint ; and if he finds he is mistaken, he would 
 disinherit me without a moment's compunction." 
 
 " What an old fool !" I exclaimed ; " but re- 
 ally, after all, I don't see what there is to say 
 against your going. The old fellow may just as 
 well leave his money to you, who will make a 
 good use of it, as to any one else ; and it by no 
 means follows that because you are in the house 
 he need find out your artist tendency ; you con- 
 cealed it pretty well before." 
 
 "It is not that," he answered, "that troubles 
 me," and as he spoke he twisted old Vansittart's 
 letter nei-vously in his hand; "it is that I am 
 sure these arangements he speaks of are some- 
 thing with which I ought to have nothing to do ; 
 something that, if I stand firm, will cause a dif- 
 ference between us; and you know," he added, 
 fixing his' eyes upon me with an expression ot 
 mute distress that to me always seemed intense- 
 ly touching, "I find it so hard to be firm, even 
 when I know what is right. In fact, I fear he 
 will tempt me to do wrong, I feel such a strange 
 disinclination to this visit. It is as if I had a 
 presentiment that something bad was going to 
 happen to me." 
 
 Cecil had often hinted that he knew of his 
 infirmity of character, but had never spoken of 
 it so plainly as now. I was puzzled what to say. 
 It was evident for some reason he dreaded the 
 visit ; yet to ordinary powers of observation, it 
 would have seemed madness that he should risk 
 displeasing his uncle, who certainly appeared to 
 mean well by him, for some foolish caprice that 
 he called a presentiment. 
 
 I did riot believe in such things myself, and I 
 answered accordingly, "Nonsense, man. You 
 are in low spirits, because you are enjoying your- 
 self here, and know you will not enjoy yourself 
 there ; at least you think you will not, but it may 
 be better than you expect. Come, cheer up ; I 
 insist on your going/ ' Walk off to James this 
 minute and ask for leave : I dare say he'll be able 
 to give it you ; and you take it so seldom, you 
 are really entitled to it now. I believe you will 
 find every thing better than you expect ; have 
 some stunning partridge - shooting, and come 
 back quite in love with the old boy. And if you 
 see my mother, just tell her you know her young 
 hopeful, and you will always be welcome at 
 Longhurst after that. I will tell them to ask 
 you over for some shooting, which will help to 
 pass away the time you must spend with your 
 uncle." 
 
 So I overruled the poor fellow's wavering 
 mind, and saw him off by, the early train next 
 day. He looked quite solemn, and no one would 
 
OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 47 
 
 have imagined, to see him,' that he was going 
 on leave to a weahhy uncle, and .to put up at 
 such a place as Beaumanoir. 
 
 His spirits rose, however, as he proceeded on 
 his jouiTiey, and by, the time he reached the sta- 
 tion nearest his uncle's place, and was met by a 
 dog-cai-t drawn by two dashing bays, he had 
 reasoned himself, or more probably veered round 
 without reasoning, as it was in the nature of his 
 mind to do, into very high spirits, seeing every 
 thing in the best possible light, and quite pre- 
 pared to think that Mr. Vansittart might have 
 entirely changed in every way, and might be 
 about to appear in the character of an estimable 
 and praiseworthy member of society. His views 
 on this point were certainly a little damped by 
 an incident that occurred on the journey, short- 
 ly before they arrived at Deenham station, where 
 he was to get oat. There was a fine-looking, 
 middle-aged gentleman traveUng in the same 
 carriage with him ; they had been together all 
 the way. from .London, and had fallen into con- 
 versation. . Egerton was a good talker, a man of 
 many ideas, though they were too often of a chi- 
 merical, unpractical nature. They were inter- 
 esting, however, as exhibiting the workings of 
 an ardent, enthusiastic imagination, which, how- 
 ever, bore the impress of the waiping agencies 
 of his early life. Conversation between him and 
 a stranger must always have been suggestive ; 
 his accent, manner, education, appearance, dress, 
 all bore the, impress of wealth, and of wealth as 
 known among refined, social circles, not as it 
 might have been found among wealthy manu- 
 facturing society ; yet in every word, look, and 
 tone was expressed an intimate knowledge of, 
 and sympathy with, hardship and suft'ering. The 
 pain-stricken, miserable early years had left their 
 mark on his impressionable nature, and even 
 were it possible he should ever forget, them, he 
 could not efface their traces, which were woven 
 into his existence. You could see there was 
 some sad history written on that grave, thought- 
 ful brow, looking out behind the merriest glance 
 of those gentle, wistful eyes ; and seeing thus 
 much, and no farther, strangers were usually both 
 attracted and puzzled by the handsome young 
 soldier. 
 
 When they arrived near Deenham, the stran- 
 ger, seeing they were both about t() leave togeth- 
 er, said, "We are coming to the same part of 
 the countiy : it is possible we may meet ; I do 
 not know your face in the county, so I suppose 
 you are visiting somewhere. Will you tell me 
 where you are staying ?" 
 
 " I am going to my uncle, Mr. Vansittart, at 
 Beaumanoir," answered Egerton. 
 
 A very perceptible change passed over the 
 stranger's face on hearing Mr. Vansittart's name ; 
 he almost seemed to draw back for a minute, as 
 he replied, " Mr. Vansittart's nephew, are you? 
 I should not have thought it. In that case, I 
 fear we are not likely to meet — I do not know 
 him — our places are so far apart. " Good-morn- 
 ing," he added, stepping out,- as the train stopped, 
 and hurrying away to a nicely turned-ont, quiet- 
 looking dog-oart, that was waiting for him, and 
 on which Cecil, following him to get to his own 
 trap, recognized the Traverscourt crest. "So 
 that is Madcap's father; I thought I knew the 
 face," he mused ; " but he would have nothing 
 to say to, me, once he knew I belonged to Beau- 
 
 manoir. How strange it is that people will visit 
 other people's offenses on innocent heads ; my 
 nncle being the man he is,- is no reason I phould 
 be a social pariah too; but in this county, at 
 least, it is evident we must sink or swim togetli- 
 er." 
 
 This reflection, though at first bitter to him, 
 presently hardened him a little, as he sped along 
 behind the two dashing bays, with the low Au- 
 gust sunshine flinging long shadows of tree, and 
 cottage, and well-filled rick-yard across his path, 
 as they passed swiftly through prosperous English 
 hamlets, and rolled gayly along the wide level 
 road, so different from the irregular, winding, hilly 
 ways he had been used to travel on lately. 
 
 'The. sun had not yet set when he reached 
 Beaumanoir, and all the western windows of the 
 grand old building were ablaze with crimson 
 light as he drove up ; but he hardly glanced at 
 a scene tliat should have charmed his artist eye. 
 He had during the drive persuaded himself that 
 his uncle was not as bad as public opinion would 
 make him out — that he was, in fact, suffering for 
 misdeeds of former years ; and that since they 
 two were condemned together, he at least being 
 guiltless, he must endeavor to be inore to the old 
 man, to bear more with him, and from him, than 
 he had ever done before ; toforget.the past, and 
 live only in a noble and better future. Full of 
 these resolves, his eyes dwelt only on a figure 
 that he could discern waiting on the door steps, 
 and that he recognized as that of his uncle. 
 Springing to the ground as soon as he had pull- 
 ed up, he stepped toward him quickly,' holding 
 out an eager hand to meet the one his uncle, 
 somewhat more slowly, extended to him. He 
 had no reason to complain of coldness in that 
 hand-clasp; the old wrinkled fingers closed on 
 his w:ith ihe -strength of steel, as Mr. Vansittart 
 said, with a low laugh, 
 
 "I knew yon would come. Trust me for be- 
 ing able to fetch any man when I want him. 
 You made sure of the old place, my boy, when I 
 said I wanted . to consult you about some ar- 
 rangements, and you, came then fast enough, 
 though you haven't cared to see me all these 
 years, when there has been nothing to gain by 
 it. But it is not that yet, lad, though if you do 
 as I. wish it will lead to it. It is Something else 
 I have to speak to you about, and which I think 
 you will do for me. I see you are getting more 
 knowledge of the world ; you are not quite such 
 a fool as you were — not quite ! " 
 
 Thus muttering, and laughing at intervals, the 
 low, cunning laugh that had always been so re- 
 pulsive to Egerton, Mr. Vansittart led him into 
 the house, not leaving him time to say a word to 
 exonerate himself fj'om the suspicion of interest- 
 ed motives that his uncle had chosen to cast upon 
 him. He had not intended his obedience to in- 
 sure him advantage, and he had not contem- 
 plated the possibiUty of others thinking such a 
 motive had actuated him. He was disgusted ; 
 all his good resolutions, all his new-born pity, 
 and desire to like this man, vanished at once; 
 he felt only the old inborn antagonism between 
 their natures, the feeble but pure and good prin- 
 ciple in his shrinking with loathing and repulsion 
 from the strong and wicked energy of the other 
 character, which he felt instinctively was power- 
 fid enough to destroy and ovenvhelm his weak 
 resistance in time. His only safety was in si- 
 
48 
 
 OUB DETACHMENT. 
 
 lence ; he' felt himself right, but he daved riot ex- 
 press his rectitude, knowing that any such at- 
 tempt would be sneered at, and his feeble defense 
 torn to shreds, by the keen, ready satire of his 
 opponent. 
 
 They stood by the fire in the drawing-room, 
 the young man looking thoughtfully into the 
 flickering blaze, telling himself he had made a 
 great mistake in leaving Belmurphy; the elder, 
 with his back to the fire, gazing sideways with a 
 cunning leer at his nephew's troubled face. Nei- 
 ther spoke for a few minutes ; then Mr. Vansit- 
 tart went on again : 
 
 "You don't ask me why I brought you all 
 this way ; you don't ask me what I have to say 
 to you. Upon my word, you have very little cu- 
 riosity. You are right, though, for I should not 
 tell you any thing yet. This is not the time to 
 talk business. After dinner we will do that ; 
 when the wine is in the wit is out, remember. I 
 want you to bring your wits out, in a different 
 way from that meant by the proverb, and use 
 them a little on the matter in hand. You know 
 your way to your room. That is the dressing- 
 bell ; w'e will have dinner in half an hour. Tell 
 me if every thing is not comfortable ; but I think 
 they- know me better here than not to make all 
 my guests comfortable, especially the heir that is 
 to be." 
 
 And tlie old man laughed his low, mocking 
 laugh as he spoke the last words. He seemed 
 to have an unaccountable pleasure in always re- 
 verting to that supposition. In point of fact, he 
 believed it to be the chain that held his bond- 
 slave, and he liked to hear it clank. He had pull- 
 ed it a little too hard then. Egerton turned on 
 him with a white face of intense passion. 
 
 " I don't know why you are always taunting 
 me about being your heir, speaking as though 1 
 desired it, or thought it was to be. I neither de- 
 sire it nor think it. You have given me a pro- 
 fession that pleases me ; I neither ask nor expect 
 more from you, and for that, so far as circum- 
 stances permit me, I am grateful. But you shall 
 not suppose that I am bound to you by hope of 
 further reward. I regret that I came here at all, 
 and I will leave again to-morrow. I will bear 
 insult from no man, least of all from you, to 
 whom, if much beholden in gratitude, I owe also 
 a larger debt of hate." 
 
 Mr. Vansittart drew back a little as his neph- 
 ew spoke, and stood looking at him with a kind 
 of admiration for the spirit that could lead a man 
 to risk so much on account of a few sneering 
 words. He liked Cecil then better than he had 
 ever liked him, and was the more determined to 
 carry out the plan he had formed concerning him. 
 
 "Don't be so angiy, Cecil," he answered, 
 soothinglj'. "I had no idea you were such a 
 fire-brand. I was only laughing at the way in 
 which every one about here puts you down as my 
 heir. I don't mean to say that you have ever 
 counted on it, though you may do so, if yon please 
 me in the arrangements I wish to propose to you 
 after dinner. You are not a bad-looking fellow, 
 Cecil, and do credit to the family beauty, which 
 was not well represented in my person. You are 
 a little bit of an actor," he added, laughing good- 
 humoredly. "Confess all that tragedy business 
 just now was not quite real, just a little bit made 
 np for the occasion." 
 
 "It was real, every bit," answered Cecil, 
 
 stoutly. " I don't know what yoii mean by say- 
 ing I am an actor. I trust, at least, I shall nev- 
 er act what I don't believe in and feel." 
 
 He turned into his room as he spoke, shutting 
 the door sharply behind him, and the old man 
 continued his way down the corridor, muttering, 
 
 "Acting, certainly, whatever he says; too 
 earnest to be real. Good acting, though^ — very 
 good ; might make his fortune on the stage, if 
 he doesn't turn out to be my heir." 
 
 Laughing to himself at this obseiTation, that 
 for some reason or other always appeared to afford 
 him intense amusement, Mr. Vansittart proceed- 
 ed to his room, leaving Cecil trying in solitude to 
 calm the angry, rebellious feelings that would rise 
 in his heart. 
 
 It was hard indeed that the only one in the 
 world with whom he could claim kin, the one 
 with whom he mustbeintimately associated, was 
 the impersonation of every thing that he had 
 been taught from childhood to scorn and avoid. 
 His mother, gentle in all other things, had been 
 strict in her moral training, and had held up be- 
 fore her child's eyes the highest standard of per- 
 fection as the one after which he was to follow. 
 And it had been easier for him to do so than for 
 most people, because all the love he had ever met 
 with, all the affection he had ever bestowed, was 
 intimately connected with, and wound round, 
 purity and goodness, nobility of mind and un- 
 swerving truth. In those respects, parental ex- 
 ample supported and encouraged him, and the 
 memory of those lost urged him constantly for- 
 ward in the right way. 
 
 Dinner passed over quietly. It seemed that 
 Mr. Vansittart, either frightened at Cecil's out- 
 burst on his way up stairs, or desirous of sooth- 
 ing him before appi-oaching the matter in hand, 
 exerted himself to be agreeable, and actually for 
 a time almost succeeded in keeping his hateful 
 philosophy out of sight. The deference thus 
 shown to his opinions, the good dinner, and the 
 handsome, appropriate surroundings, all exer- 
 cised their influence on young Egerton, who be- 
 gan again to waver in his feelings to his uncle, 
 and grew more sociable and cheerful as time 
 passed on. When they were left alone with their 
 wine and fruit, he had got quite lively, relating 
 anecdotes connected with his regiment, and en- 
 joying the old man's keen wit very fully, now 
 that it was unmixed with the cynicism that had 
 made it so unpleasant. He did not notice that 
 his uncle's keen gi-ay eyes watched him slyly and 
 unceasingly ; he did not observe that, as his 
 spirits rose, a triumphant expression overspread 
 the old man's face : he was too much taken up 
 with thoughts of his absent comrades, their say- 
 ings and doings, and his as mixed up with theirs, 
 to pay any attention to the sinister expression of 
 his companion's face. 
 
 After he had rattled on for some time, how- 
 ever, his uncle interposed. 
 
 "Suppose we come to business now, Cecil?" 
 he said. "Of course you know it was not 'for 
 the pleasure of your society I brought you over 
 here, though I must acknowledge you are more 
 amusing than I expected to find you. No, I had 
 •another object, as I told you before; and I think, 
 as we are in a talking humor, I may as well ex- 
 plain it to you ; but let us look at your position 
 calmly and clearly, considering first what it is, 
 and secondly what it may be. Yon are an en- 
 
OUR DETACHMEKT. 
 
 49 
 
 sign in Her Majesty's — th ; near the top of the 
 ensigns, you say ? I am glad to hear it ; but it 
 doesn't much alter the position with regard to 
 the matter in hand. For your conmiission, as 
 well as your education, you are indebted to me. 
 I don't want to boast of it — I merely mention it 
 as a fact; and when you want to purchase a 
 step, I must do it for you. So far, so good. You 
 have, we see, absolutely nothingof your own, ex- 
 cept your pay, and you have the prospect of noth- 
 ing, except what I shall choose to give you, either 
 in purchasing your steps or making you my heir, 
 as we were talking of before dinner, when I made 
 you so angry. Don't be annoj'ed ; I am not tell- 
 ing you this with any desire to irritate you — 
 merely as a matter of business between two men 
 of the world. Well, it now seems that all j'our 
 future prospects rest with me, and I am willing 
 to do the best I can for you, hoping that you will 
 be a credit to the family, and designing for yoa 
 this heirship you so indignantly repudiated to- 
 day, if you please me in the matter I shall pres- 
 ently refer to. Situated as you are, the course 
 most natural to a young and good-looking fellow 
 likeyou, who has not a half-penny he can really 
 call his own, is a wealthy marriage. Have yon 
 ever thought of marrying? — and if so, have you 
 considered how important it is that the lady 
 should have money ? ' 
 
 "Indeed, sir," answered Cecil, the color rising 
 to his brow as he began to see the drift of his un- 
 cle's observations, "X have never given either of 
 those subjects any consideration. A fellow of 
 my age is too young to think of marriage." 
 
 Mr. Vansittart nodded his head approvinglj'. 
 
 "In an ordinary case you ai'e right," he an- 
 swered ; "if there was no money to be obtain- 
 ed it would be quite simple — you would wait, 
 perhaps never marrj- at all ; but where there is 
 money to be had, the matter is different ; and it 
 is on this account I asked you over." 
 
 "I don't think it likely I shall ever marry 
 for money," replied Egerton, coldly. " Indeed, I 
 may as well say at once I will not ; and besides, 
 I number no heiresses among my acquaintance." 
 
 "But what if I do— what if I do?" repeat- 
 ed Mr. Vansittart, laughing softly. . "Of course 
 that first speech of yours is the proper thing to 
 say, and I applaud it, but it is hnmbug — arrant 
 humbug — all the same ; and you will agree with 
 me that it is so, when you see the young lady in 
 question." 
 
 "I have said before, uncle, I will not marry 
 for money, and seeing the young lady will not 
 alter my determination ; besides which, it is hard- 
 ly possible she would care to buy for a husband 
 such an outcast as I am." 
 
 Tlie old man laughed. 
 
 " I don't know about that, of course," he said, 
 "though I don't think you look like a fellow a 
 girl would refuse ; but the beauty of the whole 
 thing is that, if she will have you, you need not 
 tnarry her for money at all, but only for love — 
 for love of the prettiest woman in four counties 
 round. It is time enough to say you won't have 
 her when you have seen her ; wait till then, my 
 boy, and I have no fear but you will be as anx- 
 ious for the match as I am. And then, if j'ou 
 two settle it between you, and all goes on well, 
 then I promise to make you ray heir; so you 
 need not fear thfeir saying you are looking after 
 her gold, for vou will have as much in prospect 
 4 
 
 as she has. Is that not worth thinking about, 
 young man ?" 
 
 And Mr. Vansittart peered cunningly into his 
 nephew's gloomy face as he finished speaking. 
 
 " I am not given to falling in love," answered 
 the young man at length, "so it is not probable 
 this young lady will have as powerful an effect 
 on me as you seem to anticipate. But you have 
 not told me her name. I may as well know that, 
 even if the matter does not turn out as you wish." 
 
 " Miss Prendergast — Mabel Prendergast," re- 
 peated the old man. "A pretty name, but not 
 half as pretty as the woman that owns it." 
 
 "But if she is so beautiful and such an heir- 
 ess, how is it she is not caught already ? Prob. 
 ably there is some one hanging after her to whom 
 she is attached, so I might as well spare myself 
 the pain of seeing her and falling in love with 
 her." 
 
 " She is very young — only just out of the 
 school-room, and has been out to none of the 
 county festivities; that is how it happens that 
 she has not a swarm of men after her. Eew peo- 
 ple as yet know about her ; and besides, there is 
 another reason — there is some kind of an'angs- 
 ment between her people and Lady Eeversham.' 
 Lady Eeversham wants her for her son ; .but I 
 don't know that the young people think any thing 
 of that arrangement, and I fancy you would have 
 as much chance as he. To my mind you are fur 
 better-looking, and, if she will take you, will have 
 more money than he, though no title." 
 
 "She is intended for Lord JFeversham, is she?" 
 cried Cecil, startled out of the reserve he had in- 
 tended to maintain in that county respecting his 
 captain's love-affair. "Eeversham won't go in 
 for her, I know." 
 
 ' ' Wliat do you know about it at all ?" question- 
 ed Mr. Vansittart, eagerly. "Oh! I remember 
 — Lord Feversham is in your regiment ; but how 
 does that tell you what may be his intentions 
 with regard to Miss Prendergast ?" 
 
 " How I know it does not much matter," Ce- 
 cil replied, "and as it is not my secret, I can not 
 explain further. I ought not to have said so, 
 much. But I know quite well he has no inten- 
 tion of marrying her, whatever Lady Eeversham 
 intends for him." 
 
 " That makes it all the easier for you. Yon 
 might have tried to persuade me that you had 
 some absurd scruples about cutting out your 
 fiiend — scruples that I should not have believed, 
 as I think men would rather do a thing of that 
 kind than go in for a woman about whom there 
 was no competition. However, this settles it very 
 comfortably for you, and I am glad to see you are 
 much more reasonable about it than I had ex- 
 pected." 
 
 " Don't call me reasonable, please," interrupt- 
 ed Cecil, " for that means that you expect me to 
 do as you wish, and I warn you that it is ten 
 thousand chances to one that I do not do so. I 
 only consent to see this girl that you may not say 
 I did not try, as far as lay in my power, to please 
 you ; and if you had not promised to make me 
 her equal in fortune I would have avoided her, 
 and not have laid myself open to the risk of a love 
 which all the world would believe feigned, and im- 
 pute to mercenary motives." 
 
 "Very well," answered the old man. "Of 
 course that is the right thing to say, though how 
 you can believe it, after having been so long 
 
50 
 
 OUE DETACHMENT. 
 
 knocking about the world, I can not imagine. If 
 it is a blind, you might as well do without it, and 
 speak as freely to me as I to you ; but somehow 
 I fancy you really do mean what you say, which 
 is an entirely inconceivable infatuation and folly. 
 The difficulty now is, how you are to meet this 
 girl. The people hereabouts, who are no whit 
 better than myself in reality, but who do not ex- 
 press their opinions as openly, turn up their noses 
 at me generally ; not that the gentlemen are not 
 very glad to know me, and come to my little din- 
 ners, and ask for my vote at their meetings, and 
 so on, but for the most part they do not introduce 
 me to their ladies. But I think I can get the 
 Pearsons to do it for me. They are very, neigh- 
 borly as a rale, and they know these Prender- 
 gasts. I will take you to call there to-morrow. 
 I know they, are giving a lot of parties, now, and 
 they will be glad to have a handsome young gen- 
 tleman to put in an appearance at their croqUet- 
 parties, and to dance with their young ladies at 
 their balls. And now let us go into the next 
 room to our coftee." 
 
 The day after the last recorded conversation 
 between Peversham and myselif, he wrote to his 
 mother, and showed me the letter ; for curiously 
 enough his knowledge that I cared for the same 
 girl, and also a consciousness that, were my peo- 
 ple to get wind of the affair, they would act in 
 precisely the same way toward me as his mother 
 had done toward him, drew us more closely to- 
 gether, causing him to choose me as his confidant 
 on a subject which, under other circumstances, 
 lie would have hidden most jealously from a de- 
 clared rival. 
 
 And I felt very strangely about it. I-Iis con- 
 fidence- in me pleased and touched me ; he did 
 not regard me as a mere boy, evidently, or he 
 would not have taken me into all his secrets, and 
 yet it annoyed me in other respects, showing, as 
 it so plainly did, that he regarded my feelings as 
 being neither deep nor permanent. 
 
 I listened to his difficulties, however, and his 
 plans for surmounting them, only buoyed up by 
 this thought, that nothing was known yet of her 
 feelings, and it was but a chance that she would 
 take him ; more particularly — I thought, with a 
 little secret pleasure I could not in any way sup- 
 press — more particularly now that he was a poor 
 man. 
 
 Claude's letter to his mother was manly and 
 determined, though respectful. If I had been 
 obliged to answer such an epistle as hers had been, 
 I am afraid I should hardly have been so calm 
 and deferential ; but then Claude tells me I am 
 more passionate than he ever was, and, besides, 
 have not yet been tamed by the world. He told 
 her in every otiier act of his life he should be hap- 
 py to receive her advice, and might almost prom- 
 ise to act on it, but in this one matter he, and 
 none other, must be the judge. " Consider," he 
 said, " that it involves the happiness of my life. 
 If I take a wife because you like her and recom- 
 mend her, or because she has money, or title, or 
 any other worldly advantage, what guarantee is 
 there that we shall be able to get on happily to- 
 gether ? Bat if I choose her because her disposi- 
 tion suits mine, and we love one another, we have 
 at least a fair prospect of happiness. As to Miss 
 Barabridge, you know nothing of her, and if you 
 allow yourself to be prejudiced against her by any 
 
 aversion to the country of her birth, you are very 
 wrong. Hold over all judgment on the matter 
 until you see her; then if you do not withdraw 
 your opposition I shall be very much saiprised. 
 Undei'stand, however, that whether you give j'our 
 consent or not, if Miss Bambridge will take me, I 
 will marry her ; not that I wish to offend you, 
 but that I can not consider any interference in 
 such a matter justifiable, at least when the person 
 is of an age to judge for himself. At present 
 Miss Bambridge is in Dublin, and will be there 
 for a week or two ; as soon as she returas, how- 
 ever, I shall show lier your letter, and ask her if 
 she will have me, knowing I am a poor man, with 
 nothing to offer her but a true heart." 
 
 Something such as this was the purport of 
 Claude's letter, and I could not help thinking 
 what he said very true. It does seem to me hard 
 that parents should interfere in the marriage of 
 their children, since it is not the old people who 
 will have to live with the wife chosen for her 
 money, or good blood, without respect to temper 
 or disposition : they will not be the sufferers if 
 she turns out cold and irritating, or frivolous and 
 extravagant; therefore I think the person who 
 is to suffer from her whims and caprices, or be 
 made happy by her smiles and caresses, should at 
 least be the one to choose the partner with whom 
 he is to live. 
 
 When Lady Peversham received this letter 
 she was greatly perplexed. Mabel Prendergast 
 was still with her, and she threw it toward her, 
 saying, " Read that. I knew perfectly well he 
 would not believe my tlweat of disinheritance, 
 and you can see such is the case, for he takes no 
 notice of it. What shall I do ? He seems quite 
 determined to have his own way in the matter." 
 
 Mabel picked up the letter, and read it slowly 
 and deliberately. She paused a minute or two 
 after she had finished, while Lady Peversham 
 waited anxiously to hear what advice she would 
 give. 
 
 "What is to be done?" she asked at last, as 
 Mabel stirred her coffee absently. 
 
 The girl looked up hurriedly. "Ah! I for- 
 got. I should see Miss Bambridge myself if I 
 were you, and represent the matter to her ; if 
 she loves him, I should tell her she was ruining 
 his prospects in life if she took him, for that you 
 had designed greater things for him, and would 
 never forgive him if be disobeyed you. If she 
 does not care for him the course is simple enough ; 
 she will not take him, once she hears he has no 
 money. Yes; if I were you I should see the 
 girl mj'self; he says she is in Dublin now. I 
 think the object you have in view would be well 
 worth a trip over there. Don't you ?" 
 
 "Well, but when I get to Dublin how am I to 
 find her ?" asked the old lady, pettishly. 
 
 "That is what I was thinking of," continued 
 Mabel, not noticing her friend's tone. " I should 
 say your best plan would be to write a line to 
 Lady Longwreath, asking her to find out their 
 address. She knows numbers of people who 
 know them, and who will tell where they are, 
 and how long they Intend to remain in Dublin. 
 Will you do it?" 
 
 "I suppose I had better," answered Lady 
 Peversham. "I will do it now. You will be 
 riding this moming, I suppose, and can post it ?" 
 
 "Yes," answered the girl, "I am going to 
 have a scamper, and the morning is so lovely I 
 
OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 51 
 
 have ordered the horse in half an hour. Shall 
 you be ready by that time ?" 
 
 About an hour after this conversation had taken 
 place, Mabel ran into her mother's boudoir at The 
 Poplars. 
 'i " Here I am, mamma," she said, after the first 
 l* embracing was over, throwing herself negligent- 
 ly on to the sofa, and tapping the tip of her boot 
 with her riding-whip. " Have you been wanting 
 me the last day or two ?" 
 
 "We are dull without you, Mabel dear. In- 
 deed, your papa was very anxious to send for you 
 .a day or two ago, but I stopped him. I said if 
 he ever wished to see you Lady Feversham, he 
 must be content to do without you for a little 
 now, as it pleases her ladyship to have you." 
 
 " Well, there does not seem to me to be much 
 chanceofmyeverbeingLord Claude's wife. I told 
 you hehad fallen in love withsome Irish girl, didn't 
 I ? — and that her ladyship had written to tell him 
 if he married her she would disinherit him. She 
 got an answer to her letter to-day, in which he 
 told several truths that are very much against 
 my chances of success. He intends to tell this 
 girl how he stands with his mother, and that if 
 she marries him he will be a poor man, at the 
 same time asking her to take him, if slie cares 
 enough for him to bear poverty for his sake. (If 
 I met a man wlio could say that to me, supposing 
 I was as poor as Miss Bambridge, I should love 
 him for it.)' Then he tells his mother she has no 
 right to prevent him pleasing himself in such a 
 matter ; that it is he who will have to bear the 
 consequences of a mistake, if a mistake is made 
 in the choice of a wife ; and that therefore he 
 considers he should please himself only in the 
 matter. He is quite right, you know, mother. 
 If I did not wish it myself, you'd never get me to 
 take any one you chose ; and if I saw any one I 
 liked better than Claude Feversham to-morrow, I 
 would take him, and leave his lordship to be hap- 
 py with his Irish lady-love." 
 
 "Good gracious, child, how you do run on!" 
 cried Mrs. Prendergast, a comely, good-natured- 
 looking woman, who seemed as if she took the 
 world very easily. "I am sure I don't know 
 where you pick up those queer ideas, and those 
 strange, independent manners. I know it is not 
 from me, and your father was never like that 
 since I have known him." 
 
 " You took it out of him, mamma dear, as 
 Lord Claude is to take it out of me, I suppose. 
 After all, I wonder why I help Lady Feversham 
 about this. I declare I think it is a love of mis- 
 chief, and nothing better, drives me on. It is 
 rather pleasant to be making or marring a man's 
 life, when he thinks you are the simplest, most 
 insignificant child going. I told them to have 
 ' Stole Away ' ready for me in half an hour — I 
 want to give him a gallop on the hills, up near 
 Farmer Morton's, you know. There he is at 
 the door, the beauty ! I will be off ; but I shall 
 lunch here before going back to the Castle." - 
 
 So saying she ran down to the door, where a 
 magnificent brown-black, thorough-bred hunter 
 was waiting for her. 
 
 "He's very fresh, miss, "said the groom hold- 
 ing him, as she appi'oached. "He threw Jim 
 Matthews a few tlays ago, and broke his leg. 
 Since then no one has mounted him, miss, and 
 he seems rale wicked to-day." 
 
 So he did, indeed, as he rolled his eye, show- 
 
 ing the white ominously, and laid back his ears 
 on his smooth, firm neck, as she came forward. 
 
 Mabel Prendergast, however, was not easily 
 frightened by such demonstrations, but patted 
 his sleek shoulder before she mounted, with hev 
 usual careless indifference as to what might be 
 the temper or disposition of the animal. 
 
 Once in the saddle, the reins in hand, and 
 "You may let go," said to the groom, it be- 
 came apparent that " Stole Away " was not in 
 the most amiable frame of mind. Setting up 
 his powerful back with a squeal, and lashing his 
 hind-quarters viciously, he executed a series of 
 vigorous buck-jumps, varied by violent kicking 
 at intervals. It was pretty evident such was the 
 process by which he had been accustomed to dis- 
 lodge the grooms, and he hoped to dispose of his 
 young mistress just as effectively. 
 
 The lawn before them was open, only a few 
 large trees growing here and there, while at the 
 farther end it was bounded by a sunk fence and 
 wide ditch ; once over that, the country was al- 
 most open, rising in sunny pasture slopes up to 
 the very summits of the liills that bounded the 
 view in that direction. All this Mabel knew 
 well enough ; so, after a few moments, during 
 which she kept her seat like a Centaur, in spite 
 of the furious efforts made to get rid of her, she 
 turned the horse's head in the right direction, 
 and bringing down her whip with stinging force 
 across his quarters, darted forward like an arrow 
 from a bow, and sitting well down, piloted the 
 flying steed through the clumps of timber to- 
 ward the sunk fence and ditch before mention- 
 ed. As slie neared the leap, she tried to take a 
 pull on the horse and get him together ; he was 
 running away, or would have been had she tried 
 to stop him; but having been left free till then, 
 and seeing what was before him, he steadied a 
 little into his stride on feeling himself taken by 
 the head, and went at it gallantly. There was 
 a great drop over the ditch on the far side, and 
 altogether it was a biggish place ; but Mabel had 
 crossed it many a time before, and worse things 
 too, on that same horse " Stole Away." It was 
 not the leap, therefore, that caused her to utter 
 a half-stifled cry as her horse threw himself well 
 forward over it; the object that caused her so 
 much alarm as to startle her out of her usual 
 composure was the figure of a man lying in the 
 ditch close to the spot where she crossed it. But 
 that "Stole Away" swerved in his jump as he 
 caught sight of the prostrate figure; Mabel might 
 not have remarked it; but even in the short 
 glimpse she obtained of it, before her horse car- 
 ried her wildly onward, she was aware that some- 
 thing was wrong with the man lying there. The 
 confused, huddled -up attitude prompted her to 
 return and find out what assistance was needed. 
 But it was not an easy matter to stop her star- 
 tled steed or reduce him to obeditace, and being 
 in a large pasture-field, she soon found the quick- 
 est way to accomplish her purpose would be to 
 give the fiery animal a gallop before taking him 
 back to the fence by which the man was lying. 
 Round the field they went, startling the sleepy 
 herds of cattle into menacing groups ; but still 
 "Stole Away," stout of wind and limb, showed 
 no disposition to halt in his wild career. She 
 was too full of a kind of undefined anxiety to be 
 pleased with what, at any other time, she would 
 have enjoyed immensely. 
 
OUK DETACHMENT. 
 
 At length, after an nppuienlly interminable 
 gallop, she felt that lier steed would be willing 
 to stand should she find it necessary to dismount, 
 and turning, she rode at once to the place where 
 the man lay. Ho was there still, she could see 
 as she approached, lying without motion or sign 
 of life. Mabel's heart almost stopped beating 
 ivith apprehension, as she advanced slowly to- 
 ward him. When she stood beside him, every 
 thing that had puzzled and alarmed her was at 
 once explained. 
 
 The fence was one of the kind known as a 
 sunk fence^ and the higher side was faced with 
 massive stone-work. The ditch being deep and 
 wide, it was evident the man, who no doubt had 
 intended to cross the fence, had not tried to jump, 
 but bad endeavored to climb, and had caught hold 
 of one of the large stones that faced the higher 
 hank, by which to pull himself up. This stone, 
 loosened by action of water or some other cause, 
 had given way, and had rolled on top of him as 
 he fell backward. 
 
 It lay a heavy, crushing mass on his chest; 
 but how long it had lain there, and whether the 
 suiferer was dead or not, Mabel conld not say ; 
 she only remembered that the spot was unfre- 
 quented, and, had she not happened to pass, the 
 body might have remained there for days longer ; 
 for that he was either dead or insensible was evi- 
 dent. His face was partially hidden by one hand ; 
 the only life-like thing about him was his thick 
 brown hair, that fluttered a little in the breeze, 
 his hat having fallen off. Beside him also lay a 
 small book, the leaves of which, turning over with 
 a. faint sound, allowed Mabel to catch sight of 
 ])enciled and colored outlines here and there 
 amidst its pages. 
 
 "An artist, " she thought. ' ' What shall I do ? 
 I must go home for assistance." 
 
 Turning the now submissive thorough-bred to 
 n more practicable place, she went over and quick- 
 ly arrived at the house. 
 
 It did not take long to tell her story and send 
 men to the relief of the stranger, who was pres- 
 ently brought in, still insensiblCj and carried to 
 the room Mabel had already caused to be got 
 ready for him. 
 
 "We can do no less, mamma," she answered, 
 when her mother remonstrated, on the ground 
 that they did not know who he was. " I found 
 him : we must do all that lies in our power for 
 him. Send Jacob for the doctor at once," she 
 went on, addressing the footman, who had an- 
 swered her peremptoiy peal on the bell. 
 
 "It all comes of your riding those frightful 
 horses, my dear," moaned Mrs. Prendergast. 
 "I always thought you would kill yourself, 
 but it seems you have found some one else kill- 
 ed instead." 
 
 " Nonsense, mamma ; he isn't dead," answer- 
 ed Mabel, rather crossly — all the more crossly be- 
 cause she was horribly ofiaid her mother spoke 
 the trnth. "Ah! here they are with him. He 
 had better be laid on the bed at once, and we 
 must try to bring him round before the doctor 
 comes." 
 
 But all their efforts to revive him were for long 
 unavailing, even after the doctor joined them. 
 When at length he did open his eyes, it was 
 only to close them again in another swoon. Ho 
 seemed weak, the doctor thought, as though he 
 had lain in the field some time ; but after a litte 
 
 brandy had been administered his breathing be-' 
 came more regular and his pulse stronger. 
 
 When Dr. Sims joined the ladies afterward,' 
 he told them he apprehended no danger, if fe- 
 ver did not set in ; the most serious injury was 
 the very severe contusion he had received in the 
 chest ; but he had no doubt time and care would 
 cure him completely — make him as strong as ever 
 he was; "or indeed stronger," he added, with a 
 laugh. " It seems to me he is a traveling artist 
 — a gentlemanly-looking fellow, for all that." 
 
 "What's his name, doctor ?" asked Mabel. 
 "Did he tell you?" ' 
 
 " He has not spoken at all yet," replied the 
 doctor — "indeed, the less ho speaks the better 
 for some time ; but I found a letter in his pocket 
 addressed to Cecil Egerton, Esq., Beaumanoir, 
 Blankshire, so I presume he is staying with Mr. 
 Vansittart. I shall write to that gentleman when 
 I go home, to see if I can find out any thing 
 about him." 
 
 " Yes, and you may have his things sent here," 
 said Mabel, eagerly, " as it will be some time be- 
 fore he can move, I imagine. " 
 
 "Very well," answered Dr. Sims, bustling 
 down to his gig as he spoke. "I will call again 
 to-morrow." 
 
 ' ' Now what am I to do, mamma ?" asked Ma- 
 bel, when the village medico had disappeared. 
 " It is not fiiir to leave you all the burden of 
 this man I have brought home, so I think I had 
 better leave Lady Feversham for the present and 
 return here. He is too much of a gentleman, I 
 think, at least in appearance, to leave him en- 
 tirely to servants ; it would not be kind. It is 
 a gieat bore, all the same," she went on. "I 
 was advising Lady Feversham about this busi- 
 ness of Lord Claude's, and now it will all be in 
 a muddle, unless I ride over there every day." 
 
 "Well, you can do that, darling, " answered 
 her father, who had come into the room while 
 she was speaking. " I have been looking at this 
 young fellow, and he seems a gentleman from 
 his appearance. He is lying quite quiet, with 
 his eyes closed, but I think not sleeping. He 
 seems to breathe with difficulty ; but the doctor 
 says he will get over it soon. Do you know 
 how it happened, dear?" 
 
 Then she related how she imagined it had 
 happened, and ended by saying, 
 
 "It is most provoking I should have been the 
 person to discover him. It is fearfully disagree- 
 able having a man of whom you know nothing 
 sick in your house, particularly under these cir- 
 cumstances, as it obliges you to be civil. How- 
 ever, it can't last so very long. I suppose a 
 month will see our trouble over. Now I will 
 gallop back to the Castle and explain it all to 
 her ladyship ; but I will return in the evening." 
 
 Lady Feversham was in great distress when 
 she heard her young ally must leave her. She 
 felt it quite impossible that, without Mabel's as- 
 sistance, she could bring the matter to a success- 
 ful termination. 
 
 "And besides," she went on, "I really don't 
 see the necessity for your going home ; and the 
 man need be no burden to your mother; the 
 housekeeper would take care of him. " 
 
 "Of course," assented Mabel, somewhat im- 
 patiently; "but, 3'ou see, he seems rather too 
 much of a gentleman to bo left entirely to serv- 
 ants. It will be right for some of us to go and 
 
OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 63 
 
 fiee after him now and then, and it would be 
 lather too much to ask mamma to do it always, 
 when I brought him into the house. As to your 
 business, however, I will ride over every morn- 
 ing, and then we can settle what had best be 
 done. I posted your letter to Lady Longwreath, 
 but we can't have an answer that will be of any 
 use to our plans for at least a week." 
 
 So it was an-anged that Mabel should return 
 home, but that she was still to be the governing 
 spirit of Lady Feversham's schemes. She rode 
 away that afternoon a little annoyed and wor- 
 ried at her morning's adventure, yet not wholly 
 displeased at it, since it afforded a pretext for 
 leaving the Castle, where she was beginning to 
 get rather bored. 
 
 ' ' Stole Away "was quiet enough by this time, 
 and the young girl, laying the reins on his neck, 
 followed the road homeward, absorbed in reverie. 
 It was a lovely evening early in September ; the 
 sun, low down in the horizon, threw long shad- 
 ows of the horse and his rider over bank and 
 hedge -row, as she passed along; the clouds 
 floated high in the still heavens, blazing with 
 crimson and gold ; the trees, already beginning 
 to don the richest autumn tints, hardly rustled a 
 leaf in the still evening an-; while, all along the 
 white,- dusty i-oad, cattle were -vyending their way 
 homeward, or parties of laborers returning from 
 their work, touched their hats respectfully to the 
 squire's young lady. She was well known to 
 tliem all, and a favorite with most, for she show- 
 ed no haughtiness of disposition toward her in- 
 feriors ; and being of a generous disposition, with 
 plenty of money at her command, she took a 
 pleasure in relieving any want that came under 
 her notice. Besides, she could. ride as few even 
 of the men in the county could, and her daring 
 awoke a warm feeling of adniiration in the coun- 
 try bumpkins, who sometimes watched her rapid 
 flight across the country. 
 
 But this evening she took very little notice of 
 their respectful salutations ; her mind was fully 
 occupied with other things. Krst, there was 
 this business of Claude Feversham's. ■ Should 
 they win, and might she hope some day to have 
 him at her feet ? or would he carry his purpose, 
 as, indeed, she well believed he had strength of 
 will to do ? 
 
 r After all, if Lady Feversham could find the 
 girl's address, it would depend more on her char- 
 acter than on Claude's will ; but if she loved him 
 as he did her, it was more than probable she 
 would regard her lover's entreaties more than his 
 mother's threats. 
 
 Then her thoughts reverted to the morning's 
 adventure. 
 
 " So stupid!" she muttered, drawing her whip 
 across her horse's neck with a threatening ges- 
 ture, but without striking him. "It was your 
 being so wild, you old fool, that caused me to 
 discover him. I must take care to give you 
 plenty of exercise, or you will be mad before the 
 hunting begins." 
 
 Then she wondered what the stranger might 
 be like. She had not seen his face, shaded as it 
 was by his hand when she rode up, and after- 
 ward, in the bustle and confusion, she had not 
 noticed it. 
 
 She only remembered heavy masses of dark, 
 wavy hair, cut rather short, and a white, delicate- 
 ly formed hand ; not at all the hand of one ac- 
 
 customed to rough it, and labor for his daily 
 bread — rather it seemed suited to a dreamer or 
 a poet. As she thought of this, Mabel wonder- 
 ed more and more who he could be, and what 
 brought him there. 
 
 It was almost dinner-hour when she reached 
 The Poplars. Running up stairs, she began to 
 dress quickly, ringing for her old nurse, who was 
 also her maid, as she did so. Her bell was an- 
 swered by one of the other servants, whom she 
 asked sharply why nurse did not attend to her. 
 The girl replied that nurse was in the sick gen- 
 tleman's room, but she would send her to Miss 
 Mabel at once. 
 
 "No, no," cried Mabel, hastily ; "}'ou will do 
 very well for what I want now. I can stop and 
 speak to nurse as I pass the room. It is rather 
 a bore, having one's maid turned into a sick- 
 nurse," she gi-umbled, as she went on dressing. 
 
 Shortly after, on her way down stairs; she 
 knocked gently at the door of the invalid's room, 
 and looking in noiselessly, asked how he was do- 
 ing. 
 
 "Pretty much the same, miss," replied the 
 nurse. "He has neither spoken nor moved 
 since the doctor saw him last. '' 
 
 "Well, I just came to speak to you about the 
 dress you are making for me," continued Mabel. 
 "I was thinking, when I was out to-day, that I 
 should like little flounces all up the back, and 
 not a bunched-up panier, as every one wears 
 now. Do you think you can manage that? It 
 was better to tell you at once, for fear you might 
 cut the stuff the other way." 
 
 " Very well, miss," answered the nurse ; "you 
 only just spoke in time, as I had laid out to cut 
 the panier to-night. I have not seen any dresses 
 made that way, but if you can show me one of 
 the fashion pictures, I dare say I shall be able to 
 manage it.", 
 
 " You'll find Le Follet in my room," answered 
 Mabel, " and there is a plate of the very thing I 
 want. I suppose the gentleman is insensible, 
 as you say he has not spoken or moved since 
 he came, nurse. What is he like ? I had no op- 
 portunity of getting a look at his face." • 
 
 As. she spoke Mabel noiselessly crossed the 
 room and stood by the bedside, while nurse took 
 up again the work she had laid down, and an- 
 swered : 
 
 "He is a nice-looking young gentleman 
 enough, miss, if he was stronger ; but he must 
 have been lying out there some time, the doctor 
 thinks, before you found him ; and he is that 
 wasted you could blow him away if you had a 
 mind to do so." 
 
 Mabel smiled as she listened to nurse's opin- 
 ion, and mentally passed her own while she look- 
 ed at his haggard, pallid countenance, which was 
 handsome in spite of suffering. . As she stood 
 thus he opened his eyes wearily, and at first there 
 was no meaning or purpose in his gaze ; it was 
 simply a vacant stiu-e. By degrees, however, an 
 expression of pleasure dawned over his. weai-y, 
 pain-altered face ; he did not attempt to speak, 
 but his look followed Mabel as she turned away. 
 When she left the' room he closed his eyes with 
 a sigh, and she went down stairs musing, 
 ■ " How handsome he is ! Who can he be ? — a 
 gentleman, evidently, with that face and those 
 hands, but who ?" 
 
 A question hot to be answered, at least at 
 
j>4 
 
 OUK DETACHMENT. 
 
 present, so she descended to the drawitig-roonii 
 and was rather more meditative even than nsual 
 that night ; but her parents were used to their 
 little daughter's fits of abstraction, and her ab- 
 sent taanner passed unnoticed. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 A FASCINATING ACQUAINTANCE. 
 
 In the mean time, we on duty in Ireland began 
 to have rather hard times of it. The Eeuian 
 agitation was recommencing in preparation for 
 the winter, at which time they were always most 
 troublesome. We were perpetually being con- 
 fined to barracks, besides being obliged to be 
 much more strict in the performance of our duties 
 than we had been ever since we entered these 
 jolly country quarters. It was very hard to be up 
 to them ; they had so many ways of disguising 
 themselves and going about, and the Government 
 w!is so awfully frightened of them, a great deal 
 more so than the necessities of the case warrant- 
 ed. We were fearfully bored at not being able 
 to go out at night when we wished, it being nec- 
 essary always to leave some of us in charge of the 
 barracks. Indeed we seldom got any distance 
 from the town now, for fear of sudden calls being 
 made for us ; not that we should have been of 
 much use in case of a rising, I apprehend, as in 
 ouch a difficulty the orders were that we should 
 shut ourselves up in barracks. 
 
 Under these circumstances, it did not so much 
 matter' the Bambridges being away, as we could 
 not have got over there often ; so we amused 
 oureelves as best we could, playing bUliards and 
 lounging about the to^vn. 
 
 The billiard-room was in the hotel, and was 
 ft very constant resort of ours every afternoon : 
 we generally met some one or two of the country 
 gentlemen "there, and really there was nothing 
 better to do than getting up matches between 
 ourselves and them, which was done without 
 much loss on either side, none of us being very 
 first-rate players. 
 
 One afternoon, however, when Flower and I 
 entered the billiard-room, we found it occupied 
 by a gentlemanly-looking man, who was knock- 
 ing about the balls by himself, and who apparent- 
 ly did not find that amusement lively, for on our 
 approach he laid down his cue, and asked if we 
 were about to have a game. Now Elower and 
 I were so ill matched — that is to say, he was such 
 a bad player, that it had become somewhat mo- 
 notonous my constantly winning ; I therefore an- 
 swered that if the stranger would play a game 
 with me it would give me great pleasure, and 
 Flower would mark for us. 
 
 I don't think Baby half liked being ordered to 
 mark, but he was rather afraid of me, so he assent- 
 ed somewhat sullenly, and we set to work. Our 
 unknown friend was not only a splendid player, 
 soon making me repent of my weakness in chal- 
 lenging him, but he was also a very liberal, friend- 
 ly kind of fellowj called for Champagne, and in- 
 vited us to drink with him in a way that plainly 
 showed he had money at his command, and was 
 not one of the poor tourists that are most fre- 
 quently to be seen at country hotels in the west 
 of Ireland. 
 ■ He beat me, of course ; then he played with 
 
 Flower, giving him a good lot of points, and beat 
 him with equal ease ; after that Feversham hav- 
 ing come in, they began a game, but here he 
 found himself better matched, and it was a very 
 close struggle between them, ending, however, by 
 the stranger's winning. He was a communica- 
 tive fellow, called himself Mr. Maguire, and told 
 us all about his family and fortune, where lie 
 lived, and what brought him. dowh to Belmurpliy. 
 Then he played another game with the police in- 
 spector, who had just come in, finished him too, 
 and after that, as it was nearly time for mess, 
 walked part of the way back with us. This went 
 on for some days. He was a most agreeable, gen- 
 tleman-like fellow, full of fun and anecdote, and 
 did not always win at billiards, which kept us all 
 in a good-humor with him ; it was such u, tri- 
 umph when one did manage to defeat a good 
 player. As we got more intimate, he used to ask 
 us to cozy bachelor dinners, and we in return 
 asked him to mess one evening, as we were about 
 to leave the hotel, after a pleasant afternoon spent 
 there. 
 
 He accepted willingly, saying it was very lone- 
 ly dining by himself, and came along with us at 
 once. 
 
 "Have you had any trouble about those Fe- 
 nian fellows lately?" he asked, as we drew near 
 the barracks. 
 
 "Well, you know,'' replied Feversham, "the 
 Government is in an awful funk about them, and 
 really if the barracks all over the country are like 
 these, they could not be very easily defended." 
 
 "I don't know," answered Maguire. "You 
 see I have traveled a good deal on the Continent, 
 and have learned something of fortification there, 
 so perhaps, if you are not above taking a hint, I 
 might give you one or two. You see the bar- 
 racks stand on the summit of a high hill ; it is 
 true they are commanded by another hill over 
 there, and yon would not have troops enough to 
 occupy that ; but then these Fenians have no 
 cannon, and without them the height beyond 
 would serve them little. Then, if I was defend- 
 ing this place, the first thing I should do would 
 he to destroy all these poor houses that come 
 close up to the walls, and that would afford cover 
 to the enemy. Once they were removed, nothing 
 could approach you without being exposed to your 
 fire. However, I suppose you know all this as 
 well as I do. - Were not those your plans ?" 
 
 "Well, yes, in part," answered Feversham, 
 "but I think we might even do a little more;" 
 and then he proceeded to unfold his ideas for for- 
 tifying the barracks in case of a rising. 
 
 Mr. Maguire listened with attention, suggest- 
 ing an improvement here, disputing the wisdom 
 of a measure there, until we went in to dinner, 
 when the subject dropped, and was not again re- 
 sumed. " He is a clever fellow that," whispered 
 Mayleigh to me before we sat down. " He is as 
 well up in fortification as I am myself." 
 
 " Which would not be saying much for him,'' 
 I laughed. "It seems to me he knows more 
 than Feversham, and some of his ideas are orig- 
 inal, though he supports them strongly." 
 
 When he was about to leave that night, our 
 guest, while shaking us warmly by the hands, 
 said that it was with great regret he bid us good- 
 bye, as he must be oif by the early train next 
 day. 
 
 "I shall ever think with pleasure of our brief 
 
OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 aequairitance," he added, feelingly. "And even 
 if we don't meet, you will hear of me again." 
 
 "I am sorry he is going," we all exclaimed 
 when he had left ; " he was such a pleasant com- 
 panion." 
 
 "Yes, it is quite refreshing to meet with such 
 a clever fellow, who is not above joining in ordi- 
 nary amusements," chimed in Fevershara. " He 
 has got no meah talent in the engineering line ; 
 he pointed out one or two little defects in tlie 
 plans we had formed for defending the bar- 
 racks." 
 
 So we all agreed we had lost a most charming 
 acquaintance, and regretted him very much till 
 the next afternoon, when Colonel Dropmore re- 
 ceived an official communication, to the effect 
 that the famous Fenian leader. Colonel Kelly, 
 was in the town, residing at the hotel, and tliat 
 immediate measures must be taken for his arrest. 
 Then followed a description of his personne, in 
 which we recognized, with unfeigned astonish- 
 ment, a most accurate portrait of our agreeable 
 billiard-playing friend. 
 
 "Well, if this isn't a pretty go! "cried May- 
 leigh,' going into a fit of laughter ; " at any rate 
 the bird has flown now, and he deserved to get 
 safe off, for a bolder or cooler fellow never 
 breathed. How well he walked into us ! By 
 Jove, I feel a good deal smaller since I heard how 
 we were taken in !" 
 
 "It is very annoying," answered Feversliam. 
 "What -a confounded set of fools we must ap- 
 pear to him ! But, as you say, I am glad he es- 
 caped, for he was a pluclcy fellow after all." 
 
 The laugh raised against us, when this became 
 known, gave the county amusement for many 
 days, and we had to stand a heavy fire of chaff 
 from every man we met for a good while after. 
 
 But this was not all, even. Shortly after a 
 man was taken up somewhere else on the suppo- 
 sition that he was Colonel Kelly, and several of 
 us had to go over to London to see if we could 
 identify him. It was a great bore, as we were 
 dragged over, confronted with the prisoner, who 
 proved to be the wrong man after all, and then 
 were sentback on the spot, not being even al- 
 lowed a few days to rest and amuse ourselves 
 among the pleasures of the great city. 
 
 " It will teach us to be more careful in choos- 
 ing our acquaintance In future," said Claude, 
 when, wearied and travel -stained, we returned 
 again to Belmurphy; "not but that he was as 
 good a fellow as you could meet with, and I am 
 glad he got safe off." 
 
 In the mean time, while all this was going on 
 down with us. Lady Eeversham, after at least ten 
 anxious days of waiting, received the required 
 information from Lady Longwreath. The Bam- 
 bridges were in Lodgings in Kildare Street, the 
 number was given, and all was ready for Lady 
 Feversham to decide on her course of action. 
 This, however, she could not do without first 
 consulting Mabel Prendergast, who urged her 
 strongly to go over and see Miss Bambridge in 
 person. 
 
 "I will not tell.you what to say," she went 
 on ; " the situation must, of course, suggest tliat ; 
 but if you find she is not afraid of poverty, try 
 and get her pride up in your favor. Insinuate 
 that you look on a match with her as a mesalli- 
 ance, and that it will lower Lord Feversham's 
 position in society. There — I need not tell you 
 
 any more ; you understand it very well, and if 
 you are determined to succeed, you will do so." 
 
 Lady Feversham would have liked greatly to 
 take Mabel with her. It was a long, tiresome 
 journey, with only her maid for a companion, 
 but she could see plainly it would be useless ask- 
 ing such a thing, and so she at last made up her 
 mind to do it by lierself, with only a feeble milk- 
 and-water kind of woman — lier maid Furcell — 
 as a protector. 
 
 "You'll be back in two or three days ?" asked 
 Mabel, as she watched her friend get into the 
 train, on her way up to London. 
 
 "Yes, certainly," the old lady answered,"and 
 I hope with good news — good for you as well as 
 me, remember." 
 
 Mabel nodded her liead with a smile, but as 
 she turned away an impatient expression over- 
 spread her face. 
 
 "Did not I tell her,'' she thought, "that it 
 was not for myself I was assisting her, and less 
 now than ever ? And why less now than ever ?" 
 she asked herself, as she took her ponies' reins 
 and turned their heads honieward.' "I think I 
 am going mad, or getting softening of the brain, 
 or something dreadful, when I begin to fancy 
 even for a minute I could give up the power I 
 might enjoy as his wife, and all because a face 
 haunts me — as if it was not very natural a face 
 as perfect as that one should do so ! Why, it is 
 quite a pleasure to think of it," she mused, smil- 
 ing, leaning back, and letting the ponies take 
 their own pace homeward. "A picture would 
 please me as well. There is a want somewhere 
 in the face, and yet you never think of that when 
 looking at it. Too much sweetness and tender- 
 ness, and too little strength — that is the fault. 
 Well, there is strength enough about Lord 
 Claude's face, but it is nothing to look at, 
 though I believe many people tliiuk him hand- 
 some." 
 
 She was nearly home by this time, and, as she 
 drew near, she whipped up the ponies, as if im- 
 patient of every moment until she reached the 
 house ; then throwing the reins to the groom, 
 she ran up stairs to a little pleasant morning- 
 room, where Cecil Egerton lay stretched on the 
 sofa. He had been carried in there that day for 
 the first time, and even that exertion seemed to 
 have been too much for his feeble strength, for 
 he lay now with the western sunlight streaming 
 over him, his eyes closed, and appealing hardly 
 to breathe. Suddenly a shadow fell across him, 
 and as he had done on the first night of his ar- 
 rival, so now he opened his heavy eyes, which 
 lighted up with a look of such unutterable hap- 
 piness that Mabel Prendergast turned away her 
 Iiead, that she might not behold the unconcealed 
 rapture that shone in his glance. 
 
 "I knew it was you," he murmured, and his 
 soft, slow utterance spoke the same tale as his 
 face — passionate, adoring love. ' ' Your step is 
 light as air, but I heard it and knew it. You 
 have been away a long time." 
 
 "Not so long, "answered Mabel, lightly; and 
 stepping to the window she drew the blind part- 
 ly down, to shade his face from the sun ; then, 
 not trusting herself to look at him, she went on 
 gayly,' "As to heiaring my step, that is nonsense 
 — ^it was my shadow between you and the sun 
 aroused you." 
 
 " I should know your step among a thousand," 
 
OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 lie persisted, fdelih'. Then, after a pause, he 
 whispered again, "When shall I be stronger? 
 Does the doctor tell you when I shall be well ?" 
 
 "Not for two or three weeks yet," she an- 
 swered. "And you will not be mucli to boast 
 of even then. Why are yon so anxious to be 
 well ? Are you tired of being here ?" 
 
 " Tired !" he repeated ; and his glance, which 
 she had turned to meet, startled the careless co- 
 quette with its deep meaning. "I am only 
 afraid," he added, "that I shall feel my usual 
 life unbearable after this." 
 
 " Well, do not think of it for the present," she 
 replied — "it will be time enough to meet your 
 troubles when they come. In the mean time, 
 rest and be happy. Ah ! here is mamma com- 
 ing to see the patient. He is getting on very 
 slowly, mamma dear, and seems tired by having 
 been moved into this room to-day." 
 
 ' ' I was afraid he would, " answered Mrs. Pren- 
 dergast; "but he seemed so very anxious for ii 
 change that at last I consented." 
 
 So saying, she sat down beside him, talking 
 l)Ieasantly of the little events of the day, not re- 
 quiring an answer, and striving by every art in 
 her power to cheer and entertain the invalid. 
 
 Certainly, as far as kindness and considera- 
 tion went, Cecil Egerton could not have fallen 
 into better hands, and yet he wished sometimes 
 bitterly that it had been his fate to die where he 
 fell, or be picked up and succored by the meanest 
 laborer in the field, rather than to have been let 
 into this paradise of beauty and love, to be turned 
 out .again, in a few short weeks, deprived of the 
 only thing that had hitherto supported him — his 
 light, careless heart. A heavy heart, indeed, he 
 was doomed' to carry henceforward, for he told 
 himself again and again it was impossible that 
 be could ever be any thing more to the bright 
 young beauty who formed the light of his life 
 than the stranger whom she had found injured 
 accidentally, and whom her kindness had suc- 
 cored. 
 
 So while Mrs. Prendergast chatted away mer- 
 rily, thinking she was beguiling the weary mo- 
 ments of the invalid, his thoughts flew back to 
 his uncle, and a mental review of his position 
 passed before him. Mr. Vansittart had not 
 come to see him when he heard what had hap- 
 pened, but he had written a note, which was 
 cautiously worded, and not unkind. Cecil could 
 tell from it, however, that bis uncle considered 
 the accident a very lucky one, or, in other words, 
 that he fancied it was an accident on purpose, 
 and that he gave his nephew credit for being 
 more than usually mercenary, as being willing to 
 run bodily risk to insure his securing the prize. 
 This added to the sting caused by what he be- 
 lieved to be the hopeless nature of his love. It 
 was bitter to feel that he had given his whole 
 heart to one so incomparably and immeasur.ibly 
 his superior — that she, looking down from the 
 height. of a heavenly pity, could never either un- 
 derstand or return his affection ; but it was still 
 more bitter thnt he should, by the accident that 
 had opened to him the door of this paradise, that 
 had filled his heart with this priceless love, have 
 laid himself open to the base insinuations of those 
 whose hearts were too sordid to understand his 
 pure devotion, or her unmeasurable distance above 
 him. Mr. Vansittart said in his note he would 
 himself call to see his nephew as soon as he 
 
 should hear that Cecil was strong enough to re- 
 ceive him ; but the young man determined he 
 would not let his uncle know of his convalescence 
 until he was well enougli to leave The Poplars. 
 
 The great fault of his character was, as has 
 been said, a weakness that caused him to think 
 ill of himself and of his own endeavors at all 
 times, and to exalt the performances of others 
 unduly. It was a sweet, loving character, with 
 great capabilities for affection, but no energy, no 
 ambition that might urge him on to take the 
 place in the world to which his imaginative pow- 
 ers entitled him. 
 
 As an artist or a poet, under favorable cir- 
 cumstances, he would have been great ; as a man 
 of action and pui'pose, he could never have been 
 distinguished. He recognized this fault in him- 
 self clearly, as indeed he saw all his faults, with- 
 out ever perceiving his counterbalancing merits. 
 As he lay back, listening to his hostess's chat, a 
 dull despair stole over his heart when he thought 
 of his love, and the utter improbability of her 
 ever learning to care for him. He thought of 
 her as he saw her when he opened his eyes that 
 first night, and beheld the white -robed figure 
 standing by his bedside, looking so pitiful and 
 tender. He remembered how she appeared to 
 him like an angel of light — like a vision from 
 some happier world — and he had hardly dared 
 to breathe, for fear the enchanting apparition 
 sliould fade and vanish from his sight. 
 
 When she turned and left the room, speaking 
 for an instant to the nurse as she went, he under- 
 stood that it was no unreal form that had charm- 
 ed his weaiy senses and beguiled his pain ; satis- 
 fied that what he had just seen he should see 
 again, he slept peacefully for the first time since 
 he was injured. 
 
 After tliat day, as ho slowly recovered, he 
 thought of her constantly, watched for her ap- 
 proach, and centred every feeling of his passion- 
 ate heart in her. How he should like to paint 
 her portrait, he thought, assuring himselfhis de- 
 votion was merely artistic admiration. In his 
 mind he drew her for every fair and famous 
 woman noted in the history of every age and 
 clime, always ending by deciding that her own 
 age and character suited her best : he could not 
 associate the actions of any other being with her. 
 As he began to get stronger, and knew that be- 
 fore long he must make an effort to move, and 
 not trespass longer on his entertainers' kindness, 
 he discovered at once and suddenly how deep this 
 ill-fated affection had struck its roots into his 
 heart. 
 
 It was not only that he thought of her by night 
 and di)y, that her strange, expressive eyes haunted 
 liim with tlieir changeful meaning, that her fair 
 i'ace hovered always before him, with its inde- 
 scribable smile, and surrounded by its frame of 
 dark hair, like a picture by some rare old master ; 
 it was not this delight of the senses, exquisite 
 though it was, that rendered the agony of part- 
 ing so keen and unsupportable ; it was that with 
 every good, and tender, and noble quality with 
 which nature had gifted higi, he had endowed 
 her with lavish imagination ; and all that was 
 lofty, and strong, and admirable, in which, he 
 was deficient, seemed to him to shine forth in 
 her with greater brilliancy than in any other be- 
 ing he had ever met. 
 
 When she sang, it was a pleasure so exquisite 
 
OUE DETACHMENT. 
 
 57 
 
 as to be pain ; when she talked, with her low, | 
 caressing voice, his heart would beat wildly with 
 rapture ; and when the red-brown eyes rested on 
 his with that indefinable smile, half coaxing, half 
 triumphant, curving her lips, he felt as though he 
 could die happy, were he but assured that strange 
 sphinx-like smile and the glorious light in the un- 
 fathomable eyes were for him, and him alone. 
 
 The feelings that rose so wildly in his heart 
 would at times break bounds and betray them- 
 selves. Weak in all things, he was weaker yet 
 in this, and would, when alone with Mabel, utter 
 words that revealed plainly all the longing and 
 the passion which was so irrepressible and, as he 
 thought, so hopeless. These outbreaks she af- 
 fected to treat as expressions of gratitude for the 
 little kindnesses she showed him ;- or at times, 
 when it was impossible to twist his words so as 
 to render such interpretation probable, she would 
 say, laughing, though but for her back being al- 
 ways turned to him on these occasions, he might 
 have detected the quivering of her lips, 
 
 "Nonsense, you foolish boy ! We don't talk of 
 such things here, and I can not allow it. Mind, 
 if you disobey me," she would add, holding up 
 a warning finger, "I shall leave you in Mrs. 
 Meek's chai'ge, and never come near you again." 
 
 The mere threat of such a fate was sufBcient, 
 and the danger would be tided over for a time. 
 Mabel, laughing within herself at his implicit 
 obedience to her word, and believing that she 
 could keep him forever as submissive as he then 
 was, would think no more of the matter, and see 
 as much of him as before any rash words had 
 ci'ossed his lips to her. 
 
 In the mean time, what did she think of him ? 
 No sooner had she discovered the state of his 
 feelings with regard to her than she asked her- 
 self that question, but could give no answer to it. 
 
 " He ig certainly wonderfully handsome," she 
 thought, as, sitting a little behind him in the 
 shade of the window- curtain, she scanned his 
 clear-cut features, wide forehead, dark violet 
 eyes, and sweet, irresolute mouth, shaded by a 
 heavy dark mustache; "and he loves me as I 
 have never been loved," she mused. "If I 
 would marry him to-morrow, and had nothing 
 in the wide world to call my own, he would take 
 me by the hand and lead me witii him as cheer- 
 fully as though I brought him thousands of dow- 
 ry. Why can not I afford to.please myself? I 
 know people would say what a fool that girl was 
 to many the poor soldier she had rescued ; but, 
 after all, why should I give my money to a rich 
 man, simply because the world expects it. But 
 then Lord Feversham. If his mother breaks oft' 
 the match, it will be a fine thing to subdue that 
 man, and teach him the chit he used to look 
 down upon may be a prize to be desired. I do 
 believe I could fascinate him if I tried, and then 
 what a sphere would be open to my ambition as 
 his wife ! No, it is folly to think of love when so 
 fine a game is opening before me. As for this 
 poor fellow, I fear he will not like it; but he 
 could not expect to win me, and I have been 
 much kinder to him than he had any reason to 
 hope. I wonder how he will take it ! I hope I 
 shall be able to get out of the way when he is 
 leaving. " 
 
 So thinking, she rose, turned the cushions un- 
 der his weary head, lingered a little as she bent 
 over liim, feeling that his dark dreamy eyes Were 
 
 fixed on her, and that he followed every turn of 
 her graceful figure with undisguised admiration ; 
 but she cared little, while she paid him these at- 
 tentions, whether the result would be life-long 
 misery, or cynical, callous indifference. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 LADY FEVEBSHAM IN DUBLIN. 
 
 Lady Feveesham arrived in Ireland with 
 less of fatigue and won-y than she had anticipa- 
 ted. She might have heard before of the Holy- 
 head boats, or might have been told that tiie 
 passage was short and safe, but certainly she had 
 expected difficulties and dangers in reaching that 
 barbarous island which did not meet her in real- 
 ity. She felt almost disappointed that she had 
 not been called upon to go through something 
 much more terrible, which would have given her 
 the right to consider herself a martyr to her son's 
 interests. 
 
 However, it was not to be, and she found her- 
 self comfortably installed in the Shelbourne be- 
 fore she began to realize that she had indeed 
 crossed the Channel, and was in the much-dread- 
 ed sister-island, of the horrors of which she had 
 always entertained such a lively idea. That 
 veiy afternoon she drove to the number in Kil- 
 dare Street where the Bambridges were lodging, 
 and asked for the young lady : she did not care 
 to make acquaintance wiih the rest of the fam- 
 ily, and thought she could arrange matters better 
 with Miss Bambridge if quite alone. 
 
 Gwendohne was in. She was going to a ball 
 that evening, and was taking a rest, so as to be 
 fresh for the occasion ; still she did not refuse 
 to see visitors, and Lady Feversham was admit- 
 ted. . General and Mrs. Bambridge were both 
 out, and every thing favored the entei-prising old 
 lady in her mission ; nevertheless she felt ex- 
 tremely embarrassed when Miss Bambridge en- 
 tered the room, looking splendidly handsome, 
 and with an easy, cheerful manner, that showed 
 how little she guessed her visitor's errand. A 
 few commonplaces passed between them, and 
 Lady Feversham was still uncertain how she 
 should begin, when Gwendoline Bambridge open- 
 ed the subject, saying carelessly, 
 
 "I think I met a son of vours in the — th 
 lately." 
 
 " Yes, I believe so,'' replied the old lady, stiff- 
 ly, feeling the task before her a hard one, and 
 coming to it slowly. "My son is in that regi- 
 ment, and indeed it is about him I called here to- 
 day." 
 
 "Really?" asked Miss Bambridge, with sur- 
 prise, but coloring a little, for she felt something 
 unpleasant must be coming; and Claude Fev- 
 ersham never having spoken to her of his love, 
 she hardly thought it possible his mother was 
 about to allude to the subject. 
 
 " I am afraid," Lady Feversham went on ear- 
 nestly, " that what I am about to say will pain 
 you, but unwilling as I am to give annoyance, 
 still in this case my duty will not permit me to 
 spare, either your feelings or mine." 
 
 She paused, as though expecting an answer ; 
 but Gwendoline, who began now to see that the 
 business was more disagreeable than she had 
 feared, sat as if carved in stone, waiting to hear 
 
58 
 
 OUR. DETACHMENT. 
 
 move before slie would commit herself to a re- 
 lAy. 
 
 "I have heard," the old lady went on, after 
 a short silence, " that my son is an admirer of 
 yours — indeed, some say a lover ; I have more- 
 over been assured that you encourage him, 
 which is perhaps not unnatural, as in this country 
 your chances of an advantageous settlement must 
 be limited. But I should like you, before the 
 matter goes any farther, to understand distinctly 
 how he is placed with regard to fortune, and 
 what his prospects are." 
 
 "Lord Feversham has never done me the 
 honor to speak to me of hia love, so I should 
 suppose your ladyship's fears are groundless, 
 and that you have been misinformed," answered 
 Gwendoline, in a hard, dry voice. 
 
 "I would willingly think so," replied her 
 ladyship, coldly, " but I know that my informa- 
 tion is correct ; and though Claude has not yet 
 proposed to you, yet he intends doing so. It is 
 in order to prevent any misconception as to his 
 prospects, and that if you accept him you may 
 do it with your eyes open, that I am here to-day. 
 My son," the old lady went on with rising, pas- 
 sion, "is dependent on me for every thing. If 
 he marries to please me, he will have all I pos- 
 sess ; but if he opposes my wishes, not one pen- 
 ny of my money shall he ever see ; and let me 
 tell you, young lady, in case his title may have 
 some fascination for you, a coronet is a very pret- 
 ty thing when it is well gilded, but without that 
 it is as useless and insignificant a bauble as can 
 well be. I have written to forbid Claude's mar- 
 riage with you," she went on, after pausing for a 
 moment to take breath, "and have told him my 
 intentions in case of his disobeying me ; in spite 
 of which his infatuation is such that he still per- 
 sists in his intention of mari-ying you, if you will 
 have him. It was to show you how very bad a 
 match he would be, and to beg you to relinquish 
 all thoughts of him, that 1 have come over, and 
 called to-day to see you. You can understand 
 I must be thoroughly in earnest, to have taken so 
 long a jouiTiey for this purpose alone." 
 
 Still Miss JBambridge sat with her eyes fixed 
 on the ground ; but at length, raising her head 
 with a defiant toss, she answered, 
 
 "Does Lord Feversham say he will many me, 
 if I will have him, in spite of poverty and the op- 
 position of his friends? . Then I am proud of 
 my love. I always knew he was noble and true, 
 and now that I am more certain of it than ever, 
 do you think I will give him up ? No, indeed. 
 While he loves me, and thinks me worth so great 
 a sacrifice, I will be true . to him. He loses 
 much, I nothing ; but I gain immeasurably, in 
 gaining the heart and name of a man so faithful 
 and fearless as he. Though you are his mother, 
 and as such I would willingly do much to please 
 you, I can not do this, and you ought never to 
 have asked it. You wish to barter your son's 
 happiness for some whim or fancy of your own, 
 and care not how many joyless years you entail 
 on him, so j-ou accomplish your scheme." 
 
 "Really, Miss Bambridge, you are most court- 
 eous," said Lady Feversham, with a sarcastic 
 smile. "1 should have thought a young lady 
 who dresses as you do would have been above 
 the old-world prejudice of love. I am sorry 
 you do not at once see the matter in my light, 
 for I must talk it over a little with you, iratil I 
 
 get your promise to abandon the project. It is 
 very natural you should be dazzled by the cor- 
 onet, my child, though, as I told you before, it is 
 worthless without money. But there is another 
 thing connected with it that I wish to point out 
 to you ; for you will blame me, and Feversham 
 too, for that matter, if, after your marriage, you 
 find out disagreeables that you had not thought 
 of before. Among us," she went on, after a 
 minute or two, during which pause Gwendoline 
 Bambridge neither spoke nor moved, "we are 
 very jealous about interlopers and misalliances. 
 Of course you would have to bear this as well 
 as any other person of your class, who, by some 
 fortuitous circumstance, had suddenly become 
 elevated to ours; and I must say, Miss Bam- 
 bridge, as far as you are concerned, 3'ou are not 
 much to be pitied, for you seem to have sufficient 
 self-possession to bear a good amount of snub- 
 bing. But though it might not affect you much, 
 think of Claude. He has always been accustom- 
 ed to be treated with the greatest consideration, 
 and perhaps you can conceive how painfully gall- 
 ing it would be to his high spirit to see himself 
 pitied on all sides, while his wife would be treat- 
 ed with undisguised coldness. In how many 
 bad quarrels do you think he would be involved 
 on your account ? — ^how often, as the iron enter- 
 ed into his soul, would he wish that he had nev- 
 er been tempted to descend from his proper sphere 
 in life, and barter his position for the beauty of 
 a woman whom all his eflbrts could not raise to 
 the place in which he would wish to see her. 
 Think of him dragged down by debt, balked 
 in his military career, his whole future blighted 
 and destroyed by the wife that, instead of being 
 a helpmate, as a wife should he, would more 
 properly be likened to a millstone lonnd liis 
 neck, drawing him down into an abyss of misery 
 and ruin." 
 
 "Enough, enough!" cried Gwendoline Bam- 
 bridge, rising, while tears that she was too 
 proud to let fall filled her eyes. "I had not 
 thought of the mischief it would do him. I see 
 only too clearly it would be a sacrifice of every 
 thing — fortune, career, position — and all for a 
 caprice he will outlive in a few short months. 
 It was selfish of me to think of accepting his 
 offer, and you are right. I give you my word 
 he shall never know I loved him ; for if he knew 
 he would take me against my will. You may 
 go now," she added, impatiently, as her visitor 
 showed no signs of moving. "You have my 
 promise ; you have saved your son and blighted 
 my life. Take your cruel face away from me, 
 and let me try to forget this hitter inteiTiew. 
 Go, and let me see you no more. I could tell 
 you what I think of you — a hard, unnatural 
 mother, preferring your gold to your son's hap- 
 piness — but you are his mother after all, and I 
 spare you ; only do not tempt me any longer." 
 
 She leaned heavily on the table as she finished 
 speaking, and watched the old lady leave the 
 room with haughty, tranquil steps. When the 
 street-door shut after her, Gwendoline Bam- 
 bridge threw herself down by the sofa, and 
 clasping her hands on her burning brows tried 
 to think. The tears in her eyes scorched' and 
 pained her, but they would not fall — they seem- 
 ed burned up by the fierceness of her grief— for 
 she had a wild, strong nature, and had a power of 
 suffering greater than weaker characters possess. 
 
OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 69 
 
 The only thought impressed on hei* brain seem- 
 ed to be that they must part, that the pleasant 
 days in the meadows and among the mountains 
 could never come again ; that all was over ; the 
 merry chats, the quiet moonlight, strolls, the 
 evenings on the lake — all were over, and for- 
 ever. Why had she not enjoyed them more 
 while yet she had them ? "Why had she flirted 
 with that miserable boy, and made her lover un- 
 happy and jealous? How many precious mo- 
 ments of intercourse with him had she lost by 
 such folly ! 
 
 And then the boy himself. She had been 
 causing him pain, no doubt, for which she was 
 sorry now, and in which she could sympathize ; 
 for surely he had loved her too, as well in his 
 fashion as Claude had done in his. But was it 
 all over? She feared there was a greater trial 
 yet in store for hei-, when he should confess his 
 love and ask for hers, and she must not betray 
 her secret. How could she hide it ? How could 
 she bear to conceal what would make him so hap- 
 Jjy ? It seemed impossible she could do so. Yet 
 her woi'd was passed, and it was for his good — 
 for his alone ; so it must be done, no matter at 
 what cost. The world must not see she had 
 been wounded, nor chatter of the cause of her 
 sorrow. No, she had another task now before 
 her. She must be bold and brave, show as 
 haughty a front and be as merry as though 
 this had never been. 
 
 Thinking thus, she presently pushed the toss- 
 ed hair back from her throbbing temples, and 
 rose from the sofa, looking round her like one in 
 a dream. 
 
 That stera-looking old lady, who called her- 
 self Claude's mother, was gone, and eveiy thing 
 was so exactly as usual that for a minute or two 
 it seemed to her as if the terrible interview she 
 had just passed through must have been a delu- 
 sion. Perhaps she had been dozing, and dream- 
 ed it. But no — the pain she suffered was too 
 real and fresh for it to. be the result of mere 
 imagination ; as she thought thus, a small crim- 
 son rose lying near the chair Lady Teversham 
 had occupied attracted her attention. She pick- 
 ed it up mechanically, recognizing it as one out 
 of a small bunch in the front of her late visitor's 
 bonnet. "I will keep it," she thought, "in re- 
 membrance of this day. Who knows what serv- 
 ice it may render me at some future time ?" Then 
 she settled her hair, and tried to look as usual, 
 for she heard her mother and Clarissa coming 
 in from their shopping expedition, and, if possi- 
 ble, she did not wish tliem. to know who had call- 
 ed. She tore Lady Feversham's card into a thou- 
 sand pieces, and dropped it behind the willow 
 shavings in the grate, pretty certain that the 
 sei-yant who let the lady in would never think 
 of mentioning the visitor, since one of the fami- 
 ly had seen her. 
 
 And so it proved ; for though,- in spite of her 
 high-hearted courage, Gwendoline Bambridge's 
 eyes were heavy, and she complained of head- 
 ache, no one dreamed that any untoward intru- 
 sion, while all the rest were out, was the cause 
 of her indisposition. 
 
 "Are you glad we are going back to Belmur- 
 phy to-morrow ?" asked Clarissa, pausing in the 
 act of fastening a water-lily in her hair, while 
 dressing for going out that evening. 
 
 "I am," replied her sister. "I feel tired to- 
 
 night, and I do not think I enjoy these town 
 balls half as much as our little country hops. " 
 
 "Well, that is all very natural, as far as you 
 are concerned," went on Clarissa. "You have 
 your lover down there ; and of course you would 
 rather meet him and dance with him than flirt 
 with the thousand-and-one partners here, who 
 are nothing to you. But as for me, you see, I 
 have no little game going on down in the coun- 
 try, so I can not help enjoying the light, and 
 crowd, and flirtation, and admiration of these 
 affairs a thousand times better. If Lord JFev- 
 ersham was as devoted to me as he is to you, no 
 doubt I should feel as you do." 
 
 "Don't talk to me of Lord Feversham," an- 
 swered Gwendoline, so coldly and quietly that , 
 she seemed only intent on the set of a refractory 
 curl. "He is, and never will be, any thing to 
 me, so I don't like our names being coupled to- 
 gether." 
 
 . " Halloo !" cried Clarissa, turning quickly and 
 looking at her sister; "since when have you 
 given him up ? Is there any bigger fish on hand, 
 or have you quarreled ?" 
 
 "Neither the one nor the other," replied Gwen- 
 doline, still calmly, though she was obliged to 
 tm'n her back, to prevent her inquisitive sister 
 from seeing the quivering of her white lips; 
 " only I think it improbablp he will ever ask me 
 to marry him, and if he does I shall not accept 
 him." 
 
 " Well, this is a curious state of affairs ! " ejac- 
 ulated Clarissa, forgetting her dressing in her in- 
 tense astonishment. Then she went on, after a 
 minute's pause : "Will you tell me, is little Dar- 
 reli the cause of this resolution ? I know you 
 have been carrying on a good deal with him, but 
 I thought it was likely to end badly for my poor 
 dear little Madcap, and not for" the stately cap- 
 tain." 
 
 "What nonsense you do talk, Clarissa !" cried 
 Gwendoline, getting rather cross. "Madcap is 
 a dear little boy, and I am very fond of him, but 
 I could not compare him with Lord Feversham, 
 and certainly should never prefer him." 
 
 "Yon like Madcap?" asked the younger girl, 
 half sadly, half memly. " Well, so do I. But 
 if you would not care for him as a lover, how 
 would you like him as a brother ?" 
 
 Gwendoline turned slowly, and, for the first 
 time during this conversation, looked at her sis- 
 ter. " You don't mean to say that is what you 
 are thinking of?" she said slowly, as Clarissa 
 blushed, yet met her look firmly. "How blind 
 I must have been never to see that he cared for 
 you!" 
 
 " He does not care for me,'' answered Clarissa, 
 hanging her head ; "he has eyes and ears only 
 for you. But if he would look at me, if he 
 would care for me, I think he would find that I 
 could love him as well, and make him as true a 
 wife as any other woman in the wide world." 
 
 "But you are both so young," urged her sis- 
 ter. "You were only seventeen your lapt birth- 
 day ; and I am sure he can not be much older. 
 However, I am glad you have let me know how 
 matters stand. I will show him I do not want 
 him now, and then he will begin to think more 
 about you. I dare say," she added, smiling, 
 "that in a week's time he would not return to 
 me if I wanted him." 
 
 Clarissa did not answer. Perhaps she thought 
 
CO 
 
 OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 so too ; b(it they were already late, so they ceased 
 talking, and devoted themselves vigorously to the 
 business of dressing, to such purpose that they 
 did not keep the carriage waiting more than half 
 an hour. 
 
 Next day they returned to the country; but 
 on account of the Fenian disturbances, their 
 friends in barracks were not able to spare time 
 to visit them, so that the days passed dully, or, 
 rather, would have done so, but that General 
 Bambridge determined, in ofise of a rising and 
 the house being attacked, to defend it to the ut- 
 most. With this view he polished up all the old 
 arms about the house, got a stock of revolvers, 
 and taught the girls how to use them ; besides 
 which, all -the men about the place who could be 
 trusted were brought into the house, armed, drill- 
 ed, and a regular garrison thus kept up. 
 
 There were many other families in the neigh- 
 borhood who did the same thing, but none had 
 their band so well regulated and org.inized as 
 General Bambridge's ; tlierefore he was not a lit- 
 tle proud of it. 
 
 Such was the state of terror and excitement 
 throughout the country at that time that few peo- 
 ple went to bed at night at all, and the Bam- 
 bridges, living in a wild, out-of-the-way place, 
 formed no exception to this rule, the general 
 considering tli.at, with his army, a surprise was 
 the only thing to be feared. 
 
 Not so Mrs. Bambridge. She disapproved of 
 the organization altogether — rank nonsense she 
 called it — to think of defending a small country 
 house against a mob of two or three thousand 
 men ; and as for those girls and their revolvers, 
 she would say, " It is all veiy well now, and of 
 course they like popping away at a mark dur- 
 ing these dull days when there is nothing else to 
 do ; but put them face to face with a sea of 
 shouting, npi-oaiious men, and they will be just 
 as likely to shoot themselves, or you, from sheer 
 terror, as to do the enemy any mischief. No ; 
 it is the most foolish thing that can be done, 
 keeping arms in the house, for the first place 
 they will make for will be the country houses, 
 where they know such things are to be had. Any 
 opposition will only exasperate them, and cause 
 tliera to revenge themselves when they overcome 
 the handful opposed to them ; whei-eas, if there 
 were no arms in the house, or if the arms were 
 given up at once, they would be veiy civil, and 
 cause you no annoj-ance." 
 
 It was all very true and very sound reasoning, 
 but the general would not give in to it ; so night 
 after night the whole family sat up in the gun- 
 room till day dawned, when, pale and worn out, 
 they would retire to rest, the Tenians never 
 choosing the day-time for their exploits. 
 
 The girls were very much of their mother's 
 opinion on the matter, but they dared not avow 
 such sentiments before their father, and practiced 
 all day long with their revolvers as though it was 
 the best fun in tlie world. 
 
 - Their courage was destined to be put to the 
 test, for one night, as General Bambridge lay 
 peacefully slumbering on the sofa in the gun-room, 
 while they and Mrs. Bambridge worked and read 
 to keep themselves awake, there came » loud 
 ringing at the door-bell. 
 
 ■ The three women dropped their work and look- 
 ed at each other, the gentleman slumbered on. 
 Suddenly rising, with a look of determination 
 
 lighting up her pale face, Mrs. Bambridge beck- 
 oned the girls to leave the room, and going out 
 with them closed the door quietly behind her. 
 
 "Now, girls," she said, "if we can give them 
 the arras without disturbing your father, all will 
 be right." By this time the servants were assem- 
 bled in the hall, armed to the teeth, and Mrs. 
 Bambridge stepping forward addressed them, 
 pointing out eloquently all the dangers to which 
 resistance would expose thera, and how safe they 
 vyould be if the arms were given up quietly. "I 
 will open the door," she went on, " and give them 
 all they want ; only you do as I tell you, and 
 make no attempt at opposing them." 
 
 By this time another peal rang through the 
 house, and fearful of the general's being awaken- 
 ed, Mrs. Bambridge imdid the fastenings of the 
 door with trembling fingers, and opening it said, 
 " Good people, we are ready for you. You shall 
 have every thing you want." 
 
 "All right, ma'am, " answered the leading fig- 
 ure, saluting respectfully. " Sorry to disturb you 
 at this time of night, but the general told us to 
 call up some evening during our rounds, to see if 
 his people were all alive. Hope you were not 
 alarmed, ma'am, but them was the general's or- 
 ders. Would you tell him we did as he wished ?" 
 and saluting again most respectfully, the head 
 constable and his patrol withdrew, leaving Mrs. 
 Bambridge rather taken aback and very much 
 disturbed at the thought that the police must 
 surely have divined her intention. 
 
 The general laughed heartily when he heard 
 of her discomfiture, but mentally promised him- 
 self that he would not go' to sleep again. He had 
 no Intention of being balked of his skirmish in 
 that way, and if he had not been so much amused 
 at the finale of his wife's manosuvre, would have 
 been very angry at it. As it was, it afforded a 
 good subject for chaffing for many a day after, 
 MrSj Bambridge always maintaining she had act- 
 ed with great presence of mind and prudence; 
 while the girls felt a little ashamed of having 
 abandoned their colors, and tried to turn the sub- 
 ject whenever it was mentioned. 
 
 After a week or two, however, the excitement 
 again subsided : people said there was nothing 
 to be feared till later on in the winter, and all 
 minds reverted to what had occupied their 
 thoughts before other and more engrossing mat- 
 ter had called attention away. It was now the 
 end of September. Gentlemen were getting their 
 horses into condition for the hunting, and those 
 who were not supplied with hunters, but had 
 money enough to keep them, began to search the 
 country high and low, and frequent all the large 
 fairs, \vith a view to mounting themselves for the 
 coming season. 
 
 Among those thus occupied Fevershani and I 
 were most conspicuous, for we had determined to 
 come out strong ; but having neglected to form 
 our stud early, we found it now a much more dif- 
 ficult matter than we could have expected. What 
 increased the difiiculties of the search very much 
 was the fact that we both seemed to imagine the 
 country round Endley must be the most favored 
 haunt of the equine race, for in that direction did 
 we invariably direct our steps, though I can't say 
 wo ever came across any thing more likely than 
 a rough mountain pony. But if we did not get 
 the steeds we wanted, at least we were always 
 welcome at the Bambridges', and fell into our 
 
OUK DETACHMENT. 
 
 61 
 
 usual hiibit of calling there at least once a day, 
 Claude anxiously waiting for an opportunity of 
 laying his mother's letter before Miss Bambridge, 
 and pleading his cause with her. 
 
 The occasion offered at last, one balmy October 
 day, in this way : both Claude and I had remark- 
 ed that, since Gwendoline's return from Dublin, 
 her manner to both of us was altered^to me it 
 was playful and indifferent, more as if she was 
 speaking to one immeasurably younger than 'her- 
 self, and not at all like the confidential way in 
 which she used to talk to me, though still kind 
 and pleasant; while with Feversham she was 
 sometimes absent and distraite, and always, as it 
 appeared to us, more anxious to avoid a tete-k-tete 
 with him than seemed at all natural, or than she 
 had ever been before. 
 
 "Something is up, "remarked Claude to me: 
 "she can not have heard of ray mother's letter, 
 and taken this way of showing she does not wish 
 me to propose ? I will not believe it of her, unless 
 I hear it from her own lips ; and, Vivian, I will 
 try my luck to-day. We will go out for a walk, 
 and do you entice Miss Clarissa off for one of the 
 wild strolls she is so fond of; that will give me 
 an opportunity of saying what I want to her." 
 
 ' ' Very well, " I answered, feeling that life was 
 very hard on me. I could see now plainly by her 
 manner that she cared nothing for me but as an 
 amusing companion, too young almost to be even 
 considered much of a friend ; yet I loved her as 
 well, or better than ever, and my heart was very 
 sore when I thought that Claude might go in and 
 fight his own battle, with at least a probability of 
 success, while I dared not even show that I wor- 
 shiped the ground she trod on, lest I should be 
 turned away with a half-pitiful, half-scornful re- 
 fusal, and perhaps a sly laugh of amusement at 
 my. boyish folly. 
 
 So when we set out for our walk that soft Oc- 
 tober day, I, in front with Clarissa, proposed that 
 we should go to the glen, and thence climb up the 
 mountain. "It will be so pleasant to-day," I 
 urged ; "I like the fallen leaves rustling under 
 one's feet, when they are dry and crisp, as they 
 must be now, and the mountain views will be 
 beautiful under this soft, blue-gray sky. If it is 
 not too far for you, let us go." 
 
 Clarissa looked pleased, and answered, 
 
 " With all my heart. I like a day sucli as this 
 in the glen too, and we can have a delightful chat. 
 I want you to tell me what was the story I heard 
 you laughing at the other day-~something about 
 Mr. Flower, wasn't it ?" 
 
 I told her Flower's last Mtise, and we laughed, 
 and climbed, and scrambled, and got ourselves 
 into all manner of dangerous and impossible sit- 
 uations, like a boy and girl let loose from school, 
 more than like an officer in Her Majesty's service, 
 and the belle of brilliant ball-rooms. Gayety is 
 very catching, and she was so naturally and spon- 
 taneously merry that I almost forgot my heavy 
 heart, and ceased for a while to envy Claude, as 
 I helped her along, and laughed at her ready wit 
 and dashing repartee. 
 
 At length we reached the summit of the mount- 
 ain, and lay down to rest among deep heather. 
 We were on the brow of a precipice about three 
 hundred feet high, at the foot of which lay the 
 woods, now tUiTiing brown, and russet, and or- 
 ange with their autumnal tints; below them 
 again lay the lake, nestled in between the mount- 
 
 ain on which we sat, and the frowning mass op- 
 posite, yet so steep was the descent that it seemed 
 as if you could throw a stone from where we sat 
 right into the smooth water below. 
 
 "Where is Gwen ?" asked Clarissa at length. 
 " How slow they are, to be sure ! They have not 
 yet got out of the trees ; or perhaps she does not 
 feel up to walking so far." 
 
 Her words recalled my recollection of the er- 
 rand on which Claude had set out, and I could 
 form a pretty good guess what had detained them, 
 though my companion did not seem to under- 
 stand it. 
 
 I could not help wondering, with painful anx- 
 iety, what answer she would give him ; though, 
 after all, what did it matter, for it was evident 
 she did not care in that way for me. I remained 
 silent, thinking, therefore; and Clarissa, unusu- 
 ally quiet for her, did not disturb my troubled re- 
 flections, until the lengthening shadows warned 
 us it was time we were going home. 
 
 When we reached Endley I did not see Gwen- 
 doline, but Mrs. Bambridge gave me a message 
 from Feversham, to say he had suddenly remem- 
 bered some business in Belmui-phy, and had been 
 obliged to go off to see about it, but that he had 
 left the car behind for me. I guessed at once 
 what all this meant, and had Miss Bambridge 
 been visible, and shown any signs of favoring me, 
 there is no knowing what foolish castles in the 
 air I might have built on the strength of it ; but 
 she was up stairs, and it was time to leave ; so 
 saying good-bye, I started on my lonely drive, 
 wondering greatly what could have happened. 
 For I could not believe that Claude's want of 
 money would influence Miss Bambridge : she 
 seemed a girl quite above mercenary motives. 
 
 Long afterward I came to a knowledge of what 
 passed between them. When we walked on so 
 fast, for a time Miss Bambridge tried to keep up 
 with us, but- Claude lingered and dawdled till we 
 were far out of sight ; and then, being deep in 
 the wooded recesses of the glen, he ju-oposed sit- 
 ting down to rest for a minute. 
 
 "I am not tired," answered Gwendoline, pass- 
 ing on. But Feversham stopped her. 
 
 " Wait a moment," he cried ; " I want to show 
 you something, and ask your advice about it." 
 Then, dfawing the letter from his pocket, he went 
 on : "This is a letter from my mother, which I 
 received a week or two ago, when you were in 
 Dublin. It seems she had found out — how I 
 know not — the most precious secret of my heart. 
 She knows it ; therefore it is high time you should. 
 Gwendoline, I love you, as fondly and truly as a 
 man should love the woman he asks to be his wife. 
 I don't ask you yet if you love me, if you will take 
 me," he continued;, "not until you have read 
 that lettev ; then I shall require an answer." 
 
 With trembhng hands Gwendoline took the 
 folded sheet ; her face was ivhite as death, a mist 
 swam before her eyes, and she gasped faintly, " I 
 will sit down ; it will be better, as I must read 
 this." 
 
 He placed her sitting on a fallen tree-trunk, 
 and stood beside her, looking down on her, his 
 breath coming hard and fast, and his heart beat- 
 ing turaultuously, as he watched her agitation.- 
 
 It was not the manner of one who is frightened, 
 yet pleased ; no, there was an agony of distress 
 in the pallid cheeks and trembling hands that 
 showed she was suffering from some hidden cause. 
 
OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 " I can not read it,'' s1)e cried, looking np with 
 piteons pleading eyes into his, after several en- 
 deavors to decipher her ladyship's very inteUi- 
 gible handwriting. "I think I must be ill to- 
 day," she went on. "I can't see well. Will 
 you read it to me, if indeed it is necessary I 
 should hear it ; but I don't think it can influence 
 my answer, and it will perhaps pain you to go 
 over it again." 
 
 "You must hear it," he replied^ " I can not 
 ask you to be my wife until yoii know all : it will 
 not take long to read it to you, and it will ex- 
 plain every thing in a few words." 
 
 Leaning against a tree that spread its branches 
 over them, he read the hard, stern decision of the 
 woman of the world, while Gwendoline's head 
 bent lower and lower, and the struggle within 
 her became more violent as she listened. Would 
 that she might have looked cp and rewarded his 
 love and faith by a happy smile, and the touch 
 of her soft white hand ! But her promise bound 
 her, and also she believed, as his mother had said, 
 that it would be ruin to his prospects and career 
 if ho married her. So she listened silently, press- 
 ing her hands to her heart, to still its beating; 
 and when he had finished slie answered, without 
 looking up, 
 
 " I could have spared you the pain of reading 
 that, as it in no way affects my decision. Why 
 did you ever think of me in this way ? I can 
 never be your wife, and must beg you to forgive 
 me if ever, by word or act of mine, I led you to 
 think you had grounds for hope." 
 
 He started, and looked at her as one who had 
 not heard aright ; then, in a low broken voice, he 
 minmured, 
 
 "Oh I Gwendoline, I did not think this of yon. 
 Is it possible that the knowledge of my poverty 
 can have changed you so soon ?" 
 
 This time she raised her eyes to his, and 
 stretched out her hands toward him, crying, 
 "Think any thing but that of me. If I had in- 
 tended to take you, your money would have made 
 no difference ; but I never thought of you in that 
 \vay, and this does not change my purpose." 
 
 ' ' Never thought of me in that way ! " he re- 
 peated, scornfully ; " then why did you lead me 
 on and encourage me? I could have sworn you 
 loved me at times ; yes, and I believe you do so 
 still, but your mercenaiy nature will not allow 
 your heart to make itself heard. I was deceived 
 in you truly, for I thought that where your af- 
 fections were concerned you could give up Svery 
 thing. How vain to expect truth and faith from 
 a woman ! I see even now you love me, arid yet 
 you send me from you in despair smi miseiy. I 
 can not forgive you, I can not wish you luck in 
 the path you have chosen ; you have driven the 
 iron too deep into my soul. I can" only pray I 
 may never see your fair, false face again !" 
 
 "Stay!" she cried; "do not part from me 
 with such cruel words ; you judge me too harsh- 
 ly. If I encouraged you — and, as yon say it, I 
 suppose I did— I am to blame ; but I am sorry 
 for it, and I did no more to yon than to young 
 Vivian Darrell. Why should you think I loved 
 you more than him?" 
 
 "That boy I" he cried, with a smothered im- 
 precation. "Oh! this is too dreadful! I see 
 now why I am sconied and refused. That poor 
 child has money, and will have a title ; he is a 
 better speculation in every way ; and so you 
 
 throw aside the man you love (deny it if you 
 can !), and sell yourself to a foolish boy, who can 
 pay a better price for the toy that has caught his 
 fancy!" 
 
 "It is not true!" she cried, piteously ; "I do 
 not care for Vivian Darrell, and shall never mar- 
 ry him. I shall never marry a man I do not 
 love ; and as to you, you say I can not deny my 
 affection for you. If nothing else can satisfy 
 you, I can and do deny it. I do not love you ; 
 I will never become your wife." 
 
 " Is it so ?" he answered, slowly, while he look- 
 ed long and earnestly on her bent head and 
 drooping form. "Then may Gfld forgive you 
 for playing with a human heart as you have play- 
 ed with mine ! I can not forgive you yet, but if 
 you injured me in thoughtlessness I will try to do 
 so, and you on your part try to be more merciful 
 to others than you have been to me. Farewell!" 
 And turning on his heel, Feversham walked away 
 and left her. 
 
 Alone in the woods she sat, with the soft au- 
 tumn air stirring the rich masses of her hair and 
 fanning her fevered cheeks; but she noticed 
 nothing, heard nothing ; only the pent-up anguish 
 of her soul found relief in bitter, scalding tears 
 and heart-rending sobs. 
 
 It was all over. She had done what she could, 
 she had made the sacrifice required of her, no 
 less a sacrifice than that of her life's happiness ; 
 for now she should never love another, and 
 though, if hereafter she saw him successful and 
 prosperous in life, she might with a faint pleasure 
 exclaim, "This is my doing; he would never 
 have been what he is but for me," still the time 
 was far distant, and it was even possible it might 
 never come, if he was to turn in disgust from the 
 pursuits that until now had been dear to him. 
 But no ; he was not a man to deem his life a use- 
 less burden because his dearest hope had failed ; 
 he was more likely to turn to the pursuit of am- 
 bition, and draw fame and distinction from his 
 very disappointment. 
 
 Only she would be the sufferer, and it would 
 result in good to him. Still, as she clung to this 
 idea, and repeated it to herself over and over 
 again, she felt the misery just as keenly, and de- 
 rived no comfort from the reflection with which 
 she tried to assuage her grief. 
 
 As she thought of the long weaiy years before 
 her, during which she must live on the remem- 
 brance of her short dream of love, her head sank 
 lower and lower, and a wailing cry escaped her 
 lips. " How can I bear it ? It is too hard !" 
 
 As she uttered the words a low, quick sigh 
 sounded near her. She looked up with a start, 
 and saw Feversham bending over her. 
 
 "I can not leave you to return alone," he 
 stammered. "Allow me to conduct j'ou home." 
 
 She tried to rise and gulp down her tears, but 
 they came afresh at this token of the kind and 
 thoughtful nature of the man whom she had 
 wounded so deeply. Then he sat down beside 
 her and took her hand in his. 
 
 "Can yoii tell me what grieves you?" he ask- 
 ed, softly. "If it is any thing in which I can 
 be of use to you, do not hesitate to' ask me, and 
 I will serve you to the utmost of my power. I 
 spoke very harshly to you just now — forgive me. 
 I was in pain, and I forgot myself." 
 
 He waited for her answer, but, though her 
 te-irs flowed faster, for some time no answer came. 
 
OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 63 
 
 At length sTie calmed herself by a supreme ef- 
 fort, and replied : 
 
 "No one can help me ; but I thank you truly 
 for your kind intentions. You have been too 
 good to me, after the trouble I have given you ; 
 I shall never forgive myself." And so they got 
 up and walked home. 
 
 Thus it happened that, when Clarissa and I 
 came down from the mountain, Gwendoline was 
 not visible, and Feversham had gone back to 
 town. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE KISING. 
 
 For the next few days we heard nothing of 
 the Bambridges. The Fenians had risen. We 
 were busy late and early, and never off duty for 
 a moment. Clarissa Bambridge described to me 
 afterward what they went through, andas it gives 
 some idea of the real state of a large part of the 
 country at the time, I will relate it as she told 
 me. 
 
 As soon as it became known that the Fenians 
 had risen, and were going armed about the coun- 
 try, all the county families that were not in a 
 position to defend themselves took refnge in tbe 
 neighboring police barrack. Mrs. Bambridge 
 and the young ladies, having no desire to exer- 
 cise their prowess in arins, insisted on doing so 
 also, and finally General Bambridge accompanied 
 them, in order to assist in the defense. 
 
 There they were shut up, to the number of 
 twenty or thirty, for two whole days in a small 
 country police barrack. The children and nurses 
 had one room, the ladies and gentlemen occupied 
 another, and during a great part of the time, 
 while a large Fenian force was attacking the 
 building, the women were obliged to stand with 
 their backs np against one of the walls of the 
 room, that being tbe only position.in which tbpy 
 were protected from the enemy's fire. 
 
 During these weary two days and nights their 
 only solace was drinking tea, of which, fortunate- 
 ly, they had a large sopply. The only room in 
 which it was possible for the ladies to lie down and 
 take any rest was that occupied by the women 
 and children, and the principal bed in it was in 
 possession of the head constable, who had been 
 up about the country for three, days and nights, 
 and who, having been severely wounded a month 
 or two before in capturing a Fenian, a wound 
 from which he had never entirely recovered, was 
 now completely done up, and slept profoundly 
 through the din of crying children, scolding 
 nurses, and the rattle of Bre-arms outside. 
 
 " Such a miserable two days !" concluded Cla- 
 rissa, with a shrug of her pretty shoulders. "And 
 poor Gwen, who really was ill and done up, bore 
 it so well, without a murmur. For my part, I 
 should have liked to be cross, but was ashamed 
 to be so, when every one else bore it cheerfully ; 
 but, oh! the discomfort of it, an,d the anxiety, 
 and the pain of the cramped position. I felt sev- 
 eral times as if it would be better to come out 
 into range of their shots, and take my chance, 
 than stand flattened up against that hateful wall 
 from morning to night." 
 
 We heard nothing of this at the time, but as 
 soon as it was possible for any of us to, be spared 
 for a while, Claude called me to him, and said. 
 
 "I hear the police barrack near Endley has 
 been attacked. Do you, like a good fellow, ride 
 over there and see how the Bambridges are dOr 
 ing. I fear they must have experienced some 
 annoyance. You can take Fleetfoot; he will 
 not be long carrying you over." 
 
 Delighted with my errand, I mounted and rode 
 off. I knew tbat Claude's suit had, been unsuc- 
 cessful, though lie had not told me what had 
 passed between them ; therefore a hope sprung 
 up in my heart that it might be in my favor he 
 had been refused. If such were indeed the case, 
 what happiness was in store for me ! — and with 
 my foolish heart beating joyiaWy, I gave Fleet- 
 foot the reins, and sped on my way gayly. 
 
 The Bambridges had that day returned to 
 their house, but they were all out in different 
 directions when I arrived, except Gwendoline. 
 I told her how anxious we had all been about 
 them, and that, as soon as any one could be 
 spared, JTeversham had sent me over to inquire. 
 At the mention of his name, I saw a hot blush 
 overspread her face, and she twisted her hand- 
 kerchief nervously as she thanked me for coming, 
 and said it was like Lord Feversham to be so 
 thoughtful. But I did not read these signs as I 
 should have done, and after a few minutes' awk- 
 ward silence, began timidly, 
 
 " Miss Bambridge — Gwendoline, I must call 
 you . so, at least for these few minutes — will you 
 be kinder to me than you were to Claude Fevr 
 ershara the other day, if I ask you the same ques- 
 tion ?" 
 
 "I can not," she answered, sadly. "I like 
 you very much as a dear friend — a most amusing 
 companion — but I do not love you with the love 
 you ask for, and which alone would induce me to 
 marry you. ; You are not angry with me?" she 
 went on, pleadingly. "J never knew it would 
 come to this, and Lord Feversham said I had 
 led him on. If I have done so to you, forgive 
 me." 
 
 "It was something very like it," I answered 
 low tO' myself, for I did not wish to add to her 
 grief, and yet I could not > wholly absolve her 
 from blame. My heart was sore, and it seemed 
 to me that, try to hide it as she might, she did 
 care for Claude Feversham. I suppose it was 
 jealousy enabled me to detect the. quivering ten- 
 derness in her voice when she named his name — 
 at anyxate I felt it, and rebelled against it for a 
 minute or two. Then something seemed to speak 
 within me, and to urge me to give up myself 
 and my claims, which I saw plainly were hope- 
 less, and speak up for my friend, if by any means 
 I might beoefit him, or discover the reason why 
 he had been refused. So, after a pause, I began 
 again : "My case is hopeless ; you do not care 
 for the foolish boy who has given you his whole, 
 untried heart, but you do care for Feversham — I 
 know you do— yet you have refused him. Why 
 is this ? It can not surely be that you, whom we 
 have thought so true and womanly, are, afraid of 
 poverty with as faithful a heart as his — I could 
 not believe it of you ; but what, then, has come 
 between you ?" 
 
 She pulled her handkerchief even more neiT- 
 ously than before, and her eyes filled with tears 
 as she answered, 
 
 "Thanks. 1 am glad that you, at least, dp 
 not think me so base as to sell my love for gold ; 
 but I can not tell you my reasons for refusing 
 
64 
 
 OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 him, and condemning myself to life-long misery; 
 it is no fault of liis, it is none of mine, and yet 
 there is a gulf between us that all our affection 
 can not bridge over. Ask me no more about it, 
 and never let Claude know what you have discov- 
 ered, for he thinks I never cared for him, and it is 
 better so. We shall still be friends, shall we not ?" 
 she went on, holding out her hand to me. " I 
 should be sorry if I thought that you, too, were 
 lost to me. You, being young, will outlive this fan- 
 cy, and you and your wife, at some future time, 
 will laugh over the remembrance of your attach- 
 ment to a steady old maid, as I shall be by that 
 time." 
 
 I could not laugh, though I tried to smile at 
 her fancy picture, but I was grieved for her, for 
 myself, and for Claude. She was evidently in 
 trouble, yet she loved him, and might have made 
 him happy by a word ; therefore, miserable though 
 it would make me, I felt I could be so truly re- 
 joiced in her happiness that I wished that word 
 might be spoken. 
 
 No doubt it was presumptuous of me to talk 
 to her on this subject, once I had said my say, 
 and heard her answer ; but the sight of her sor- 
 row-stricken face moved me, and I thought, if 
 only I might be the means of bringing them to- 
 gether — if only she could some day say, smiling, 
 "Vivian, I owe every thing to you," it might 
 ease the dull sorrow at my heart, and help me to 
 recover my old boyish gayety. 
 
 How long ago it seemed since I had been the 
 harum-scarum boy. Madcap Darrell, the delight 
 of the men, the pet, and, at the same time, the 
 terror of my brother officers ! It is true, now 
 and then, when a good opportunity for mischief 
 presented itself, I could not help indulging in it; 
 but these escapades were few and far between, 
 and every one remarked how mucli quieter I had 
 become of late. 
 
 Full of my idea of bringing these two so strange- 
 ly separated together again, I began : 
 
 "Is there no hope for Claude, Miss Cam- 
 bridge ? He loves you so truly, and you confess 
 yon like him. I wilt not ask the reason of your 
 refusal, as you do not wish me to do so ; though 
 I think it could be all explained, if you would 
 tell what influenced your decision. But will you 
 not let me know if there is any hope of your ob- 
 jections being removed at some future time ? 
 He would wait so gladly if he had but one ray 
 of hope to cheer him ! " 
 
 "You are true to your friend," she answered, 
 slowly, "and it is good of you to be so; but I 
 can give you no word of encouragement for him. 
 You will seiTe him best now by letting him think 
 of me no more." 
 
 So saying, she turned to tlie window, and lean- 
 ed her head against it, with her back toward me ; 
 when she looked round again her face was calm 
 and cold, and after a few commonplace remarks, 
 I left. 
 
 Some days after this — the country having be- 
 come more settled — Feversham obtained leave 
 and went home, leaving me very disconsolate, 
 and under the control of Captain Ussher, a mar- 
 ried man and a martinet : an old fellow who had 
 been goodness knows how many years in the 
 army, but, being poor, had never got beyond the 
 rank of captain, and whose temper had been 
 soured by seeing younger and less skillful m-jn 
 purchasing over his head. 
 
 About this time Flower was sent, along with 
 another detachment of our regiment, to relieve 
 a small body of the 140th, stationed at the little 
 village of Ballybune, near which the Grahams 
 resided. Of course Flower was notliingi loatli 
 to go, for though a fearfully dull place for those 
 who had no object in stopping there, it promised 
 a never-failing fund of pleasure to a young fel- 
 low whose lady-love lived in the vicinity. Fine 
 times he had of it, too ! The Grahams had an 
 immensity of shooting, and though there, were 
 no hounds near, his gun and his flirtation kept 
 the mild young fellow well employed. 
 
 One day, however, he went out with only a 
 countiy lad to carry his game-bag, and pene- 
 trated deep into the mountains. There was not 
 much game to be seen, yet he trudged on man- 
 fully, when suddenly, from behind a huge boul- 
 der of rock, there sprang two policemen. Dart- 
 ing on the surprised and um-esisting Flower, one 
 of them seized him by the collar of the coat, 
 while the other possessed himself of the unfor- 
 tunate youth's breech-loader. 
 
 "We've cotched you at last, my fine fellow, I 
 think !" said one of them. " Many's the weary 
 tramp we've had after you, and now you'll tramp 
 after us." 
 
 At these words the country boy, who had wait- 
 ed for a minute to see if the gentleman would get 
 the best of it, threw away the game-bag, and made 
 off, crying, "Oh! wirrasthru! The polls!" and 
 used liis legs to such purjjose that in a moment 
 or two more he was out of sight. 
 
 "Why didn't you secure him?" asked the po- 
 liceman holding ITlower, of the other. 
 
 " Bad luck to him ! How was I to know he'd 
 use his legs so handy ?" answered the one ad- 
 dressed ; "and besides, it was him we wanted. 
 We've got the head of them, and no mistake, 
 with his gun and his game-bag! Small harm 
 he'd do tlie game, this same chap, for all he's 
 rigged out as if he was after them." 
 
 An opinion on his part that was considerably 
 sti-engthened when, on picking up the bag, noth- 
 ing was found in it. 
 
 "Didn't I tell 3-ou so?" he asked, triumphant- 
 ly, showing it to his companion. " It's not this 
 kind of game he's afther, anyway." 
 
 By this time Flower had recovered a little from 
 his surprise ; so, drawing himself up, and trying, 
 but in vain, to shake himself clear of his captor's 
 gi'asp, he said, 
 
 " What is the meaning of this, pray? I have 
 leave from Mr. Graham to shoot over these lands, 
 and I have a license also, only I have left it at 
 Ballybune." 
 
 "That's all mighty fine," answered the police- 
 man ; "but Mr. Graham doesn't give his shoot- 
 ing to every one that way ; and gentlemen al- 
 ways takes their license out with theru nowa- 
 days." 
 
 " But I tell you, fellow," broke in Flower, an- 
 grily, "I am an officer in Her Majesty's service 
 — Mr. Flower, of the — th, stationed "at Bally- 
 bune." 
 
 " Come, Bill ; we won't listen to this nonsense 
 any longer. As if wo didn't know that it's the 
 14:0th that's at Ballybune just now." 
 
 "It left three days ago," cried Flower. "It 
 is the — th that's quartered there now." 
 
 "Is it, indeed ?" answered his captor. "In 
 that case you can't mind coming with us, as it's 
 
OUK DETACHMENT. 
 
 65 
 
 just back there we're bringing you. And we'll 
 see what Mr. Graham will say to you when he 
 sees you. Come on." 
 
 And so poor Flower was dragged off, and 
 compelled to walk the ten miles back to Bally- 
 bune at a most terrific pace, arriving at last be- 
 fore Mr. Graham's house, decidedly blown, and 
 not looking the better for his exertions. 
 
 The laugh was now on his side, as the discom- 
 fited policemen were eager in their apologies,'and 
 explained that they had taken him for one of the 
 Fenian leaders, whom they had been long hunt- 
 ing over the mountains, having received certain 
 information that he was in hiding somewhere 
 about. This day at least they made sure they 
 had secui'ed the right person ; and Flower's as- 
 tonishment being mistaken by them for alai-m, 
 they were all the more convinced they had their 
 man at last. 
 
 It was a great sell for them, and raised a tre- 
 mendous laugh against Flower, in which Bea- 
 trice Graham joined so heartily that the flirtation 
 in that quarter was rather damped ; and I think 
 after a week or so our soft ensign was glad to re- 
 turn to his duties at Belmurphy. 
 
 In the mean time Fevershara,' quite uncon- 
 scious of his mother's action in his affairs, had 
 returned home ; shortly after their first greetings 
 were over, he said, 
 
 "And now, mother, I may as well tell you all 
 your alarm was unnecessary. Miss Bambridge 
 has refused me. It appears I misconceived her 
 manner — she never loved me, and paid me no 
 more attention than she did to young Darrell, so 
 you need not have been so frightened. But you 
 must understand distinctly, if she would have 
 taken me, I would have married her without a 
 farthing, and tried if it were not possible to live 
 on one's pay. I had deceived myself dreadful- 
 ly," he went on with broken voice — "I could 
 have sworn she cared for me, and I had given 
 her my whole heart before I knew my mistake." 
 
 He passed his hand over his face, and looked 
 thoughtfully into the fire, while his mother laid 
 her hand on his arm tenderly. Now that she 
 had gained her point, she could bo tender and 
 pitiful. 
 
 "My poor boy," she murmured, " she was not 
 worthy of you. How could you have thought 
 of throwing yourself awjjy on an Irishwoman? 
 I am sure you will do better when you get over 
 this. There are many nice English girls who 
 would be proud of your love. Why not look out 
 for one of thein, and show this young lady you 
 are well able to do without her?" 
 
 "You know nothing about it, mother,'' an- 
 swered Claude, indignantly. "She was a girl 
 any man might be proud' to win as his wife. 
 Where among the milk-and-water misses round 
 us shall I find another with her daring spirit and 
 unconventional nature? No, no, mother; she 
 m.iy know that she has made a mark on my life 
 not easily to be effaced, if she cai-es to know it, 
 for I will not marry merely for the purpose of 
 persuading her the wound was light. . liather I 
 should like her to see that quite unconsciously, 
 as I believe, she has pained me to the heart. It 
 may perhaps teach her to be more careful with 
 another at some future time." 
 
 Lady Feversham said no more. She saw only 
 too plainly that her son was sore stricken — his 
 very face was changed, his sweet smile rarely 
 
 lighted up his countenance, which was uniformly 
 grave and sad, while his voice had acquired a 
 hopeless tone, that told the interest of his life 
 had for a time departed. 
 
 There was a few minutes' silence beween 
 mother and son, as they stood beside the fire ii> 
 the chill autumn dusk, and watched the glowing 
 embers with eyes that saw in them each their 
 own sepai'ate visions. Claude's thoughts were 
 busy with that troublesome past that haunted 
 and tortured him constantly. Lady Feversham 
 was building up for him, her only son, a magnifi- 
 cent future, constructed to suit her own views of 
 beauty and magnificence. 
 
 Suddenly he. looked np and spoke. 
 
 "Mother, tell me who it was warned you that 
 I loved Miss Bambridge ?" 
 
 Lady Feversham started. She had not cal- 
 culated on being asked this question, and it, was 
 most important to her schemes that it should 
 never be truly answered. "I can not tell you," 
 she said. "You would be angry with one who 
 acted so truly a friendly part toward you, and 
 might speak or act ill toward the person. I will 
 not tell you." 
 
 " If you are afraid of my conduct toward the 
 person, it must be some one I know, or else that 
 precaution would be unavailing. Tell me, is it 
 so?" ' 
 
 Lady Feversham hesitated. She could write 
 in stern fashion enough to her son, but when he 
 was standing there beside her, asking questions 
 in that cold, dry voice, he seemed to force the 
 answers out of her against her will.' She tried 
 to keep silence, but his eyes, fixed on her, forced 
 her to speak, and finally she stammered out, 
 
 "Yes, it is some one you know. And now 
 you must not ask me any thing more, for I will 
 not answer you." 
 
 His brow clouded over as he heard her answer, 
 but he persisted in his questions, saying : 
 
 "Tell me at least it was not 'Vivian Darrell 
 who played this traitor's part. I believed the 
 boy when he denied it, but your words seem very 
 much as if my suspicions had been correct." 
 
 Lady Feversham kept silence. She did not 
 wish to get her young nephew into trouble. with 
 his captain, but it would certainly be convenient 
 if Claude's suspicions were to fix themselves very 
 far away from the real object. She would not 
 say what was untrue, even to effect so convenient 
 a result ; hut if what she said led him to imagine 
 such a thing, she did not choose to take anj' 
 trouble to undeceive him. 
 
 "Tell me," repeated Claude, impatiently, 
 " was it 'Vivian Darrell, or not?" 
 
 "You know very well 'Vivian never writes to 
 me," replied Lady Fevershara, with irritation, 
 " and I have not seen him since he joined. But 
 Iwill answer no more questions." And she rose 
 and left the room, leaving her son gazing into 
 the fire with a pained, puzzled look on his hand- 
 some face. 
 
 " She would not answer me straight out ' No,' 
 as she would have done had my snspicion been 
 false. I fear greatly it is true." And the gloom 
 on his brow deepened. 
 
 Mabel Prendergast was still at home: Cecil 
 Egerton had not yet left, and except when she 
 rode over, wliich was pretty regularly, Lady 
 Feversham saw little of her ally. 
 
 The verv dav, however, after Claude Feyershr 
 
06 
 
 OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 am's arrival, the young lady rode up, looking 
 veiy beautiful on her thorough-bred hack, with 
 her fair face a little flushed with exercise, and 
 her brown eyes dancing with excitement. 
 
 " So Lord Feversham is at home, I hear,'' she 
 said, after greeting her friend. "What has 
 brought him ? Was it not rather sadden ?" 
 
 "Yes. He ai-rived yesterday unexpectedly. 
 That affair is all over. How I wish he would 
 come in now and see you, dear ! You are look- 
 ing lovely!" 
 
 Mabel laughed one of her low, musical laughs 
 that were not reiy frequently heard, and were 
 all the more charming when she did indulge in 
 them. As she did so the door opened, and 
 Claude walked in. 
 
 "I was in the yard. Miss Prendergast," he 
 said, "when your horse came round. I knew 
 no one rode such perfect cattle but you about 
 here, so I came to pay my respects at once." 
 
 It was a set, polite speech, bat Lady Feversh- 
 am took it as an angary that he was already be- 
 ginning to look after other young ladies, as she 
 had urged him, while Mabel read it more truly, 
 and answered carelessly, 
 
 " Yes, Bonnibel is a pretty creature. But tell 
 me what was the cause of your paying us a visit 
 here so suddenly? I thought you were all so 
 busy in Ireland you could not get leave." 
 
 "Oh, the worst of that is over," he replied, 
 seating himself, and doing his best to make him- 
 self agreeable during the short time Mabel re- 
 mained. As for tlie young lady, she was very 
 merry, even calling up an amused smile several 
 times on Claude's sad face ; but after about a 
 quarter of an hour's rattling talk she asked for 
 her horse, and, in spite of Lady Feversham's ef- 
 forts to detain her, rode away. 
 
 Claude went down and put her up; as she 
 nodded and smiled, riding away, she thought to 
 herself, 
 
 " Come, I have made a step in advance. He 
 never took the trouble to mount me before. 
 Things look promising. I shall win him yet. 
 After all, it would be very nice to be Lady Fev- 
 ersham, with a splendid fortune, both on my side 
 and his, and a quiet, gentle-mannered husband, 
 over whom a wife might feel sure she could ac- 
 quire unbounded influence, and who is very good- 
 looking besides. I should have the whole coun- 
 ty at my feet then," she mused, "and be able 
 to do any thing I liked. After all, there is noth- 
 ing like power — lots of it — for making people 
 happy." 
 
 As she neared the house, and saw Cecil Eger- 
 ton sitting out in the garden enjoying the even- 
 ing air, and looking for her return, her thoughts 
 changed, and shfe- checked her horse suddenly, 
 to gain time to collect herself before meeting him. 
 For he, whose quick ear had caught the ring of 
 the horse's feet on the avenue long before it ap- 
 peared in sight, had risen and come toward the 
 gate to meet her, dragging his weak, nerveless 
 limbs along with a painful effort, but his whole 
 face brightening up, and becoming radiant at her 
 approach. 
 
 "What shall I do ?" she thought, with a sud- 
 den spasm of pain. "It will kill him, and I 
 could not bear he should think badly of me ei- 
 ther. What a pity he is so weak in character ! 
 If he would claim me boldly as his, and dare me 
 to abandon him, I feel I should give in ;: as it is. 
 
 I do not know how it will end. lie is nobler 
 and higher principled and truer than any lord 
 ever was, be the other who he may, but yet his 
 weakness will lose him to me, for I know I shall 
 betray myself and him, if the other man wishes 
 it." 
 
 As she rode up to him, she stopped, sprang 
 from her horse, and walked slowly beside him, 
 listening to his soft, low words, and feeling his 
 ardent, joyful looks fixed upon her, without rais- 
 ing her eyes to his. She could not look on him 
 and determine to be false, so she cast her eyes 
 on the ground, and walked on silently.' Present- 
 ly he said, 
 
 " Lord Feversham is at home now. Did you 
 see him to-day ?" 
 
 "Yes," she answered ; "we have known him 
 for many years, and, of course, he came in to see 
 me directly he knew I was there." 
 
 If she had been trying to rouse his. jealousy, 
 she could hardly have spoken more to the pur* 
 pose. A wild look sprang up in his eyes as he 
 asked eagerly, 
 
 "Do you see much of him when he is at 
 home?" 
 
 She laughed. " Don't get so excited ; we see 
 him pretty often. Is there any thing else you 
 would like to ask about him ?" 
 
 " Yes," he replied ; " I should like to ask yon 
 one more question, but you will be angiy, and I 
 could not boar you should be displeased with me, 
 so I dare not say what I wish." 
 
 " Do not be afraid," she answered, gently ; " I 
 could not be offended at any thing you said." 
 
 He looked at her half doubtfully for a mo- 
 ment, and then blurted out, hotly and eagerly, 
 
 "You like Lord Feversham, do you not? 
 Are you going to marry him ?" 
 
 She colored, and looked intensely haughty for 
 a minute or two, while he who watched her as 
 though his very life depended on her answer, 
 felt his heart sink within him at the thought that 
 he had offended her; but after a moment, re- 
 membering her promise, she replied, 
 
 "I don't know why you should fancy I like 
 Lord Feversham, though certainly I can not say 
 I don't like him. I do not care for him in the 
 way you mean, however, " she went on, with a 
 smile; "and to put your mind quite at rest, i 
 may as well tell you he is in trouble because he 
 loves some girl in Ireland that his mother will 
 not allow him to marry. Having satisfied your 
 mind on this score, let me tell you it is very 
 wrong of you to ask such questions, and only 
 that I am a great deal too good-natured, you 
 would get no reply to inquiries you had no right 
 to make." 
 
 "Only the right," he answered, slowly, but 
 with a firmness and decision most strange to 
 hira — "only the right given by my love for you, 
 which makes me jealous of every man that can 
 meet you on more equal terms than I, and that 
 tortures me until I find how far they engross 
 your attention." 
 
 It was the first time he had spoken so plainly 
 of his love to her, and she thrilled all over at the 
 words with secret delight, but answered, rather 
 coldly, "Now you are talking nonsense, which 
 you know I never allow. I have done more 
 than I ought in satisfying you about Lord Fev- 
 ersham ; so bo reasonable, and do not forget 
 yourself in this way again." 
 
OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 67 
 
 The young man looked down at her ; as tKey 
 stood thus together they would have presented 
 a carious contrast to abeholder : he tall, slender, 
 and dark, with too sweet and soft an expression 
 on the handsome face, now white and worn with 
 illness ; she graceful, almost fragile in appearance, 
 yet with a look of firmness unmistakably visible 
 in her beautiful face, and in the cai-riage Of her 
 well-set head. As he looked and marked her 
 downcast eyes, and the'quick-flitting blushes that 
 colored her brow, a wild desire seized the young 
 man to hazard all to vvin her, to dare to speak 
 of his love, and force her by urgency and entreaty 
 to answer him definitely, and put him out of his 
 paiUi 
 
 The greatness of his anxiety alone gave him 
 strength for once to act with determination ; so, 
 laj-ing his hand on Bonnibel's bridle, he stopped 
 her and her mistress, and spoke passionately, 
 and, for him, with a kind bf wild vehemence that 
 caused Mubel to fear the game might become 
 dangerous if earned too far. 
 
 "You are trying me too much," he cried. 
 "Yon know what I feel, though I have never 
 spoken out boldly to you ; but I will do so now. 
 Listen for one minute while I show you what 
 depths of misery and anguish, or Vvhat heights 
 of hope and joy, there may be in the human 
 heart—" 
 
 He would have continued, but she drew back 
 angrily, and passed on, saying, 
 
 "Silence, sir; you are forgetting yourself .nost 
 strangely to-day. Is this the return my father 
 and mother are to meet with for their kindness ? 
 How do you think they would care to have their 
 daughter married to a poor soldier? — a man 
 without family, kindred, or expectations, so far 
 as I know." 
 
 The cruel words were hardly out of her mouth 
 when she wished them unsaid ; her heart quailed 
 within her at the expression of his face.' Despair, 
 pain, and wondering astpnishment were written 
 on it ; after a pause he turned away, saying, 
 
 " Farewell ; I have been cruelly deceived in 
 you. • I will endeavor never to meet you again, 
 or offend you any more by my presumptuous 
 words." 
 
 As he spoke he turned away in the direction 
 of the house, taking another path, with weary, 
 faltering steps, stopping every now and' then to 
 wipe the drops of pain and anguish from his 
 brow. 
 
 Mabel stood looking after him ; she would 
 have given worlds to have recalled him, but her 
 lips could utter no sound, arid she gazed with 
 wide, startled eyes after his retreating figure, 
 feeling in her heart that she loved him better 
 than she had ever thought to care for any hu- 
 man being, and that she must have him back at 
 her feet again at all hazards. 
 
 Then she went slowly forward to the house, 
 gave up the mare to a servant, and ran to her 
 room, where she threw herself on her bed and 
 wept the bitterest tears that had ever visited 
 lier beautiful eyes. Why had she treated him 
 so, and would he ever forgive her? She feared 
 not ; yet she felt if he had offended her she could 
 forgive him over and over again. How could 
 she ever have thought of winning Claude Fev- 
 ersham,. since she had seen Cecil Egerton and 
 loved him? She was rightly and fitly punished 
 for her share in injuring Miss Barabridge. Now 
 
 she knew her heart, and, if the bhance was ever 
 again given her of being true to her l6ve and re- 
 fusing Lord Fevershim, she would show the les- 
 son had not been thrown away. 
 
 As she determined thus, a vision of all she re- 
 nounced in becoming the bride of a poor man, 
 as she imagined him to be, burst upon her, and 
 on the other side she seemed to see the advan- 
 tages she Would enjoy as the mistress of the Cas- 
 tle, and as Lord Eeversham's wife ; besides, she 
 had as good as promised his mother long ago, 
 and her parents understood also it was to be a. 
 match, whatever he might think. It would be 
 hard to undeceive them And give up all she 
 might enjoy ;'and, after all, was it necessary? 
 
 Cecil Egerton, she felt sure, would always love 
 her, and never another — at which thought her 
 tears fell faster, though not so bitterly ; but for 
 all that she did not see that he need ever be more 
 to her than a dear friend., Some people said such 
 friendships were dangerous^^she did not think 
 so ; she was mistress of herself, and could keep 
 herself out of mischief. In time, perhaps, this 
 wild fancy would die out when she saw more 
 clearly the folly of it ; in the mean time it would 
 be strange if she could not keep them both hang- 
 ing after her, playing one off against the other, 
 till she had decided in her own mind what course 
 to pursue. 
 
 But first of all it would be necessary to soothe 
 the lover she had so Imprudently offended. Her 
 heart died within her as she thoughthow difficult 
 a matter that might be, for in this instance he 
 had spoken with a firmness and decision she had 
 never observed in him before. She wondered 
 whether his new-born determination might' not 
 enable him to resist her entreaties, now that her 
 cruel words had pointed out to him his daring i;i 
 aspiring to her hand. 
 
 He must be pacified and detained, no matter 
 how hard he might try to break from her fetters 
 — ^yes, even if she had to yield more to him than 
 she had ever intended. Having arrived at tliis 
 conclusion, she ceased sobbing, dried her eyes, 
 and proceeded to dress for dinner. She had 
 nearly finished her toilet when a kiiock at lier 
 door startled her, and on calling out " Come in," 
 her mother entered, looking rather annoyed. 
 
 "My dear Mabel," she began, "I wish you 
 could see what you can do with that impracti- 
 cable Mr. Egerton. He wants to leave the 
 house to-night — says he has already trespiassed 
 too long on our kindness, and in fact will go. 
 He is not fit for it at present ; I shonld be so 
 sorry if he got ill in consequence, and was laid 
 up at his horrid uncle's place, with no one to 
 take care of him. Such a nice young man, too 
 — I never met one I liked so much. Like a 
 good child; finish dressing, and run and speak 
 to him." 
 
 Mabel paused while fastening a brooch into 
 her dress, and r'eflected a moment. It was nev- 
 er her plan to conceal the truth, unless sbe saw 
 some positive good was to be gained by it. It 
 seemed'to her it might be wiser to tell her moth- 
 er what had passed that day, and see how she 
 took the intelligence,' before deciding on any def- 
 inite course of action. Her mother's expressions 
 of interest in the young man had quite as miich 
 to do in- influencing her to this decision as any 
 thing else, so after a moment's consideration she 
 answered, 
 
63 
 
 OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 " He dill not tell you why he was going, mam- 
 ma, but I will. He began talking some nonsense 
 about love to me, and I got angry, told him lie 
 M'as requiting your kindness very badly by doing 
 so, and that I would not have it. I do believe 
 I spoke too strongly, but I was annoyed, and 
 could not help it. After that it is for you to 
 decide If I shall ask him to remain." 
 
 Good, easy-going Mrs. Prendevgast had a 
 most profound respect for Mabel's capabilities 
 of head, and did not feel in the least alarmed 
 at the .disclosure. ' It was but natural the young 
 fellow should love her ; even Mrs. Prendergast 
 felt it, would have been move natural had Mabel 
 loved him in return ; but it was pretty evident 
 she did not. Mrs. Prendergast liked the young 
 man, and did not wish to give him pain, but she 
 did not care to lose a pleasant companion, or one 
 at least to whom she had taken a fancy, so soon. 
 Besides, the best and gentlest means of curing 
 his passion would be to allow him to remain in 
 the house, and see how indifferent Mabel was to 
 his advances. So she replied, 
 
 "You were quite right, Mabel dear, to show 
 him he was in the wrong ; but, as you are safe, I 
 don't see why he should not stay at least until he 
 is strong. • Eun and ask him to remain." 
 
 As she hurried off to obey, a voice in Mabel's 
 heart seemed to ci-y to her earnestly, 
 
 ' ' Beware, yon are not safe. This is danger- 
 ous. Have nothing to do with it." But she 
 went on in spite of the warning, and met Cecil 
 Egerton coming out of his room. 
 
 Thatshort hour of misery had greatly changed 
 liis appearance, she could see, as he tried to pass 
 her with a bow ; but she put her hand on his aim 
 and stopped him. As she touched him, she could 
 feel him shrink from her, but he did not speak, 
 only remained w.iiting in a patient attitude for 
 her to begin. 
 
 "I want you to come with me into the morn- 
 ing-room for a minute or two. I can not speak 
 to you here. " 
 
 He followed her as she moved on, still without 
 answering, till they stood by the window in the 
 quiet room together ; then she went on, 
 
 "We want you to stay with us some time 
 longer ; you are not well enough to move yet, 
 and- we could not bear you should leave us before 
 you have quite recovered. Don't go, please. You 
 will not refuse me ?'' 
 
 She tried to put on her usual coaxing manner, 
 which never failed with any one, but for once in 
 his life he looked at her sternly, and answered 
 decidedly, 
 
 " You have spoken words to me this afternoon 
 that render it impossible for me to stay. Though 
 they were cruel, they were true, and I forgive you 
 for them ; yet I think the same truth might have 
 been told me in a gentler phrase." 
 
 "Never mind what I said," she cried ; " it is 
 not true, and it was only my evil pride caused me 
 to speak so. I wish you to stay. If you love 
 me as you say, surely that is enough." 
 
 The temptation was too strong for him; he 
 seized her hands, and turned her face to the wan- 
 ing light with an eagerness that caused her to 
 shrink from him. 
 
 " If I. stay now, when you have asked me thus, 
 do you know what it means ?" he asked. " Do 
 you know how I must regard it ?" 
 
 She smiled a faint smile. 
 
 "How can I?" she replied. "Every one 
 might attach a different meaning to it." 
 
 "Then I will tell you," he answered, drawing 
 her close to him, and though her heart beat fast 
 she did not resist. "It means that you accept 
 the love you rejected so scornfully but little more 
 than an hour ago — it means that you are mine, 
 mine only, and that ever after no earthly power 
 can separate us. This is what it means to me, 
 the only meaning under which I can consent to 
 stay. I do not know that I am right even then," 
 he added ; ' ' but with that assurance I can fling 
 every thing except honor to the winds. But I 
 must tell your parents, if you do consent, and 
 then they will order me off quick enough. It 
 would be bettor I went now, as I had intended." 
 
 "No, do not go!" she. cried, softly, her heart 
 for once getting the better of her. "Your mean- 
 ing stall be mine, if you wish it, and my mother 
 knows why you were going, and yet sent me to 
 beg you to stay." 
 
 How happy he was as he held her, trembling 
 and submissive, to his heart! He had never 
 dared to hope for such bliss as this, yet it was his ; 
 he seemed to himself to be dreaming, and held 
 her tight, fearing that in, a minute or two he 
 should awake and find her gone. They sat down 
 and talked, and she forgot for a while her ambi- 
 tious dreams, and the utter folly of the step she 
 had taken, in her intense happiness. ■ At last the 
 gong sounding for dinner roused them from their 
 fool's paradise, and Mabel, beaming with love and 
 joy, went down with her lover to the drawing-- 
 room, where she found her mother, who, in her 
 pleasure at Mabel's success in keeping Cecil, nev- 
 er noticed her daughter's look and manner. 
 
 The girl had cautioned her lover before they 
 came down to show nothing by his face of what 
 had passed between them; "because," she ex- 
 plained, "though mamma understands it, papa 
 does not, and it is better to wait a while for a fa- 
 vorable opportunity to win his consent than to act 
 rashly, and be separated forever." 
 
 The mere hint of such a contingency was quite 
 enough for the young man, who promised at once 
 to be discreet and cautious. He succeeded in 
 being so sufficiently to escape the observation of 
 Mabel's parents, but not that of the attendants, 
 the butler remarking to his fellow-seiTants after 
 dinner, "There is some game up bet\yeen Miss 
 Mabel and. the young gent that has been ill in the 
 house so long. How do I know it ?" he went on, 
 in reply to the question of an incredulous house- 
 maid — "to be sure I do, when I see him with 
 his eyes always fixed pn lier, and her looking 
 down on her plate as demure as you please, for all 
 the world like a cat licking her lips after she's 
 been stealing the cream. And what has the like 
 of him to do with such as her?" he went on, 
 warming with his subject — "a fellow picked up 
 out of the fields, and coming from no one knows 
 where; and she is a lovely young lady surely, 
 though a deep one, I take it, by that smile of hers, 
 that you never know whether it means yes or no." 
 
 In this opinion the servants| hall unanimously 
 agreed ; at least in the sentence that he was not 
 good enough for her, except that the women serv- 
 ants averred the poor young gentleman was so 
 handsome no one would have the heart to refuse 
 him. 
 
 When the ladles left the table after dinner, a 
 struggle went on in Mabel's mind, how much of 
 
OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 G9 
 
 what had passed it would be prudent and safe to 
 tell her mother. That she must tell her some- 
 thing she knew, for she saw her words had 
 awakened in her lover's mind a nervous suscepti- 
 bility as to whether the course he was pursuing 
 was honorable or not. But it was hard to decide 
 what she should tell and what conceal; so that, 
 after a good deal of deliberation, she determined 
 to disclose every thing, only pointing out that she 
 did not feel bound by such-an engagement, and 
 intended to keep it secret, so that, if at any time 
 she wished to break it off, it would only be nec- 
 essary for her father to hear of it and forbid it, 
 and for her to submit to his will. 
 
 " Mamma will not like it, I know,'' she mused ; 
 "but if I can not come round her any other 
 way, I will bully her. I never do it except when 
 I can not help it, but now I must." 
 
 However, the matter seemed to be more diffi- 
 cult than she had imagined, for when she told 
 her mother the way in which she had prevailed 
 on Cecil Egerton to remain, Mrs. Prendergast, 
 though not very stern or particular with her 
 daughter, shook her head gravely, and said, 
 
 "This will not do, Mabel. ' I understood from 
 you you did not care for the young man, and 
 therefore never imagined you could delude him 
 with such a promise. It is'not,"she went on, 
 " that we wish you to marry Lord Feversham, 
 though, of course, such a match would be very 
 desirable, and would please your father and me 
 very much ; but we have always determined that, 
 having money enough to afford a poor mar- 
 riage, you should be allowed to have your own 
 choice, only insisting on the respectability of the 
 man on whom you should set your fancy. It re- 
 mains for you, therefore, to decide Which of the 
 two you really' prefer, and though, in Egerton's 
 Case, we do not know whether he has any means, 
 his poverty, supposing he is poor, need not be 
 a drawback. I think we could get over that. 
 Now tell me what you wish to do, for, if you will 
 not have him, he should be undeceived immedi- 
 ately." _ • •. 
 
 Mabel mused. It was delightful to be loved 
 as he loved her ; for a time, she knew, that would 
 make hei- quite happy, but how long would that 
 last? She tired of every sensation after a short 
 while ; all but one-^ambition, love of power, that 
 was her ruling passion, and she feared that a 
 love, meaning a relinquishment of a,ll that prom- 
 ised the influence she coveted, would ere long 
 become irkSome to her. 
 
 So her sober reason told her, as she steod and 
 pondered, thinking' of 'the position Lord Feversh- 
 am's wife would occupy, and comparing it with 
 her situation as the wife of Cecil Egerton. Still, 
 .^fter turning it over many times in her mind, 
 and heaving a long-drawn sigh at her fading 
 prospects, she turned to her mother, aiid said, 
 
 " Thanks, dearest, for your assistance. I love 
 Cecil, and would be his wife gladly. But don't 
 you think it would be desirable to keep our en- 
 gagement secret — at least until he gets his lieu- 
 tenancy ? I should not like to marry before, and 
 be the laughing-stock of all my friends ; he must 
 purchase his steps quickly, and it will not be long 
 to wait if the engagement is not known and 
 talked about. What do you say to that plan, 
 mamma dear ? Is it not a good one ?" 
 
 "It seems to me good and prudent in eveiy 
 way, " answered her mother, proud of the wisdom 
 
 evinced by her daughter, in a worldly point of 
 view, at not wishing' to marry an ensign in a 
 marching regiment ; and equally touched by the 
 disinterested mariner in. which she gave up her 
 ambitious schemes, when her heart was engaged 
 in another direction. ' • 
 
 Mrs. Prendergast had a strong spice of ro- 
 mance in her disposition, and could never have 
 crossed the course of truerlove in the way her 
 neighbor, Lady Eeversham, had done. As for 
 Mr. Prendergast, the wishes of his wife and child 
 were law to him, and he simply never dreamed 
 of disputing their will. 
 
 "I will speak to your father to-night about it," 
 Mrs. Prendergast went on. " Whenever . Cecil 
 gets leave, he can spend it here — the only con- 
 dition we will make being that he must on no 
 account reveal his engagement until he gets his 
 lieutenancy, immediately after which event the 
 marriage may take place."- 
 
 "Yes, but I should not wish him to leave the 
 army then," put in Mabel. ■ "We shall be very 
 comfortable, and can soldier in an easy fashion, 
 so that I should like him to stick to his profes- 
 sion." 
 
 - As she spoke, she conjured up before her 
 mind's eye as brilliant a- life as the wife of the 
 colonel of a regiment, as that which would have 
 followed her union with Lord Eeversham.* To 
 her ambitious mind it even seemed very easy 
 that her Cecil should be a general and K.C.B., 
 so that already she was beginning to be not only 
 satisfied, but pleased; ' When the gentlemen came 
 up after dinner, she beckoned Cecil - into the 
 back drawing-room; where only the fire-light re- 
 lieved the darkness of the room, and sitting there 
 on the floor with her head'resting on his knee, 
 she told him all she had arranged while he sat 
 wearily with lier father over his wine. 
 
 "Nt)w you see the good of being a fevorite,'' 
 she laughed vyhen she' had finished ; "if mamma 
 had not got so fond of you, I- hardly think she 
 would have settled all this. But do you know 
 she likes you so much, I think she would have 
 been dreadfully cut up if I had refused you." ' 
 
 This girl, with all her cold calculations and 
 prudfehce, when she had once made up her mind 
 that her love and her ambition could go together, 
 did Yiot give herself away by halves. She pet- 
 ted and caressed her lover, letting him" see that 
 she really was forid of binij-and thought it no 
 sacrifice to promise herself ^to one'of-whom she 
 knew as little as she' did of him. It would be 
 impossible to' say whether tl lis was done ■with a 
 ndotive or not ; perhaps she feared he might urge 
 their engagement being open, atid hoped by her 
 cajoleries to bribe' him into submission to her 
 wishes. However this might be, as she looked 
 up into his' face with the strange; unfathoniable 
 eyes to which love was lending a new beauty, he 
 ' felt he was indeed a luc% fellow — that more had 
 been done for him than he could ever have 
 dreamed or desired, and that it would be almost 
 ungrateful in him to express a wish that theii; 
 .engagement should be made public ; at the same 
 time he felt such a wish very strongly, and 
 thought it the thing wanting to complete hiSf 
 happiness. He ventured to express this very 
 mildly : 
 
 "WHy, darling," he asked, "do not J-ou like 
 it to be known ?" 
 
 "Because, "she answered, "I hate a long en- 
 
ro 
 
 OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 gagensent. People would talk about it, and say 
 whyi with her money does she not marry him 
 at once ? then if I did so, every body who now 
 envies me, and covets my advantages, would ciy, 
 ' Just look at that girl ! With all her- money she 
 has only managed to hook a penniless ensign iji 
 a marching regiment !' Only that I love yon, I 
 would not have married you till you got your 
 company. But I feared you would think it so 
 hard, I determined to keep yon in suspense as 
 short a time as possible." 
 
 " I did not think you cared so much what peo- 
 ple said," he answered, as he expressed his grat- 
 itude for her consideration of his feelings in an 
 appropriate manner. "What are they to you, 
 that you should care what they, say ?" 
 
 "After all," she replied, "I dare say it is a 
 matter of habit. I have been accustomed, at 
 least in. thinking of marriage, to defer to the 
 opinion of the Mrs. Grundies about ; and I do not 
 feel inclined to set them at defiance now ; butas 
 you are to spend all your leave with us, it can 
 not matter much." 
 
 " I must let my nncle know what has happen- 
 ed at once," he said, presently; "it will please 
 him, I fancy, and he is pretty sure to make me a 
 handsome allowance. I need not continue in the 
 army unless I like." 
 
 " Oh ! but I wish it," she cried, in some alarm. 
 It would , by no means have suited her that he 
 should settle down into a quiet, easy-going coun- 
 try gentleman. She was determined her husband 
 should be a person of note in the world, and she 
 had decided that nothing was easier than that 
 Cecil should be so in the military line. She 
 told him now veiy distinctly he must stick by his 
 profession as long as it should be her pleasure 
 that he should do so. 
 
 And so the evening wore on as they sat and 
 enjoyed their happiness. Mabel forgot every 
 thing in the present, while Cecil, who had no 
 pleasant past to look back on, and never had a 
 future to look forward to until now, was bewilder- 
 ed with the weight of his good fortune, and gazed 
 on the fair girl he had won, through no exertion 
 or deserving of his own, with a wild idolatry only 
 to be felt by ardent, imaginative natures like his, 
 and which was little short of madness. 
 
 When, Mr. Prendergast was made aware of 
 what was going on, his placid face expressed de- 
 cided astonishment. That the young fellow they 
 had picked up, as one might say, by the roadside, 
 and had nursed and tended with as much devo- 
 tion as though he were their own son — that he 
 should have dared to lift his eyes to the heiress 
 of The Poplars, was a height of presumption his 
 mind at first seemed scarcely, capable of taking 
 in ; but wheahe found his astonishment and in- 
 dignation were not echoed back by either his 
 wife or the object of such presumption, he began 
 to think it would be useless for him to attempt to 
 stem the torrent, and he had better give in with 
 a good grace. 
 
 Accordingly matters were arranged as had 
 been decided between Mabel and her mother, and 
 Cecil announced his determination of going over 
 to Beaumanoir- and breaking the intelligence to 
 his uncle, as soon as he should be strong enough 
 to undertake so long a drive. 
 
 Cecil felt no misgivings about the result of his 
 errand ; he knew a great deal better than any 
 of the others how it would be received, and how 
 
 his present position, as a penniless man, would be 
 improved thereby. He had confided a good deal 
 of his knowledge on this subject to Mabel, who 
 had laughed, and had rather admired Mr. Vansit- 
 tart's shrewdness. 
 
 When Mabel Prendergast rode off that day from 
 the Castle, and Lord Feversham returned slowly 
 to the house, he thought, in a dreamy kind of 
 way, that she was a very pretty girl, and excess- 
 ively improved since he last saw her. When he 
 returned to his mother, she asked him at once, 
 but in a careless way, "whether he admired her." 
 
 " In a critical point of view — yes," he answer- 
 ed. " She is very pretty as regards complexion, 
 features, hair; and figure ; in fact, beautiful in ev- 
 ery way. , But, do you know, what I consider 
 most attractive about her is that faint, incompre- 
 hensible smile she has ; it sets you thinking what 
 she means, and trying to find out. If it was sar- 
 castic, or haughty, or even sweet, you would not 
 be attracted or care half so much to excite it and 
 study it; but having once seen her srnile, you 
 feel pei-petnally anxious to see it. again. I can 
 fancy her very taking, and immensely run after 
 in society.,,. Though she is not at all my styles I 
 feel her attraction as one might see the beauties 
 of a picture that one did not care for." 
 
 Lady Feversham smiled. The spell, she 
 thought, was working, so she let the subject drop, 
 and went on with her worsted- work, while Claude 
 strolled down to the stables. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 A HUNTING MOKNING. 
 
 Mabf.l bad insisted that her mother sfaonld 
 on no account tell any of their neighbors, of her 
 engagement ; .and wheij Mrs. Prendergast repre- 
 sented that Lady Peversham at least should know 
 that her scheme was impracticable, the girl de- 
 clared there was no reason for telhng her any 
 thing of the kind. 
 
 "Lord Feversham has no thought of me, 
 mamma," she urged; " he is wrapped up in this 
 Miss Bambridge ; and if we told her ladyship, 
 we might just as well tell eveiy body else in the 
 county. . I will not have it, mamma ; so talk no 
 more about it." 
 
 If Mabel, had been asked what were her rea- 
 sons for keeping her engagement dark, and for 
 being especially anxious it should be concealed 
 from the Fevershams, she would have been puz- 
 zled what to say ; for at that time she had no 
 thought of being untrue to her love, and had so 
 merged, her ambition in her afiection that she 
 would even have been unable to see any induce- 
 ment to be false, in the certainty of winning Lord 
 Feversham, were such a thing possible. 
 
 It was more probably a wish to assert her pow- 
 er over a man who had hitherto been superior to 
 its influence. Still such a wish was not declared, 
 even to herself, and wanted opportunity to call it 
 into activity. 
 
 Feversham himself wrote to one of our fellows 
 a few days after his return home. I wondered 
 then very, much that ho had not written to me, 
 but, in default of understanding it, I was rather 
 interested in what he told us. He said in his let- 
 ter: 
 
 "Who do you think has been getting himself 
 
OUE DETACHMKNT. 
 
 71 
 
 famous hero lately? You will never think of 
 him, so I may as well tell you. Oar quiet sub, 
 Cecil Egerton. He is a handsome fellow, and a 
 gentleman ; but I never knew a man with his ex- 
 pression of countenance who made his mark in 
 the world, or achieved any success in life. He 
 was stopping for a long time with the Prender- 
 gasts near us. Miss Prendergast, who, besides 
 having money, is a very beautiful girl, though a 
 most audaciouffrider, found him half dead under 
 a fence one dqy, when she was bucketing a vio- 
 lent horse ac<6'S?R6ountry, and being on their land 
 ftter people considered themselves in duty bound 
 to see he was brought through his illness safely." 
 
 Snch was Seversham's account of the manner 
 in which Cecal had passed his leave; when we 
 saw him again we were all inclined to think that 
 his illness was not over yet. He was in much 
 better spirits — apparently much happier than we 
 had ever known him — but he was wasted, and 
 weak, and heetic-looldng, like a man who had 
 been on the brink of the grave, and who had not 
 got very far away from it yet. Indeed it was 
 only his new-found happiness, I really believe, 
 that helped him to live. 
 
 Latterly I had never been qnite able to fathom 
 Claude's feelings about Miss Bambridge, or find 
 out exactly how he bore her loss. He was very 
 grave and gentle, more so-" than ever, but at the 
 same time joined' in all oar'sports and amuse- 
 ments, riding a degree harder than was perhaps- 
 wise or safe, playing sometimes rather high, 
 though more as if it bored him, than as if he 
 found any .relief in the excitement. Indeed he 
 was so constantly lucky that he had no reason 
 to feel the absorbing interest of one whose for- 
 tune lies on a turn of the cards. At the numer- 
 ous balls and parties which he attended in Dub- 
 lin, whither we had been removed, he would some- 
 times flirt desperately for half the evening with 
 some pretty girl, whose heart would begin to flut- 
 ter with pride 'and pleasure at the thought that 
 she had caught that handsome Lord Feversham ; 
 then, perhaps, just when at his gayest, a sadden 
 remembrance would shadow his face, and darken 
 the laughing light in his eyes, and turning away, 
 he would pass the rest of the evening moping in 
 some retired corner. 
 
 We, who understood the matter, could see that 
 he was vei-y unhappy, and all the pleasures he had 
 of old delighted in afforded him now but little dis- 
 traction from the thought of his lost love. Once 
 lie spoke to me about it, and said, 
 
 " If I could understand it, Vivian, it seems to 
 rae I should be more satisfied. I could have 
 sworn she liked me, even when she said she did 
 not. And I do not think it was vanity made me 
 fancy so, either. By Jove ! if I saw her, I al- 
 most think I should be fool enough to ask her 
 again, even if I got another refusal for my pains'." 
 
 I knew better than he that she really did love 
 him, and yet I could not for the life of me en- 
 courage him to try again. I had tried truly at 
 the time to further his suit ; but now, as I saw 
 how ineffectual my effort had been, a new hope 
 sprang up within me. It was true she did not 
 love me now, but might she not in time gi-ow to 
 do so, if I persevered ? And I, who had no eyes 
 for the Dublin belles, determined to achieve by 
 ]iatience the fulfillment of my hopes, if such a ful- 
 fillment could indeed ever be possible. 
 
 What a wild infatuation it was ! I saw every 
 
 day women more beautiful and more highly born, 
 who might have looked on me with no unfavora- 
 ble eyes, but I never even so much as glanced 
 round after them when they passed. To my 
 mind there was but one woman in the world, the 
 girl that loved my friend, and who was loved by 
 him in return. 
 
 If I could but have convinced myself of the 
 utter hopelessness of my suit, how much pain 
 might I Jiot have been spared! Could I but 
 have seen her heart at the time when I was build- 
 ing these vain castles in the air, how different it 
 might all have been ! — that is to say, if a man in 
 love can ever be convinced his case is hopeless, as 
 long as the object of his affections is unwon. She, 
 poor girl, I afterward heard, took the matter more 
 seriously to heart than her lover did, in outward 
 appearance. It is certainly more in a woman's 
 nature to do so, and then they have fewer distrac- 
 tions and amusements to divert their minds from 
 their sorrows ; besides, she had this sorrow above 
 all his, that she had denied her love, and con- 
 vinced him, as she thought, that she had acted 
 the part of a heartlesfe coquette. That thought 
 stung her most ; if only he could have known 
 how she- cared for him, she believed it would 
 have been easier to give him up; but now he 
 fancied she had led him on and encouraged him, 
 either from^heer thoughtlessness, or as an amuse- 
 ment for her idle hours. 
 
 When she j'emeinbered all this, her brain would 
 reel, and her heart, grow-aick at the bitterness of 
 her lot, and it was only^y a mechanical repeti- 
 tion of the one idea : it was for his good that she 
 could calm herself under such a crushing grie^J, 
 She kept up bravely, however, only yielding to 
 utter despondency when alone ; still her sorrow, 
 being always present before her, undermined her 
 strength, and caused her to get neiTous and irri- 
 table. 
 
 General and Mrs. Bambridge, alarmed at these 
 symptoms, decided on leaving the country, and 
 taking her to London for change of air and scene. 
 The excitement and gayety there, they hoped, 
 would divert her mind, and it would be good for 
 Clarissa also, though that, at present, was a mi- 
 nor consideration. They would have preferred 
 staying in Dublin, but knowing the — th were 
 quartered there, it was not deemed desirable they 
 should run the risk of meeting Lord Feversham 
 everywhere, and London was accordingly settled 
 on. 
 
 But Gwendoline Bambridge, though looking 
 pale, thin, and ill, still showed a brave front to 
 the world, and none but those of her own family 
 had the least idea what was the matter with her. 
 She could laugh and talk with an aching heart, 
 as well as the greatest fine lady in the fashion- 
 able world, and she did so to such purpose that 
 most of her county friends imagined she was car- 
 rying on a successful flirtation in a widely differ- 
 ent quarter from that in which her affections real- 
 ly lay. 
 
 At first General Bambridge had been inclined 
 to censure Lord Feversham's behavior toward 
 her, and Gwendoline was obliged to explain that 
 he had proposed, and she had refused him, before 
 her father's indignation could be pacified ; but the 
 reason of her refusal she would confide to no one, 
 and persisted in asserting she did not love him. 
 So, not being able to discover what was wrong, 
 the Bambridges determined on going to London 
 
73 
 
 OUB DETACHMENT. 
 
 in April, being convinced, notwithstanding tlie 
 girl's assertions, that Feversham and the — th 
 were somehow connected with her illness. 
 
 About December I went on leave. Claude 
 had not jet returned from his ; but Longhuvst was 
 !i good nay from the Castle, so we did not see 
 each other often, except when the hounds with 
 which he used to hunt met near us, and then I 
 generally met them and him too. 
 
 The first day I saw him, I noticed there was 
 something odd and constrained in his manner to 
 me, for whicli I could by no means account ; and 
 as I could not ask him for an explanation among 
 a lot of other fellows, I pretended to observe noth- 
 ing unnsual, and was as friendly to him as ever. 
 
 One day, about three weeks after my return 
 home, the Harkaway — the pack with which he 
 most generally hunted — met about four miles 
 from us, and I, as was usual on these occasions, 
 attended. There were a good many fellows of 
 our hunt, the Dashington, out that day as I rode 
 up, but US yet Claude had not put in an appear- 
 ance. There were a few minutes to spare still, 
 and I knew, if he came at nil, he was sure to hit 
 oti" the exact moment. Expecting to see him 
 presently, I turned to speak to some one near 
 me. 
 
 "By Jove!" I heard a voice say presently, 
 "isn't tliat a spicy turn-out — nag and all! 
 Just what I call perfection." 
 
 I looked round at this speech, and saw, to my 
 astonishment, Claude Feversham in the act of 
 settling a lady's haUtj having, as I imagined, 
 just put her up on a magnificent brown-black 
 hunter— one of the finest animals I ever saw. 
 The lady's face was turned toward me as she 
 bent and assisted in arranging her habit, so that 
 I had a very good view of her, and could see 
 plainly she possessed no small degree of beauty. 
 Indeed, had not my thoughts been all taken up 
 with some one far different, I should have said 
 she was exquisitely pretty; and there was no 
 doubt about her dress being perfection, from the 
 crown of her neat hat to the point of a tiny pat- 
 ent-leather boot I had obseiTed as Claude pulled 
 her habit into its place; All was tasteful and 
 workman-like, while her mount was simply un- 
 rivaled. 
 
 I had not been much about in my own county, 
 therefore I was quite in the dark as to who this 
 fascinating Diana might be. Hiding up to Claude, 
 just as he was about to mount his chestnut, I 
 greeted him warmly. 
 
 " You are on duty to-day," I said, after a few 
 moments' conversation, with a glance in the di- 
 rection of the fair unknown. " Might I ask who 
 is the lady ?" 
 
 " What ! don't .vou know her? Why, I thought 
 every one in the county had seen Miss Prender- 
 gast. She is under my care to-day, as you ob- 
 serve, and has been staying for a day or two at 
 the Castle with my mother." 
 
 "Looks as if she could, go. Can't she?" I 
 asked, as we rode up to where she was quietly 
 waiting for her escort. 
 
 " You shall see, Vivian," i-eplied Claude, with 
 a smile. So saying, he left me and turned to 
 the young lady, who, it seemed to me, paid more 
 attention to my steed and general turn-out than 
 she did to myself— evidently setting me down as 
 a boy not worth attention. 
 
 We placed ourselves in what we deemed to be 
 
 an advantageous position, and ;yaited while the 
 hounds dashed into covert, and only a low whim- 
 per now and then, or a crackling among the 
 under-wood, proclaimed their whereabouts. At 
 length a shout from tho far end of the cqvert 
 pi'oclaimed the fact that the fox had been view- 
 ed away, and as we looked eagerly in that direc- 
 tion, we could see his agile red body gliding over 
 a grass field in front of us, while the hounds were 
 only just bustling out of covert and settling down 
 on his tracks. 
 
 At the bottom of the field in which we were 
 standing was a gate opening into the pasture 
 through which the fox was just speeding. 
 
 "This is our way, Miss Prendergast!" cried 
 Claude, excitedly. "We must gallop to get 
 there before the ruck; they are bearing down 
 on it like lightning, and then there will be a 
 block." 
 
 While speaking, we were riding down at the 
 gate, doing our best to arrive there before the 
 crowd. We did succeed in getting in front of 
 them, and Claude was just pulling up to open 
 the gate, when, taking her horse by the head, the 
 young lady popped over, and, without looking 
 round, sailed away alongside the hounds, but 
 well out of their way, showing that she com- 
 bined both daring and judgment, a knowledge 
 of hunting with perfect riding. 
 
 We were beside her soon, and I could not but 
 admire the consummate ease wilh which she rode 
 her powerful thorough-bred, and how completely 
 it seemed to be under the control of her hand, 
 certainly one of the finest and lightest I ever saw. 
 Sir Kicliard Lewin, our respected master, riding 
 alongside of us, looked at her with unwonted ad- 
 miration, as she flew over a bullfinch with a stout 
 rail on the far side. Here I nearly came to grief, 
 not being able to clear the rails properly, but for- 
 tunately we had chanced on a rotten place, and 
 the timber giving way, Blackfoot picked himself 
 up with a scramble, and on we went again. 
 
 On the top of a hill in front of us we checked 
 for a minute, but the pace had been so severe, 
 and the country crossed so stifle, that only the 
 first-flight riders were up, and even one or two 
 well known in that position had come to grief. 
 Our horses were rather glad qf the brief respite, , 
 Ifancy; but I could not help remarking that 
 Miss Prendergast's mount seemed not to be 
 aware of the pace at which, he had been hustled 
 along, but looked as cool and.composed as if he 
 had only just come out of his. stable. - 
 
 Close below ns, at the foot of the hill, we 
 could see the liush, a sluggish, broad stream 
 winding along between its steep, green banks. 
 Almost before we liad time to collect our thouglitjs 
 the hounds recovered the scent, and went straight 
 down to it at a rattling pace. 
 
 This was indeed a startling position ; there 
 was no bridge or ford within half a mile, and have 
 it they must who wished to live with the hounds 
 or see the end of the run. At the same time it 
 was more than most people would have cared to 
 look at, being at least twenty feet wide all along 
 that . stretch, and in many places more. One 
 thing, however, was favorable to those wishing 
 to cross it — the ground fell gently to the brink 
 on our side, and the farther bank was still a little 
 lower; the advantage was not much, not indeed 
 sufficient to tempt any one but our master and 
 myself. Claude considered himself in duty bound 
 
OtR •DETACHMENT. 
 
 73 
 
 to keep Miss Pvendergast out of danger.'urgifig 
 her to strike off at once for the bridge ; ■ but she, 
 looking round at him, quietly answered, "I al- 
 ways ride at my own place, Lortl Feversham — I 
 have it now; and besides I have crossed the 
 Rush before." 
 
 As she spoke, she took hold of her horse, and 
 ■working him op into his wonderful stride, went 
 down at the water at a pace that left us far be- 
 hind, and that must get her over or in. 
 
 I was so fascinated watching her riding that I 
 quite forgot to tliink of myself, and could have 
 cheered loudly when the brown-black rose like a 
 bird, and clearing the water with several feet to 
 spare, soon put himself on terms with the hounds 
 in the next field. 
 
 Sir Richard was not so fortunate ; he was im- 
 mediately behind her, but his horse, frightened 
 n.t the sullen, deep waters, refused violently. 
 Claude got over by a fluke, his chestnut getting 
 its fore - legs well landed, but slipping its hind- 
 legs in ; and only for Feversham's agility in 
 springing to land and helping it up, horse and 
 rider would have had an ugly ducking. As for 
 me, I was deposited along with my steed about 
 half-way over, and we both had to swim for it. 
 
 However, we came out on the right side, and 
 there being a check a field or two farther on, I 
 got up with the hounds, but not a minute too 
 soon, as before I could well draw rein they were 
 off again, heading straight for Burnley Gorse, 
 through some as stiff country as I had ever rid- 
 den over. Miss Prendergast, Claude, and I were 
 now alone with the hounds, and the pace con- 
 tinuing severe, it was highly probable that if we 
 could last we should liave the honor of seeing 
 the' eiid of it alone also. Whether we could last, 
 however, was the question, the lady being the 
 only one going well within herself, and still at 
 her ease ; the chestnut's coat was dark with sweat, 
 and he seemed to lean a little on the hand ; while 
 as for my own steed, I confess he was done to a 
 turn, and I knew there would be little more to 
 get out of him. Just as I thought tliis, and was 
 about to puM up in despair, the hounds stooped 
 to the scent and began to hunt a little — a heavy 
 cloud passing at tlie minute being probably the 
 cause of this opportune slackening of speed. 
 
 They stuck to him well, however, and in about 
 ten minutes moi'e ran into him, on the very out- 
 skirts of Burnley Gorae, Whore he would have 
 been lost to a certainty, had he made good its 
 friendly shelter. 
 
 It was a clipping run throughout, and as I 
 turned old Blackfoot's head to the wind, after 
 performing the ofBce of huntsman, vice that 
 functionaiy, who had not yet made his appear- 
 ance, I congratulated him heartily on having pre- 
 served so good a place, during an eleven miles' 
 burst over a stiff country, done in fifty minutes, 
 inclusive of the two slight checks before men- 
 tioned. 
 
 " What a Stayer ' Stole Away ' is, to be sure !" 
 said Claude, resting his hand on the neck of the 
 brown - black, who looked as if he had enjoyed 
 his gallop, and was ready for another. "Not 
 that he carries much weight," he added, glancing 
 with evident admiration from the brown's power- 
 ful form to tlie slight figure he carried. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 CATCniKG A TAETAK. 
 
 To retui-n to Cecil Egerton, who was left ill at 
 The Poplars : when he was at length pronounced 
 convalescent, and allowed to return to Beauma- 
 noir, he tried to work himself up into a fit state 
 of mind to bear the congratulations that he knew 
 his uncle would offer on the occasion. It never 
 struck him that Mr. Vansittart. would view the 
 matter in a light that would make him consider 
 his nephew as even a more knowing man of the 
 world than himself. Such was the case, however. 
 Mr. Vansittart had recommended his nephew 
 to fall in love -with Miss Prendergast, and to in- 
 sui-e that object had tried to effect a meeting be- 
 tween them in a commonplace,' every-day man- 
 ner. But the young man had not only taken up 
 his uncle's idea, though, at the time he had al- 
 most refused to do so, but he had also, with a far 
 greater knowledge of the vvorkings of the fem- 
 inine mind than was possessed by the elder man, 
 taken care that their first meeting should be very 
 far from every-day or commonplace. 
 
 It was by no accident, his uncle thought, that 
 he had been lying by the sunk fence that day ; 
 his return to itinerant sketching was the result 
 of a bold and daring design, and even the acci- 
 dent, though of course its serious nature was unin- 
 tentional, was to a certain degree preconceived. 
 
 It was a clever trick, one of which Mr. Van- 
 sittart not unnaturally felt proud, one that con- 
 vinced him his nephew's cant concealed a very 
 deep fellow indeed; a trick that from its very 
 magnitude and audacity ought, in common jus- 
 tice, to bring forth grand results. 
 
 So when Cecil Egerton returned to Beauma- 
 noir, he was hardly prepared for the enthusiasm 
 with which he was greeted, and did not ■ quite 
 understand the jocose way in which the old gen- 
 tleman laughed at Mm, and assured him lie was 
 a sly dog, and one who knew how to take a hint 
 to some purpose. It \r,ii.s sharp practice, though," 
 he added, "and nearly finishing you off altogeth- 
 er," glancing at the young man's wasted figure 
 as he spoke. "You did not mean to can-y it 
 so far, howevej', and of course accidents will oc- 
 cur, even to the best-laid plans." 
 
 Egerton glanced at him wonderingly . ' ' Why, 
 uncle," he said, "you do not mean to say you 
 think I went out sketching there on purpose to 
 meet her'! I knew nothing of Miss Prender- 
 gast and her ways, and had I known she would 
 have been likely to pass in that direction, I most 
 certainly should have avoided her. Now it has 
 happened I regret neitlier the accident nor its 
 consequences, but I certainly never intended 
 them." 
 
 "Fiddlesticks!" ejaculated Mr. Vansittart ; 
 "perhaps you will tell me next you do not ad- 
 mire the girl, and that you will not marry her." 
 
 "I will not tell you that," laughed Cecil, "as 
 I should be treating her very badly if I did not 
 marry her. We are engaged, uncle, and I am 
 the happiest man in the world — too happy even 
 to fight with you. But this is a secret ; we are 
 not to be married for some time — not at least 
 until I get my next step. No one is to know 
 of the engagement between us but you and her 
 father and mother ; do you understand ?" 
 
 "I hear what you say," replied the old man, 
 gruffly, ' ' but I don't pretend to understand at 
 
74 
 
 QUE DETACHMENT. 
 
 all. If you m'e. Engaged, as you say, what pi-e- 
 vents youi' marrying at onco? , I told you, if 
 you succeeded in this scheme I would make you 
 my heir, and in this case it would not suit me to 
 break my word ; if I did, she has money enough 
 for both of you. What is the meaning, then, of 
 this delay?" 
 
 " I am sure I do not know,'' answered Eger- 
 ton, his joy a little damped by this allusion to 
 conduct on the part of his betrothed that had 
 puzzled himself. " Mabel does not wish to mar- 
 ry immediately," he continued, "and that is why 
 she has made this excuse, I suppose." 
 
 " Just so," grumbled Mr. Vansittart ; " some 
 woman's foolery and nonsense. I should have 
 thought a man with as much sense as this busi- 
 ness proves you to have, could have easily man- 
 aged to overcome her scruples." 
 
 " Perhaps I did not try," replied Cecil, almost 
 sadly. 
 
 He was thinking how wonderful it was that 
 he, a man of obscure origin — at least on one side 
 — and utterl}' penniless, but for his uncle's bounty, 
 could ever have dared to raise his hopes so high 
 as to aspire to this heiress, the descendant of a 
 long line of well-born ancestors ; and how still 
 more wonderful it was that he, having dared so 
 to love, should have won her love in return. He 
 felt so utterly insignificant, so entirely unworthy 
 of her, when he looked at the matter in this 
 light ; it was the light in which his position was 
 very frequently before him. 
 
 "You did not try," interrupted his uncle, 
 breaking in upon his reverie. " 'iben you should 
 have tried. Don't you know this delay is only 
 an excuse to give her time, that she may see if 
 she can not hook higher game? Don't you re- 
 member I told yon Lord Fever.sham was after 
 her? and I hear he is expected over directly. 
 Unless she is publicly hound to you, she will slip 
 out of her promise as easily af^ an eel would slip 
 out of your hand. Never trust a woman out of 
 your sight, unless you have the whole world for 
 her keepers ; and this one is a deeper sort than 
 common, or I am much mistaken in what I have 
 seen of her." 
 
 "I prefer to manage my own affairs myself, 
 sir," retamed his nephew, sternly; "let me tell 
 you, if I did not consider Miss Prendergast a 
 woman to be trusted, whether before the world 
 or not, I would never have asked her to be my 
 wife. Let me never hear you apply your hate- 
 ful worldly code to her ; she is as far removed 
 from it as virtue is from vice, and she shall not 
 be named in the same breath with any of its 
 marams." 
 
 Cecil ceased speaking, but his breath came 
 short and quick, and a thick perspiration broke 
 out on his pallid forehead. He was supposed 
 to be convalescent, even well, but he was very 
 weak, and the violent excitement his uncle's 
 speech had caused him did him up completely. 
 He did not know, neither did we — perhaps no 
 one knew but the doctor himself — that that gen- 
 tleman considered he was as well as he would 
 ever be, but knew that he never would be again 
 the strong, active, hearty young fellow he had 
 been before the accident. More damage had 
 been done internally than had been at first sup- 
 posed. Perhaps, but for the new interest his 
 love lent him in life, ho would never have so far 
 rallied as he had done. 
 
 His uncle looked at him anxiolisly. He was 
 one of those men who have a rooted aversion to 
 and distrust of illness. . One reason why he had, 
 in his way, liked Cecil, was because the young 
 man was so. healthy, and active ; a man likely to 
 live long, and keep up the dignity of the family 
 in the old place for many years. But this acci- 
 dent, that had been so wonderfully opportune, 
 and had had such splendid results, was not, after 
 all, an unmitigated piece of good fortune, since 
 Cecil had not recovered from its effects, and 
 something seemed to tell the old man, while he 
 looked, that he might never recover them alto- 
 gether. 
 
 As this conviction stole upon him he expe- 
 rienced a sort of feeling that he had been cheat- 
 ed, that the heir he had desired because of his 
 good looks and strong, robust health, was an 
 imposition after all. iStung by this thought, he 
 spoke harahly. 
 
 " What is the good of your working yourself 
 up into that state ? You are only doing yourself 
 mischief; and it is confounded nonsense to say 
 that you can not listen to the truth about a girl. 
 You must accustom yourself to hear unpleasant 
 truths, at least from me; and unless you take 
 them more calmly, you will never recover." 
 
 "Sometimes I think I never shall be as strong 
 as I was before," answered Cecil ; " but I will not 
 hear, not truths, but slanders, from any one, least 
 of all from you. Eemember that." 
 
 The young man spoke firmly and sternly. It 
 was certain his love lent him a determination 
 and energy that were foreign to his nature ; but 
 he trembled while he spoke, and looked about 
 for a chair on which he might sit down. 
 
 "There, now you are done up," said his un- 
 cle, sullenly, as the young man sank exhausted 
 into a seat. "How. can one talk business to a, 
 man who goes on like that? Did you tell Mr. 
 Prendergast my intentions with respect to you ?". 
 
 "I did not. No doubt he thinks you will do 
 something, but it seems that he has some fancy 
 his daughter is to please herself; and as, she can 
 afford to marry a poor man, she is to be allowed 
 to do so if she chooses. Of course, even if I had 
 known this, I should never have thought of ask- 
 ing her to be my wife, but for your promise to 
 settle something on me. I ventured to hint that 
 you would do so to her, for I could not bear that 
 she should think I, a penniless man, had dared 
 to talk of love to her, unless I had the prospect 
 of a home to offer her. It would have been too 
 like a proposal to support myself on her money." 
 
 " I will write to Mr. Prendergast, then ; that 
 will be the best way. He will be able to talk 
 over business better with me than with a young 
 man like you. He would be almost certain, to 
 oveneach you, or drive too hard a bargain in 
 some way." 
 
 Cecil looked at him with a kind of contempt- 
 uous amusement. It was very absurd to hear 
 good, honest, generous Mr. Prendergast accused 
 of the design of oven-eaching his intended son- 
 in-law ; but it was useless to think of arguing his 
 uncle out of his views on human nature; they 
 were incorporated into his very being, and there 
 they must remain. It was only to be hoped that, 
 acting in accordance with those ideas, he might 
 not succeed in insulting Mr. Prendergast in somo 
 irretrievable and irrevocable manner. That must 
 be left to chance. He was undoubtedly the per' 
 
UUli iJiiiACHMENT. 
 
 fS 
 
 pon \\;ho ought to arrange the business matters 
 with Mabel's father, and all that could be done 
 by Cecil was to forbear farther discussion, and 
 hope for the best. 
 
 Young Egerton by no means comprehended 
 his uncle, or gave him credit for tire amount of 
 finesse and tact which he possessed, and which 
 he was accustomed to use when dealing with per- 
 sons whom he could not bully. , He hardly un- 
 derstood how it was that all business matters 
 were discussed pleasantly between Mr. Vansit- 
 tart and Mr. Prendergast, and arranged without 
 iiny of those differences that make the prelimi- 
 naries to maniagQ (especially, between people 
 with money) usually so disagreeable. 
 
 Mr. Vansittart was for some time very urgent 
 that the engagement should be at once declared, 
 but Mr. Prendergast persisted that was a matter 
 that entirely concerned his daughter, and that he 
 would notinterfere with any of her plans. With 
 this answer the old man was, sorely against his 
 will, forced to be content. He had been over at 
 The Poplars one daj', and had been particularly 
 urgent with Ma,bers father, seeking to make him 
 use his influence either to cause the marriage to 
 be hastened, or to get the relations in which the 
 young people stood to each other made known. 
 fie had failed in both attempts, as has been said, 
 and set out on his return to Beaumanpir in rath- 
 er a discontented frame of, mind. He had lunch- 
 ed at The Poplars, but had not met the ladies. 
 They had taken their lunch while the gentlemen 
 were talking business, and were now out. Mr. 
 Vansittart had often noticed that theseitlemen 
 of his acquaintance did not care to introduce hira 
 to the ladies of their famili.es, and he had secret- 
 ly sneered over this particularity, saying to him- 
 self that the ladies so carefully secluded from the 
 contamination of association with him were ev- 
 ery bit as bad as he, in their way ; but he had 
 never regretted _this caution. . Now, however, it 
 did seemto him that there plight be such a thing 
 as overcarefoluess, in not allotying him to make 
 acquaintance with his future niece, and he was 
 almost hurt, if such a thing had been possible to 
 his nature, at, the opinion of him thus implied. 
 
 He would have rejected the lunch tl^us offered, 
 but that he knew the cellar at The Poplars was 
 famous for its claret, and that it was the thing to 
 be able to speak of the wine in that cellar with 
 the air of familiar knowledge that would become 
 not only a visitor at the house, but also a con- 
 noisseur in rare vintages, a character much more 
 valued by Mr. Vansittart than that of an intimate 
 of the family. 
 
 The wine maintained its reputation, he was 
 forced to admit ; and long experience of. the 
 world and its vinous beverages had convinced 
 Mr. Vansittart that such a vindication of report 
 is rarely met. with, either in regard to wine or 
 other things. The conviction that such was the 
 case made .,him less than ever pleased with the 
 policy th^t practically forbade his often enjoying 
 such wine ; for though on an occasion like this, 
 and once in a way, it was .possible to pass over 
 the slight oiFered to him as an, accident, he knew 
 u repetition of his visits would lead to the esti- 
 mation in which he was held becoming painfully 
 apparent, in whiclj case it would be difficult for 
 him to get out of the predicament gracefully. 
 
 Thus meditating, he drove his two dashing 
 bays down the avenue, and in his indignation 
 
 gave them a little more' of tte whip, and took 
 them over the ground a good deal faster, than 
 was either necessary or usual. The groom in 
 the back seat of the dog-cart noticed this, and 
 muttered, "If Master Cecil drove the 'osses that 
 way, the master would eat his 'ead off when they 
 come in ; but as it's himself as does it, it don't 
 matter." 
 
 A veiy true remark, though it was only Mr. 
 Vansittart's groom who made it. We none of us 
 see the harm, of what we do ourselves, whether 
 it be unjust, untrue, or cruel, but we detect \vhat- 
 ever another does wrong very fast indeed. Is it 
 not strange that we should persist in this error, 
 when we are all so well aware of it ? More than 
 eighteen hundred years ago the very highest au- 
 thority warned us against it; and though we all 
 acknowledge it as a fault to which we are liable, 
 we have not done much to correct it yet. It 
 springs ever new in every successive generation, 
 and is perhaps of all failings the hardest to erad- 
 icate in each individual nature. 
 
 The road along which Mr. Vansittart drove in 
 his handsome dog-cart was one of those beauti- 
 ful English countiy lanes that resemble a green 
 tunnel, so overarched are they . by spreading 
 boughs, and' fenced in by luxuriant hedges. 
 Though the day was a bright one in the end of 
 September, this particular road was. dim, and 
 cool, and. shady. .Entering it, one seenied to 
 pass at once from the glare of day into a soft 
 green twilight, that, was inexpressibly soothing 
 and delightful to eyes, that had been tired and 
 strained by the glare outside. Mr. Vansittai't 
 did not apprecia,te, natural beauty ; he looked 
 upon trees as timber,, and on hedges, as good 
 fences, when properly treated, for keeping out 
 cattle ; but even to him, on a day as hot as this, 
 there was something soothing and refreshing in , 
 the cool shadows of the interlacing boughs. ; He 
 let the good bays take it easier, and began men- 
 tally to appraise the value of the timber, whose 
 welcome shade he was enjoying. It was on Mr, 
 Prendergast's property, and he had a kind of 
 right now to take an interest in that property, to 
 be inquisitive about its value, and do little sums 
 about the probable price every thing would fetch 
 if brought, into the market.. Not that it ever 
 would, be. Cecil, thank heaven! was no spend- 
 thrifl;, and the worst fate that was awaiting The 
 Poplars was that of being amalgamated in and 
 swallowed up by the superior size of the Beau- 
 manoir property. 
 
 Suddenly,; a few hundred yards ahead, just 
 emerging out of the shadow, and crossing a sun- 
 lit patch in the road, he saw Mabel Prendergast 
 on horseback. She had gone out with the inten- 
 tion of exercising "Stole Away," the horse that 
 had caused .so much mischief, but to whom, 
 strange to say, since the accident, she had been 
 more than ever attached. She had given him a 
 good gallop over some grass-land of her father's, 
 and he was now quiet enough, walking slowly 
 along the road, hardly raising his head to listen 
 when he heard the tramp of Mr. Vansittait's 
 bays behind him. 
 
 Mr. Vansittart had nearly overtaken Miss 
 Prendergast ; , he had been admiring her'^raceful 
 figure and admirable seat as he drove up' behind 
 her, when suddenly a thought struck him. This 
 matter of the engagement and the marriage rest- 
 ed entirely with her ; if any body took the trou- 
 
7G 
 
 OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 ble to persuade her, slio might be induced to 
 alter her mind, and then it would be all right ; 
 even if Cecil had to return to his regiment, he 
 might do so confident that every thing would go 
 on well in his absence. Mr. Vansittart had met 
 her here alone; it was most opportune ; he would 
 speak to her. lie had never met her to speak 
 to, but he knew her well by sight, and she knew 
 him, and of course, considering the relation which 
 they would presently occupy toward each other, 
 there could be no harm in his introducing him- 
 self, in default of some one to perform that mys- 
 tic ceremony for him. 
 
 He drove on until he had passed her, setting 
 the brown-black thorough-bred dancing a little, 
 in sympathy with his fretting bays ; then, hand- 
 ing the reins to the servant, he said, "Drive them 
 on slowly to the top of the hill in front, and wait 
 for me there." After that he turned and ad- 
 vanced toward Miss Prendergast, who, recogniz- 
 ing him, comprehended at once he wished to 
 speak to her, and, wondering what it was about, 
 rode slowly toward him. 
 
 As he approached he lifted his hat, and said, 
 "I have the pleasure of speaking to Miss Pren- 
 dergast, I believe ?" 
 
 "Yes," she . answered, quietly, "I am Miss 
 Prendergast. • Can I do any thing for you?" 
 
 It did not suit her to show that she recognized 
 him as her lover's uncle ; she was pre-eminent- 
 ly cautious, and such a recognition might have 
 bound her to too many consequences. ■ She 
 therefore affected to regard him as a total stran- 
 ger — one perhaps who desired information about 
 the country, or some such trifle. 
 
 He saw through her very clearly, but neverthe- 
 less fonned a better opinion of her from her veiy 
 attempt to blind him. It was evident he had to 
 deal with a woman of the world, one whom he 
 could understand, and not one of those sensitive, 
 imaginative, high-principled humbugs who never 
 looked at things from his point of view, and whose 
 own point of view, if they had any, he found it 
 quite impossible to catch. 
 
 "I am Mr. Vansittart," he continued, doing 
 away with the thin veil of formality she had 
 drawn between them, by pronouncing those few 
 words. He looked- at her keenly as -he 'spoke, 
 thinking he conld judge, by the surjSrise she 
 would act at this announcement, of iRe mental 
 calibre of his feminine opponent. ■' 
 
 She did not act at all, however; she merely 
 held out her hand, saying, 
 
 "You are Cecil's uncle, then. I was begin- 
 ning to think it must be so. But why is he not 
 with you ? Why did he not come over to-day ?" 
 
 "Because I came to talk over business with 
 Mr. Prendergast. He thought he might be in 
 the way, and he intends to come to-morrow. 
 Now can you guess. Miss Prendergast, why I 
 have taken the liberty of introducing myself, and 
 have stopped yon here to speak to you ?" 
 
 "No, indeed," she replied, this time with per- 
 fect truth. 
 
 She did think it very odd he should have done 
 so, but she did not know that it would do any good 
 her expressing her wonder, so she kept silence. 
 
 Mr. Vansittart paused too. He hardly knew 
 how to begin ; he must get on the subject of the 
 marriage first, before he could broach what he 
 wanted to say. Well, there was one easy way of 
 doing that; laying his hand on "Stole Away's" 
 
 bridle, by way of steadying him, for he was fid- 
 geting to get after the bays, he went on : 
 
 "You know, I suppose, why I, came to see 
 your father to-day ? May I venture to express 
 my hopes for your future happiness, and my joy 
 at seeing my nephew's dearest wishes about to 
 be realized ? He is a good fellow, I believe, as 
 men go. I like him, though many people will 
 tell you that is a bad testimonial in his favor. I 
 do not mean it so, however. I think you will 
 make him happy, and I think he will try to do 
 the same by you. It will not be his fault if he 
 fails." 
 
 Mr. Vansittart paused, and Mabel, either 
 thinking, or pretending to tliink, that he had 
 said all he had to say, answered, 
 
 ' ' I should not have accepted Mr. Egerton if 
 I had not had the very highest opinion of him. 
 Of course your praise of him is very pleasant 
 to me, but it would not alter my judgment re- 
 specting him if you had abused him. I think 
 we have eveiy chance of being happy together, 
 and I thank you for your good wishes." 
 
 The red-brown eyes gleamed with a faint, 
 concealed amusement, and she drew her reins 
 through her hand a little, as if to intimate to 
 her companion that she wished to proceed; but, 
 though the horse shifted his position, Mr. Van- 
 sittart took no notice of either movement, and, 
 still keeping his hand on the reins, continued : 
 
 "After all, though Cecil is happy, he is not 
 by any means well yet. He wants careful nurs- 
 ing still, and will want it for many a long day, 
 if he is ever again to be the fine, strong, hand- 
 some fellow he once was. And it is about that 
 I stopped to speak to you to-day. - He will get 
 no care and attention when he returns to his 
 regiment, which he must do soon, and I fear the 
 consequences to him in his present state of health 
 will be very serious." ' ■ 
 
 "Do you really think so?" she asked, earnest- 
 ly, beginning to feel a little alarni at the thought 
 of her lover suffering and ill when far away from 
 her watchful care. "What is to be done?" she 
 continued. "If it is bad for him, I do not see 
 how it can he helped, unless we get him a doctor's 
 certificate, and make them give Mm longer leave. " 
 
 "His health has been so' shattered, that it will 
 be a matter of time waiting for his perfect recov- 
 ery ; and it will not be possible to get him leave 
 for so long, I think ; besides there are many causes 
 that would militate against the adoption of that 
 plan. The course that seems to me the best, the 
 simplest, the most straightforward, is, that your 
 engagement should be proclaimed at once, that 
 he should sell out, and that you should maiTy as 
 soon as possible. You would then be able to 
 see that he took care of himself; and happiness 
 alone would further his recovery. At present, 
 though he does not say much, and tries to per- 
 suade himself he is contented, I can see he frets 
 at the uncertainty of his future, the length of 
 time he may have to wait before he can claim 
 yon, and the false position in which he is placed 
 by not being able to appear as your afBanced 
 lover. Consider, if he met you to-morrow at a 
 party, ho would have to treat you as the merest 
 acquaintance, or run the risk of causing gossip 
 which would be disagreeable both to you and to 
 him." 
 
 Mabel Prendergast shook her head, and 
 laughed. 
 
OUB DETACHMENT. 
 
 77 
 
 "If those are the only terms on which I can 
 secure liis recovery; he must remain as he is. 
 Did he depute you to act as his ambassador in 
 this matter? For if he did, I think I had bet^ 
 ter break off the whole affair at once. I have 
 decided every thing is to remain as it is at pres- 
 ent ;, and I allow no one to question the wisdom 
 of my decisions, or to dispute my will. You do 
 not know. that yet, Mr. Vansittart, but he does, 
 and he ought to have known better than to send — " 
 "But he did not send. He knows nothing of 
 what I have been saying," interrupted Mr. Van- 
 sittart, in great alarm. " I am tlie only person 
 to blame, and as you say, not knowing you, I 
 hope my well-meant interference will be ex- 
 cused." . 
 
 Mr. Vansittart felt very small and very hum- 
 bled as he made this apology. He had a keen 
 consciousness that he had been beaten with his 
 own weapons — that this girl was more than a 
 match for him, and he knew by the gleam of her 
 eyes that she was aware she had asserted her su- 
 premacy, and gloried in the victory she had ob- 
 tained. 
 
 One parting shot he might fire at her, and he 
 did so, hoping that by some chance this, his last 
 arrow, miglit pierce some joint in her armor of 
 self-complacency. . 
 
 " Gopd-bye," he said, raising his hat and mov- 
 ing toward his trap. . ' ' Excuse me for troubling 
 you about the matter of which we have been talk- 
 ing. Some girls are so foolish! about a man they 
 love. I made a great mistake in thinking you 
 one of such poor, soft-hearted creatures." 
 
 Mabel Prendergast sat still for a few minutes 
 in the place where he left her. He would have 
 been pleased, and considered that he had been a 
 little revenged for his defeat, had he known how 
 his last words rankled. 
 
 Was it true, then, that she was so different 
 from other girls in her manner of treating her 
 lover ? . She had long been aware herself that 
 she was not sufficiently overpowered by her in- 
 fatuation, as she called it, to cease for one minute 
 looking out for the main chance, or to leave off 
 thinking how she might best compass her ambi- 
 tious hopes ; but she had until now thought that 
 she had concealed these peculiarities of her na- 
 ture so carefully that do one but herself recog- 
 nized them. However, it seemed she had been 
 read, and that, too, by the last person she would 
 have cared should so read her. Besides she 
 did not like being compared with other girls in 
 a sense unfavorable to herself; it stung her self- 
 esteem, of which she had an unusually large 
 share. She had been accustomed to think her- 
 self rather better than other women, no matter 
 from what point of view her character was con- 
 sidered. And this not because she thought. her- 
 self good, but because, judging by herself, and 
 seeing their little faults and failings in society, 
 she considered them worse ^an herself. She 
 had by no means an exalted opinion of her sex. 
 It is suggestive that whei-ever such an attitude 
 of mind is disceniible, the person holding it, will 
 almost. always, if not invariably, be found to be 
 a not very estimable character, seeing every one 
 around tlirough a mental lens, discolored and dis- 
 torted by the imaginations of an evil nature. 
 
 So Mabel Prendergast believed that all her 
 own sex were hypocrites and heartless, though 
 some, no doubt, were fools enough to act parts 
 
 of tender feeling, and perhaps persuade them- 
 selves they felt. . She could do that too if she 
 gave way to the anxiety about Cecil's health that 
 Mr. Vansittart's words had aroused.- But she 
 was not a fool, and however well it might have 
 looked in some people's eyes,^she did not intend 
 to act that role. Thus thinking, she gathered 
 up her reins and rode on. 
 
 About two months subsequent to this, and just 
 after Claude Feversham went home, Cecil Eger- 
 ton returned, as I mentioned before, when I stated 
 that his evident weakness excited comment among 
 us. He could still go about and do his work, but 
 he did it with difficulty, and after it was over, was 
 quite done up for the rest of the day. Indeed, 
 when he was subaltern of the day, I often did 
 his work for him, as I pitied him, when I saw the 
 state of prostration to which his duties reduced 
 him. He would say sometimes, in thanking me, 
 " I shall be well again soon. Madcap, and then 
 when you are ill I will do as much for you as 
 you are doingfor me." I used to feel stupid, and 
 walk away -without answering when he spoke 
 thus. Somehow, I did not believe he was get-> 
 ting stronger. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 . EIVALS. 
 
 I HAD gone on leave to England, as I have 
 said, and I had met Claude and Miss Prender- 
 gast out hunting. I had noticed before that 
 Claude's manner to me was very strange and stifij 
 but on the occasion of this hunt he was too ex- 
 cited to be.very distant. Now and then he would 
 seeni to remember something suddenly, and freeze 
 up into a cold sUence ; but again, when, talking 
 and laughing with Miss Prendergast, he would 
 forget, and include mg in the conversation. One 
 thing I remarked as strange, however, and that 
 was that, though I had joined them, and rode 
 entirely with them, he did not attempt to intro- 
 duce me to the lady, with him, and seemed an- 
 noyed" when she spoke to me, which she did at 
 the end of the first run, probably induced to do 
 so froin having pbseiwed the good place I and 
 my old friend. Blackfoot kept during the run. . It 
 was .very odd of Claude, and I determined to ask 
 him the reason of it at the first opportunity. 
 
 • As . we I'ode slowly home that evening after 
 the hunt. Miss Prendergast said, suddenly, 
 
 " There is a Mr. Egerton in your regiment, is 
 there not ?" 
 
 • "Yes, but he is on duty at present," I replied, 
 before Claude had time to answer. "Do you 
 know him ?" 
 
 "He was very ill in our house last autumn,'' 
 she answered. "How is he liked in the regi- 
 ment?" 
 
 "He is a good sort of fellow,"! said; "very 
 easy-going and good-natured — too much so, in 
 fact. I have a kind of idea he will get into 
 trouble some day, simply from not being able to 
 say no. >, He is a clever fellow too, and does ev- 
 ery thing well. • He and I are great chums ; but 
 I wish he had a little more backbone to his char- 
 acter." 
 
 ■ "We liked him very much," answered Mabel, 
 in a little sharp, decisive manner. "We have 
 asked him to come and see us whenever he gets 
 leave. " 
 
78 
 
 OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 Claude looked at her a little quickly, and, as I 
 almost fancied, jealously, as she said this ; in- 
 deed it had struck me my lord was particularly 
 attentive that day — much more so than the 
 young lady required, she heing fully as well able 
 to take care of herself as he was of himself. It 
 was not that he seemed the least bit in love with 
 her; no, there was nothing devotional in his 
 manner ; simply it showed admiration, and that 
 she certainly deseiTed in more ways than one. 
 
 She looked perfectly charming in her neat-fit- 
 ting habit, and after a hard run, when we were 
 all glowing with heat, and panting from our ex- 
 ertions, she was prettier than ever, with the faint 
 flush called there by exercise tingeing her usual- 
 ly pale face. Then her riding was perfection ; it 
 was a pleasure to see a powerful, headstrong an- 
 imal so easily handled, and so submissive, with 
 all his strength and spirits, to the light hand 
 that guided him. No place was too big for her ; 
 yet, as she told me herself, she never rode for a 
 fall, thinking truly that a lady should never run 
 risks, however hard she is riding. "Not that I 
 wou?d be afraid of a fall, Mr. Darrell," she add- 
 ed ; " and were I a man, I should not care how 
 many I got. But gentlemen are so horrified at 
 the sight — and indeed it does look dangerous — 
 that one is often obliged to be more careful than 
 one would wish." 
 
 " You are not troubled with too much careful- 
 ness, at least," I laughed. "Do you ever refuse 
 a place. Miss Prendergast ?" 
 
 "Oh!" she said; smiling, "thaf is a home 
 question, and I really do not know what I should 
 dootlany other horse; but 'Stole Away' has 
 never found any thing too much for him yet, so 
 I hope he never may, and ride at many a place 
 on that chance that I would not look at on any 
 other horse. Even my second hunter, 'Hold 
 Hard,' is not to be trusted as he is." 
 
 ',' I do not like ladies hunting generally, "broke 
 in Claude ; "they are very apt to put themselves 
 in the way, and to spoil one's pleasure : but when 
 they do it as well as you. Miss Prendergast, I 
 must acknowledge I like to see them out. ■ You 
 never look blown, or pulled, or disordered, and, 
 above all, never seem in danger, no matter where 
 you go ; that is certainJy a great satisfaction to 
 your escort. Besides, you do not keep him be- 
 hind, every one must allow." 
 
 "Mattery," laughed Mabel Prendergast. But 
 I, watching her pretty face, and admiring its puz- 
 zling variety of expression, could see she looked 
 pleased, and blushed slightly. " I do not ride," 
 she went on, "for admiration, or that yon may 
 praise me ; only because it is like the breath of 
 life to me to feel a good horse bounding under 
 me, to glide over the springing turf in a stretch- 
 ing gallop, and feel the rush of the breathless 
 leap. Whatever troubles and annoyances sur- 
 round and harass me in daily life, let me but 
 feel myself in the saddle, with an impatient 
 steed champing his bit, and arching his neck to 
 my hand, and I am gay and happy again. Trou- 
 blesome thoughts can not intrude when canter- 
 ing over a grass country, under a soft gray sky, 
 and with a balmy south wind fanning your 
 cheek. It is glorious ! And those who do not 
 care for it lose one of the keenest enjoyments in 
 life." 
 
 So we chatted on, till I came to a cross-road 
 that led back to Longhurst, and then we sepa- 
 
 rated; Claude and Miss Prendergast pursuing 
 their tete-Mfite ride back to the Castle. 
 
 Lady Eeversham was well pleased with the 
 good understanding that evidently existed be- 
 tween them. When, tired and draggled, they met 
 her in the great hall, Claude's manner was most 
 attentive to Mjss Prendergast. If it was more 
 courteous than warm, her ladyship did not take 
 notice of so trifling a departure from the course 
 she wished. 
 
 "All is going smoothly, it seems," she said to 
 herself, while dressing for dinner. "What a 
 clever girl Mabel is! Now I should never have 
 thought that escorting her out hunting would 
 have such an effect. With ^many men it would 
 have produced directly contrary feelings. It only- 
 shows how good a wife she will make him, when 
 she understands his character so perfectly. ■ It 
 is very stupid of her to persist, however, that her 
 match with him is broken off — that she will not 
 have him ; for though I have not a doubt she 
 will change her mind as soon as he asks her, yet 
 it womes me, and prevents me nrginghim about 
 it just yet." 
 
 Notwithstanding which reflection, she asked 
 him into her boudoir next morning after break- 
 fast, while Mabel was out in the greenhouse gath- 
 ering flowers, and said to him, 
 
 "I am glad to see, Claude, that you and Ma- 
 bel get on so well together. I hope you do not 
 mean to treat the poor girl badly." 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 " Depend upon it, mother, Mabel Prendergast 
 is well able to take care of herself. I do not 
 think it would be in any one's power to break 
 her heart, because, if she has one, she will con- 
 trive never to give it till her fish is hooked. She 
 is a very charming girl, I must allow ; clever, in- 
 telligent, and amusing ; always a lady, yet with 
 a dash of originality. But I think, after all, she 
 is much more likely to use me ill, than ever like^ 
 ly to give me opportunity of so using her." 
 
 "Do not be foolish, Claude," answered his 
 mother; "you know what I mean, and what 
 has always been considered a settled thing be- 
 tween the Prendergasts and us. I allude to 
 your marriage with Mabel. She, of course, 
 poor girl; looks upon it as an engagement, 
 having been brought up entirely with that view ; 
 so, before paying her any more attention, you 
 should decide on the course you intend to pur- 
 sue." 
 
 "My dear mother, do not be unreasonable," 
 he replied. "If you are so anxious I should 
 marry, why did you interfere to prevent a match 
 that offered me eveiy prospect of happiness ? for 
 I can not help thinking that your letter must 
 have had some influence in preventing her tak- 
 ing me. I feel a conviction she liked me, and, 
 had you been favorable, I should be happier now 
 than I ever am likely to be again. If I ever mar- 
 ry — and I suppose J must some day,. for the sake 
 of the name and title — it may as well be Miss 
 Prendergast as .any one else ; only you must give 
 me time, and do not be in a hurry; for, if I 
 thought I could in any way alter Miss Bam- 
 bridge's decision, no other woman alive should 
 have a look or a word from me that could be 
 construed into a lover's attentions." 
 
 "Yes, but you see Miss Bambridge will not 
 have you," his mother answered ; " so you might 
 just as well oblige me and take this girl, that I 
 
OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 79 
 
 have always intended for you. Will yon not do 
 Bueh a little thing to please me, Claude- dear? 
 I haye never thought any trouble too much, so 
 long as I was furthering your interests, and I 
 think you might repay me by this small sacrifice 
 now." 
 
 "A small sacrifice, do you call it?" he said; 
 with a harsh laugh ; "it is only that of my love 
 and my life's happiness, and yet you think you 
 have a, right to demand it. So be it, then. I 
 ■will think over the matter; but I warn you it 
 may be months or years before I make up my 
 mind to take the fatal step." 
 
 Poor Claude! having made this half promise, 
 he stepped out into the garden on his way down 
 to the stables.- Presently, as he walked, he be- 
 came aware that Mabel -ivas hurrying after him. 
 He. heard her step, but did not turn to look, and 
 angry as he was with his mother, himself, and 
 her as the cause of all, he quickened his pace, 
 and soon knew he was leaving her behind. Then 
 a feeling of compunction began to steal over him ; 
 after all, it -^^as not the fault of the girl that his 
 mother should consider her a good match, and 
 desire him to marry her; it was not ci^•il his 
 ■walking away, from her. Perhaps she wanted 
 his assistance or help in. something. 
 
 The moment this idea struck him he halted, 
 and facing about, saw Mabel walking slowly after 
 liim at some distance, and carrying in her hand 
 a beautiful bunch of hot-house flowers, -which 
 she arranged with dai attention to color and 
 form as. she walked. > r 
 
 She did not look up until she was close beside 
 ]iim, and then as he stepped toward her she start- 
 ed a little, and said : 
 
 " I had no idea"yon were so near ; I saw you 
 passing through the garden just nowj and knew 
 you were going to the stables.- I thought per- 
 haps you. would take me with you, as I want to 
 see 'Stole Away,' after his run yesterday, and do 
 not like going alone ; but you walked so fast, I 
 thought I should never overtake you." 
 
 "I saw you, and stopped," he explained ; and 
 tliten they walked on together to see the horses, 
 and satisfy themselves they were all right after 
 yesterday 's.exertions. 
 
 As they walked back together Claude looked 
 at Mabel, and listened to her merry sallies, won- 
 dering whether this beautiful, clever girl might 
 be his if he chose. His mother said so, yetsome- 
 how he fancied the girl thought differently, and 
 would give him no opportunity of proposing, even 
 if he wished to do so. Her manner was friend- 
 ly, but there was a kind of line drawn in her ad- 
 vances, that seemed to say, "I am -willing to be 
 your companion up to a certain point, but not be- 
 yond." He admired her all the more for that ; it 
 was such a relief to feel that here at least he was 
 not expected to commit himself, that he yielded 
 to the . enjoyment of such a feeling, and really 
 made more advance in the line, his mother wish- 
 ed than he ever would have done had the girl 
 been sentimental and self-conscious. So things 
 went on for a week or two, Claude admiring his 
 beautiful, lively companion more and more every 
 day, feeling vely- friendly toward her, but not a 
 bit lover-like ; at the same time often thinking, 
 " Wellj if I must marry somed.iy, and cap not 
 have the one I care for, this girl Mabel -will at 
 least make me n beautiful- and -pleasant wife ; 
 one of whom I may bej.pl'oud, and with whom I 
 
 can get on well, even though I may not be pas- 
 sionately attached to her." 
 
 Mabel was far too keen an observer of charac- 
 ter not to perceive very soon the state of his feel- 
 ings. Lady Pevershara having told her of their 
 conversation and his half promise, she began to 
 reflect that she was placed in an awkward po- 
 sition, as it was quite possible he might at any 
 time take it into his head to obey his mother's 
 commands and propose to her. Much as she had 
 once wished for this, it did not now suit her at 
 all; hel- love for young Egerton was as fresh and 
 strong as ever, but her ambition was even more 
 active. If she could be certain her betrothed 
 had it in him to be a great and successful man, 
 she could be true to him, and wait for him, years 
 if necessary ; but if it was not so, then she felt 
 she had it in her to throw him over, even at the 
 expense of many a pang, for Lord Feversham's 
 assured position. She could not make up her 
 mind to do so yet ; she must wait and see how 
 matters went ; in the mean time it was quite pos- 
 sible to keep him by her, working on his feelings, 
 if possible exciting him to love her, but preventJ 
 ing any actual explanation until she had herself 
 decided what course to pursue. 
 
 She became more friendly than ever with him 
 after she decided thus; she walked and rode 
 with him, played and sang to him, courted him 
 sometimes, laughed at arid scouted him at others, 
 till an interest was raised in his heart that close- 
 ly resembled love, though after all it was only a 
 counterfeit of the real thing. He sometimes 
 sighed when he thought of Gwendoline Bam- 
 bridge, and wondered if this feverish infatuation 
 for Mabel Prendergast would ever obliterate her 
 image from his mind. His mother saw with ap- 
 proval that Claude's manner to the heiress was to- 
 tally changed. Now he was never from her side 
 if she was staying at the Castle; if she was at The 
 Poplai'S'he rode over nearly every day, and when 
 he had'no excuse for going there he was restless 
 and uneasy. Still, when she urged him to speak 
 out and ask the decisive question, he would 
 shake his head and declare she gave him no op- 
 portunity to do so. 
 
 "Indeed I think she is right," he would con- 
 tinue, "for though I admire her more than any 
 woman but one I ever saw, and though I am fond 
 enough of her in an uncertain way, yet it is not 
 an affection with any repose in it. I never feel 
 sure of her for two minutes together, and some- 
 times think that if I was given ray choice of hav- 
 ing her for my wife or forgetting her altogether, 
 I would prefer the latter course." 
 
 Thus matters went on quietly until Cecil Eger- 
 ton came to The Poplars on leave. It was near 
 Claude's time for returning to his regiment, and 
 he was making the most of his stay by spending 
 it constantly with the Prendergasts. The very 
 day after Egerton arrived, when Peversham rode 
 up for his daily visit, the first sight that greeted 
 his eyes was the slight, well-proportioned figure 
 of his subaltern. 
 
 Both men looked at each other mistrustfully, 
 and seemed to divine instinctively that they were 
 rivals ; only there was no uncertainty in Cecil's 
 case to sharpen his jealousy : no — even that very 
 morning he had held his loved one in his arms, 
 and she had whispered fondly that he was more 
 dear to her than ever. He permitted a feeling of 
 amusement to dart through his mind, therefore; 
 
80 
 
 OUB DETACHMENT. 
 
 ns his captain rode up, and he advanced to meet 
 him. 
 
 " You here, Egerton ?" asked Feversham, with 
 nn assumption of fiiendliness he did not feel, 
 " I did not know you were expected so soon. " 
 
 "I had promised Mrs. Prendergast my first 
 visit should be here," he answered ; , "so as soon 
 as I got leave I came on straight. I did not 
 know you lived so near, or rather I had forgot- 
 ten it." 
 
 lie said this in a confused manner, as he re- 
 membered the scene last autumn, when he first 
 became acquainted with Lord Feversham's being 
 a neighbor of the Prendergasts. It was a scene 
 that ended happily for him, yet he could not help 
 remembering he had been jealous then; and at 
 the thought he seemed to feel a return of the for- 
 gotten sensation. 
 
 Just then Mabel appeared on the steps in her 
 riding-habit. She colored when she saw Claude, 
 but advanced to him without embarrassment, and 
 explained that she and Mr. Egerton were going 
 out for a ride — " in which I hope you will join 
 us," she continued, with her most winning smile. 
 
 If she wished it truly, Cecil did not, and he 
 scowled ferociously on his senior when he accept- 
 ed the invitation. Claude, however, was too busy 
 talking to Mabel to notice this, and just then the 
 horses were led up. 
 
 It has been said that since Cecil joined the 
 army his uncle had allowed him to keep a horse ; 
 but though an animal was thus provided for him, 
 Egerton had never cared much about riding, and 
 had not become a very experienced horseman. 
 He looked very well on the road, if the animal 
 was gentle and well-trained, but, as we were all 
 well aware, he knew nothing about riding across 
 country^in fact had probably never taken a jump 
 in his life. He was perfectly mounted that day, 
 on Mabel's hack Bonnibell, and enjoyed himself 
 very much as he rode along, almost ignoring his 
 captain's presence, and monopolizing a large share 
 of the conversation. 
 
 Now Peversham, with nil his many good qual- 
 ities, was inclined to be rather impatient, and 
 perhaps a trifle overbearing, when any one inter- 
 fered with his plans or amusements. He was 
 greatly nettled at Cecil's accompanying them, 
 and still more at the favor with wnich Mabel 
 treated him. Besides, he had always enter- 
 tained a slight contempt for his handsome sub- 
 altern, who had not sufficient strength of charac- 
 ter to fight his way in the world with the ener- 
 gy and persistence that distinguished other men 
 in the battle of life. He felt, therefore, the less 
 compunction at trying to oust the young man 
 from the position he evidently occupied in Ma- 
 bel's regard. He knew that perhaps the quick- 
 est and easiest way by which to weaken a lover's 
 hold on a woman's mind is to make him appear 
 lidiculous, not only in her eyes — that she might 
 possibly forgive — but also in the eyes of other 
 people. If he could contrive to put Egerton in 
 some absurd scrape, in which he would show up 
 badly, he was sure a girl like Mabel Prendergast 
 would pay very little more attention to him. 
 
 In this surmise he^exliibited more knowledge 
 of this' particular, woman's character than could 
 by any means have been expected from a man, 
 and a great deal less knowledge of his subaltern 
 than can be accounted for, except by remember- 
 ing tiiat he had been accustomed to think of the 
 
 young man as a kind of amiable nonentity not 
 worth studying. 
 
 It must not be imagined that Feversham de- 
 liberately set himself to consider how he could 
 put Egerton in a ridiculous position, and thus 
 make him unworthy of notice in the eyes of a 
 woman for whom he evidently felt something 
 warmer than mere admiration, which was the 
 name by which Feversham designated Ma feel- 
 ings ; but it ilashed on him suddenly, not only 
 that he should like to eclipse Egerton, who was 
 in his way, but also that the means and method 
 of doing it with such a girl as Mabel Prender- 
 gast were ready and open before him. 
 
 It was infallible that a girl who rode as she did 
 should feel a .little contempt for a man who could 
 not ride. Egerton looked very well on the road, 
 but none knew better than Claude how he would 
 probably appear across a country. Before he 
 had time to consider his thought twice he acted 
 upon it. 
 
 "At any rate," he thought, "I will have it all 
 my own way to-morrow." And he forthwith 
 asked Mabel if she would accompany him to the 
 hunt at Moorsfield next day. 
 
 "I did intend," she answered, " to have rid- 
 den to the meet with Mr. Egerton, taking James 
 to follow me in the field ; but if you will join us 
 at the cross-roads, we can ride on together, and 
 I shall be glad of your escort when the hunting 
 begins. Mr. Egerton does not feel quite np to 
 crossing conntry yet." 
 
 "I do not know," cried Cecil, whose blood 
 was beginning to get up at the thought of Lord 
 Feversham escorting his betrothed, with the most 
 favorable opportunities for making himself agreei- 
 able constantly presenting themselves. ' ' I think 
 if I tried I could do it. Suppose we attempt 
 something now, and, if I get on well, there is uo 
 reason why I should not follow to-morrow." 
 
 Claude pricked up his ears at this proposition 
 — it gave him such a good opportunity for pla- 
 cing the man he felt must be his rival in a ridicu- 
 lous light ; for it was hardly possible he could es- 
 cape getting a tumble, if Claude chose the places 
 big and made the pace fast. 
 
 "A very good idea, Egerton," he cried, look- 
 ing out, as he spoke, for something snfBciently 
 difiioult to try the learner's powers to the utmost. 
 "What do you say to this bank. Miss Prender- 
 gast, then over the gate at the end of the field, 
 and so on up to the top of the hill, where there 
 is a bridle-path that leads down to the road again ? 
 It will make a nice little steeple-chase ; and this 
 bank is so easy it is almost a walk over." 
 
 " I hardly know what to say," Mabel answered, 
 feeling perfectly sure Cecil would come to grief, 
 and thinking she had much rather he did not 
 make a fool of himself before the captain. " How- 
 ever," she went on, "if Mr. Egerton wishes it, I 
 have no objection to make. Bonnibell can jump 
 as well ns trot, and you will find her perfectly 
 safe. All you have to do is to stick on. " 
 
 Egerton replied eagerly, quite forgetful of the 
 foolish appearance he would make if unsuccess- 
 ful before Lord Feversham's sarcastic eyes, 
 , "Do let ns try. I should like it of all things, 
 and feel as if I could.do wonders." 
 
 "Indeed you do* not seem as if you wanted 
 jumping power," answered Claude, half-admir- 
 ingly, for he could not help being struck by the 
 young fellow's pluck. "At it we go, then 1" and 
 
OUE DETACHMENT. 
 
 81 
 
 turning his horse, he went quietly over the bank 
 to the other side. 
 
 It was little more than a walk over, as he had 
 said, and Cecil, following Mabel's advice, and 
 leaving the reins entirely to Bonnibell, got over 
 very easily, being hardly stirred in his saddle. 
 Then they all rattled up the pasture, in high spir- 
 its with the excitement of the rapid motion, and, 
 in Cecil's case, with the consciousness that be had 
 made a good beginning. 
 
 The next fence, however, was of a very differ- 
 ent character — being a ditch, a thorn hedge, and 
 flight of ox-rails on the far side. The gate, al- 
 though strong and stiff, promised a better exit, 
 and for it they made accordingly, allowing Claude 
 to go first, in order that Cecil might see from his 
 example what it was necessary he should do. 
 
 " She is very good at timber," said Mabel to 
 Egerton, just as Claude cleared the gate. " Steady 
 her a little till she is close to it, then give her her 
 head. I will follow you." 
 
 He went at it manfully, though with some mis- 
 givings ; his fears were realized, for though the 
 clever little mare hopped over it like a bird her 
 rider lost his balance, and after clutching fran- 
 tically at the pommel of the saddle, and then at 
 her neck, measured his length on the soft sloppy 
 ground. 
 
 A very rueful spectacle he presented as he got 
 np and shook the wet from his clothes. When 
 lie looked around him, he saw Feversham had 
 just succeeded in catching the mare, and was 
 bringing her up to him, while on the other side 
 of the gate Mabel was watching him with anx- 
 ious eyes. He thought she was afraid he had 
 been hurt, and walked toward his horse quick- 
 1}', to show that he was uninjured ; but, if tho 
 truth must be told, her cause of anxiety was dif- 
 ferent. She saw Claude Feversham choking with 
 suppressed laughter, which was not unnatural, as 
 the upset, and Egerton's frantic effort to save 
 himsdf, had been sufficiently ludicrous, and a fear 
 dawned upon her that Cecil might object to go- 
 ing on with his ride, for fear of another accident. 
 
 In that case she knew what a fine story Claude 
 would make out of the aftiiir, a story that would 
 notredound to the credit of his subaltern in the 
 regiment, and that would, she could not help feel- 
 ing, affect her liking for. him very severely. 
 
 For ridicule has the most wonderful power in 
 clearing away the veil love casts over the eyes, 
 even when the one whose eyes are thus opened 
 Is not as ambitious a young lady as Mabel Pren- 
 dergast.. She watched, therefore, with a beating 
 heart while he mounted, intending then to cross 
 the gate, and, if he was still willing, continue 
 their ride over the field ; but before she had time 
 to carry out her intentions, she saw Egerton gath- 
 . er up his reins and ride back again toward her, 
 with a determined air and bearing that delighted 
 her, and raised him tenfold in her esteem. 
 
 Feversham called to him to stop. "Let ns 
 come on to the next fence," he said ; " that gate 
 is too high for schooling over." But the only 
 answer he received was the heavy thud of the 
 mare's feet in the soft ground, and the next mo- 
 ment she was over the gate like a bird, and landed 
 this time with her rider on her back, though it 
 could not be said his attitude ivas very gi-aceful. 
 That did not matter. Mabel was proud of his 
 determination, and praised him freely as they 
 -went back to Claude, doing the leap this time in 
 6 
 
 fine style, Egerton getting more into the thing 
 every turn. 
 
 As for Feversham, he felt disappointed. He 
 could not .help acknowledging that, for so inex- 
 perienced a rider, his subaltern had made a very 
 good beginning ; he had shown pluck and deter- 
 mination not to be beaten, besides a great apti- 
 tude for the noble science of horsemanship. 
 Claude began to admit there was more in his 
 junior than he had ever been disposed to allow, 
 and that after all he was not an unlikely fellow 
 to please a girl's fancy. This was not at all sat- 
 isfactory to Claude, who, now that his leave was 
 so nearly up, and that he had to return the next 
 day but one, found himself more intrigui about 
 tliis incomprehensible girl than he would have 
 liked to acknowledge even to himself. 
 
 He did not feel the same true, deep love fpr 
 her that he did for Gwendoline Bambridge, blit 
 slie perplexed and interested him ; and now that 
 the real object of his affections was not attaina- 
 ble, he felt a wish to monopolize this girl and 
 keep her for his own, a wish slie seemed by no 
 means inclined to allow him to carry out. 
 
 Egerton, staying in the house with her, would 
 have every thing his own way ; he had even suc- 
 ceeded in taking the edge off the weapon of ridi- 
 cule with which the captain had calculated on 
 annihilating his pretensions forever. As they 
 turned their horses' heads homeward, Claude Fev- 
 ersham began to think his mother made a little 
 too sure of the heiress ; and this thought made 
 her seem to him a much more desirable prize 
 than she had ever done before. 
 
 It is probable that if he had had the chance 
 then, he would have pnt the important question 
 to her without further dallyiiig; but she, as if 
 aware of what was passing in his mind, divided 
 her attentions with laudable equality between her 
 two cavaliers — taking care that neither of them 
 left her side for an instant, and feeling, as she 
 went up to her room on her return, more puzzled 
 than ever what distinctive course to take, and 
 more pleased and proud of Cecil than she had 
 ever been before. She knew that Claude Fev^ 
 ersham only waited an opportunity to ask her to 
 marry him ; that opportunity she was determined 
 he should not have next day at the hunt; the 
 day after he must join his regiment, which would 
 relieve her of anxiety for a good time to come. 
 Indeed she might then feel herself safe till they 
 should meet in London in the spring. 
 
 She succeeded in settling matters just as she 
 had laid out in her own mind, giving Claude no 
 chance of speaking to her privately at the hunt, 
 and bestowing a good deal of friendly encourage- 
 ment on Cecil, who rode in dashing style, until 
 his horse got pumped, which, the run being a se- 
 vere one, and he having no experience, happened 
 early in the day. His fault, however, was mere- 
 ly want of knowledge when to spare his horse, 
 and when to let him out, an ignorance that Ma- 
 bel very easily forgave him, in consideration of 
 the really brilliant style of his performance, as 
 long as he could live with the hounds. 
 
 As they were returning home, all three togeth- 
 er — Cecil on getting his second horse having man- 
 aged better, the run not being so severe — his an- 
 imal got a stone in its foot, and while he got down 
 to knock it out, the other two rode on slowly. 
 They had only a minute or two together, but even 
 in that short time Claude managed to say, "I 
 
82 
 
 OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 have to join to-morrow ; I fear I shall not see 
 you again till we meet in London, in the spring." 
 
 "I suppose not," she answered, trying not to 
 look glad, which in truth she was, as she found 
 two lovers rather hard to manage. "I am sor- 
 ry you are going," she added, with more polite- 
 ness than truth. 
 
 "Dare I liope you will not forget me before 
 we meet again ?" he asked, bending toward lier, 
 as he heard the hoof-strokes of Egerton's horse 
 close behind them. 
 
 "How could I?" she murmured, with a de- 
 lightful blush ; "we have had so many happy days 
 together. Oh ! Mr. Egerton, is it you ? What 
 was the matter ?'' 
 
 When Mabel went up to dr^s for dinner that 
 evening she gave a long sigh of relief, like one 
 who has escaped a danger ; as she smiled at her 
 reflection in the glass, while her maid brushed 
 and coiled up lier hair, she said to herself, "It 
 was touch-and-go that time ; but I am out of it 
 cleverly for the present ; and now for enjoyment. " 
 
 So she took especial pains with her toilet, 
 andwent down stairs, quite prepared to work her 
 poor young lover into a still greater state of in- 
 fatuation, if that were possible. 
 
 "Miss Mabel is a queer young lady, surely," 
 soliloquized the Abigail, as she tidied up her 
 young mistress's I'oom ; "she is carrying on now 
 with his lordship and this young gentleman, and 
 which it's to be I'm blest if I know — perhaps she 
 couldn't tell herself— but it is my belief they are 
 both a sight too. good for her, for she is the art- 
 fullest piece ever stepped ; not to say but she is 
 good-natux'ed, and gives her maid lots of good 
 dresses." 
 
 I was some time at home before I saw Claude 
 more than once or twice ; he was so fully occu- 
 pied with Miss Prendergast that he had no time 
 to come and look me up, and whenever I went 
 there he was sure to be out. I g.ivo him up after 
 one or two attempts to meet him, contenting my- 
 self by obsemng that I should see enough of him 
 when I went bach. 
 
 But though I did not see him I heard quite 
 enough abont his goings on to convince me, if 
 Gwendoline Bambridgo was not forgotten, it was 
 at least something very like it. With me it was 
 not so : I did not mope ; that would have been 
 useless and foolish. I did what I had to do, and 
 amused myself to the best of my ability ; but I 
 suppose I must have been gi'aver and more seri- 
 ous than my wont, for one day my mother asked 
 me what was the matter with me. 
 
 " You are not at all like what you used to be, 
 Vivian. All your gay spirits seem gone, and 
 sometimes you give me the idea of a sober, mid- 
 dle-aged man, instead of a boy not yet nine- 
 teen." 
 
 I need not say I was fond of my mother ; she 
 was beautiful, and had spoiled me with a kind of 
 judicious spoiling, if there is such a thing, ever 
 since I could remember. She never refused me 
 any thing it was possible I could have, and it now 
 struck me I would tell her my troubles and sor- 
 rows, and see what help she could give me. If 
 she disapproved of my love, at any rate I should 
 be no worse placed than I was before, and if she 
 was inclined to help me, I had such unbounded 
 confidence in her powers, that it almost seemed 
 as if every thing would then come round. I an- 
 swered, " You are right, mother dear ; I am not 
 
 very happy just at present, but I think yon will 
 hardly guess the cause. " 
 
 "Do you think I am so blind, my boy, as not 
 to know the symptoms ?" she replied, passing her 
 white hand through my arm. ' ' Come into the 
 conservatory — we shall be more comfortable there 
 — and I will tell you my guess at the cause of the 
 change in you. You can tell me if I am right. 
 The fact is, my son found he had a heart just as 
 he lost it ; is it not so ?" 
 
 " You are right, dearest," I answered ; " but 
 she will not have me ; you know that too, I sup- 
 pose ; but very likely you do not know her rea- 
 son for refusing me." 
 
 "Refusing you!" she repeated after me, with 
 a slight inflection of pride in her voice, as though 
 she would say, who has dared to do this to my 
 son ? "What were her motives ?" she question- 
 ed, anxiously. 
 
 . " She liked Claude Feversham, I think, moth- 
 er, though •she refused him too. He was desper- 
 ately in love with her then, and I never could 
 make out why she would not have him ; but now 
 they say all over the county that he is after Miss 
 Prendergast." 
 
 " I liave heard that report," answered my moth- 
 er, "and I am sure Lady Peversham would like 
 such a match. Miss Prendergast being a great 
 friend of hers ; but whether he is false to his first 
 love or not at present has little bearing on your 
 case, as you say she refused you. Now, my dear 
 boy, listen to me. Many mothei's would be great- 
 ly alarmed and distressed by what you have just 
 told me, and would do all in their power to pre- 
 vent it ; it is not so with me, and I know your 
 father thinks as I do. Your happiness has al- 
 ways been our great object, and if you truly love 
 this girl, far from throwing obstacles in your way, 
 we would give you every assistance in our power, 
 always supposing she is a lady. Indeed I feel 
 sure you would not love one wlio was not such ; 
 but you are too young, my child, to tliink of such 
 things at present, and she, it appeal's, will not 
 have you. Wait a little, and then urge your suit 
 again if you see a prospect of success ; if not, turn 
 away from the vain pursuit, and devote yourself 
 to duty and work. It will be hard at firet, but 
 wo will help you, and occupation will take the 
 sting out of the disappointment before very long. 
 You are so young still," she added, with tears in 
 her eyes, " it can not be that your life is blight- 
 ed." 
 
 I kissed her for her pitying words, and thought 
 how happy I was to have such a mother... There 
 was that poor fellow Claude — he might have been 
 happy now had Lady Feversham acted thus. As 
 to her advice, it pointed out the only course I 
 could pursue; and one thing at least was certain, 
 that if I could win over Gwendoline I wbiUd have 
 no oppositon from the powers at home. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 ON THE ICE. 
 
 I DID not spend all my leave at home, but, af- 
 ter a week or two there, returned to Belmurphy,de- 
 termined, now the field was clear, to do the most 
 I coald quietly to obtain Gwendoline's favor, or 
 at least find out for certain who my rival was. 
 
 It was a sparkling, frosty \Yinter's day when I 
 
OUK DETACHJIENT. 
 
 83 
 
 again stood on the steps of the hotel at Belmur- 
 phy, and strolling, as of old, into the billiard-room, 
 found there several officers of the 14:4th, who had 
 replaced us in the little country town. 
 
 They took no notice of me when I entered, and 
 I, while waiting for the car I had ordered to go 
 and call on the Bambridges, lounged about watch- 
 ing their play, and criticising their manners and 
 appearance. 
 
 They were fine-looking men, two of them very 
 handsome, and, I could not help thinking, must 
 present a great contrast, in the eyes of the inhab- 
 itants, to the rather shady appearance of our lot. 
 To be sure, Feversham was as fine a looking man 
 as you would see anywhere, but Ussher was in- 
 significant and married, and all the rest of us 
 were more or less juvenile and' unmanly looking. 
 
 Suddenly I heard one of them, whotfi the oth- 
 ers called Fortescue, exclaim, 
 
 "I say, I wonder who will be at the Bam- 
 bridges' to-morrow ? The entertainment is to 
 be skating on the lake, and dancing in the even- 
 ing. Awfully jolly I am sure it will be; and 
 those girls are such fun, though they say here the 
 eldest has fallen oif in her looks. " 
 
 "Never was as good-looking as her sister," 
 cried another. "I willback Clarissa against the 
 county. You will see there will be nothing there 
 to-morrow to beat her." 
 
 "Awfully slow, this frost," went on Fortescue ; 
 "just as one had got one's hunters into order. 
 Skating is all very well, but give me hunting — and 
 by Jove ! this is the place to do it in. Did you 
 ever see ladies ride so straight before, and so 
 many of them ?" 
 
 "Yes,they certainly seem to know how to do 
 it," answered another ; " but I think skating and 
 dancing at the Bambridges' will not be a bad 
 substitute." ; ' ■ ' ' 
 
 Just th^ my car was ready, and I walked off, 
 hearing Fortescue say as I went out : 
 
 " Nice-looking little chap, that ; I do not know 
 who he is. Waiter, who is that ?'■ 
 
 "The Hon. Vivian Dairell, your honor,'' re- 
 plied that functionary, with a grin. "He was 
 one of the officers of the last regiment that was 
 quartered here, and he is going to Endley now, 
 sir." 
 
 How this intelligence was received I do not 
 know, and did not care either ; I .congratulated 
 myself as I drove along on having been so very 
 fortunate as to drop in just when some little gay- 
 ety was going on. 
 
 The frost had been very severe for some time; 
 the roads were white and hard as iron, and the 
 tramp of the horses' feet and the jingling of the 
 harness rang out memly on the still air as we 
 trotted along. My spirits rose as each well-re- 
 membered mile-stone flew by, and before we got 
 to Endley I had almost forgotten all my sorrows 
 and disappointment in the thought that I was 
 once more near her, and should soon gaze on her 
 sweet face again. 
 
 They were all in, and delighted to see me, but 
 I could not help, even in my joy, noticing how 
 altered Gwendoline had become. It was not that 
 she was less beautiful — in fact I do not think she 
 ever could have appeared so to me — butthe gay 
 insouciance of her expression was gone, her eyes 
 were deeper and more mournful, while round the 
 mouth a dejected look was visible at times that I 
 never remembered remarking there before. 
 
 As I noticed this, I thought indignantly of 
 Claude as I had last seen -him, flushed with the 
 excitement of the hunt, and pleased with his 
 beautiful companion. I'eople tell you it is always 
 so with us men : when the object of our affections 
 is not by, we content ourselves with whatever in 
 the shape of amusement is near at hand. It may 
 be so with some — of that I can not judge — ^^only I 
 know it was not thus with me. Of course I di) 
 not mean to -say that the rush and skurry of a 
 clipping run would not put all thoughts of heav- 
 en and earth out of my mind except the one busi- 
 ness before me, or that a hot corner at a battue 
 would not occupy me to the entire exclusion of 
 every other idea ; but once these moments of 
 breathless excitement were over, the remembrance 
 of all I had hoped for and lost would rush upon 
 me, and sober even the brilliant recollections of 
 my late achievements. 
 
 On this poor girl the trial had told severely ; 
 she had no thrilling pursuits to divert her mind 
 from mental grief by exposing her to bodily peril ; 
 all she could do was to sit and brood over her 
 troubles, perhaps rendering them far greater than 
 they really were by the power of imagination. 
 
 Clarissa was lively as ever, and paid me great 
 attention, desiring me to be sure and come early 
 to their party next day. Then slie cried, after a, 
 minute's pause, 
 
 "Have you seen our new defenders ?" 
 
 "I saw them in the billiard-room an hour or 
 two ago," I answered, "but I know none of 
 theni. • I heard the names of two as they talked 
 to each other — Fortescue and Beresford. Very 
 fine-looking men they seem to be." 
 
 "Yes," she cried, laughing ; "do not yo;i 
 think so ? But you have not heard the story 
 connected with them. It appears some young 
 lady from Belmurphy wrote to their colonel, as 
 soon as it was known they were under orders for 
 this place, requesting him to send fine, tall, hand- 
 some fellows — men, in fact. (Complimentary to- 
 you who had just left, was it not ?) However, he 
 was good-natured, and sent us down these good- 
 looking specimens. The flower of the flock, I. 
 call them, as no doubt they are picked men." 
 
 I laughed. 
 
 " That is a good story. Miss Clarissa. Where 
 did you hear it ?" 
 
 "Oh! it is true, I assure yon," she replied, 
 nodding her head, gravely; "and don't you go 
 Miss Ciarissaing me, or I shall call j-ou Mr. Dar- 
 rell. Such old chums as we are need not stand 
 on ceremony." 
 
 So she rattled away until it- was time for me 
 to leave, when she rushed to the window and 
 watched me off with an intense appearance of 
 interest ; but no sooner was I out of sight than 
 she turned to her sister with a comical half-sigh. 
 
 "Dear me! how foolish I was ever to fancy 
 myself in love with that little pet, Vivian! He 
 is as nice as can be, and my especial darling ; but 
 at the same time, I would rather have Captain 
 Foitescue's little finger than Madcap's whole 
 body. And the darling is just as madly in love 
 with you as ever, Gwen. 'That is what brought 
 him here to-day. I wish you could reward his 
 constancy. But there — I will not say any thing 
 more about it if it pains you. Come out and 
 have a little skating ; it is not too late for a turn . " 
 
 Next day I drove out rather early, as I had 
 been requested, and helped to get the dancing- 
 
84: 
 
 OUE DETACHMENT. 
 
 room into oviler, under Miss Clarissa's directions, 
 wlio, I suspect, gave me infinitely more trouble 
 than was necessary, while Gwendoline interposed 
 now and then to save me from my lively tor- 
 mentor. 
 
 "Now then, Gwen," she cried at last, "I am 
 going to play you a waltz, and do you try the 
 floor with Vivian. If you pass it, I may be pret- 
 ty sure it is perfection. " 
 
 So saying she dashed off into a swinging 
 measure, and, before I had time almost to know 
 what I was doing, I was gliding down the room 
 with her I loved, in long, easy steps that seemed 
 to realize one's idea of floating upon air. 
 
 Bound and round we went, when suddenly 
 the door opened, and General Bambridge came 
 in, followed by the 14:4th men, who laughed, at 
 the expression of our faces as we stopped, breath- 
 less with the pace, and intensely surprised at the 
 interruption. 
 
 In a few minutes I had made thsir acquaint- 
 ance. We were soon good friends, and set out 
 toward the lake, where a space had been prepared 
 for skating, and where many people had already 
 assembled. It was a beautiful day, clear, cold, 
 and crisp. The sun was bright in the cloudless 
 heavens, but it was freezing bitterly still in the 
 shade. The dark shadows of the mountains lay 
 on the smooth, glassy surface of the frozen lake, 
 and they themselves, wild, rugged, and stern, 
 towered over our heads, exhibiting every variety 
 of light and shade on their craggy sides. 
 
 In the foreground the bright dresses of the 
 ladies, their fur coats, and dainty hats drawn low 
 over arch, smiling faces, heightened the effect of 
 the picture, and caused us to pause once or twice 
 on our.way down the hill leading to the spot, in 
 order that we might the better contemplate the 
 scene. 
 
 Soon we joined ihem, and then all was hustle, 
 confusion, and laughter: gentlemen buckling on 
 ladies' skates ; ladies essaying to balance them- 
 selves for the first time, and nearly pulling down 
 their assistant swains ; chairs, occupied and un- 
 occupied, being pushed over the ice — every thing 
 was merry and full of life, and I was honored 
 with the office of assisting Gwendoline to buckle 
 on her skates. They must have been more than 
 usually troublesome, I think, for I remember 
 kneeling before her, and holding a long and 
 pleasant conversation in that devotional position, 
 looking up into her deep, sad eyes, that had 
 brightened a little for me. 
 
 At last they were on, and away we glided 
 among the busy throng, in which we presently 
 got separated, and I amused myself watching 
 her as she glided gracefully through the crowd. 
 After a time she left the place where the ice had 
 been swept and prepared, gliding off among the 
 rougher ground, and gradually getting clear of 
 the other skaters. I had just noticed this, and 
 had determined to follow her as soon as I coi\ld 
 shake off the young lady with whom I was talk- 
 ing, when a loud crack was heard, Gwendoline's 
 figure seemed to totter and waver for a minute, 
 and the next moment sank from sight. A cry, 
 shrill and terrible in its agony, burst from her as 
 the broken fragments iioated over the spot where 
 she had been, and active skaters from every part 
 glided with maiTelous rapidity toward the place. 
 
 But love lent me wings, and I was first there. 
 How I got in I know not, nor how I found her 
 
 or brought her to the edge, and supported her 
 till she was taken from me. Then I believe I 
 fell back into the water, and was. only rescued 
 myself with difficulty. But all this is a blank to 
 me, and the next thing I remember is lying on a 
 bed in a strange room, with anxious faces bend- 
 ing over me, and such painful sensations over- 
 powering me that I longed to call out, "Let me 
 alone, to die quietly ! " ' 
 
 But I could not have spoken if I would ; and, 
 almost as soon as 'I had seen them, the grave 
 faces faded away from before my eyes, and I 
 was once more unconscious. Next time I came 
 to myself I was considerably easier, and smiled 
 at Clarissa, whose eager face I discerned peeping 
 in at the door. 
 
 ' ' You are better ! " she cried, seeing me look 
 at her. "I will go and tell Gwendoline; she is 
 so very anxious. " 
 
 I was tired then, and slept for many hours ; 
 I think it was next day before I became thor- 
 oughly conscious of eveiy thing around me. 
 Then Gwendoline came in to see me, thanked 
 me with tears and smiles for having saved her 
 life, and told me she had recovered very soon, 
 not having been long under water ; but as she 
 was being drawn out I sank, got under, the ice, 
 arid was not recovered for so long that they had 
 almost despaired of my ever being brought to 
 life again. Fortunately Dr. Brown was there, 
 and under his care, after an hour of anxious 
 watching, I began to give signs of vitality. Af- 
 ter this I was very weak, and unable to move for 
 a day or two, during which time Gwendoline de- 
 voted all her energies to amuse and beguile the 
 weary hours I had to pass as an invalid. 
 
 One day she asked me where Lord Feversh- 
 am was now ; then some evil spirit tempted me 
 to try and advance my cause at his expense, and 
 I answered : 
 
 "He was at home until quite lately, but his 
 place- is a good way from ours, and I only saw 
 him one day, when he was escorting Miss Pren- 
 dergast, the heiress, out hunting.". 
 
 Gwendoline started, and her color came and 
 went fitfully as she replied, 
 
 " What is she like, this Miss Prendergast ?" 
 
 "Very pretty," I answered; "some people 
 admire her immensely, and she certtiinly is a 
 splendid rider. They say in our county her peo- 
 ple intend her to marry Claude, and he seems to 
 pay her a good de.<\l of attention." 
 
 I could have killed m3'self the next minute 
 for having uttered those words, when I saw what 
 an effect they produced on her. , Her whole face, 
 even to her lips, turned pale, and she turned 
 away ; then, before I had time to think or speak, 
 the color mounted again hotly to cheek and brow, 
 while, looking at me, she said, decidedly, 
 
 "I do not believe it; you do not know what 
 you are talking of. Claude Peversham is farther 
 above those who slander him in constancy, truth, 
 and patience than they can even dream of. You 
 do not know the man you malign, or you would 
 surely refrain from speaking against him, and 
 laying to his charge things of which he is incapa- 
 ble. Do not talk to me again like this ; yon have 
 almost made me forget what yon did for me, and 
 why you are now lying there ill. Forgive me," 
 she went on, holding out her hand; "you tried 
 me too far, and I fear I have been hard on you. " 
 
 I kissed the hand she held to me passionately. 
 
OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 85 
 
 yet wearily, for I fdt the barrier was as gi-eat as 
 ever between us, and I could not yet hope for 
 success, even if I ever could dare to do so. 
 
 As for G\yendoline, it was evident she did not 
 believe one word of the report I told her, and 
 was inclined to consider I had caught up some 
 stray remark and exaggerated it thus, through 
 my earnest desire to see her separated entirely 
 from him, and my wish to put myself in his 
 place. She forgave me because I was ill, and 
 had just saved her life ; hut it was evident she 
 was not only pained, but disappointed in me, and 
 became mistrustful. 
 
 Her suspicion of me grieved me deeply, and I 
 determined that, as soOn as I was able to move, 
 I would return home for the remainder of ray 
 leave ; but it was several days before I could do 
 this, as I had caught cold in consequence of my 
 ducking, and there was a good deal of low fever 
 hanging about me, rendering it imperative I 
 should keep quiet until I was stronger. During 
 the time I remained, Gwendoline seemed to keep 
 a constant watch over every thing I said, as 
 though she feared I might pain her by a repe- 
 tition of what I had before mentioned; but I 
 was on my guard, and kept clear of all danger- 
 ous topics, so that shortly before I went she seem- 
 ed to have i'einstated me in the position I used 
 to occupy in her favor. 
 
 At parting, the tears stood in her eyes as she 
 said, "Farewell, Vivian ! I shall never forget I 
 owe my life to you." In another moment she 
 was gone, and I was slowly saying good-bye to 
 the rest of the fnmily, in the hope she might re- 
 turn before I left. After dawdling some time, 
 I was obliged to get on my car without seeing 
 her, and drive off in a hurry, for fear of being 
 late for the train. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 MISUNDERSTANDINGS. 
 
 I HAVE said that when Claude was out hunt- 
 ing that day with Cecil Egerton and Miss Pren- 
 dergastjhis leave was nearly up, and that he went 
 to Dublin next day. I Was at Belmurphy for 
 some time after, but when I did return to the 
 regiment, of course the first thing I thought of 
 doing wils of going to see him. I had arrived at 
 my quarters rather late in the evening, and when 
 I went dowii to the anteroom I found Claude 
 was out, though a good many of my other friends 
 were there, among them, Mayleigh, looking as 
 cunning and ferrety as ever. . I was rather dis- 
 appointed at not seeing Feversham, and asked 
 Mayleigh, who was nearest to me, to tell me 
 where he was. 
 
 "He has gone out to dinner somewhere," re- 
 plied the little lieutenant; " Feversham has got 
 quite lively, I can tell you, since his visit to En- 
 gland. I used to think he was very spooney 
 about Miss Bambridge, but I suppose I must 
 have been mistaken, for he goes about a good 
 deal, and seems all right. Not that he is a fellow 
 who would show it, if he was ever so hard hit. 
 But there are reports that he is after some heir- 
 ess in England. Is it true ?" 
 
 "Indeed I can not tell," I replied; "I saw 
 very little of him. Though we live in the same 
 county, our places are so far apart, he might do 
 any thing without our knowledge." 
 
 I said this, not because I did not tliiuk that in 
 this instance report might be correct; but because 
 •I knew how annoyed Claude would be,' and how 
 angry he would feel with me, with very good 
 reason, if I gave any information on the matter. 
 So I evaded it, and something calling off May- 
 leigli's attention, I escaped any more question- 
 ing. 
 
 But his words had set me thinking of my cous- 
 in, and I began to remember how very anxious he 
 had been to avoid me, whenever I had met him 
 during our leave, and how very disagreeable his 
 manner had invariably been. It was not like 
 him, for even when most tried by the rivalry that 
 had at one time existed between' us, he had al- 
 ways — when not under the influence of jealous 
 feeling — been most friendly with me: why he 
 should be different now, I could not understand. 
 I in no way inteifered witli his new fancy, and 
 I had not even ventured to allude to it, when 
 speaking to him, so I could not have annoyed 
 him by any chance remark. 
 
 Of course I was sure a few minutes' explana- 
 tion would dissipate any misunderstanding that 
 could have sprung up between us, and would 
 have been very giieved to think that he, my 
 particular friend and ally, whom I loved for his 
 strong; kind, upright character, should have 
 learned to think badly of me, and to shun me. 
 I fancied that perhaps, when he came back from 
 the place at which he was dining, he would come 
 up to my rooms to see me ; it was what we had 
 often done before, when either of us returned af- 
 ter an absence, and I knew that if this cloud that 
 had been between us had passed away he would 
 come and do so again. Being tired, therefore, 
 I went up to my room, and sat down to dream 
 before a blazing fire. 
 
 What pleasant things those dreams are, and 
 what a pity it is that.no reality ever comes up to 
 them ! They are dangerous too : they are so apt 
 to make us discontented with life as it is; to make 
 us long for a world much brighter and happier 
 than this one can ever be. I wish I had a chance 
 of being and doing all I can fancy myself being 
 and doing ; but I believe there is a fate follows 
 me, and of late, in my low-spirited moods, I have 
 begun to frame a theory to account for that which 
 is sufliciently discouraging to those whom it con- 
 cerns. It is this: there are in this world a great 
 number of people who, without being very gay or 
 high-spirited — though in many instances tiley are 
 so — have a wonderful power of resistance to the 
 depressing and overwhelming influences of life. 
 They are the men who can never be entirely 
 knocked down, or quelled by any blow, but who, 
 as soon as it has fallen, gather themselves up 
 again for the fight, and if forced to abandon one 
 point turn to another; never yielding, and though 
 knowing when and where they are beaten, not 
 the less for that maintaining the struggle. 
 
 Nap6leon praised us highly when he said that 
 those Englishmen did not know when they were 
 beaten; and yet I think the courage is higher 
 that continues the battle, knowing it is defeated. 
 
 The people of whom I have spoken, who vAW 
 not give in, who turn from one standing-point to 
 another, are precisely those on whom the heavi- 
 est trials are laid. "The back is fitted for the 
 burden," we have all heard, and really in cases 
 such as those of which I speak it appears as if the 
 proverb was true. I thought, as I sat by the fire 
 
86 
 
 OUll DETACHMENT. 
 
 dreaming, that there was perhaps something of 
 that tongh power of resistance in me, and that 
 thereby I was fated to the troubles I endured,- 
 and perhaps fitted to bear them ; I hoped so. I 
 had ah'eady experienced one very great sorrow, 
 which I assured myself would be lasting, but I 
 did not mean to let. it crush me ; on the contra- 
 ry, I felt that it would perhaps stir me up to do 
 more and better work than I should ever have 
 effected without such a stimulant. But while 
 thinking over Claude's late conduct, I seemed to 
 feel some slight foreshadowing of sorrow in that 
 quarter also, which I knew would add a little to 
 the burden I already had to bear. 
 
 Unless your circumstances have been very 
 prosperous, dreaming over the fire, though at 
 first blissful, is almost sure in - the end to give 
 one the blues. I succeeded in working myself 
 into that frame of mind very rapidly, though at 
 inteiTals I used to laugh at myself, and call my- 
 self a fool for giving way to fancies. 
 
 Is there a great and wise man who can control 
 liis thoughts at all times, putting what is foolish 
 mid useless and bitter away at will ; calling up 
 ]jleasant, kindly, cheerful imaginations in their 
 place? Certainly:! am not such an individual; 
 neither is Claude, I know. I doubt if such a 
 mortal exists, though people often say to those 
 wlio fret over "tiifles light as air," "You should 
 not think about them." 
 
 The evening passed on as I mused, and still 
 I was alone, though I was sure when it got late 
 that Feversham must have returned : there was 
 110 help for it, however; he was evidently not 
 coming to see me that night. I wondered what 
 could be the reason of his departure from our old 
 khid custom while I prepared to turn in. 
 
 I did not see him till next morning on parade, 
 and he was then so markedly and disagreeably 
 distant in his manner, that I knew, whatever the 
 cause of offense was between us, it had grown 
 worse by thinking over, and not better. I was 
 puzzled, and my mind was more occupied trying 
 to discover what could.be the matter than with 
 the business on hand ; so that I received two re- 
 bukes for stupid mistakes before I could concen- 
 trate my attention on my work. I was in Claude's 
 company — he was my captain, as I have said 
 several times — and it was he who now pulled 
 me up for my blunders. I fancied he^poke with 
 greater sharpness and bitterness than I had ever 
 known him do about such matters before, and I 
 am sure far more harshly than when he repri- 
 manded Flower for something similar to what 
 I had done. It seemed to me there was a cold, 
 contemptuous tone in his voice, that if I had been 
 conscious of wrong-doing would have cut me to 
 the quick, that, as It was, nettled and chafed me, 
 and almost made me determine I would make no 
 efforts toward re-establishing the old friendship 
 between us. But I had liked him so much, and 
 I believed him to be so truly noble and upright 
 in his character, that I could not bear he should 
 think badly of me, and therefore was slow to re- 
 linquish the idea of finding out what it was that 
 annoyed him. 
 
 When parade was over, Claude came to me, 
 and said, in a sharp, business-like tone, "You 
 are subaltern of the day, are you not, Darrell ?" 
 
 "Yes," I replied ; " is there any thing special 
 to look after?" 
 
 "I only w.inted to warn you,'' replied Feversh- 
 
 am, with severity, "that I find discipline has 
 been a great deal too lax . lately, and duty not 
 properly attended to. When we were down in 
 the countiy, I am afraid I was as careless as the 
 rest of you, but I mean to be very strict in future; 
 I thought it right to warn you that I shall ex- 
 pect you to attend to every thing that lies within 
 your duty. If I find you have slurred over any 
 thing, or hurried through any part of your work, 
 I shall be seriously displeased, and shall find means 
 for making you more careful in future. Have you 
 been over the dormitories to-day?" 
 
 It so happened I had shirked that part of my 
 duty that day. I had often done so before, as it 
 was a task I particularly disliked ; Porter, the 
 battalion orderly-sergeant, had done it, and had 
 reported on it to me. I hesitated, seeing by 
 Claude's face that I was in for a row if I admit- 
 ted the truth, yet of course never for a moment 
 dreaming of not doing so. Such an idea ns that 
 of escaping from an awkward situation by equiv- 
 ocation would never have entered into my head ; 
 what held me silent was sheer vexation and wout 
 der that, out of all the multifarious duties that 
 fall to the lot of the subaltern of the day, he 
 should have hit on the one which I had not only 
 shirked on this particular morning, but which I 
 was most frequently in the habit of shirking. 
 Before I could reply he went on : 
 
 "You need not take the trouble of concocting 
 an answer. I know that you have not been over 
 the rooms, and will spare you inventing either a 
 plausible tale to excuse your shortcomings, or an 
 equivocation to deceive me." 
 
 His words were uttered in a tone of withering 
 contempt, and he turned as if to walk away ; but 
 I was mad with passion, both at the words and 
 at the tone in which tliey were uttered ; and for- 
 getting alike that he was my captain, and that 
 he was a strong, full-grown man, while I was 
 but a slight, active lad, I sprang at him, and 
 seized him by' the shoulder, shaking him in my 
 anger, and saying, 
 
 ' ' How dare you hint I do not speak the truth ? 
 How dare you insinuate I was about to invent 
 any thing to deceive you ?" 
 
 As soon as he recovered from the first shock 
 of my attack, he pushed me back from him, 
 calmly and firnlly, with an irresistible strength I 
 could not withstand, and answered, 
 
 " You ask me why I doubt your truth. Must 
 I remind you of the French proverb, ' Qui a 
 menti unefois mentira toujours ?' I should have 
 thought you could understand, without my being 
 obliged to bring by-gones to your memory." 
 
 I stood and gazed at him, too astonished, too 
 dumfounded, to renew my assault, even had I 
 wished to do so ; but I had no means of chastis- 
 ing him, and my own strength was not adequate 
 to the task. Still I could not allow this insult 
 to pass unpunished, and I determined, the next 
 time we were on leave together, he should render 
 me an account for every dishonoring word he had 
 uttei-ed. 
 
 As this, my only means of retaliation, dawned 
 on me, I said, 
 
 "I do not understand to what you allude. 
 Lord Feversham — I think you must be mad; 
 but this I do know, that no man, whether sane 
 or insane, shall nse such words to me without 
 paying for it dearly. In the position we occupy 
 now to each other, I can not treat you as you 
 
OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 87 
 
 deserve, but when we are next on leave, you 
 must meet the consequences of having so-^6ssly 
 insulted me." . — """^ 
 
 "It is3.pity-7TSu'3id not remember tlie dif- 
 faresce in our positions a little sooner," he said, 
 dryly. "Fortunately for you, there was no one 
 by " (we were in a. corridor leading up to my 
 qimiters) "when you flew at my throat just now. 
 It is only on account of your father and mother, 
 not for your own sake, that I refrain from re- 
 poi'ting your conduct; but if you are not more 
 cautious in future, I shall be driven to exposing 
 you. As to your talk aboiat my meeting the 
 consequences when we go on leave, I decline tb 
 do so, if you mean by that that I am to fight a 
 duel with yon. There are many reasons why I 
 should not do so. First, it is forbidden by the 
 laws of the land and the regulations of the serv- 
 ice ; second, your relationship to me makes it im- 
 possible that I could run the risk of staining my 
 hands with your blood ; then your extreme youth, 
 and many more reasons besides, all render it im- 
 possible. I could not listen to such a challenge 
 from you, even if I did not consider that the 
 crime of which I accuse you is quite sufficient to 
 l)ut you beyond all recognition as a gentleman, 
 or one whom an honorable man could in any way 
 be bound to nieet. Do not make a fool of your- 
 self again," he continued, as he saw that, stnng 
 by his last speech, I was about to strike him. 
 "Kemember, already I could have yoii'brought 
 before a court-martial ; if I spare you, it isl only 
 because I know what sorrow your being tui-ned 
 out of the army would cause your poor mother. " 
 
 "Pray do not spare me on that account," I 
 cried ; " my mother, if she knew what provoked 
 me to act in the way I did, would be the very 
 last person to wish I had taken it quietly. But 
 I insist that you do not drag her name into our 
 conversation, or try to shelter yourself from the 
 results of your evil-speaking behind any allusion 
 to her. After the unprovoked manner in which 
 you have brought such charges against me, you 
 are not fit to mention her, or to claim relation- 
 ship with her." 
 
 "Say, rather, that you are not fit to do so," 
 he replied, coldly. "What could have tempted 
 vou to be so base, Darrell ? I do not understand 
 It." 
 
 His tone changed as he uttered the latter part 
 of the sentence, and he seemed to look at me 
 wonderingly. At the change iny anger abated — 
 it was evident there was some mystery here ; I 
 was so totally ignorant of what wrong-doing he 
 could be hinting at, that I thought I would make 
 a trial to settle matters. 
 
 " I do not in the least know to what baseness 
 you allude," I said. "I am not aware of having 
 done any thing wrong, except this business of the 
 dormitories, which, after all, is a trifle. But if 
 you will tell me what lias annoyed you, perhaps 
 I can explain it. It strikes me as being both ri- 
 diculous and uncomfortable that we old friends 
 should be quan'eling with one another without an 
 attempt to come to an understanding." 
 
 " I will hear no explanation from you," he re- 
 plied, coldly. "Yon must be well aware, from 
 what I have said, that I have found out your 
 double-dealing. It is not likely that, knowing 
 what I do know, I would listen to your plausible 
 account of how the thing happened, or perhaps 
 your denial of what I know to be the truth." 
 
 --" Sy Heaven ! you sliall pay for this ! " I cried, 
 springing to*ard him, quite-beside myself. I be- 
 lieve that if I had had a knife, or any deadly 
 weapon with me then except my sword, I should 
 have killed him in my rage ; but I had not been 
 accustomed to use my sword as a weapon of of- 
 fense, and except that I found it in my way as I 
 tried to close with him, I did not think about it. 
 He kept his temper, and leaning his back against 
 the wall, held me motionless, in spite of my vio- 
 lent efforts to free myself. While holding me so, 
 he spoke again. 
 
 "Don't be a fool, Darrell!" he said, with icy 
 distinctness; "you will force me to report you, 
 and take steps against you, if you behave in this 
 insane fashion. It would be much wiser and 
 better for you to make a resolution to correct 
 yourself of such debasing tendencies ; you ought 
 to be thankful that it was I, and not another 
 man, whom you were tempted to treat in such a 
 manner. Had this occurred to any one else, you 
 would soon have been known for what you are, 
 and public opinion in the regiment would have 
 compelled you to leave, even had you not made 
 yourselfamenabletoits legal jurisdiction by some 
 overt act of violence and insubordination, as you 
 have done this day. Go. As I told you before, 
 I am willing to spare you for your parents' sake, 
 but I am not willing to have any thing more to 
 do with you than I can help." 
 
 He let me go as he spoke, and moved off to 
 his quarters, but I followed him. 
 
 "I will be revenged for this!" I cried, as I 
 came np with him again. "You may not be 
 willing to meet me in an honoVable and gentle- 
 manly manner ; but if you will not; 1 will take 
 my satisfaction some other way. You have re- 
 fused to explain the gross insults you have offer- 
 ed me — insults such as no Darrell has ever re- 
 ceived tamely, and you shall pay for them." 
 
 " No Darrell so far forgot what was due to 
 his honor and his name before as to lay himself 
 open to such words being used of him truly," 
 replied Feversham. "I grieve for the fall of 
 the old chivalrous code of your family, even 
 while I tell you what I consider you : a traitor 
 — and worse." 
 
 "A traitor!" I cried, a vague conception that 
 this misunderstanding might in some way be con- 
 nected with Gwendoline Bambridge rising within 
 me. " Surely you do not mean to say that you 
 think I should not have continued true to my 
 old allegiance, merely because you were not suc- 
 cessful ? — that I should not try to win her when 
 I found your suit was in vain ?" 
 
 "How dare you speak of that to me?" cried 
 Claude, turning almost livid with passion. "You 
 ought to be ashamed to mention her name ; you 
 ought tq shrink from speaking about the ill suc- 
 cess of my love, knowing what you do about it. 
 I will not listen to you any more; and I warn 
 you to keep well out of my sight in future ; for 
 if you speak to me again as you have spoken this 
 morning, I think I might almost be mad enough 
 to take your punishment into my own hands." 
 
 Then, while I shrank back in dismay at the 
 terrible hati'ed shown in his flashing eyes and set 
 features, he turned from me, and going into his 
 own rooms, which were near, shut the door with 
 a bang. I heard him turn the key in the lock, 
 as if he would say that by that action he locked 
 me forever out of his sight and from his mind. 
 
88 
 
 OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 I stood where lie left me, feeling , dnzed-and 
 bewildered, which was partly the effect of tlie 
 height to which my own pnssioiis had been 
 raised, and partly the result of the intense mys- 
 tery that himg over all this. I seemed like a 
 man groping in the dark, and ever getting far- 
 ther and farther away from the light, losing my- 
 self in a labyrinth of confusing conjecture. ,, Was 
 Claude mad? or had some one been inventing 
 wicked stories of me? and if so, who could, that 
 person be? Supposing any one had done so, 
 why had he not come to me and asked me about 
 it, and listened to my explanations,, instead of 
 persistently refusing. to hear any thing I had to 
 say ? And he had hinted that I was that most 
 vile and cowardly of all vile and cowardly things 
 — a liar ; for that, in plain unvarnished English, 
 was the meaning of what he had said; he had 
 declared that I had sullied our poble and honor- 
 able name by so contemptible a vice that in me 
 the family had been disgraced. When I came 
 to remember all that he had said, my thoughts 
 were maddening, and set all the blood in my body 
 boiling, till my head was dizzy with the tumult- 
 uous throbbing caused by the violence of my 
 passion. 
 
 And I had no redress for it, no hope of revenge, 
 at least for some time. It was true, as he had 
 said, that I had put myself in his power by my 
 attack on hiin ; he could no doubt have brought 
 me up before a court-martial, and my violent acts 
 would then have told terribly against me, perhaps 
 caused my dismissal from the service. I was not 
 quite sure about that. I had interest, and my 
 ideas were still hazy as to how far interest would 
 go hand in liand with military usage ; moreover, 
 I had never had any experience in a case like 
 this one of mine. I really did not want to leave 
 the army yet. I had been such a short time in 
 it, that it would seem something very like dis- 
 grace were I to be turned out so summarily, just 
 at the commencement of my career, even if the 
 offense with whiqh I was charged was not consid- 
 ered a very heinous one. 
 
 But the insults my cousin had heaped upon 
 me could not be passed over and submitted to ; 
 the time would come when I should have it in 
 my power to show him that the man he despised 
 had not forgotten his words. I began to feel for 
 the first time the full strength of a Corsican 
 proverb I but dimly remembered, which was 
 something to the effect that if one kept an injury 
 seven ycirs, and then seven years more, in the 
 end the day of retaliation would come. 
 
 I had never felt inclined to look upon revenge 
 as a duty before ; now it seemed to me the hon- 
 or of the family would be tarnished if I did not 
 resent those words of Feversham's. 
 
 I had leaned thus motionless against the wall, 
 where Claude left me, for a good wliile, taking no 
 heed of the flight of time, so deeply was I absorb- 
 ed in considering what had just happened, when 
 Feversham came out of his rbom, and passed by 
 me on bis way along the corridor, without look- 
 ing at me, or appearing to see me. I knew he 
 (lid see me, by the fixed expression of his eyes, 
 hut it was evident he did not wish to renew the 
 discussion between us, and hoped by pretending 
 not to observe me he might be allowed to pass in 
 peace. 
 
 And I did let him pass ; first because there 
 could be no possible good in repeating what had 
 
 been already said, which would be the probable, 
 result of any attempt on my part to make a change 
 in our relations, whether with a view to resent- 
 ing the insults I had received, or to establishing 
 a better understanding. Thien it suddenly struck 
 me, that no doubt he believed I had remained 
 there on pui-pose to besiege him in his rooms, 
 and either to prevent bis leading them, or to at- 
 tack him when he did leave them. In spite of 
 this idea, for which I had certainly, given him 
 some cause, he had come boldly forth, braving 
 the probabilities of a scene. ; I had not consid- 
 ered, until I saw him, in what light my presence 
 there might be viewed, but when I did recognize 
 the aspect it must hear to others I left him alone ; 
 and when he had passed I went on to my own 
 room. , 
 
 . I was very much put out by the whole affair, 
 and grieved and desperately angiy. My mental 
 state resembled the bodily state of a man who 
 has had a severe beating. My mind was sore 
 all over ; there was hardly a thought that could 
 come into it that did not press more or less heav- 
 ily on some aching part. , All former associa- 
 tions, all present pleasures, all future anticipa- 
 tions had been trampled on and injured, because 
 he had been my best friend all my life, and since 
 I had joined we had been so much together that 
 I could not look forward to enjoytnent of a life 
 in which henceforth he was to hijvc no part. 
 
 He was ungrateful too, for in my small way I 
 had. done much for him, and had always been 
 willing to do more, even to the furthest limit of. 
 my ability. I had even pleaded his cause with 
 Gwendoline Bambridge (my conscience told me 
 that of that service at least he was not aware), 
 and this was the way in which he re\yarded me. 
 
 My idol was shattered, at least in a great 
 measure, hut it was not entirely dethroned, and 
 for that. I ought to have been more thankful 
 than I was. It was evident he had heard some- 
 thing very bad against me, which he believed. 
 A man such as I had im.'\gined him, should in 
 justice have given me a chance of defending my- 
 self; but it was his keen appreciation and wor- 
 ship of honor that caused his over-severity, and 
 it rose in p.art from his old affection for me. We 
 are always hardest on the faults of those we love ■ 
 best. 
 
 Long afterward I knew what Claude had felt 
 and endured on that day ; how he had been torn 
 by conflicting feelings ; by disgust and anger, at 
 what he believed to be my baseness — for, he had 
 taken his mother's equivocation as a full acknowl- 
 edgment of my guilt — and by the old tender lik- 
 ing for one who had been his little companion 
 and pupil in all the manly sports in which he ex- 
 celled. He remembered how we had been ac- 
 customed to spend bis holiday time together, 
 when I was still too young to go in for many 
 lessons ; and afterward, when I was under a tu- 
 tor, how he used to stir me up to greater exer- 
 tions than I should have cared to make but for 
 his influence, or than my tutor would have ex- 
 pected of me. I was always at the Castle when 
 he was there, and he had felt for me the protect- 
 ing love of an elder for a younger brother. 
 
 Now it was all changed. He wondered how 
 it was that I could have fallen so low as I must 
 have done to act such a part, either toward him 
 or toward any other man. I had had no such 
 example, either in my own home or among those 
 
OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 89 
 
 I had met since I li.iJ been out in the world. • He 
 could only account for it by supposing that I had 
 by nature some miserable degeneracy of charac- 
 ter, which showed itself thus. Ho thought me 
 a fellow with a black drop in his heart, that nei- 
 ther kindness, nor precept, nor example had, been 
 able to eradicate, and that would break forth again 
 and again, during my course through life, when 
 it was least expected to show itself. 
 
 But whatever passed thi'ough his mind, and in 
 whatever light he viewed my supposed conduct, 
 the results of his thoughts on that subject were 
 soon apparent ; he was harsh to me in a manner 
 tliat was unusual from him to any body, and still 
 more extraordinary in the eyes of our comrades 
 as coming from him to me, for they were all well 
 aware that I used to be a favorite with him — in 
 fact that in his eyes, if every thing that Madcap 
 did was not altogether and al)Solutely right, it 
 was certainly pardonable, and must be overlook- 
 ed accordingly. Now he seemed to be perpetu- 
 ally on the watch for some wrong-doing on my 
 part, and any neglect of duty, or even the foolish 
 pranks in which I sometimesindulged, always pro- 
 voked from him either punishment or censure. I 
 was irritated almost bej'OQd all bearing constant- 
 ly. I had not been accustomed to command my 
 temper, and had great difficulty in restraining 
 my tongue when I was chidden in no measured 
 terms for some oversight so slight that I knew any 
 body else would not have remarked it. 
 
 "What is up between you and Eeversham?" 
 asked Mayleigh one day, after a very curious 
 scene between us. 
 
 Something had occurred wliich did not please 
 Claude, and he as usual had blamed me for it. 
 I answered rather hotly that I had had nothing 
 to do with the matter in question ; whereupon 
 Feversham looked at me hard, with a reproach- 
 ful, contemptuous expression, opened his month 
 as if to speak, and then, controlling himself with 
 a visible effort, turned away and left the room. 
 I knew what all this meant well enough — he 
 simply did not believe what I said, but did not 
 choose to show his opinion of me before the oth- 
 ers. So far it was considerate, for the old prov- 
 erb says if you throw mud enough some of it is 
 sure, to stick ; if Feversham had loudly announced 
 his opinion of me — or rather if, for fear of con- 
 sequences, he had said what he thought, of me 
 quietly — he would have found plenty, of fellows 
 willing to take his view of my ch.araiCter and side 
 with' him, notwithstanding the fact that I was 
 generally liked. 
 
 However, Mayleigh had asked me what was 
 np, and I had put him off as best I might, telling 
 him that Feversham had been down on me of 
 late, for some cause I could not fathom or under- 
 stand. 
 
 "It is very odd," replied Maj-leigh, "for he 
 used to be so fond of you, and I beheve that is 
 what makes him so savage now. I will ask him, 
 and find out what it is." 
 
 "You had better rtiind Avhat you are about," 
 I said, warningly. 
 
 I had an idea that Mayleigh would get a rap 
 over the knuckles if he attempted to meddle with 
 Feversham in his present mood ; and though I 
 did not like Mayleigh, I thought I might as well 
 spare him the snubbing he was sure to get. May- 
 leigh, however, was one of those fellows who al- 
 ways know better than every body else, so he 
 
 laughed at me,' thinking, I really believe, that 
 Claude would feel quite ijattered at his imperti- 
 nent, questions. 
 
 Next time they were alone, he accordingly 
 opened the subject. 
 
 ' ' What is wrong between you and Madcap ?" 
 he said. "You used to be sucli friends, and now 
 you never speak ; and you are dreadfully down 
 on the poor little beggar besides." 
 
 "Any;quarrel I have with DaiTell is entirely 
 of a private nature, and not at all connected with 
 the regiment," answered Feversham, stiffly. 
 
 If Mayleigh had not had such a very good 
 opinion of. himself, he might have seen he was 
 approaching dangerous .ground, from the dark 
 frown that gathered on his captain's brow. 
 
 "Ah! then there is a quarrel between you 
 and the little fellow. I thought so, though he 
 said he did not know why you were so savage to 
 him. Tell me what it is, and perhaps I can put 
 matters straight," he continued, with what I be- 
 lieve was a kind intention. 
 
 "I thank you, Mayleigh," replied Claude, dry- 
 ly, "but I have a fancy I can manage my own 
 affairs better than other people can do it for 
 me. : I will trouble you not to interfere between 
 Darrell and me in future." With that Claude 
 laid down his paper and walked out of the room, 
 thinking as he went, " So that young ruffian said 
 he did not know why I was annoyed with him. 
 Just what I should have expected him to say, af- 
 ter all that has occurred ; but it is very dreadful. 
 What would his parents, say if they knew how 
 he was turning ont? I must hide it as long as I 
 can. Whenever it does come to liglit, as those 
 things always do, they will suffer quite enough 
 misery, witlioufmy letting the knowledge poison 
 their lives so soon." 
 
 Sometimes when I had been given a number 
 of irritating and aggravating things to attend to, 
 or had been worried about minutiie which I did 
 not understand, and which I considered it was 
 the duty of the non-commissioned officers to at- 
 tend to, I would be ready to break into open re- 
 volt — to take a horsewhip and tlirash my cous- 
 in, or do some other mad and foolish act that 
 should be a revenge for the insults I had re- 
 ceived, and would insure my dismissal from the 
 service. I could have left it any day peaceably 
 and quietly, but that was not what I wanted. 
 I was goaded almost to madness, and I felt as 
 if some desperate, insane act would I'elieve my 
 mind, and that its attendant consequences would, 
 by the mere fact of their increasing the magnitude 
 of the evil, calm the wild turbulence of my passion. 
 
 I do not know how it was that I did not break 
 out into some terrible act of insubordination at 
 that time. I was constantly on the point of do- 
 ing so ; ' I think it was only the companionship 
 of Cecil Egerton, who had by that time returned 
 from leave,. that prevented me, and made me, 
 day by day, submit myself without complaint to 
 the contemptuous looks and constant severity of 
 my cousin. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 AN ACCIDENT. 
 
 It was getting near tlie end of winter by this 
 time, or rather it was the beginning of spring, 
 being near the end of March. The ground was 
 
«0 
 
 OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 being plowed and sown, nnd many pucks of 
 liouuds had given up hunting. That was a mat- 
 ter of great regret to many of us. We had had 
 plenty of good hunting during the winter ; but it 
 is one of those things for which one's liking in- 
 creases the more opportunity one has for gratify- 
 ing that liking. 
 
 We had, many of us, very good hunters, and 
 they were now in tiptop condition. It would be 
 a shame not to turn them to account, in the way 
 of a steeple-chase or something of that kind, 
 
 when they were in such good training. So we 
 
 all thought, and talked the.jnatter over, to see 
 when, where, and how it was to be managed. 
 
 I bad-old Blackfoot over with me, and I was 
 pleased to think he had never been fitter in his 
 life. There were good horses, as I have said, 
 in the regiment, but I thought his science, expe- 
 rience, and cool courage ought to be worth some- 
 thing in the matter ; considering also that he was 
 up to weight, and as sound in wind and limb as 
 a hunter need be. I was inclined to be confiden- 
 tial with him, as one often is with a horse that 
 one has long known and valued, and used to talk 
 to him about the matter when I went down to 
 see him every day. He was of opinion that he 
 might do the trick, though both he and I were 
 obliged to confess we were a little afraid of James's 
 mare Brunette, a beautiful creature, with a fiery 
 temper, and the speed of an antelope. As for 
 Thunderbolt, Claude Eeversham's horse, we en- 
 tertained a kind of contempt for him, which was 
 greatly heightened by my bitter feelings against 
 his master, in which of course I supposed Black- 
 foot shared. 
 
 I have a tendency to theorize about horses, and 
 to endue them with a great deal more, not only 
 of individual character themselves, but also of 
 perception of individual character ; and I never 
 <;ould ride a horse for a quarter of an hour with- 
 out fancying I understood its thoughts and feel- 
 ings, almost as plainly as if it had been endowed 
 with powers of speech. It was no wonder, there- 
 fore, that, in the ease of my old friend Blackfoot, 
 I imagined he really sympathized with me, and 
 that I persuaded myself 1 could understand and 
 sympathize with him. 
 
 Every thing was aiTanged ; our course was 
 chosen, our day fixed, and we were all on the 
 tiptoe of excitement. We had got up a very 
 good card, and expected to have a large attend- 
 anee^ — that is to say, if the day was fine, which 
 I fervently prayed it might be, as I hate riding 
 in rain, mth the reins sKpping through your fin- 
 gers at every jump. Old Blackfoot was steady 
 enough, as a rule, but I knew that in the first 
 rush and skuny of a steeple-chase he would re- 
 fiuire a good deal of holding, being inclined to 
 be ambitions, and having some fiine notions about 
 faking a lead, and keeping it, which, though 
 doubtless glorious, were too high-flown in style 
 for him to be quite sure of carrying them out 
 successfully. Any one who has tried to ride a 
 pulling horse in wet weather will understand why 
 I hoped it would be dry, and why I really expe- 
 rienced a feeling of relief when the day dawned 
 bright and sunny ; not too bright, however, be- 
 cause the sun was frequently obscured by light 
 passing clouds, but sufficiently so to make the 
 landscape look its best, and to give us the cer- 
 tainty of a fine day, and of a good attendance 
 of spectators. 
 
 It was a glorious spring morning, when we as- 
 sembled on the course to see the race run ; gay 
 indeed was the scene as our drag drove up, and 
 halted near the winning-post. Our stewards^had 
 arranged every thing with an eye to appearance 
 as well as comfort, a forethought which resulted 
 in a very pretty cotip-cTodl, and called forth sev- 
 eral exclamations of admiration from the carriage' 
 loads of ladies that now began t<rappear fi-ora all 
 directions. . - - - 
 
 Claadt!' was going to ride, of course, and un- 
 "derneath his light gray overcoat concealed a 
 very smart and jockey-like turn-out, of green 
 and white, colors that were sure to win him the 
 applause of the populace, no matter whether he 
 was successful or not. But I do not suppose he 
 had remembered that fact in choosing his colors ; 
 more probably it was because green had been a 
 favorite with Gwendoline Bambridge, for which 
 reason I would also have worn it, but that he 
 had taken it. Finding the colors I wished for 
 appropriated, I had contented myself with a dark 
 blue and white, a mixture that I believed suited 
 my dingy complexion. The other ridersdivided 
 among them all the colors of the rainbow, and 
 many more besides, no doubt, but at present all 
 their gay trappings were concealed from obseiTa- 
 tion under their overcoats. 
 
 We were weighed after some delay, withont 
 which no amateur races could ever come off, 
 and as soon as the bell rang for mounting we 
 sprang into our seats. Claude, on his chestnut 
 hunter, Thunderbolt, was the first to canter past 
 the grand stand ; it is unnecessai'y to say that, . 
 wearing green, the crowd cheered him to the 
 echo. Being in Ireland, that was but natural, 
 and whether he lost or won, the rider of Thun- 
 derbolt might make sure of applause. But in- 
 dependently of that, his handsome face and grace- 
 ful seat would have earned him all the ladies' 
 good Wishes, but that he was followed closely 
 by a still more good-looking man, dressed all in 
 scarlet, a color that well became his dark com- 
 plexion, and that set off the deep rich tints of the 
 brown- black mare he rode. This was James, 
 our adjutant, and tlio beautiful animal that car- 
 ried him, and that danced along the ground with 
 impatience as it walked, was Brunette, the only 
 thing in the'race that Blackfoot and I had agi'eed 
 to fear. 
 
 As for me, I came in for a great deal more 
 praise than I had ever expected, or than I de- 
 served ; but part of this, no doubt, was owing to 
 the beauty of my , horse (Blackfoot was a very 
 handsome, steel-gray thorough-bred, with black 
 points), and my own youthful appearance. 
 
 "As handsome as a picture, bless his pretty 
 face!" I heard one old woman say to another; 
 and I felt almost as much indignation as pleas- 
 ure, for I knew that if they had not thought me 
 a small boy they would not have considered me 
 so good-looking. 
 
 "Thunderbolt is in a worse temper than usu- 
 al," said the colonel to Captain Carruthers. 
 " Don't j-ou notice it ? He is a headstrong, 
 mischievous brute, and I would rather Fev- 
 ersham rode him in a steeple-chase than that 
 I did." 
 
 "Oh! he is all safe, with such a man as he 
 has on him,"replied CaiTuthers, carelessly. "I 
 think he has as good a clianeo of winning as any 
 of the others." 
 
OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 SI 
 
 That chestnut brute's temper put us all out 
 dreadfully at the start, but at last, after several 
 faihires, we got away well together, and then I 
 noticed that Thunderbolt was really more un- 
 manageable than usual. He had an unpleasant 
 habit, when he was galloping, of throwing him- 
 self forward into the air, coming down with a 
 downward swing of his head and powerful fore- 
 hand, enough almost to pull his rider out of the 
 saddle; every time he did this, he seemed to do 
 it more violently. When we were nearing the 
 first fence, I wondered how he would ever geE 
 over it, if he continued to go wild like that. 
 Claude was trying to wait on Brunette, who 
 was leading, but I fancied he would have to^ give 
 way to the impetuosity of his steed presently, and 
 go to the front whether he liked it or not. In 
 any case, Brunette, speedy and hot-tempered, 
 was making the pace a cracker, and I was con- 
 tent to keep up quietly a little in the rear, trust- 
 ing to the gray's staying powers to bring him to 
 the right place when he was wanted. 
 
 In this order we passed the first, fence, Bru- 
 nette leading. Thunderbolt,- who very nearly tum- 
 bled head over heels over the wall, from over- 
 haste, next, and I along with four or five others, 
 all in a clump together behind. So we went on 
 over several fences, the headstrong chestnut hav- 
 ing now got the head, and becoming apparently 
 more impracticable eveiy minute ; it was not the 
 least good letting him out, in the hopes of calm- 
 ing him ; the sound of the hoof-strokes behind 
 him added to his fury ; the faster he was allowed 
 . to go the faster he wanted to go. • There is a 
 limit to pace in every thing, even in steeple-chas- 
 ing, and Feversham was evidently in difficulties, 
 trying to keep his unmanageable quadruped with- 
 in the limits that would admit of his getting safe- 
 ly over the obstacles before him. It must have 
 been severe work, and it was likely he would get 
 blown before the horse. 
 
 We were coming now to the leap of the day^— 
 the water jump — and we went down at it like 
 a flight of gayly-tinted autumnal leaves blown 
 before the wind. Over we went, one after the 
 other, Brunette clearing it in magnificent style, 
 though she was evidently fretting at Thunder- 
 bolt's presence in front of her; and was rather 
 annoyed at an awkward scramble' he made on 
 landing. Blackfoot was not to be beat- at wa- 
 ter ; besides, the old fox was beginning to creep 
 up, and consequently, better pleased with the po- 
 sition I allowed him to maintain, was not taking 
 so much out of himself by impatience. It seem- 
 ed to me that Thunderbolt was showing signs of 
 distress, but his violent temper made him strug- 
 gle on long after another horse would have given 
 in. We were nearing the last fence, and my gray 
 was coming up gallantly; Brunette had again 
 taken the lead, though I could tell that even on 
 her the pace at which Thunderbolt had forced 
 us to ride was beginning to tell, and the chest- 
 nut himself was decidedly very nearly pumped, 
 though, if he got over the next fence, he might 
 struggle on to the winning-post. 
 
 Still I knew now that I could pass him, and I 
 hoped to distance Brunette also, but I did not 
 intend to make my elfort until we were over this 
 last fence, which was a formidable double ditch 
 — one that would severely -tax the energies of all 
 the horses now in the race. We had left a num- 
 ber in the brook, or on the other side of it. Bru- 
 
 nette topped the ditch cleverly, but I could see 
 her knees tremble, and she was near coming to 
 grief as she landed on the other side. The chest- 
 nut followed her almost instantaneously ; and 
 then, I know not how it happened, I remember 
 finding myself on top of the bank, with a con- 
 fused mass, horse and rider, lying on the ground 
 in front of me. The only thing I could distin- 
 guish was Claude'sface, lookingghastly and death- 
 like, with fixed, glassy eyes turned up to the blue 
 spring sky. 
 
 _ The next minute old Blackfoot had taken his 
 jump from the top of the bank, snorting loudly 
 his indignation that such an obstacle should lie 
 exactly in the place where he ought to alight. 
 With the instinct of his kindly species, however, 
 the brave old beast turned in the air, landing 
 sideways beside the two prostrate forms ; then, 
 with a sudden spring, he leaped clear- orer them, 
 and taking the matter -in -his' own hands — for I 
 was too hoi'ror=struck to know or feel any thing 
 but a teen desire to return to Claude and ascer- 
 tain what had happened — he flew after Brunette, 
 regularly running away with me, in spite of my 
 frantic efforts to stop him and get back. My 
 efforts were useless ; the old ffellow knew where 
 he was now and what he was about, and I, feel- 
 ing myself powerless, let myself be borne onward 
 toward the lane that opened for our passage in 
 that shouting, cheering mass, from which I heard 
 a ciy rising, ' ' The gray wins ! ■ The gray wins ! " 
 
 I could not see any thing for the remembrance 
 of that white, death -hke face, and was hardly 
 conscious that we passed Brunette and her rider 
 apparently without an bffort, and flashed onward 
 toward the winning-post, the good gi'ay, who had 
 been steeple-chased before, straining every nerve 
 to do his'best, as he saw the waving of caps and 
 hats, and heard the tumultuous .shouting of the 
 crowd — sights and sounds that betokened to him 
 a speedy termination to his exertions. 
 
 I hardly know how it was we stopped after 
 passing the winning-post. I only know that I 
 could not wait to give my staunch old friend the 
 caresses he deserved, but- throwing the reins to 
 my groom, I snatched the overcoat he offered 
 me, and hurried back to where I had left Pev- 
 ersham lying. 
 
 There was a small crowd round the spot when 
 I got near, which confirmed the dreadful fears 
 that had taken possession of my mind. Several 
 of the riders, seeing that the race was over, had 
 dismounted, and were veiy conspicuous among 
 the more sober coverings of the other people that 
 composed the motley group. 
 
 " What has happened ?" I asked, as I ran up. 
 "Is he hurt?" 
 
 "Badly, I fear,''repliedPreston, who was one 
 of those near. 
 
 Without waiting to hear any more, I pushed 
 my way through the crowd of curious, unhelpful 
 b3'-standers, and found that he had been extri- 
 cated from his horse, which did not seem much 
 hurt, and which stood near, trembling and de- 
 jected. He was still unconscious — or was he 
 dead? I asked myself, as I looked at his ghast- 
 ly white face. There did not seem to be any 
 bones broken; whatever injury he received it 
 must have been internal, as there was no out- 
 ward disfigurement — nothing to mar the cold, 
 terrible beauty of that death-like swoon. 
 
 I pushed away the man who was supporting 
 
92 
 
 OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 his head, nn J, kneeling down, held it myself ten- 
 derly. We had not been friends lately ; lie had 
 been hard and unkind to me, and had said cruel, 
 insulting things of me ; and we had been rivals ; 
 but the remembrance of all that vanished when I 
 saw him lying before me as one dead — believing 
 him, indeed, to be dead. I remembered only the 
 love we had once had for each other — a friend- 
 ship as dear and as true as that of Jonathan and 
 David, as we had often jokingly been called — a 
 friendship the remembrance of which could nev- 
 er be totally effaced from the minds of either of 
 us, no matter what differences or estrangements 
 the circumstances of life might call up between 
 us. 
 
 How long I knelt thus I do not know. I was 
 conscious of nothing going on around, did not 
 recognize the familiar faces of onr comrades as 
 they hurried up to see what was the matter, did 
 not hear the muttered lamentations that passed 
 among the crowd for the fine fellow whose life 
 they believed to be so sudden,ly cut short. I be- 
 lieved it myself, and heard and saw nothing but 
 the dingy, down-trodden grass, seamed and scar- 
 red with hoof-prints, on which he lay, and the 
 white, still face that I supported on my knee. 
 A vague thought of his mother, and of her terri- 
 ble grief when she should come to hear this, did 
 louse me a little now and tlien, but the over- 
 whelming pain of dreadful uncertainty drove it 
 away again. The doctor had been sent for. 
 Until he came, and I knew for certain what had 
 happened, I could think of nothing but that ray 
 friend lay there dying, and I was powerless to 
 help him ; and with this thought came the add- 
 ed bitterness of knowing that we had been es- 
 tranged of late, and that he might go without 
 learning that he had wronged me — without hear- 
 ing that I forgave him. 
 
 At length, after minutes that seemed to me in- 
 terminable, the doctor arrived. He was a small, 
 bustling, sharp-looking man, rather youthful in 
 appearance ; indeed, if he had been an older 
 man, in a good practice, it is not likely he would 
 have been on the course. I was intensely glad to 
 see him, however, no matter who or what he was ; 
 and I think the whole crowd, which had now 
 swelled to large dimensions, was relieved when he 
 announced that Claude still lived. , He thought 
 the poor fellow was snfFering from concussion of 
 the brain, and deemed it probablei that there were 
 also some internal injuries, judging from the posi- 
 tion in which his horse had;been found lying over 
 liim. But it was not possible to ascertain that 
 there; and finding that all efforts to restore con- 
 sciousness failed, he gave directions for removing 
 my poor cousin's insensible body to a comfortable 
 farm-house that we could see two or three fields 
 away. 
 
 A door having been taken off a hovel near at 
 hand, he was laid on it, and a very melancholy 
 procession set out toward the. farm-house. As 
 we approached it, I saw it was one of (hose com- 
 fortable dwellings that are much more rarely met 
 .with in Ireland than in England. They are seen 
 occasionally, and are then almost invariably a 
 guarantee that the people who residp in them are 
 of a better class than the ordinary population, 
 and have received a better education. The house 
 was only a one-storied, thatched cottage, but the 
 thatch was fastened on with ornamental wood- 
 work, painted white, the whitewashed walls were 
 
 dazzlingly clean, and a number of creepers were 
 carefully trained up the front and round the door- 
 way.and windows. The door was adorned with 
 a brass knocker, that sparkled in the cold spring 
 sunlight as we approaclied, and the windows had 
 large panes, and were scrupulously clean. In 
 front of the house was a neat flower-garden, 
 which even at that time of year looked almost 
 gay with hepaticas and snow-drops. My eye 
 took all this in mechanically ; it told something 
 about the people from whom we were about to 
 beg the favor of their receiving Claude, and it 
 seemed to promise that, if they would receive him, 
 he would be well cared for and comfortable. 
 
 As our ominous-looking procession drew near, 
 a man came hurrying after us from the race- 
 course. He was short, thick-set, and dark, with 
 a frank, good face, and a respectful manner^ 
 Coming up to us before we reached the cottage, 
 he touched his hat, and addressed me, I suppose 
 because I was carrying the door on the side next 
 him. 
 
 "Is the gentleman badly hurted, yer honor?" 
 he asked. 
 
 "Indeed he is," I replied sadly. 
 
 "Will yez be plazed to bring him into the 
 farm here," he said, indicating the cottage to 
 which we were bound with his hand. "We'll 
 make him as comfortable as we can, and may be 
 yerself would sttiy along with him, and see how 
 he gets on, till ye can move him." 
 
 " We were just going to ask leave to bring him 
 to this house, until we know how far he is hurt, 
 and when he can be moved," I answered. "You 
 are the master, I suppose ; it is very kind of you 
 to be so good-natured to a stranger. I am afraid 
 we shall give you a great deal of trouble." 
 
 "Not at all, sir," he answered, biisklj'. "I 
 am sorry for the gentleman, for he was a beauti- 
 ful rider, and managed that troublesome baste of 
 his well. I love a bit of good riding, and would 
 do any thing for a man as can go well across 
 country. • Sure it was just to see the sport that I 
 came out to-dav, when I should have been thrash- 
 ing." 
 
 . By this time we had arrived at the door of the 
 snug cottage, and looking in through the win- 
 dows, one could see that one room was arranged 
 as a kind of compromise between drawing-room 
 and parlor ; a sort of state-room, in which visitors 
 were received. It contained a fine Yankee cipck, 
 that stood on the chimney-piece, over against the 
 window, and that was so obtrusively briUiaut in 
 its coloring it seemed to fill and pervade the 
 whole room. That was the only thing I could 
 see, in my first hurried glance, as my friend the 
 farmer ran round to the back that he might get 
 in to open the front door, and to prepare his wife 
 for our arrival. The room on the other side 
 of the door -way, as far as I could catch a 
 glimpse of it, for the window was a good deal 
 shaded by white muslin curtains, was the bed- 
 room of the house ; they might have had more 
 than that one, but it is not usual in an Irish farm, 
 no matter how comfortable and respectable the 
 people may be. I had hardly made these obser- 
 vations, when the door was opened and the farm- 
 er invited us to enter, throwing open the door of 
 the before-described parlor, to indicate that we 
 were to turn in there. . We did so, and found one 
 of the principal piece? of furniture in the room 
 was a large horsg^hairsofa, which our host pro- 
 
OUE DETACHMENT. 
 
 93 
 
 ceededto assure iis would make a most comfortable 
 bed for the gentleman, with the addition of a few 
 chairs added to it on one side, to enlarge its width 
 and prevent the occupant falling out. His wife, 
 a very pretty young woman, now entered, and 
 proceeded to improvise a bed in the manner de- 
 scribed, while we laid our burden dpwn on the 
 floor and waited. 
 
 Very swiftly and dexterously the hard horse- 
 hair sofa was transformed in a soft luxurious 
 bed, the foundation being one ^of those enor- 
 mous feather-beds which all well-to-do Irish 
 housewives pride themselves upon. The sheets 
 were of homSspun linen, spotlessly clean, but 
 very coarse, as might have been expected ; and 
 over all was spread a counterpane of particular- 
 ly gaudy patchwork. • • 
 
 All this while Claude had never recovered con- 
 sciousness, nor did he after he had been laid on 
 the bed thus hastily improvised; but after some 
 hours anxious watching he opened his eyes for a 
 few seconds, without however appearing to know 
 where he was, or who those gathered around him 
 were ; then closing them again, he seemed pres- 
 ently to fall into a kind of lethargic sleep. 
 
 The doctor seemed anxious to get the case off 
 his hands ; and as of course we had sent for Wil- 
 son, our surgeon, we did not try to keep him, 
 when, on Feversham appearing to sleep, he said 
 he must be going. I do not myself believe he 
 knew much about the matter, and that the clev- 
 erness and intelligence he undoubtedly possessed 
 were directed into quite a different channel from 
 his profession, which is much too slow up-hill 
 work to suit a man who lias a taste for dissipa- 
 tion and expensive pleasures, such as had our 
 friend Dr. Brown. ■ 
 
 He had not long left when Wilson appeared. 
 His first step was to send away all the curious 
 people, who still hung abont the room and the 
 door-way, quite preventing the free passage of 
 air. He looked at Feversham thoughtfully and 
 intently for some time, felt his pulse and head, 
 and otherwise ascertained his state as welt as he 
 could, without disturbing him, and then said there 
 was nothing he could do at present ; that Claude 
 seemed quiet and not feverish, and was to all 
 appearance doing well. He said he would run 
 back to town, wliere he had some business, and 
 would be down again in the evening. ' In the 
 mean time I, having constituted myself nurse, 
 was to remain so, until Wilson should send down 
 a woman from town. This I refused to hear of, 
 however ; I felt in some way as if Claude be- 
 longed to me, and I was bound to bring him 
 through this. I fancy I had a vague idea in my 
 mind that, when he came to himself, and knew 
 that I had nursed him through his illness, he 
 would explain this unhappy misunderstanding 
 that existed between us, and we should be friends 
 once more. 
 
 I did not exactly know that this was my rea- 
 son for insisting on keeping the attendance on 
 my cousin entirely to myself, but I believe now 
 that was the motive which actuated me, judging 
 by my feelings afterward, when the moment for 
 wliich I waited came. So I told Wilson, if I 
 wanted help in w^atching I would get the farm- 
 er's wife to relieve me ; but in my own opinion 
 I considered myself able to sit up in such a cause 
 for an indefinite period. 
 
 Then Wilson left, after ordering the most perfect 
 
 quiet in the house. Kavanagli (our host) and 
 his wife retired into the back premises, and a 
 profound stillness settled down on the little room, 
 where I sat beside Feversham's bedside. Only 
 his quick, hurried breathing disturbed the silence, 
 and after a time that became painful to listen to< 
 I found myself counting the respirations in a me- 
 chanical way, and when, owing to the irregulari- 
 ty of his breathing, one was delayed longer than 
 the others, I waited to hear it anxiously and nerv- 
 ously. 
 
 I could not stand that kind of thing. I knew 
 I should get frightened, and begin imagining he 
 was worse. I nmst make myself think of some- 
 thing that should give my mind occupation. I 
 was sorry I had not a book, and determined to 
 make Wilson send me some down, so that, if 
 this state of things lasted any time, I might have 
 something to kepp up my spirits and courage. 
 • Then I began to think, ought one to write to 
 Lady Feversham ? She was my aunt, but I did 
 not know as much of her as I did of many of 
 my mother's friends who were not related to me. 
 I did not care for her much, she was so different 
 from her sister (my mother). I fancied she would 
 worry Claude, and that perhaps the best thing I 
 could do '^vould be to wait until the doctor saw 
 him again; then I conld consult Wilson as to 
 whether I ought to send for his mother or not. 
 
 All this time I had never remembered tliat I 
 had won the race in which this dreadful accident 
 had occurred. It was certainly not with my own 
 will and intent that it was won, and I am almost 
 ashamed to think that, since I had left my gal- 
 lant gray in the hands of his groom, I had not 
 once remembered him, nor his determination to 
 have matters his own way, until the evening had 
 closed in, and the room m which I was sitting 
 was in darkness, but for the flickering light Of a 
 coal fire in the small, neatly-kept grate. 
 
 By-and-by the door opened noiselessly, and 
 Kavanagh put in his head. , 
 
 "How's the gentleman doing, your honor?" 
 he asked. ' 
 
 "He is sleeping,'' I replied, moving toward 
 the door, that our conversation might not dis- 
 turb him. "I think he will do. Mr. Wilson 
 seemed to say that sleep was good." 
 
 "Ay, surely," replied the man, his honest, sun- 
 burned face brightening up as soon as he saw 
 there was no present prospect of a death in the 
 house. 
 ■ Like all Irish peasants, he and his wife, though 
 of a better class than most of their neighbors, en- 
 tertained a superstitious dread of adeatliin their 
 house, and it was only intense kindness of dispo- 
 sition that had induced Kavanagh to allow our 
 bringing Claude into his cottage when he was in 
 such a critical state. I knew something of this 
 — had heard the Bambridges talking of it once 
 — so I was able to interpret the sudden lighting 
 up of his countenance, and the almost joyous tone 
 in which he asked me if he might bring me some- 
 thing to eat. 
 
 . "I will go and join you and BIrs. Kavanagh," 
 I answered. " I suppose you have your supper 
 now ; I confess I am hungry. I have eaten noth- 
 ing since breakfast. I think I may leave him 
 for a while. • The medicine the doctor said he 
 would send has not come yet, so 1 suppose he 
 will bring it himself" 
 
 Kavanagh looked I'ather confused, I thought, 
 
94 
 
 OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 for a minute, at tlie idea of Imvins a person whom 
 he evidently regarded as a swell to sit down to 
 supper with him ; but the gentlemanly instinct of 
 the rural classes in Ireland prevented him from 
 showing any awkwardness, and he took me with 
 him to the kitchen. 
 
 It was a long, low room, with a hearth-stone 
 instead of a grate, or range, and this hearth- 
 stone was heaped with turt^ which was blazing 
 and roaring, and sending showers of sparks up 
 the chimney. 
 
 The Immense glowing surface of a good turf 
 fire always seems to me to send out a much great- 
 er amount of heat than an ordinary coal fire. I 
 know many people are qnite of the opposite opin- 
 ion, but I generally find those are people who have 
 never found themselves face to face with a large, 
 well-kindled turf fire. 
 
 For one thing, there is always a larger sur- 
 face to radiate heat in a good well-built up fire 
 of turf sods ; and then they are, if the fire has 
 been well kindled, all in a glow of white heat at 
 the same time, instead of having a dead black 
 top, with little gas jets here and tliere to enliven 
 it, which is generally the case with coal, no mat- 
 ter how fierce the fiie mny bo underneath. 
 
 But to return to the Kavanaghs' kitchen. 
 They had no candles lighted when I came in ; the 
 brilliant leaping flame of the turf gave them light 
 enough, and in that ruddy glow, reflected from 
 plates and tins, glistening in endless rows in the 
 white deal plate-rack, I could perceive Mrs. Kav- 
 anagh seated on a low stool by the fire, frying ba^ 
 con, and burning her pretty face most uncomfort- 
 ably, I should think, in the task. A little girl of 
 about five years old was playing with a cat and a 
 baby alternately ; and another child, who I after- 
 ward found was a boy, and who was evidently in- 
 termediate between the girl and the baby, was 
 building houses with sods of turf in a corner. 
 From the ceiling hung a goodly supply of bacon, 
 and a pot of potatoes, that might have contained 
 food for a regiment, was standing by Mrs. Kav- 
 anagh, having just been lifted from the fire. 
 , I do not think pretty little Mrs. Kavanagh had 
 expected a visitor, but she seemed in no way piit 
 out or disconcerted when I appeared, looking up 
 from her cooking with a smile, telling me I was 
 welcome, and asking me to be seated, while her 
 husband brought a chair for me quite close to the 
 blazing turf fire, and the children noiselessly and 
 quietly slunk into the background. 
 
 We began to talk. She was anxious to know 
 how the accident had happened, and I described 
 it, as it had seemed to me ; and then Kavanagh 
 repeated his version of it, though no doubt she 
 had heard that two or three times already. But 
 she appeared to listen with interest, and finally, 
 when that side of the matter was exhausted, she 
 inquired if I was any kin to him. 
 
 I told her our relationship, and she pitied me 
 for the anxiety she saw I was in. By this time, 
 however, the bacon was fried, and a supplement 
 of poached eggs added. The table was laid, and 
 candles having been lighted, we drew round it. 
 Certainly the table equipments were primitive^ 
 but they were clean ; even the coarse linen cloth 
 was clean and spotless, and the awkward two- 
 pronged forks shone again. Of course I knew 
 this was an exception to the ordinary state of 
 things in Ireland, but I found out the i-eason of 
 it all in the course of conversation. They had 
 
 bbth been in service ; he as kind of butler and' 
 coachman,a iFactotum,in short, and she as a house- 
 maid. -They had met at a house where they 
 were both living in their respective capacities, had 
 married, and having some small savings, they had 
 invested them in stock and set up a farm. At 
 first it was very up-hill work, the man told me, 
 but after three or four years he began to get his 
 head above water, and they had since prospered 
 very much. The neat and cleanly habits they 
 had acquired in^ervice remained with them, and 
 made their cottage the admiration and envy of 
 all the neighbors. 
 
 We were still enjoying our meal, when Wilson 
 again drove up. He found' Claude much as he 
 had left him, except that his breathing was more 
 regular and easy. He had brought the things 
 necessaiy, asl had imagined he would, and after 
 administering something that seemed to have a 
 reviving effect, for Claude opened his eyes and 
 looked at us for a minute or two, we left him, and 
 went back to our supper, in which the doctor 
 joined us. It was a homely meal, and the load 
 of anxiety,though greatly lessened, was still heavy 
 on my mind ; yet in a quiet way we enjoyed our- 
 selves very much. These people, who had been 
 so generous and good-natured to us, had.very lit- 
 tle opportunity of hearing the news of the outer 
 world, and their interest was greatly excited by 
 the little bits of gossip from the city that we were 
 able to tell them. 
 
 They were curious also about the Fenian dis- 
 turbances, anxious to know what hope the move- 
 ment had of success ; not that they sympathized 
 with it, but because they were afraid of it, as a 
 great many of the well-to-do farmers were. They 
 felt they had every thing to lose and nothing to 
 gain by such a change. People like these have 
 no sympathy with idleness or disorder ; they do 
 not idle themselves ; they make their living by 
 constant, intelligent hard work, and look with se- 
 cret contempt on the lazy, thriftless drones who 
 are the agitators, and who would be the only ones 
 to profit by misinile. Those who pay their rent 
 regularly, and who do so at the cost of very hard 
 labor, are not the ones who talk of landlord tyran- 
 ny, knowing that if they pay their way with him 
 they are safe ; but under the reign of disorder 
 and violence, neither diligence, nor intelligence, 
 nor paying their way, would avail them any 
 thing, but only the right of the strong hand. 
 
 All this and more John Ifavanagh expounded 
 to us as we sat round the supper-table, evidently 
 glad to have got an audience to whom he could 
 open his mind, and with whom he could talk over 
 the matter fully ; for his pretty wife seemed una- 
 ble to enter more into the matter than could be 
 conveyed by unhesitating acquiescence in every 
 thing he said, which she gave now and then in a 
 low-toned "Ay, snrely." 
 
 After a time Wilson and I returned to Feversh- 
 am. He was sleeping again; but Wilson was 
 satisfied with his appear.tnce ; arid said he would 
 do well. I asked him whether I should send for 
 Lady Feversham, but that he would not hear of. 
 
 " There ia no danger now," he said ; " he will 
 be all right in time. I have examined him care- 
 fully, and I do not believe he has any internal in- 
 juries ; the damage done to his head will right 
 itself if he is kept perfectly quiet. I do not know 
 Lady Feversham, and you do, so you are a bet- 
 ter judge than I am of whether she would be qui- 
 
OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 et ; but, at any rate, 1 do not think it worth while 
 bringing her over. After I have seen him tOr 
 morrow you may write, and report; but I think 
 you, will be able to tell her it is unnecessary she 
 should undertake the journey." 
 
 I had my own, opinion about Lady Eeversham, 
 and was inclined to think he would get on better 
 without her, and therefore agreed heartily in the 
 doctor's plan . When I had said so, he contin ued : 
 
 "You had better make up some kind of bed 
 on the floor here and lie down. You will have 
 to get up every two hours to give him this mix- 
 ture, and he must have some nourishment also." 
 
 As he thought of this, Wilson went out to the 
 kitchen to consult with Mrs. Kavanagh what she 
 could get for the invalid. When he returned he 
 said, 
 
 "I have settled it all. You will have a shake- 
 down got up for you here, and the little woman 
 will bring you in presently some mess I have or- 
 dered for him. I am off now. I shall, be down 
 the first thing in the morning, and expect to find 
 him doing well. He has a, splendid constitution, 
 and is in first-rate health, which is all in his favor. 
 It will not be as long a job as I feared at first. 
 Good-night. I think you will get tired of this 
 fieak of minding your cousin before long, and 
 will be glad to get a professional." 
 
 I did not think so ; however, I laughed and 
 shook hands, and he went out. A few minutes 
 after I heard the hoof-strokes of his horses ringing 
 out on the. hard road as he trotted merrily away. 
 
 Then Claude's stufi^ was brought, and while I 
 adraimsterpd ,it with some difficulty, for. I was 
 , not ex,p6rienGed ii) such matters, Mrs. Kavanagh 
 ■ brought in the bedding, and proceeded to make 
 up my coucli on the floor. But I could not suc- 
 ceed in feeding Claude, and presently said: 
 
 "Mrs. Kavanagh, will you give this stuff to 
 my cousin ? I will make the bed. I understand 
 that beautifully." 
 
 "Of course, sir, I'll do it foryoH,"she replied, 
 advancing to the bedside, and raising his head 
 by putting her ann behind the pillows before she 
 attempted to give him any thing. (I had been 
 trying to feed him with his head lying flat back.) 
 " Why, sir," she cried, "you have nearly choked 
 him! You should have lifted him this way. 
 How would you swallow with your head back 
 like that ?" 
 
 She spoke almost sharply, evidently hardly be- 
 lieving in an ignorance so great as to render one 
 unable to spoon-fe^d a sick person. 
 
 " Go and make the bed," she added, with a 
 little, quick, decisive manner, that seemed to say, 
 "Let me see that you are good for something." 
 
 But here I met with an unforeseen difficul- 
 ty. Yon all know that I could make an apple- 
 pie bed, when the foundation of the real thing 
 had been properly laid, but how to set about 
 making a real bed puzzled me — and hei'e all the 
 bedding was tumbled pell-mell together. I had 
 not the least idea Iiow to begin, except that I 
 thought I ought to spread the feather-bed on the 
 floor flrst — and this I did. 
 
 I had just accomplished that feat satisfactori- 
 ly, and was contemplating the result achieved 
 with considerable pride — for, you know, it is not 
 an easy thing to get a great, soft, flobby feather-^ 
 bed to lie even and plump and straight — yvhen 
 Mrs. Kavanagh looked up from her task with 
 Claude. 
 
 "That is right," she said, with more approval 
 than she had shown before. , "Now go on." 
 
 It was very easy to say go on, but how was I 
 to do it ? I took up first blankets, and then 
 sheets, and tossed them about in confusion ; but 
 what I was to do with them, or with which I 
 was to begin, I could not think. However, the 
 bed was for myself, so it did not much matter, 
 and I put them on somehow, covering them with 
 another gorgeous patchwork counterpane. It 
 was easy to know that ought to go on top. 
 . I had just finished, when Mrs. Kavanagh 
 spoke again. 
 
 "You had better come here, yer honor, and 
 learn how to. tend the gentleman here. Sure, it's 
 a nurse he ought to have had — for it is not to be 
 expected that the Mkes of you could care for him. 
 If you let me, I'll sit up with him, and I'll give 
 you the other room forninst ye." » "^ 
 
 "Oh, no!" I cried, eagerly. "Iwanttomind 
 him myself. I see how you do with him now, 
 and I shall be able to get on splendidly. Thanks 
 to you for teaching me." 
 
 "You're welcome, sir,'' she answered, turning 
 to leave the room — for. she had succeeded in 
 getting Claude tp take a good deal of the broth, 
 or whatever the stuff was she had brought him. 
 
 As she was leaving the room, something about 
 the look of my bed-making attracted her. She 
 went over to examine it, I watching her ruefully, 
 as I had a conviction there was something very 
 wrong about it. No sooner had she looked at it 
 a little closely than I saw a smile that threaten- 
 ed to become a laugh, overspread her face. 
 
 "Oh, sir," she said, "you told me you could 
 make a bed beautifully, or I wouldn't have 
 troubled you to do it. But is this what you call 
 doing it bea,utifully ? Why, you've got all the 
 blankets on top, and not a thing between the 
 sheet and the mattress ; and you've never put on 
 the pillow-cover at all, but just laid it where your 
 feet would come. Sure, you should have told 
 me, and I'd have made it for you, and thought 
 no trouble of it." 
 
 "Oh, never mind," I cried; "I shall sleep just 
 as well that way. What difference does it make ?" 
 
 "It makes just this difference — I wouldn't 
 sleep the night if I thought a stranger in my 
 house was on a bed like, that. Be aisy, now, 
 and ril settle it in a minute." 
 
 I was silent, and watched her as she undid, 
 ia one minute, the structure it had taken me so 
 long to build up. And then I continued look- 
 ing, in a kind of fascinated amazement, while 
 she dexterously re-settled the clothes,'and made 
 a very different-looking couch, in two or three 
 minutes, from that which had resulted from my 
 long and patient labor. Then, with a smile and 
 a courtesy, she left the room, after depositing a 
 small bowl with some more stuff for Claude on 
 the hob by the fire. 
 
 A few minutes after I could hear faint, muffled 
 sounds of laughter proceeding from the room op- 
 posite,, which convinced me she was amusing her 
 husband by detailing to him my experiments in 
 the way qf nursing and bed-making. 
 
 Soon the house was sunk in profound sjlence, 
 so that a coal dropping out of the grate, or even 
 a long-drawn sigh from the sleeper, appeared a 
 loud, startling noise. The farmer and his fam- 
 ily had gone to rest early, as these people, who 
 rise very early, generally do. I was beginning 
 
96 
 
 OUK DETACHMENT. 
 
 to feel sleepy myself, and was only waiting to ad- 
 minister Claude's next dose before I turned in 
 also. Indeed I was almost afraid to get into 
 that comfortable-looking bed, for fear that, once 
 there, I should not wake as I ought to do. But 
 I was a light sleeper always, and in the end 
 did very well in my capacity of nurse, catching 
 Claude's slightest movement, and being with him 
 almost before he was awake. 
 
 Next morning he was decidedly better. The 
 doctor, when he came, was quite satisfied with 
 his progress — a great deal more satisfied than I 
 was, in fact, for this reason : 
 
 He had awaked after his night's rest to all ap- 
 pearance quite sensible, recognizing Wilson and 
 me — at least we thought he recognized us from 
 the calm, clear look in his eyes ; but he made 
 no attempt to speak, which was a good thing, as 
 he would not have been permitted to do so had 
 he tried. But the thing that made me uneasy 
 was that he seemed to regard me with just as 
 much pleasure as he did the doctor. He looked 
 at me as he might have looked at me under sim- 
 ilar circumstances in old times, before any thing 
 had arisen between us. I was sure he did not 
 remember the matter, or else he would have be- 
 trayed some awkwardness, some unwillingness to 
 meet my eye ; for even if lie believed me again, 
 and if my conduct toward him showed him that 
 he had in some way judged me falsely, still he 
 would then have felt ashamed of his conduct, 
 and for that reason would have exhibited embar- 
 rassment. To me it seemed a serious thing that 
 he should have forgotten the quarrel between us : 
 it was a cause of so much pain and annoyance to 
 me that I was sure if I were dying I should still 
 remember it and grieve over it. But it might 
 not be the same to Claude; I did not, and never 
 had, occupied the same place in his affection and 
 rega.rd as he had occupied in mine. 
 
 I could not keep my anxiety on this subject to 
 myself, but when Wilson was going away I fol- 
 lowed him. 
 
 " Do you think," I asked, " that he is all right 
 — that he remembers us, and all about us ?" 
 
 "Yes, certainly," he replied; "I see it in his 
 eye. No doubt he has thought over a good many 
 things ho is too weak to talk about, though of 
 course he can not think much at present either." 
 
 " But suppose, now, one of us two was an en- 
 emy of his — some one to whom he had a special 
 dislike ; if he did not show aversion to them, but 
 received them just as he does you and me, what 
 would that mean ?" 
 
 "Oh! that is difl^rent," replied Wilson, "and 
 I do not see how it bears on the- case in point. 
 In such a position as yon describe, I should say 
 his memory had been affected — whether tempo- 
 rarily or permanently, time alone would tell. 
 But we are neither of us eriemies of his, and 
 consequently his appearing equally pleased with 
 both of ns shows nothing wrong." 
 
 I was puzzled. I did not know whether I 
 ought to confide all I knew to Wilson, or wheth- 
 er I ought not ; but finally I said, 
 
 "Well, you know, doctor, I am no enemy of 
 his, but lately something has gone wrong between 
 lis, and he has taken a terrible aversion to me. 
 Yon must have noticed some of its results, even 
 if you did not perceive the fact itself. And now 
 he does not remember it — I know by the way in 
 which he looks at me." 
 
 Wilson appeared thoughtful for a minute, and 
 then replied, 
 
 "I think you will find that is nothing. This 
 late row between you has not been of long dura- 
 tion, and of course the original state of affairs 
 comes back to his mind first ; you will probably 
 thiuk he will remember his gi-ievance soon 
 enough. Besides, you must remember he is not 
 strong enough yet to think connectedly ; unless 
 any thing comes back to his mind spontaneously, 
 he can not exert himself to bring it back. " 
 
 It was a comfort to me that Wilson took the 
 matter in this light, and what he said seemed 
 very probable ; I went b.ick to my charge with a 
 much more satisfied mind than I had possessed 
 since I found out that Claude had ceased to hate 
 me, glad as I was that such should be the case. 
 
 A few days passed this way, and veiy dull and 
 monotonous they were, in spite of the kindness 
 and attention of the Kavanaghs, and though a 
 iumber of our fellows dropped in perpetnally to 
 see how the invalid was getting on. He had 
 manifested a desire to talk once or twice, but 
 any such tendency had been rigorously nipped iii 
 the bud by the doctor's orders, and he passed liis 
 time in a half-dozing state, with his eyes closed, 
 only rousing np a little now and then when he 
 had to take his food or medicine. 
 
 He was going on well; Wilson decided ; and 
 though I saw no signs as j'et that he remem- 
 bered the difference between us, still I could not 
 but acknowledge that he was getting stronger, 
 and that he evidently recognized all of our fel- . 
 lows who were admitted to see him. James 
 and Flower, and some of the others, were good 
 enougli to remember that it must be dull work 
 for me. James bad got me leave for a time as 
 soon as the accident occurred, and after I had 
 expressed a wish to be with my cousin ; he now 
 brought me bonks and papers and things of that 
 kind, to beguile my weary hours. ' 
 
 But in the whole business I think the people 
 most to be pitied were our gbod entertainers, 
 whose neat little house was overrun at all hours 
 by strangers, and who were called npon to put 
 up horses, or have them held, or otherwise exert 
 themselves for the benefit of the said strangers 
 perpetiially.' In spite of the annoyaiice it must 
 have been, they were always kind and obliging, 
 and never seemed to look forward to the day 
 when they would be able to get rid of us again. 
 Of course, we intended they should be well re- 
 munerated, for all this, but I don't think they 
 ever counted on such a reward, and I am sure 
 it would have been impossible to repay, by any 
 amount of money, all the good-will and real 
 kindness they lavished upon us. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 STRANGERS TET. 
 
 Days passed on, and Fevershara began to get 
 decidedly better and stronger; he was allowed 
 to talk, and then to sit up, and finally he was 
 taken; off his sofa and allowed to go" into the 
 great- warm kitchen, and lie on an improvised 
 conch there, watching pretty Mrs. Kavanagh at 
 her housekeeping with interested, curious eyes. 
 I fatiay, after so long a period of weakness and 
 seeming imconsciousness, it must have been like 
 
OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 97 
 
 returning to a new life to be Once more able to 
 look at people, and to take account of their ac- 
 tions ; then the sphere on which his newly awak- 
 ened consciousness opened was one widely dif- 
 ferent from any he had formerly known, and be- 
 tween him and that past life my familiar face 
 furnished the only connecting link. As he him- 
 self expressed it, he felt as if he had transmi- 
 grated, during his illness, into another phase of 
 existence, where every tiling ' around was new 
 and strange, and where all the memories of his 
 former life had grown dim and indistinct. This 
 expression of his feelings relieved my mind 
 somewhat ; it was evident that all that had hap- 
 pened before his illness required too great an ef- 
 fort of the mind to be brought up before him 
 just yet ; consequently he did not seek to recall 
 it, but amused himself like a child with the pass- 
 ing incidents that came under his eyes and claim- 
 ed his attention. Sometimes, after he had been 
 watching for a while Mrs. Kavanagh's busy, tidy 
 figure flitting about her kitchen, lie would turn 
 and look at me fixedly, as I sat reading near 
 him. I knew he was looking at me, and I knew 
 he was trying to recall something about me ; a 
 vague impression was beginning to rise in his 
 mind' that there was something that he oug^it to 
 remember. At such times I felt his eyes on me, 
 and knew very well what it was he desired to 
 recollect, but of course I did not tell him. It 
 would all come back to him in time ; then, if he 
 still persisted in the assertions he had made be- 
 fore, I should be obliged to leave him ; and in 
 that case I was sure my liking for a man who 
 could treat me so badly would not long survive. 
 
 Bnf I hoped that all that he had gone thi-ough, 
 would soften his mind, and that at least he would 
 consent to let me know definitely of what he 
 accused me, and would listen to my defense, if 
 defense there was to make. 
 
 One day he had sat watching me thns for 
 some time ; I had felt that the crisis was very 
 near, that soon he would remember, and speak ; 
 presently, getting nervous from his continued 
 silent scrutiny, 1 jumped up and said I would go 
 oat for a walk. 
 
 "Wait 3 minute," pleaded Claude, earnestly: 
 "I want to ask you something." 
 
 "What is it?" I replied boldly, thinking that 
 the time had come, and I should be able to vin- 
 dicate my conduct, and convipce him that I had 
 done nothing of which I need be ashamed. 
 
 He pressed his hand to his forehead for a 
 minute, and seemed as if he was forcing himself 
 to think; then he said, "Why are you here 
 minding me, Vivian ? I have a kind of idea 
 there was something wrong between us, I can 
 not think what it was, but I don't imagine you 
 would have remained here all this time to mind 
 me if it had been true. And you know Wilson 
 could have hired a \yoman at one of those places 
 to look after me. I should then, perhaps, have 
 had an opportunity of judging whether Sairey 
 Gamp is overdrawn." 
 
 "I)o yoa think I would have left you to 
 Sairey Gamp, if she had come in person," I re- 
 plied, laughing.. It was evident as yet he re- 
 membered nothing distinctly about our differ- 
 ences, and I at least was not going to tell him. 
 
 "You are a good fellow, Vivian," he said, 
 holding out his hand to me, and seeming pleased 
 by my answer. " I can not think what can 
 7 
 
 have put this queer notion. about you into my 
 head, and yet 1 know I had it, for I remember 
 the day of the race, when. you were coming up 
 so close behind me on old Blackfoot, and 1 felt 
 my horse was done, I was mad with rage at the 
 thought that you should win. I had some kind 
 of an idea, I know, that you did not deserve it, 
 that you were an impostor and a cheat, moving 
 about among the rest as if you were as good as 
 they ; I had some extraordinaiy idea you were 
 not, though it seemed to me I was the only per- 
 son who knew any thing against you. It is very 
 strange how snch an impression can have got 
 into my head, and there is a feeling of reality 
 about it that annoys me." 
 
 "You will make yourself ill again, if you go 
 on talking about it, and fretting yourself," I an- 
 swered. "Ti-y to have more cheerful thoughts 
 when I come back. Here is Flower coming in 
 at the gate ; he will talk to you while I am away." 
 
 "Flower is not amusing," replied Claude, 
 languidly and ungratefully; "I find it much 
 pleasanter to keep quiet and watch Mrs. Kava- 
 nagh's pretty figure moving about, than to listen 
 to his twaddle. However, as he is here, I must 
 make the best of it ; but come back soon." 
 
 I went out, leaving Flower telling his small 
 chitchat, with u, ready good-nature that I fear 
 was not half appreciated. It is the nature of 
 convalescents to be querulous and exacting, and 
 to most people Claude was no exception to the 
 rule. The odd thing was that with me he was 
 always patient and gentle, and had, besides, an 
 extraordinary fancy for keeping me always near 
 him. He never seemed happy unless I was with 
 him, and manifested much more affection for me 
 than he had ever shown in the old days \yhen I 
 had worshiped him as the hero of my boyish im- 
 agination. Of course this fancy of his for me 
 was the result of his weakness and dependeiice, 
 acting on his former friendship, and I knew very 
 well that much of it would probably disappear 
 when he became strong and was going about 
 again. Still it would probably influence him to 
 listen to what I had to say, and then to retract 
 his words and beg my pardon for having uttered 
 them. This was what I wished, and as I trudged 
 merrily along the road leading toward the sea, 
 my fancy assured me this was what would ulti- 
 mately happen. 
 
 When I returned. Flower had gone, but appar- 
 ently his presence and conversation had aroused 
 some recollections in Claude's mind, for, as soon 
 as I appeared, he turned to me again. 
 
 "I know," he said, "Vivian, that I have not 
 been. good to you ; the thing is getting clearer to 
 me. I do not understand why I behaved ill to 
 you yet, or what it is that is between us, but 1 
 know there is something, and I want to make it 
 up." 
 
 He looked excited and eager, but I could tell 
 his head was troubling him, fiom the expression 
 of his eyes, and from his passing his hand across 
 his forehead perpetually, as if to draw away some- 
 thing that oppressed him. 
 
 " You will be ill again," I said, " if you go on 
 like this. What does any thing matter that was 
 between us before ? It is past now, and I don't 
 think of it, neither must you : let by-gones be by- 
 gones." 
 
 "You ought to tell me," he replied; "I am 
 sure I should feel better if I knew." 
 
98 
 
 OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 "THat is exactly what I can not do,"! said, 
 laughing, ' ' as you nevei' told me yourself what 
 was the cause of it all. You were very angry with 
 me, and I askedyou several times for an expla- 
 nation ; then at other times I should have liked 
 to have called you out and made you fight with 
 me, but that you wisely would not hear of. How- 
 ever, it is all right now between us, I am sure ; we 
 shall neither of us think of the matter again, and 
 you may as well dismiss it from your mind ; you 
 will get well all the faster." 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "I seem to have faint glimmerings of light on 
 the matter now and then," he said ; " but I can 
 not catch them or collect them. I must wait. 
 As soon as I remember we will talk it all over : 
 williiotthatdo?" 
 
 Satisfied with this resolution, he became moi-e 
 composed, and, I was pleased to see, evidently 
 put the matter off his mind. I should have liked 
 very much to know what it had ■ been that had 
 made my best friend turn so suddenly and bitter- 
 ly against me, but of course, if he was content to 
 let'it rest, it was better for me it should be so 
 than that old grievances should he raked up ; be- 
 sides, in his present state it really injured liim to 
 think of it. 
 
 Time passed on, and three weeks after his ac- 
 cident Claude came up to Dublin again. He 
 was still far from well, but he thought he was in- 
 conveniencing the Kavanaghs by remaining there 
 longer, and it was just as good for him to occupy 
 his rooms in barracks as to be incurring expense 
 elsewhere. The good people we had been with 
 seemed quite sorry to lose us, and were inclined 
 to be very indignant when I ofl'erod them pay- 
 ment. I insisted on their taking something, 
 however, as I knew they had been at great ex- 
 pense with us, in many ways, and neither Claude 
 nor I could have permitted ourselves to return 
 their kindness so badly as to allow them to sulfer 
 on our account. We gave them just what we 
 would have paid for board and lodging anywhere 
 else, explaining to them that such was the usual 
 custom in a case of this kind ; but we sent them 
 presents afterward, in the way of clothing, which 
 I know they appreciated much more than they 
 did the money. 
 
 The evening we returned to barracks, as I was 
 sitting in Claude's room, I noticed the puzzled 
 expression return to his face, and I knew that 
 the subject which by common consent we had 
 dropped the last few days was again troubling 
 him. 
 
 Before he could make up his mind to say any 
 thing about it, the late post came, and his letters 
 were brought up to him. There was one from 
 Lady Feversham, I could see, for I ■ knew my 
 aunt Anna's handwriting ; she had been told of 
 her son's illness, and had written both to him and 
 to me constantly, thanking me for what she called 
 my devotion to him, and begging him to come 
 home as soon as he could travel. I had a long 
 letter from my mother, and while I was reading 
 it I could see that Claude had gone over his let- 
 ter, which was much shorter, twice. When I had 
 finished mine I looked up, and a change in his 
 expression struck me at once. He was gazing 
 at me with a sad, stern look, like that which had 
 always come over his face when addressing me 
 during the time of our estrangement. 
 
 I think he knew by my eyes that I understood 
 
 his look, and saw that he remembered. I know 
 I felt my heart beat rapidly, with the intensity 
 of my expectation that he was about to say some- 
 thing which would explain the mystery of his con- 
 duct toward me. After a pause that I thoiight 
 very long, but during which I would not speak, 
 for fear of putting his mind off the clue that he 
 seemed to Ijave got hold of, he said, 
 
 "I remember now, Darrell, why you and I 
 were not good friends before the accident. It is 
 a pity you took so much trouble about me. I 
 wish you had left me to a hired nurse, for I know 
 I shall seem ungrateful to you if I do not treat 
 you in the same way as I have done lately ; and 
 now that I remember all about you, it is impos- 
 sible I should so treat you. In fact, the farther 
 we keep from each other the better, I think. I 
 wish I had continued to forget it — that I could 
 have continued to believe in you ; but that is im- 
 possible. " 
 
 "Why is it impossible ?" I cried. "I demand 
 to know of what you accuse me, before you again 
 dare to treat me as you did before. It was bad 
 enough of you then ; it will be worse now, and 
 you are quite right in saying it will be thought 
 ungrateful. " 
 
 "Yes, I see that plainly," he replied. "You 
 were clever enough to put me in that most odi- 
 ous position, for there is nothing worse than in- 
 gratitude, and that, too, for such kindness as you 
 have shown me. ' But, under the circumstances, 
 it is evident you did it for an object, in order to 
 force me to countenance you when I recovered. 
 I wish I could bring myself to do so, but this last 
 ruse only increases my abhorrence of your char- 
 acter. It Avas ungenerous of you to take advan- 
 tage of my unconsciousness, and do what you 
 knew I would not wish." 
 ■ "I swear I do not understand what yon are al- 
 ways talking about," I cried, passionately, "and 
 that nothing but our old friendship influenced me 
 to watch over you. You might give me credit 
 for so much, knowing how I always liked you. 
 I was a fool for doing so, I see now ; but the lik- 
 ing began inmy childhood, therefore I am not so 
 much to blame for feeling it as I should be if I 
 had been older and known better when I first 
 met yon." 
 
 Claude sighed, and looked at me wistfully and 
 reproachfully. "Why do you deny it ?" he said ; 
 "you almost make me think at times that you 
 are speaking the truth ; but even if I could doubt 
 the evidence of the person who knew all from 
 you, I could not think where else to lay the blame. 
 You are the only one who could have done it. 
 It was not necessary ; you need not have soiled 
 your conscience. Are you not sorry, knowing 
 "that?" 
 
 "I tell you I do not understand yon," I an- 
 swered; "you pain both yourself and me by 
 hinting at things that I know nothing of, and 
 can not therefore deny. Why do you not speak 
 them out boldly ?" 
 
 "Because," he answered with sudden stern- 
 ness, " I would spare myself the sorrow, and you 
 the disgrace, of hearing you spoken of as you 
 I'eally are ; because I can not bear to name such 
 things in connection with you, even though I 
 know the charges to be true. Vivian, you have 
 been very good to me lately, whatever" the mo- 
 tive may be that prompted you to be so, and that 
 I can not forget | I can not be so ungrateful, 
 
OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 99 
 
 ev^n if I would. Have )-ou ever thought," he 
 added, in his curious, sudden way of digressing, 
 in pursuit of an idea, " that man, called the no- 
 blest work of the creation, is more wanting in 
 the noble virtue of gratitude than most of the 
 lower animals? They all remember kindness, 
 and cherish the memory of a friend who is good 
 to them, while we, in spite of our superiority, are 
 often prone to look upon a benefactor with dislike 
 and aversion. We will not do that, Darrell, 
 however. I owe you much ; I am afraid lately 
 you have owed me nothing but hatred, for in my 
 anger at your wrong-doing I have been very bad 
 to yon. But let us remember the old times only. 
 I will try to forget your miserable fault, and you 
 will endeavor earnestly to give way to no such 
 temptation again. Promise me that, Vivian, and 
 we will be friends." 
 
 I looked in his eager face with fierce anger 
 rising in my heart. It was too bad he should 
 treat me thus, and I would not bear it ; I would 
 never be friends with a man who doubted my 
 honor, and who, besides doubting it, would not 
 give me the means of dealing myself from the 
 imputation cast upon it. I answered scornful- 
 ly, " Keep your friendship ;' I will not take it on 
 those terms. You must either believe in me and 
 trust me, in all and through all my life, or you 
 are not worth having for a friend. Do you think 
 I would have listened to any thing — believed any 
 thing against you ? Never ! I should have gone 
 to you, and asked you the truth of the matter ; 
 only from your own lips would I have condemned 
 you — only from mine should you have judged me. 
 Do you not see all this ?" I continued, growing 
 vehement. " Do you not know that we must be 
 strangers while you treat me thus ? Your doubt 
 of me is an insult that only a full and complete 
 explanation and apology can ever efface from 
 my mind ; and to one of my race, learning to 
 bear insult is a new lesson. You have been kind 
 enough to teach me a good deal about it lately, 
 but remember, though I say nothing, it is not 
 forgotten ; there is a day of reckoning coming, 
 when you will have to answer to me for this. " 
 
 Feversham had listened quietly and sadly to 
 my vehement outburst. When I had done speak- 
 ing, he replied, slowly : 
 
 "I do not understand the matter. I could 
 almost believe you, and yet I dare not ; I should 
 only be again deceived. If at any future time 
 I find I Iiave misjudged you, I shall be so glad, 
 in spite of the pain and sorrow it has caused me, 
 and you shall have full and ample apologies. 
 In the mean time let us be strangers as much as 
 ■we can be, living in the same regiment, and re- 
 lated as we are ; it will hurt us both less. But, 
 my boy, promise me you will try to do better in 
 future." 
 
 I felt inclined to strike him, I was so enraged 
 at his returning to the old theme. I had thought, 
 when we agreed to be strangers, we should have 
 done with that ; but it seemed to have become a 
 perfect monomania with him. In order to re- 
 strain myself, and to prevent myself saying or 
 doing something that might make matters worse 
 between us, I dashed out of the room and went 
 out into the city. 
 
 It was late in the evening, and dark. The 
 lamps had been lighted, and the few passers-by 
 that were hurrying rapidly to their homes had a 
 kind of air as if they were staying out beyond 
 
 hour's, and would catch it for doing so when they 
 got in. ■ I have no doubt I looked as wild and pre- 
 occupied as the rest, as I tore along at my best 
 speed, pressing out in the Kingstown direction. 
 
 This last conversation with Eeversham had 
 quite upset me. It was really too preposterous 
 that he should go on in that way ; and it was so 
 terribly insulting to me, and, through me, to an 
 ancient and honored name. If I could only re- 
 taliate, could revenge myself in some way, and 
 teach him to spare my character in word, even if 
 he did not do so in thought! But there was no 
 way open to me in which I could compel him to 
 treat me with respect, except the law, and that 
 was a resource only to be fallen back upon in the 
 last extremity, for it would make public all his 
 insinuations and innuendoes, that at present were 
 known only to ourselves. I began to think those 
 were the good old days indeed, when duelling 
 was lawful and honorable, and when, for one tithe 
 of what my cousin had said to me, either he or I 
 would have settled the matter with our lives. It 
 really was too hard, viewed in this light, that one 
 could only protect one's character by the law — 
 which remedy, in many cases, Is worse than the 
 disease, as it permits of throwing such an infinite 
 quantity of mud. 
 
 My mind, when I started on my walk, strong- 
 ly resembled the crater of a volcano, in which 
 various minerals, and stones of every description, 
 are fused up into the molten mass of lava, and 
 seethe there, till their original state is no longer 
 recognizable. So it was with my thoughts. 
 Passion had risen to such a boiling heat that they 
 had been melted and mixed together, till there 
 was not one thought I could separate from an- 
 other ; and, like the overwhelming mass of lava 
 that rushes forth, devouring and destroying in its 
 course, the dominant idea of revenge, overshad- 
 owed and took possession of my whole being, 
 rendering me capable of any madness that cir- 
 cumstances, or the influence of my companions, 
 would give me opportunity to commit. For, 
 finally, this idea of retaliation took definite shape 
 and form, and I seemed at last to see that I might 
 have some satisfaction, and perhaps without in- 
 curring risk. 
 
 I knew Eeversham would be going on leave 
 shortly. He was to meet his mother in London 
 In the season, and I had been making interest to 
 gel away for a while at that time also. I thought 
 I should succeed in doing so, and if I did I would 
 go to London, and there horsewhip my cousiti 
 and quondam friend, as opportunity offered for 
 me to do it. I would have done it at once, but 
 for two reasons. The first of these was, that he 
 was not yet strong, and it seemed to me coward- 
 ly to strike a sick man ; the other was, that when 
 we were both away on leave the matter would 
 perhaps not be noticed by the authorities, who 
 would regard it as an aftiiir between one gen- 
 tleman and another, and would not interfere ; 
 whereas at present it would cost me my commis- 
 sion, and, as I said before, I did not want to leave 
 the army just then. 
 
 I became a great deal calmer, once this plan 
 had arranged itself in my mind, and when I had 
 walked till I was thoroughly tired I returned to 
 barracks, very much more composed than when 
 I had set out. 
 
 As for Claude, poor fellow, he had, I afterward 
 found, grieved very much over what had happen- 
 
100 
 
 OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 eJ, and what he had considered it his duty to say 
 to me. He was really attached to rae : as ho 
 told me long afterward, it nearly broke his heart 
 to think that I could have behaved so badly as he 
 had persuaded himself I had done. 
 
 He could not imagine who but I could have 
 told his mother about Gwendoline Bambridge, 
 and I had a reason for doing so also, being bis 
 rival. Though he had believed me at first, his 
 mother's equivocation, wlien he taxed her with 
 having heard it from me, was taken by him as a 
 tacit admission of my guilt. My assertions that 
 I did not undei'stand him he took to be an equiv- 
 ocation on my part, got up to save myself from 
 telling actual falsehood, and he despised me, and 
 wondered at me accordingly. 
 
 He would gladly have been friends with me, 
 he would even have forgiven me tliis grievous 
 fault, if I had only confessed it, and sliown some 
 sorrow and wish for amendment ; but my hard- 
 ness and continued denial aggravated him, and 
 prevented him showing the tenderness and affec- 
 tion he really felt fpr me. 
 
 And so we, who had been such dear and true 
 friends all our lives, became estranged, and drift- 
 ed gradually more apart, as one has seen two 
 boats that have got into opposing currents float 
 quietly and slowly away from each other, while 
 those on shore are unable to perceive what it is 
 draws them asunder. 
 
 There was great, joy in the regiment at Fev- 
 ersham's return. He was a popular fellow — one 
 of the most popular men we had ; besides, tlie 
 cause of his accident made more people to take an 
 interest in him than might otherwise have been 
 tlie case. He had ridden liis unmanageable brute 
 so pluckily and well, the ladies said he ought to 
 have won ; the men thought he might have done 
 so, or at least come in second, but for the fall, 
 and they pitied him accordingly. He got well 
 rapidly, and wrote to his mother that he would 
 not take his leave till the beginning of May, when 
 he would meet her in London. No doubt that 
 satisfied her, as she had laid her plans well for 
 fettling the matter between Claude and Mabel 
 Prendergast that season. . 
 
 She had asked and obtained permission to take 
 Mabel out with her, the old people at The Pop- 
 lars being thus spared the trouble of chaperoning 
 their daughter, at which Mrs. Prendergast re- 
 joiced greatly. She was a great deal too quiet 
 and eagy-going a woman to enjoy sitting up to 
 unearthly hours at balls, or undergoing the slow 
 torture of. drums and crushes ; and since Lady 
 Feversham liked it, and intended Mabel for her 
 son, why, she was welcome to take her whenever 
 and wherever she chose. I think Claude knew 
 that Mabel Prendergast was to be witli his moth- 
 er in London, and his feelings on the matter were 
 curiously mixed. He hated himself whenever 
 he was away from her for yielding to her fasci- 
 nation ; he told himself again and again she was 
 neither so good nor so true a woman as Gwen- 
 doline Bambridge, nor so dear to him either. 
 He felt that, were he engaged to Mabel, even 
 about to marry her, and that Gwendoline sent 
 him a slip of paper with the one word "come" 
 on it, ho would leave his promised bride and go ; 
 yet, whenever he met her, he could not help fol- 
 lowing her and admiring her, and wishing to mo- 
 nopolize her attention, and discover whether she 
 really cared for him or not. 
 
 In truth, it was the uncertainty that held him 
 to her. He was inclined to be a little exacting, 
 and he did not like to think that this girl with 
 whom he had been thrown so much together, and 
 for whom he felt a strange admiration that re- 
 sembled love, but was not love, should not care 
 for him a little also. I am sure Mabel Prender- 
 gast understood this far more clearly than he did ; 
 she played her cards accordingly, often laughing, 
 no doubt, at the folly of her admirer, who had not 
 wit enough to see it was curiosity and pique that 
 held him captive, and not love. But Lady Fev- 
 ersham really believed that her son was begin- 
 ning to care for this fascinating girl, and she was 
 intensely pleased that it should be so. She wrote 
 him long affectionate letters in the fullness of her 
 joy, telling him so much about what Mabel said 
 and did in them, that Claude would have been 
 wearied had any of these reported sayings and 
 doings been less enigmatical than the fair origi- 
 nator of them. 
 
 But that was the m}-stery : they were all just 
 as sphinx-like as Mabel's pretty, faint smile, and 
 the iittlefriendlyconfidenceswithwhich she some- 
 times favored Claude, and that always had the 
 effect of making him think, after every one of 
 them, that he knew rather less of her than he had 
 done before. Now, as formerly, Mabel's head 
 dictated and governed the correspondence, and 
 she knew her man so well that she could tell to a 
 word how much to say, and how much to leave 
 unsaid, to insui'e the effect on his feelings she de- 
 sired. 
 
 At this time I used to wonder, when I saw how 
 calm, and tranquil, and even happy Claude ap- 
 peared, whether he ever thought of Gwendoline 
 Bambridge. Among all my other business and 
 pleasures, and even, what is more, among my 
 vexations, I never forgot her for long ; she was 
 always coming into my mind, as she had looked 
 that day when she had defended Claude against 
 what she considered my unjnst aspersions. I 
 used to wonder what she would say could she see 
 him now, and know that he looked forward with 
 pleasure to being constantly with another woman 
 during the London season. 
 
 She had really cared for him, but I had got 
 to doubt his affection for her, as I had begun to 
 doubt many things about him lately. Even if I 
 met her, I should not dare to tell her so, nor even 
 to let her know that we were no longer friends j 
 she would be sure to think it^ was my fault, and 
 perhaps would not care to talk to me when she 
 knew I was no longer Claude's chief companion. 
 
 All this time Cecil Egerton was my great 
 friend. I turned to him tor sympathy and soci- 
 ety when my cousin threw me over, and I got ev- 
 ery day to lilce him more and more. It was as 
 evident to me as to every one else, that he never 
 would do any thing out of the ordinary way in 
 his profession. His genius lay in quite a different 
 direction from soldiering, and both he and I used 
 to agree that it was very bard he had not been 
 allowed to follow the bent of his inclination. 
 
 "I should have done something by this time, 
 had I been an artist," he would say, regretfully, 
 " and the woman I love might be proud when 
 she heard my name mentioned. Now it will nev- 
 er say any thing to any ears but hers, and will 
 consequently lose half its charm ; for women are 
 ambitious, are they not?" 
 
 "So I have heard," I replied, a little flattered 
 
OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 101 
 
 that one so much older than I shonld ask my ad- 
 vice on the subject. "But I did not know you 
 cared about any one ; you never told me you loved 
 before. Who is it, if I may know?" 
 
 "Perhaps I was speaking of something in the 
 future," he answered, with a happy smile; "per- 
 haps I have not yet seen her, and only know that 
 she will come some day. If I said that, you would 
 not believe me, "he added, correcting himself in 
 his quick, irresolute way. " We all see three or 
 four women we think we love before we get to the 
 age of three-and-twenty, but rarely the right one, 
 and I am speaking of the right one now." 
 
 "Then she does not yet exist?" I questioned, 
 laughing. "She is a work' of fiction until you 
 meet her? Well, I hope she will be 'all your 
 fancy painted her,' when you do come across her; 
 for, do you know, I believe that fabricating of 
 ideals is a most costly and disappointing process, 
 and no wise woman would take a man that she 
 knew indulged in it." 
 
 "But suppose she is not a fiction? — suppose 
 she is very real, and very lovely, and much more 
 than all my fancy painted her — what would you 
 say then ?" 
 
 "Then I shorlld wish you joy, and I should 
 ask you to tell me her name, that I may drink 
 lier health next time I indulge in ' the glorious 
 vintage of Champagne.' " ■ 
 
 " No, no," answered Cecil, with a smile, " you 
 may drink her health as much as you like, but 
 you will not know her name. At present she 
 must have no name to you; remember, you are 
 the only one of all my comrades to whom I have 
 confided even this, so do not mention it." 
 
 And Cecil stuck to this resolution. Nothing I 
 could say to him would induce him to tell me who 
 .she was, where he had met her, or what she was 
 like, though I was sure he had her photograph 
 somewhere about him. This time,' at least, he 
 displayed a decision of character for which I ha|d 
 never given him credit, and for which I honored 
 him, though it balked my curiosity, which was 
 strong on the subject, as I wanted to see what 
 kind of woman Cecil admired. 
 
 I used to look at him enviously, after such a 
 conversation, believing every fellow I met was 
 happier in these matters than I ; and I knew, or 
 thought I knew, that this was the penalty of my 
 abominable and disgusting youth. 
 
 "I know women are ambitions," Cecil would 
 continue, " and she is more so than most wom- 
 en ; she tdld me so herself, and said I must make 
 haste and get on ; as if one could get on by work- 
 ing at drill and routine work, like this we have so 
 much of, in time of peace." 
 
 " I am sure I can't see why they should be am- 
 bitious," I replied; "there is nothing open to 
 them to be ambitious about — or at least they can 
 only get an opening after an amount of agitation, 
 and toil, and trouble that must certainly frighten 
 oft' any but very determined people. We have 
 got the best of life, certainly, and I often think 
 they must trust a great deal too much to the pro- 
 verbial saying that women have the power of get- 
 ting their own way, when they attempt to alter 
 the existing state of things. . Therefore, though 
 some few may be ambitious — must be, to effect 
 what they do — still the large majority can, mere- 
 ly from the dull monotony of their lives, have 
 very little idea what the word means. " 
 
 "Id is forbidden fruit, and, in right of that, 
 
 desirable," laughed Cecil. "I know from her 
 lips that it is a fact, and she, if she has it more 
 strongly developed in her mental system, is by so 
 much wiser and more clever tlian the ordinary 
 run of women. " 
 
 I laughed a little, and answered mischievously, 
 ' ' Do you know, Cecil, I do not like the character 
 you give of your future wife ; I think she must 
 be a caution, and that we shall see you by-and- 
 by, when you are married, not daring to call your 
 soul your own, out of respect to the superior ca- 
 pacities of Mrs. Egerton, who would doubtles'sbe 
 offended at any such self-assertion on your part." 
 
 "That is very fine," answered Egerton, a lit- 
 tle nettled ; and perhaps I had gone rather too 
 far, for, owing to liis weakness of character, the 
 sketch I had drawn was not improbable, and no 
 man likes to be told his wife will be master. 
 "If you were to see her," he went on, "you 
 would change your opinion ; bnt I will not talk 
 of the matter any more, or I shall be letting out 
 secrets which I am bound not to disclose." 
 ■ Saying this, he betook himself to whistling as 
 a relief to his mind, and sat there going over the 
 same tune, looking intensely happy, till he had 
 roused me to a state of intense irritation, only to 
 be soothed by immediate and violent action. It 
 was quite bad enough that he should sit there 
 with a dreamy, pleased smile on his face. When 
 another fellow's prospects are not of the bright- 
 est, it is rather provoking to see a man so serene- 
 ly and entirely pleased with his ; but when, in 
 addition to this, he will persist in whistling " Pop 
 goes the weasel," or some equally charming and 
 popular air, the matter becomes unbearable ; and 
 it was exactly these two things that Egerton was 
 doing. 
 
 I got up and took him by the collar of the coat, 
 and tried to lift him out of his chair ; he was sit- 
 ting by the fire in my room. This succeeded 
 pretty well for a time, but then an unexpected 
 difficulty presented itself ; his legs were too long, 
 and when I had raised him a certain height, he 
 merely stood up, looked round the room, and ask- 
 ed me what I wanted of him. 
 
 " I want you to stop that abominable row," I 
 said, crossly ; " talk^bout something else, if you 
 will not talk about her, but for goodness sake 
 don't grin and whistle ! One alone is aggrava- 
 ting, bnt the two combined are maddening." ' • 
 
 "Is that all?" he said. "Ohl I will leave 
 the room." And so saying, he made a few steps 
 toward the door; then he came back, and sitting 
 down again where he had been before, he went 
 on: "By-the-bye, I want to speak to you. My 
 uncle keeps bothering me to get my promotion, 
 as if I could do it by an effort of my own will. 
 Goodness knows I would have'done it long ago 
 if I could, but you see there's no chance of a va- 
 cancy, and so it is no good old Vansittart firing 
 letters at me, telling me to offer fabulous suras, 
 and get promotion at once. None of our fellows 
 want to go opt, or would do it for any thing I can 
 offer. 'Then' he wants me to exchange out of 
 this regiment into some other, where I shonld 
 have a better chance of getting steps, and so on. 
 I do not want to leave, and I do not see that it is 
 necessary. What do you advise ?" 
 . Of course I advised him to hang on with us 
 and bide his time. There was certainly no pres- 
 ent prospect of any steps going, but a few months 
 might produce a change ; besides, he was young 
 
102 
 
 OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 and well off, anil tliero was no reason he should 
 be in a huriy. 
 
 He did not know, nor did I, that Mabel Pren- 
 dergast was constantly at the Castle, and tliat 
 she was to go out with Lady ITeversham ; but 
 Mr. Vansittart knew all this, though he wisely 
 kept it to himself, fearing that if Egerton heard 
 it there might be a quarrel between them, and 
 that, of all things, he wished to avoid. It was 
 for this reason that he pressed on Cecil the im- 
 portance of getting his promotion quickly, for 
 then he would at once many. Only when they 
 were married would Mr. Vansittart feel sure that 
 he had secured for his nephew the beautiful and 
 fascinating heiress. 
 
 In spite of her beauty and her fascination, her 
 mind was one made after the pattern of Mr. Van- 
 sittart's, and was. of the kind with which he cred- 
 ited all the world. He had gauged it very ac- 
 curately, and he was not far wrong in imagining 
 that if Cecil did not make haste, she would slip 
 through his fingers. She had begun to see that 
 promotion in the army was not always rapid, or 
 at least not sufBciently rapid for her impatience. 
 She calculated that, under the most favorable cir- 
 cumstances, she should be a middle-aged woman 
 before Egerton was made a colonel, and a very 
 old woman before he gained the dignity of a gen- 
 eral ; even the K.C.B., which, she told herself, 
 he oijght to eara by that time, would not enable 
 her to enjoy tliese honors when she had lost her 
 youth and beauty. And he might never get any 
 of these things she wished for. Erom all she 
 could hear about him, she had horrible misgiv- 
 ings that he might be without any particular vo- 
 cation for the army, with an incapacity for win- 
 ning notice in it. If that were so, she feared he 
 would retire in disgust, and relinquish all chances 
 of the brilliant future she had dreamed for him. 
 
 Thus, all unknown by Cecil, she was turning 
 her mind more and more away from him, fixing 
 her thoughts on Lord Feversham's position and 
 known talents, and stopping her ears to the plead- 
 ing of her own heart, that at times protested 
 vehemently against her mercenary schemes. At 
 tlie same time, she wrote him long, aiFectionate 
 letters, speaking of the pleasure she should hiive 
 in seeing him again, and full of eagerness to know 
 how much nearer he was to the promotion they 
 both so much desired. 
 
 He believed in and trusted her implicitly, and 
 took these letters to be the exponents of her en- 
 tire heart and mind. He was as anxious as she, 
 or more so, for his advancement ; but he liked 
 his regiment, and there was no necessity for him 
 to leave it, as she would wait for years, if neces- 
 sary, until he got the required rank. Besides, he 
 had formed a scheme, which he did not tell even to 
 her, for fear of weakening its power when it came 
 to be put into action. He would get leave in the 
 summer, go over to The Poplars, and then make 
 another effort to persuade her to marry at once. 
 Loving him as she did, .it was natural to suppose 
 that, when she saw how long it was likely they 
 would have to wait, her resolutions would give 
 way, and she would yield to his entreaties. 
 
 It was for this reason that he seemed so happy 
 BOW — it was because of this hope that he smiled 
 and whistled as he sat in my room that night, 
 and it was in order that he might be confirmed 
 in his decision that ho appealed to mo on the 
 subject of bis uncle's letters. He was such a good 
 
 fellow! I liked him veiy much, and had even 
 begun to think the weakness and indecision of 
 character I had at first deplored was rather 
 pleasant, as it led to his appealing to me and tak- 
 ing my advice on every possible subject. I find 
 that is a kind of flattery no man is capable of re- 
 sisting ; in fact, one who could show such pro- 
 digious virtue as to do so would be a moral mon, 
 ster, whose acquaintance I should not care to 
 cultivate. 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 GOSSIP. 
 
 About this time we had among ns a fellow 
 of the name of Morton, who had exchanged into 
 the — th from another regiment. He was insig- 
 nificant-looking — not from being a small man, as 
 he was rather over, than under, the middle height 
 — ^but because he was one of that class of people 
 whose appearance is best described by the epi- 
 thet, "washed out;" to add to that, he was of 
 a quiet, unobtrusive nature. His close-cropped 
 hair was of the color of tow, with none of thej, 
 sheen and gloss on it that is generally seen on 
 fair hair. One would fancy, -to look at it, that 
 it so far partook of the peculiarities of the man 
 on whose head it gi'ew as to avoid i-eflecting the 
 sunlight, for fear of attracting observation. His 
 face had been sunbui-ned till it was a bad imita- 
 tion of the color of his hair; his eyes were of n 
 pale, watery blue, and his small, firmly shut 
 mouth was shaded by a little tow-colored mus- 
 tache. The whole face of this man, in spite of' 
 its insipid coloring, had a compressed, concen- 
 trated look that led me often to wonder what 
 was concealed under such an insignificant ex- 
 terior. With my usual habit of theorizing, I at 
 once came to the conclusion it was a nature 
 formed for great and secret evil, since so gi-eat a 
 power of concealment as was expressed by the 
 countenance had been bestowed upon it. Of 
 course it was unfair and wrong of me so to pre- 
 judge the man, but I am rather subject to tak- 
 ing prejudices, both for and against, at first sight, 
 and I liad taken a veiy violent prejudice against 
 this man. 
 
 I had often noticed his light-blue eyes slowly 
 traveling round the table from one to another of 
 us, as we sat chatting after mess, and at such 
 times there\would be a look of intense but care- 
 fully conceated cunning in his usually impassible- 
 face. I used to wonder of what he thought then, 
 as he did no1)\ often join in our .conversation, or, 
 when he did join, his remarks were only of the 
 average dull, commonplace type. 
 
 Though I disliked him, most of the others 
 thought him a good fellow, but stupid; Egerton, 
 who was inclined to be chums with him, used- 
 sometimes to scold me for my ill-nature and un-' 
 belief concerning him. 
 
 After he had been with us for n little time, 
 some changes took place, resulting in his being 
 appointed pay-master, temporarily, pending the 
 arrival of some other man who was to have that 
 post. He was a kind of man admirably fitted 
 for such a charge, and he was much better liked 
 in the place' than his predecessor had been. In 
 fact, ha was much more appreciated and mord 
 thought of in that capacity than ho had been 
 before. 
 
OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 103 
 
 Time passed on, and he still held the appoint- 
 ment, some hitch having occurred with regard to 
 the appointment of his successor. 
 
 A short time after Claude's accident, and 
 when he had returned to Dublin and resumed 
 his duties, I noticed that Captain Morton seem- 
 ed very much put out about something : if one 
 can use such an expression with regard to a man 
 of his temperament, he seemed in low spirits. 
 I saw him talking a good deal once or twice with 
 Feversham and one or two of the senior officers, 
 alone ; but whenever any one to whom his con- 
 versation was not particularly addressed ap- 
 proached, he used to change the subject. How- 
 ever, after this had been going on for a few days, 
 a rumor spread Itself among us — how arising, I 
 know not — that some of the regimental money 
 in Qaptain Morton's hands had been stolen from 
 him — or, rather, stolen out of a strong-box which 
 he had in his room. 
 
 Egerton was the first person who told me, and 
 I said immediately, 
 
 "It can not be true, you know. In tlie first 
 place, I suppose the man never keeps it there 
 but just the night or so before pay-day, and who- 
 'ever stole it would have to underatand that ; in 
 the second place, that box has a most formidable 
 lock — 1 was looking at it a few days ago, when 
 I went into his room to ask for something while 
 he was talking to Feversham. I was greatly in- 
 terested in the mechanism of it, for I thought it 
 one of the best locks I had seen. It is some 
 stupid, got-up story — one of the iimumerable 
 tales that spring up, no one knows how, without 
 any apparent foundation. The famous teeth 
 sown by Cadmus never produced such a prolific 
 crop as the smallest fraction of reason for a re- 
 port; more often gossip is like a fungus, shoot- 
 ing up, ia a night, without any visible seed what- 
 ever." 
 
 "Well, I. don't know whether it is true or 
 hot," said Egerton. "I will ask him; some fel- 
 lows told me, {)ut they may have made a mistake, 
 and taken up the matter wrongly." 
 
 "Very likely," I answered ; " fellows who talk 
 a great deal often do make mistakes of that kind ; 
 only then they generally make worse ones, for 
 they fasten the misdemeanor on some particular 
 individual. The beauty of what you have been 
 telling me is its vagueness ; no one in particular 
 can feel injured, and every one in general may 
 feel that for the honor of the regiment he would 
 like to punch the particular head that originated 
 this deliglitful bit of scandal." 
 
 "You are quite hot about it," said Egerton, 
 looking at me with a little sui-prise in the expres- 
 sion of his handsome, melancholy eyes. "Af- 
 ter all, no harm was meant ; it is what any one 
 might have said, without meaning to create 
 scandal — if they had any foundation for it, that 
 is to say." 
 
 " Of course if there is truth in it, that alters 
 the matter ; but I say it is absurd, and that there 
 can be no truth in it. Ask Morton, next time 
 you see him ; I never talk to him, so I will not 
 inquire : he always reminds me of an adder, with 
 his curious, compressed, secretive expression. 
 You have no such dislike, to liim, so you can find 
 out all about it." 
 
 Cecil laughed. " What a queer, prejudiced, 
 impulsive boy you are !" he said ; "and what an 
 immensity of unnecessary decision yon waste on 
 
 things of that kind! Once you have decided 
 you don't like a person, you never change, but 
 stick to it ^t all hazards : I must do you the jus- 
 tice to say, it is the same with your likings ; they 
 are quite as strong and as constant. But, you 
 know, if I was to take up a prejudice I should 
 reconsider it, and change my mind twenty times 
 a day, and finally end by avoiding the person, in 
 order to avoid the worry of having tp decide 
 about him. Not a very good way of getting on, 
 is it ? but it suits me ; however, I am not as fickle 
 in my likings — there I can be as true as you. I 
 think the reason why I can not dislike heartily, 
 is because it always seems unkind ; then too, 
 perhaps, just when I am most provoked, I re- 
 member I myself am as aggravating or distaste- 
 ful to the person with whom I am irritated as he 
 is to me. Now in liking there is never any fear 
 of doing wrong; it must be right; even if you 
 are deceived, and the person you liked tunis ont 
 badly, I think it is better for you that you should 
 have cared for him than that yon should have 
 judged him harshly witliout cause." 
 
 " That is a hit at ray prejudices, on the Di'. 
 Fell principle. I am sure you are right, and 
 your kind nature enables you to do as you say ; 
 but a fellow like me would explode some day if 
 he went about smothering impulses, and trying 
 to turn them into what they ought to bCj instead 
 of what they are." 
 
 " For goodness sake, Madcap, don't get any 
 more explosive than you are naturally, or it will 
 be fearfully dangerous for us quiet fellows! Even 
 with all your safety-valves open, you are rather 
 a touch-me-not person at times ? but you have 
 one good quality — it is over in a minute, as the 
 passionate husband in one of Leech's pictures 
 says to his wife, after he has smashed every arti- 
 cle of furniture in their sitting-room." 
 
 "You always make fun of a fellow," I an- 
 swered, trying not to laugh ; "but I am sure you 
 can not say I smash the furniture of the rooms. 
 I never go beyond words, do I ?" 
 
 "What do you say about that business in. 
 James's rooms the other day ? — wasn't it some- 
 thing like what I have been describing ?" 
 
 I held my tongue. I do not think he should 
 have brought the matter up, but as he did speak 
 about it, I may as well tell what it was. A few 
 days before there had been a whole lot of us 
 sitting in James's room : we were smoking and 
 talking, as it was a wet day, and we did not care 
 about going out. After a time Mayleigh got at 
 me, chaffing me, and making fun of me in a 
 manner I could not stand. I bore it for a while 
 tolerably, though becoming gradually more sav- 
 age ; but at length I got into such a passion that 
 I seized a book, lying near me and shied it at his 
 head. He ducked just in time, or he would have 
 got a knock that would have taught him not to 
 chaff me for a while ; and the book, passing over 
 him, just caught a handsome bronze statuette on 
 the chimney-piece, a thing; James set great store 
 by, and knocking it down/ it was broken into sev- 
 eral pieces on the fender. 
 
 I was dreadfully sony when I saw what I had 
 done, for James is a good fellow, and I knew he 
 was distressed at the loss of his favorite ornament, 
 though he laughed and tried to turn the matter 
 off. I was sobered, and Mayleigh, I think, was 
 a little taken aback, for he left me alone for the 
 rest of the evening. 
 
101 
 
 OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 Since then I have been veiy eavefiil, and have 
 not been in as bad a temper again, though May- 
 leigh, knowing I am watcliing myself, delights in 
 being fearfully aggravating. When he gets too 
 bad I turn ronnd qnickly and look at him : I 
 think he has got now to know by my eye when I 
 am dangerous, for he gives over then ; but it is 
 very hard keeping quiet when one has a fellow 
 like that always at one, and Cecil, knowing how 
 I am tried, should not have alluded to the affair. 
 
 I told 1dm so after I had thought over the 
 matter for a few minutes, and then he said I had 
 a good deal to put up with, and he ought not to 
 have mentioned it, only the likeness to the pas- 
 sionate husband overcame hiih, and he could not 
 help pointing it out. 
 
 I mention all this to show that I did take a 
 good deal of chaff from them, and was not near- 
 ly such a fire-eater as they wished to make out. 
 But there are some things I will not allow my- 
 self to be laughed at about. 
 
 "Have you not got a horse to sell ?" asked Eg- 
 erton suddenly. " I heard you wanted to part 
 with that pretty brown mare. Twilight. I have 
 not got a mount now, and I have taken a fancy 
 to her. She seemed such a clever huntress the 
 day I saw her out with you at the Wards' ; though 
 the hunting season is over, I should like to get 
 her; she will come in useful next season, and do 
 my quiet summer work besides." 
 
 "Yes, I will sell her," I replied. " I am send- 
 ing Blackfoot home to Longhurst for the sum- 
 mer; we have splendid stabling there, and the 
 most delightful boxes for summering horses. 
 He deserves a rest, after winning that race so 
 pluckily. I never thought he would have done 
 it so easily, though I knew he would not be far 
 behind at the finish. But I do not want to keep 
 Twilight ; she is a very good little mare, and I 
 can recommend her, but I only bought her for 
 the season, and always intended to sell her as 
 soon as it was over. You can have her for eighty 
 guineas, which I think very reasonable for an an- 
 imal of her class." 
 
 "I need not ask you if she is all right," said 
 Cecil ; "or, rather, I suppose I ought to do so. 
 But the fact is, you are the only man I know 
 whose word I would take about a horse, and I 
 do believe yours implicitly." 
 
 "Well, I think you may," I replied, laughing. 
 "The only point on which I would mislead any 
 one is whether the animal is gentle or not ; for 
 it is a fact that I have sold a horse that I con- 
 sidered as gentle and as kind as a horse could 
 be, and that I was told afterward was a most 
 dangerous and unmanageable brute. 0£ course 
 I found out the people who had got him were 
 afraid of him, and he bullied them, that was all. 
 Now as to this mare Twilight, she is sound, and 
 a perfectly trained, safe fencer, but, what is curi- 
 ous in a horse that does jump ^yell, she can not 
 bear to do it, and, unless you watch her when 
 you are coming to j-our first fence she will balk, 
 (jive her a touch of the spur as you come near 
 it, and she will take it, and go well for the rest 
 of the day ; let her bnlk, and it will take you a 
 great deal of trouble to get her right again." 
 
 "Very well," answered Cecil, "I think I shall 
 be able to manage her. And we may as well 
 conclude the purchase: come up to my rooms 
 presently and we will do the business part of the 
 transaction, and then I shall take possession of 
 
 her. I think her such a pretty creature, and up 
 to a good deal of weight." 
 
 "Yes, indeed," I said. "That is one reason 
 that I am parting with her. I ride ten stone 
 twelve, and she is up to between fourteen and fif- 
 teen stone. If she was quite thorough-bred, you 
 would not get her for double the money I am 
 giving hei' to you for now." 
 
 A few hours after, going up to Cecil's room, 
 he gave me the money, a good deal of it being 
 in gold, with some silver and notes. 
 
 ' ' I have been lately paid some money that wns 
 owing to me," he said, laughing, when I looked 
 astonished at his producing all this out of an old 
 battered leather desk that any evil-minded per- 
 son might have opened easily. "I am not ac- 
 customed to keep money in this way, but having 
 got it, and intending to buy the horse, I kept it 
 by me." 
 
 "As I shall do," I answered. " I always like 
 to have something ready to my hand in case I 
 want it ; to tell you the truth, though my father 
 always gives me a very liberal allowance, I sonie- 
 times overdraw my account. I have done so just 
 now ; but I do not intend to put it straight with 
 this. I just write and tell the governor that he 
 must pay in some more to my account, and he 
 does so, though I get a lecture now and then if 
 I am supposed to have been too extravagant. 
 Really, you know, this will go a very little way. 
 Talk of money making itself wings — I say wings 
 are nothing to it. I believe it first invented the 
 electric telegraph. " 
 
 Cecil was pleased with his purchase, whict I 
 was glad of, because people so rarely are satis- 
 fied with horses, that it is a very disagreeable 
 thing, as a rule, selling one to ft friend. But I 
 knew, when he bought her, that if he could man- 
 age her she would please him ; and as it hap- 
 pened, they got on very well together. 
 
 It was now the early part of May, and conse- 
 quently beginning to get woefully stupid in t)uh- 
 lin. All who were worth knowing had taken 
 themselves off to London for the season, and we • 
 were left pacing the pavement in Grafton Street, 
 or looking out of the windows of the club in 
 Stephen's Green, without a chance of catching a 
 glimpse of the pretty faces we used to admire, 
 and with whose owners we had so often diinced 
 at the Viceregal and elsewhere, earlier in the 
 year. 
 
 It was very stupid work, and I think it was as 
 a relief from the prevailing dullness that about 
 this time we took to giving card-parties among 
 ourselves. Nearly evety evening some of us 
 would assemble in the rooms belonging to one 
 of the party (we took the duty of entertaining 
 in turns), and would then pass the time at play. 
 Sometimes it was loo, sometimes trente et un, and 
 so on, but it was always a game that admitted of 
 a good deal of gambling. 
 
 I am sure I do not know why I attended these 
 affairs; cards were always antipathetic to me, 
 and if the dullness of the town bored me, the 
 evening game would have bored me still more, 
 but for the companionship it gave me. All our 
 merriest and most amusing fellows would be as- 
 sembled there, and by not going I should miss 
 so much mirth and laughter, so much gossip and 
 scandal, which, when it did not affect the regi- 
 ment, I am ashamed to confess, amused me as 
 much as it did the others. 
 
OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 105 
 
 I had nearly forgotten to say that Cecil Egev- 
 ton had inquired of Captain Morton the truth 
 of the strange rumor which was steadily gaining 
 ground. On his first alluding to the subject, 
 Morton shut his mouth with a snap that reminded 
 one of a steel-trap ; but presently, thinking bet- 
 ter of it, he went on to say that it was quite true 
 — that several small sums of money had been 
 missing, and quite lately a larger amount. But, 
 he added, he had his eyes open, and would soon 
 catch the offender. He did not wish the matter 
 .spoken of, as it might render the culprit cautious, 
 but if matters were left as they were, he would 
 lay his hand on him before long. 
 
 "Darrell says," continued Egerton, "that it 
 is a most intricate lock. He was e.tamining it 
 one day when he was in the room with you and 
 Feversham, and he sayj he can not nndei'stand 
 how any one who has not the key can open it." 
 
 "I do not think Darrell knows much about 
 the matter," replied Morton, coolly, "and he has 
 no business giving his opinion when it was not 
 asked." 
 
 Morton spoke sharply, for, as is often the case, 
 my dislike of him recoiled on my own head. 
 
 " He did not mean any harm," resumed Eger- 
 ton, apologetically. " He and I were talking to- 
 gether, and he merely mentioned that. Do yon 
 suspect any one? Have you any clue?" 
 
 "I may have my suspicions," replied Morton, 
 almost rudely ; " but it is better not to tell them. 
 Things get talked of, and they go round, and ev- 
 ery body hears them, and finally the man who 
 has been doing it all would get to know I was 
 on the watch, and would take care of himself. 
 No, I shall keep my own counsel." 
 
 "Keep it by all means," answered Egerton, 
 rather nettled by the other's tone; " but perhaps 
 you will not mind telling me whether you suspect 
 any of the men of the regiment. I hope not ; it 
 would be so unpleasant." 
 
 "The men of the regiment," laughed Morton, 
 satirically ; " so you think that would be unpleas- 
 ant, do you? What should you say if it went 
 higher than that?" and without waiting for an 
 answer he moved away, leaving poor Egerton 
 standing quite bewildered, thinking over those 
 concluding words. 
 
 It was not possible, he thought, that Morton 
 could really suspect any among themselves ; he 
 must have said it for a joke, but if so, it was a 
 dreadfully bad joke, and in his quiet, uncertain 
 way Egerton felt indignant. At iirst he thought 
 lie would come and tell me; I would sympathize 
 in his indignation, and I would also tell him 
 whether there could possibly be any chance of 
 such a dreadful thing being true. Bnt then, be- 
 fore he had made half a dozen steps in the direc- 
 tion in which he expected to find me, he changed 
 liis mind. It was quite possible, he thought, that 
 I might get into a passion, and tell Morton, next 
 time I saw him, that he was slandering ns ; that 
 would be sure to create an unpleasantness, and 
 make matters worse between Morton and me 
 than they already were. It w.is very provoking 
 that people would be quarrelsome and passion- 
 ate, and it was very annoying to hear hints of 
 the nature of this last one, without being able 
 to find out if there was any foundation for them 
 or not. ' " 
 
 If the world, and the people in it, were not 
 quite up to Mr. Vansittart's standard of badness, 
 
 still they were sufficiently aggravating and in- 
 comprehensible at times, and very worrying to 
 a man like Cecil, who was straightforward both 
 from principle and a laziness of character that 
 made it too gi-eat a trouble to go roundabout 
 when he could go straight. 
 
 The end of his perplexity was the usual end 
 of every thing that annoyed him — he left it to 
 chance to direct his actions, and decide whether 
 he should tell me or not. 
 
 Chance decided that he should tell me, as any 
 one might have betted, with perfect certainty of 
 winning. On all subjects but the one Cecil's 
 nature demanded a confidant, and even on that 
 one he had told me all but the name. I was ex- 
 tremely angry at Morton's having suggested that 
 any of us could be implicated in such an affair. 
 "A common theft— why, he is quite as likely to 
 have done it as any of the others!" I cried, an- 
 grily. " I wonder how he dare give such liberty 
 to his tongue, even if he thought it. You should 
 have pitched into him, Cecil. I can tell you he 
 would have had cause to remember, it if he said 
 such a thing to me." 
 
 " I have no doubt he would," answered Cecil, 
 a smile dawning on his troubled face ; "but you 
 see I have not your energy of chai-acter ; besides, 
 you know, though I believe he meant that as a 
 hit at us, still he did not say any thing we could 
 take hold of. What is the good of getting into 
 rows unnecessarily ? Promise me you will not 
 say any thing to Morton, or he will pitch into 
 me for having told you." 
 
 " Very well," I answered, feeling a little surly ; 
 "if you like to let that kind of thing pass, I can 
 not help you ; but you see the fellow will not 
 speak so to me." 
 
 " Tiy him," Cecil replied, laughing. He had 
 not repeated what Morton had said of me, not 
 wishing to make mischief; indeed, in his good- 
 nature, and wish to see us all friends, he often 
 tried to persuade me that Morton was well dis- 
 posed toward me, if I would let him show it. I 
 used not to mind him ; I knew it was a result of 
 his overamiable disposition, that he took every 
 thing at its best, and that, if by any chance Mor- 
 ton made a civil remark about me, he at once 
 concluded the man was anxious to be on good 
 terms with me, but was frightened oft' by my very 
 apparent dislike. 
 
 We dropped the subject then, and I attended 
 card-parties in Morton's room, just as I did in 
 Egerton's, or James's, or in any of the other fel- 
 lows' rooms ; and all the time I did so, I used to 
 grumble at their stupidity, and think I had much 
 rather be whirling down St. Patrick's hall, with 
 a good piirtner, than sitting there with a handful 
 of stupid spotted pasteboard before me. 
 
 The money on the game was the only thing 
 that redeemed it from perfect insipidity in my 
 eyes — and, let me confess, I liked to win. Not 
 that I cared one bit more about the money, I 
 fancy, than any other fellow there ; but because, 
 in any thing I undertook, I could not bear to be 
 beaten. Thinking cards dull, as I did, the un- 
 governable desire to he first in any pursuit I 
 took up made me learn to play them well ; when- 
 ever there was any head-work or skill in the mat- 
 ter, that would, in a measure, make me take an 
 interest in what I was doing ; but those horrid 
 games of chance were my abomination : even 
 winning at them gave me ho satisfaction, because' 
 
100 
 
 OUE DETACHMENT. 
 
 there was nothing but blind chance to thank for 
 it when you did win. 
 
 Claude used to join us tbo. He had not yet 
 gone on leave, though he was going very shortly. 
 I fancy he had more of the gambler in him than 
 I, for he appeared to enjoy the thing, and played 
 rather high occasionally. 
 
 We were all in Morton's rooms one evening, 
 for o,n entertainment of this kind. The business 
 of the evening had not yet commenced : we were 
 standing about talking, and Morton, who, I think, 
 was rather excited, and was speaking more than 
 usual, suddenly led of his own accord to tlie sub- 
 ject of the stolen money, about which he had be- 
 fore avoided talking, 
 
 " I have my eye on the culprit," he said, "and 
 I intend to make an example of him. I have set 
 a trap for him, and he has fallen into it. Very 
 shortly he will be discovered before all eyes." 
 
 " Some poor beggar of a servant, I suppose ?" 
 said Claude, carelessly. " Of course, if he is dis- 
 covered and brought to trial, the authorities will 
 make an example of him without asking your ad- 
 vice. I suppose it is wrong, and soft-hearted of 
 me, but I often feel sorry for people of that kind 
 when they get into trouble. We Iiave no con- 
 ception, can form very little idea of what their 
 temptations may be, and often are. And then 
 one fall, if it is discovered, gets them looked upon 
 as black sheep for the rest of their lives ; whereas, 
 if one of us were capable of doing such a thing, 
 we should probably not make tlie case public, 
 but only force him to sell out quietly ; and he 
 would then be at liberty to make a fresh begin- 
 ning, with no heavier punishment for his sin tlian 
 that. The burdens of this world are very un- 
 equally divided, and, I do believe, often weigh 
 heaviest on those who have least courage to bear 
 them." 
 
 "How do you make that out?" asked Cecil. 
 " 'The back is fitted to the burden,' we know is 
 a proverb ; but your theory does not agree with 
 the ciystallized essence of the wisdom of aJl.ages, 
 as it is thus handed down to us. Where would 
 the weak ones of the world be, if it were they 
 who were obliged to carry the heaviest burdens ?" 
 
 Claude laughed. 
 
 "You think you have got me into a corner, 
 Egerton, and you are right, in a kind of way. I 
 can not explain what I mean, though I feel it. 
 The ones who are most likely to give way under 
 trouble are often sent the heaviest trials to bear. 
 Perhaps it is their own disposition that makes it 
 heavier to tliem than to other people — and yet 
 that can not be the cause altogether. Let me l)e 
 personal, and I will illustrate ray meaning. Of 
 the two of us, I should be, by most people, con- 
 sidered the strongest in will and character — in- 
 deed, I fancy I am very strong that way. But I 
 may venture to predict that through life you 
 will meet with greater misfortunes than I shall. 
 Whether you will succumb under them, or wheth- 
 er you will fight against them boldly and brave- 
 ly, remains to be proved ; but that will, be your 
 fate, I am sure." 
 
 "Your opinion on those matters differs entire- 
 ly from mine," I said boldly ; while Cecil an- 
 swered gloomily, 
 
 " You are rather of the character of Job's com- 
 forters. That is a cheerful prediction with which 
 to begin the evening ; and I am not even partic- 
 ularly fortunate at cards, to make up for the ill- 
 
 luck I am destined to have in other things. 
 Bather hard lines, is it not ?" 
 
 "Never mind that," cried Morton; "let us 
 get to business. But you never asked me how I 
 intended to catch the culprit. It is rather an old 
 trick, but if it seiTes my turn that will do. I had 
 marked the money that was left in my box after 
 I first found that some was gone. The marked 
 money is missing now, and I shall be sure to trace 
 it in a day or two." 
 
 Eeversham laughed heartily. 
 
 " What an idea!" he said. "You will have 
 to get a search-warrant, and examine the contents 
 of the pockets of all the men in the regiment. It 
 will be an arduous undertaking, and I would rath- 
 er you did it than I." 
 
 "A search-warrant is not needed," replied 
 Morton ; " I shall find it out without doing that. 
 Besides, I never said the culprit was among our 
 men ; indeed, Egerton can tell you I expressed 
 a different opinion to him. 'You must look 
 higher,' I said ; didn't I, Egerton ?" 
 
 As he appealed thus to Cecil, he laughed a 
 most harsh, unmusical laugh, full of meaning and 
 irony. Cecil looked at him rather contemptu- 
 ously, and I put my hands into my pocket, to 
 keep them off him. I had no need to champion 
 us now, for Eeversham came a step nearer to 
 Morton, and, fixing his handsome dark eyes stern- 
 ly on tlie pale cunning ones of Captain Morton, 
 said, 
 
 "An allusion snch as you have made can not 
 be taken in jest. Do you wish me to take it in 
 earnest ?" 
 
 Morton seemed a little cowed, for he shrunk 
 back, saying, 
 
 " I meant no offense to you. Captain Eeversh- 
 am. Wait awhile, and you will see I never make 
 mistakes, or say things rashly, as you know." 
 
 " If you spoke of any of us, you might just as 
 well have spoken of me. Until one of them is 
 proved to be wrong, any slur passed upon them 
 is passed upon me also, l^lease remember this, 
 Captain Morton, as my temper is short at times." 
 
 "There are many short tempers here, I can 
 tell you," interrupted James. "Do not let us 
 have any of your joking again ; we will none of 
 us take it, any more than Feversham." 
 
 Morton looked round at all of us, with a cyn- 
 ical sneer. 
 
 " I did not mean to ofltentt the honorable com- 
 pany," he said. "Will that explanation do? 
 Because, if so, we had better get to work, and not 
 remain bickering here the whole evening." 
 
 A good many of us looked at each other in 
 doubt. Morton's apology, if it was meant for 
 such, was not of the most civil kind, and did not 
 seem either as if meant. We all felt ourselves 
 outraged by the suspicions he had hinted at, and 
 all were sure that none of their comrades could 
 be guilty of such a deed as this theft of money ; 
 perhaps I alone of all present, when mentally ex- 
 onerating my companions, put in a proviso — ex- 
 cept the man who accuses them. Not that I real- 
 ly for one minute believed him capable of any 
 thing of the kind ; but I was actuated to some 
 such sentiment by my dislike for him, and my 
 remembrance of an old belief among us in our 
 school-days, that he who accused others of any 
 thing very bad must be cap.ible of such an act 
 himself. 
 
 But, though there were many black looks, it 
 
OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 107 
 
 seemed to be decided by common consent that 
 no more notice should be ttiken of Morton's in- 
 nuendo, and we sat down together, in no very 
 pleasant humor with our host, though he was ex- 
 erting himself to the utmost to tiy to do away 
 with the bad impression he had created. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 AT A CARD-TABLE. 
 
 We sat down and began to play. I remember 
 well our game that night was loo. It was a game 
 which I disliljed rather more than most others, 
 and the rest of our set liked it, so wo had it very 
 often. I was always unfortunate in the cards I 
 got, and, as we played moderately high, I some- 
 times lost a good deal. Then I would be pro- 
 voked with myself for having been beguiled into 
 joining in what I really did not care about ; not 
 that I cared much for the loss of the money, but 
 that I would rather have spent it on something 
 else. Money lost at cards is so clean gone, seems 
 so deliberately wasted — or, rather, it is utterly, 
 but not at all deliberately wasted, for more peo- 
 ple lose by getting too excited to know what they 
 are about than by any thing else. 
 
 Whether I was excited or not on that particu- 
 lar evening, I do not know ; 1 think it is more 
 likely I was obstinate. I used to take an obsti- 
 nate fit sometimes, and determine to go on play- 
 ing until I should win, and I made it a kind of 
 point of lionor not to be daunted by ill-luck. On 
 this occasion I lost more than I had ever done 
 before, and what annoyed me more than tlio los- 
 ing was that Morton won all that I had to pay 
 up. Of course it was fortune of war, and I could 
 not blame him, but I scowled at him angrily, as I 
 handed over gold and silver to him perpetually. 
 I was aggravated, too, to notice that he examined 
 the money he received carefully, though slyly, as 
 if afraid of being obser\'ed, and all he received 
 from me he placed on one side, and the rest of 
 his winnings on the other. I had brought down 
 a good deal of money with me for the evening, 
 knowing thati Should probably lose : it was some 
 of what Egerton had paid me for the horse. But 
 I soon came to an end of my stock of ready mon- 
 ey, and in the end had to boiTOW, in order to fin- 
 ish the evening. 
 
 I saw Claude look at me once or twice, as if he 
 was rather sui'prised at my recklessness, but we 
 hardly ever spoke now, and so he said nothing. 
 We sat up late, till between one and two, I think, 
 and I was beginning to get too sleepy for any thing 
 to keep me awake, when we rose from the ta- 
 ble and prepared to leave. Before we had finish- 
 ed talking and putting up our money, however, 
 Morton went to the door, opened it, looked out, 
 and finally shutting it and putting his back against 
 it, said, " I am sorry to be obliged to return to 
 a subject that seemed so disagreeable to all when 
 I mentioned it just now ; but since I spoke to 
 you before, it has become my duty, my painful 
 duty, to allude to the matter again, and to point 
 out the culprit to you. It is for you then to de- 
 cide what shall be done to him." 
 
 " Really this is too bad !" I exclaimed, my an- 
 ger awakening me thorpughly. " We all told 
 you before we would not have yon hinting that 
 one of our number was a thief. If you have any 
 
 thing to say, say it plainly, but mind you will 
 have to prove it." 
 
 " You crow very loud, Darrell, for a fellow who 
 has lost so much as you have this evening," an- 
 swered Morton, pointing to the pile of my losings, 
 which he had carefully set on one side. ' ' See, 
 he has lost this, as you all know, and yet he is 
 not sobered; enough to keep quiet and not speak 
 till he is spoken to, which will, I have no doubt, 
 be soon enough." 
 
 His tone was insufferably impertinent and su- 
 percilious, and I felt an insane desii-e to give him 
 a good pommeling. I restrained myself, how- 
 ever, and replied, "If I can afford to lose, what 
 is it to you whether I do it or not, and why 
 should I be down-hearted ? If I can not afford 
 it, it is still no business of yours, so long as you 
 are paid." 
 
 " What is it yon have to say, Morton ?" asked 
 Eeversham, coldly ; "wo can not all stand here 
 to watch you and Darrell spaning. But mind, 
 as the boy said, you had better bring forward no 
 charge unless you can prove it." 
 
 " What do you consider proof ? If the marked 
 money is found on him, will that do ?" 
 
 " Unless he can explain how he got it, and 
 prove that he received it from some other per- 
 son, it will naturally go far toward condemning 
 him : indeed you will then have ground for your 
 assertions, and I suppose we might have to be- 
 lieve him. But why put such a case ?" contin- 
 ued Feversham, impatiently. " I do not believe 
 you will be able to find your marked money on 
 any one here." 
 
 " Do not be so sure," sneered Morton, getting 
 defiant, as he began to feel sure of his ground ; 
 "it may come nearer home to yoa than you 
 think." 
 
 " WTiat do you mean, you scoundrel!" cried 
 Eeversham, seizing Morton by the collar of the 
 coat. "Do you dare to insinuate that I could 
 do such a thing?" and in his passion Claude 
 shook Morton as though he had been a rat in 
 the jaws of a terrier, while I grinned with delight 
 at seeing him so ti-eated. 
 
 " Take your hands oif me !" cried Morton, an- 
 grily ; "I said nothing about you, and unless the 
 cap fitted, there was not the least necessity for 
 you to wear it. But though it is not you, it is a 
 relation of yours. That is the fellow!" he con- 
 tinued, pointing to me. 
 
 This time I did not pause or think — I sprang 
 at him, and struck him a blow with the back of 
 my hand across the mouth, saying, " Take that, 
 liar!" 
 
 I struck him hard, and for a minute, between 
 pain and bewilderment, he was unable to speak, 
 while all the others stood round looking at us in 
 amazement. Claude alone retained his presence 
 of n:ind, and seizing me by the arras, as I was 
 about to renew the attack, drew me back, say- 
 ing, in a low voice, "Keep quiet; violence will 
 make your case worse ; I will see that vou have 
 fair play." 
 
 " Then yon do not believe that of me, Claude ?" 
 I cried, almost pleadingly. I knew he had 
 thought badly of me, and it seemed to me that, 
 if he did not believe this of me, neither would 
 any one else ; besides, his kind voice, his speak- 
 ing soothingly to me, now that I was in trouble 
 and wanted help — all this brought up to my mind 
 my old boyish adoration for him, and I felt again 
 
108 
 
 OUE DETACHMENT. 
 
 as I used to do in the times so long past, that I 
 could go through fire and water, to use an ex- 
 pressive saying among the country people, for 
 Lis sake. 
 
 Before Claude could answer, Morton, boiling 
 with rage, had caught up my words, and answer- 
 ed them. "Not believe you did it, you yonrig 
 miscreant!" he said ; " whether he wishes to do 
 so or not, he will have to bejieve'it, for I can 
 prove it. Come here, all qf you, and look at this 
 money ; do you see all found the rim inside a 
 deep scratcli, as if it had been cut with a knife? 
 That is exactly what has been done, and I was 
 the person who did it. Yon yourselves saw Dar- 
 rell give me this money ; you all see how it has 
 been marked. He has had the audacity to pay 
 me back a good deal of it, you may obsei-ve, by 
 way of settling his debts at cards ; but there is 
 more to be found yet. I must insist on search- 
 ing his rooms." 
 
 "Really, Morton, you are acting a great deal 
 too hastily," said Claude, coming forward and 
 speaking in a strange, stiff manner, very unlike 
 his usual way of talking. I could not tell wheth- 
 er he was angry with Morton, and grieved for me, 
 or whether he was inclined to believe there was 
 truth in the accusation and be down upon me. 
 After an instant's pause, during which Morton 
 looked at him defiantly, imagining he was going 
 to take my part, he continued : " I do not won- 
 der Darrell was annoyed at your insulting words. 
 You must know that it is extremely probable he 
 received it from some one else. At any rate you 
 should first have pointed out to him tliat it was 
 some of the stolen money, and then have asked 
 him how it came into his possession." 
 
 " I shall act in whatever way I think fit in such 
 a case as this," answered Morton, "and shall 
 take any measures I may see to be right." 
 
 "Then you are extremely likely to get your- 
 self into trouble some of these days," said Claude 
 haughtily, drawing off from Morton, with a con- 
 temptuous expression, and placing himself by me, 
 in a manner that seemed to say, "At least I wili 
 see fair play." 
 
 There was a short pause, during which several 
 fellows took up the money and examined it. I 
 experienced a curious sensation as I stood there 
 by Feversham waiting for what should come 
 next. I felt as if I was far away, at an im- 
 mense distance in space, removed from this trou- 
 bled scene, and that down the incalculable length 
 of vista I saw dimly the eager, curious faces that 
 crowded round the table, and glanced alternately 
 from me to Morton, and the pile of coin that had 
 caused this uproar. Low arid distant, yet clear 
 and distinct, I coidd hear their voices interrupt- 
 ed by a kind of throbbing in my head, that was 
 caused by the quick pulsations of iny passionate 
 youthful blood : what struck me most of all was 
 one figure, that seemed nearer to me than the 
 others, and in whose eyes there was a hesitating, 
 uncertain, and yet anxious look. 
 
 This figure was Egerton's ; he had come near- 
 er to me, after he had heard me accused of snch 
 a pitiful crime, as though he wished to show me 
 by that action that he did not believe it ; and all 
 the timiJ ho looked at me with snch troubled 
 eyes, that seemed to be asking some question he 
 would not put into words. His look haunted 
 me; it contained a petition I felt sure, but — 
 what petition ? The money that I had paid 
 
 down to Morton, and that was marked, I tad re^ 
 ceived from Egerton, in payment for thi'malsi 
 Twilight. I had told Jiim, laughing, that' I t^ 
 tended to keep it by me for ftny■*e^nergenc3^, ands 
 he must have knowa^'prgtty w«ll*h^it was thB'' 
 money which was eausin^ the^preiaMRfeturbanco;' 
 
 Yet he did not come forw'afd ta feay what he 
 knew of it, and the questioning gaze he turned 
 on me seemed to plead with me not to reveal 
 that he had any thing to do in the matter. I 
 could not, and would not, think ill of him ; yet I 
 wondered he did not avow the coin had come 
 to me from him. At any rate, he wished to keep 
 that fact a secret, and by me, at least it would 
 not be divulged. I met his gaze openly and 
 steadily, smiling to him to encourage him, and 
 show him that he had nothing to fear from my 
 telling how I came by the money. My look 
 seemed to re-assure him, for after meeting it he 
 turned away and ex,amined the mark on one of 
 the sovereigns. 
 
 Then Morton spoke. 
 
 "Notwithstanding yonr championing yonr 
 cousin, I'evershaiti, I shall think it my duty to 
 search his room. But first we will hear what 
 account he has to give of the way in which he 
 became possessed of the money." 
 
 " I have no account to give," I answered stout- 
 ly, looking him boldly in the face. The charge 
 was absurd, and I did not feel in the least fright-, 
 ened, and so I showed by my manner. ■ 
 
 " It came to me through other hands, of course, 
 or else I should not have it; hut I am not in the 
 habit of keeping a memorandum of every sum of . 
 money I receive, and who pays it to me. I deny, 
 your charge emphatically, and think you are a 
 fool for having entertained such an idea for a 
 minute. That is all. Now come and seai'ch the 
 room if you like. " 
 
 Here Claude put his hand on my shoulder. 
 
 "If you know who gave you that money, tell 
 him," he said, in a low tone. " It is better to 
 prove him in the wrong if you can. He is de- 
 termined to give you trouble, and you may save 
 yourself a great deal of annoyance if you are able 
 to show at once how you came by it." 
 
 " That it is not possible for me to do, Claude," 
 I answered. " I got it some way in change, I 
 know ; but at any rate, my denial is enough, or 
 ought to be enough, and I will not attempt any 
 other defense." 
 
 Claude shook his head as if he did not agree 
 with me, and Morton looked at me with a fiend- 
 ish exultation in his eye: he had me in his pow- 
 er, he fancied, and I could ^ee he thought so by 
 the triumphant malignity of his expression. ' He 
 waited for a minute, as though giving' riie time 
 for my defense ; then, seeing I remained silent, 
 he said, ', 
 
 "Let ns come now to fflsroom. We shall 
 soon see if he has got anymore of such ill-gotten 
 gains in hiding." 
 
 Again I would have struck him could I have 
 got at him, and this time I should have stuck to 
 him and not let liim off so easily ; but Claude, 
 fearing what might happen, put his arm within 
 mine and held me back. 
 
 "The innocent are patient," he whispered. 
 "Wait till he has committed liimself to somo 
 course against which you can protest when your 
 innocence is proved. Let him search; it will 
 be all the better for yon thaf fie should do so, 
 
. OUB DETACHMENT. 
 
 109 
 
 and will, when nothing is found, produce a good 
 impression on tliose who would condemn you if 
 you were to resist." 
 
 "But suppose he does find something?" I 
 said; "it is quite probable he may. I keep a 
 lot of cash about me always, and wherever I got 
 that I may have got more. I can not say for 
 certain that he may not find plenty more marked 
 coin." 
 
 I could feel Claude's hand that rested on my 
 arm tremble a little as I spoke, and I continued : 
 
 " If you begin to think badly of me, if you 
 doubt my word and regret the course you have 
 taken, leave me. I have courage to face this, I 
 hope, and will stand or fall alone, as a brave man 
 should." 
 
 '*■! won't leave you," he answei-ed, "unless 
 matters turn out worse than I expect. Only 
 proof could make me believe you guilty, and 
 proof you could not expect me to disbelieve." 
 
 "I think, in that case, you had better leave 
 me now," I said. " This man is determined the 
 theft shall be brought home to me, and has, no 
 doubt, taken his measures accordingly. You 
 would believe any case he has trumped up ; un- 
 less you have an implicit and unswerving confi- 
 dence in me that nothing can shake, you had 
 better avoid the disgrace of having championed 
 a losing cause." 
 
 Ispoke bitterly and shook off his arm with 
 sudden passion as I spoke. I had been too hasty 
 in believing him to be tlie true friend I had ex- 
 pected, and the revulsion of feeling at finding 
 liim doabtfui and lukewarm drove me to cast 
 him off altogether. 
 
 He looked at me very reproachfully, very sadly. 
 "You have none of the confidence of innocence," 
 he said, " and yet I can not believe it of you." 
 
 "Do you expect me to be confident, when I 
 know that man has laid his plans to convict me ? 
 Such things have been done before as provinig 
 an innocent man guilty, and may be done again; 
 therefore I can not have any feeling of security. 
 In this case innocence can not save me : only 
 proving guilt in another would give me a chance. " 
 
 "Is there any other, then, whom you think 
 guilty? — who is it?" 
 
 ' 'Ask Morton, " I answered, shortly ; " he seems 
 to know so much about it, perhaps he knows 
 that too, if.he would only tell it." 
 
 We had by this time arrived at my rooms, and 
 forthwith the search was to commence. 
 
 "Tliere is no need for your doing that kind 
 of thing," I cried indignantly, as I saw Morton 
 looking into a box in which I kept a little leath- 
 er case containing two photographs of Gwendo- 
 line Bambridge-^ how" obtained it is unneces- 
 sary to state. 
 
 "Only a woman's portrait,"' said Morton, 
 throwing it on tlie table with a coarse laugh. 
 "Mr. Darrell has taste, it seems, for she is un- 
 commonly good-looking. Will you introduce me 
 to her, if I let you off free from this scrape ?" 
 
 He had thrown -the case open on the table, 
 and Claude, standing nearer to it than I was, 
 saw of whom it was the photogi-aph. 1 could 
 notice his hand clench, and the stern expression 
 of his face grow sterner, as he listened to Mor- 
 ton's mocking words. Then, before I, choked 
 and overcome by passion, could speak or step 
 fonvard, he put out his hand and shut the case, 
 saying, 
 
 "If duty gives yon the right to search Bar- 
 ren's rooms, it does not give you the right to be 
 insulting, remember that ; remember, too, I am 
 your senior. Do not force me to show you that 
 I will not allow you to outstep the limits of your 
 duty." 
 
 "Here are my keys," I said, handing them to 
 Feversham when I could speak. "In my desk 
 you will find all my money, and you are at lib- 
 erty to examine it. As for Captain Morton, our 
 day of reckoning will come, of that I feel cer- 
 tain, and then, I hope, he will have occasion to 
 remember the way in which lie has treated me 
 to-night." 
 
 I spoke coldly and proudly ; I looked calmly 
 and quietly at the faces around me, but it was 
 by an effort I did it. I began to see that this 
 was not an ebullition of rage and malice, work- 
 ing on a vague surmise, without plan or premed- 
 itation, but a deep-laid, long-concocted scheme ; 
 and I had no hope of escape from so cunning 
 and crafty an eneraj' as this. I had not yet had 
 time to realize what would be the consequences 
 to me if this crime was brought home to me ; I 
 was too much occupied with tlie degradation it 
 was to me that any one should think it possible 
 he could, with any chance of proving it, accuse 
 me of such 'a. deed. ■ There was the improbabili- 
 ty. In the first pkiee, 1 was rich ; in the second 
 place, I had never liad any fondness for money, 
 as money, that should lead roe to try to accumu- 
 late it. Surely my comrades, knowing me, would 
 laugh at the matter as absurd — would detect the 
 spite that actuated the charge, 
 
 I looked at them as I tliought thus. They 
 were all grouped around my, desk, busy examin- 
 ing the money that had been found there, and 
 most of their tilces wore a grave, constrained ex- 
 pression, as numerous marked pieces wei:e dis- 
 covered. Only Egerton did not join thenji— did 
 not seem to care to take part in tjhe search; He 
 appeared to be in deep thoughi", but now and 
 then fixed his eyes on me with that earnest, 
 questioning gaze I could by no means compre- 
 hend. Then I heard Morton's harsh voice say, 
 
 " There must be more somewhere. Of course 
 this is enough to ornninate him — in my eyes, at 
 least — but we had better search the room thor- 
 oughly, before we leave, for the thirty pounds 
 that has not y.et been discovered." 
 
 I thought he did it with^a desire to prolong 
 the annoyance he knew I experienced at seeing 
 him. handling my treasures, and so I sat down 
 and pretended not to notice him ; but I knew 
 afterward he had other motives prompting him 
 to continue the search. 
 
 He displayed man-elons ingenuity in this kind 
 of domiciliary visit, so much so that at length, 
 thoroughly aggravated, I called out: "I should 
 say Captain Morton had been in the Prench po- 
 lice before he entered our army ; he seems in- 
 tended by nature as a spy. Only I think if he 
 had ever made acquaintance with the, police at 
 all, it must have been in not quite so pleasant a 
 manner as if he had been one of them." 
 
 Morton glared at me for a minute, and then 
 answered : " I shall have the pleasure of seeing 
 you in the position you, allude to, some daj', I 
 hope. I shall not drop this, you may be sure, 
 but will work it out to the uttermost." 
 
 " So I see," I replied, leaning back carelessly 
 on the sofa. There was a good deal of bravjido 
 
110 
 
 OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 in my mp.nnei- and attitude, but I could not help 
 it in speaking to this nmn ; he used to irritate 
 me beyond all endurance. But as I answered 
 him now, I could perceive that already several 
 of my old companions looked coldly on me, and 
 regarded my attempt at cheerfulness as a proof 
 of hardened guilt. 
 
 I ceased speaking suddenly when I saw this, 
 for among the number of those who so looked at 
 me was Claude. For a moment the full magni- 
 tude of the danger, the enormity and depth of 
 the disgrace that menaced me, flashed upon me, 
 and I felt overwhelmed. Something seemed to 
 rise in my throat and choke me, and the blood 
 surged upward to my head in a blinding, tumult- 
 uous wave that rendered me dizzy and confused, 
 and prevented me for a time from seeing what 
 was going on around me. 
 
 I lost consciousness that any one was in the 
 room with me ; friends or foes might have seen 
 my anguish then — it was all one to me ; but they 
 were too busy looking for more proofs of my 
 guilt, and I was alone with my agony, though in 
 a room full of people. 
 
 Can you understand what it was to me, that 
 the man I had loved and reverenced above all 
 others, the man who knew every thought of my 
 heart, every impulse of my mind, "mine own 
 familiar friend," should have turned his back on 
 me and left me in my direst need? That he 
 should have known me so little, cared for me so 
 lightly, as to believe this terrible charge? No 
 words can tell the bitterness of that moment ; it 
 was one of those that fortunately seldom occur 
 even once in u lifetime. Alas for the boasted 
 courage of a brave man, it would not long endure 
 such trials as that! it endures them but poorly 
 at any time, I think. I know that in my case, 
 though I recovered sufficiently in a few minutes 
 to meet the eyes that I expected every minute 
 turned on me, I had no longer at heart any cour- 
 age at all, and told myself it had been better for 
 me I had never been bom than that I should 
 have lived for such an hour as this. 
 
 It seemed to me then as if all the coming 
 years flashed before me, and I saw myself lonely 
 and miserable, living always a blfghted man, un- 
 der the shadow of a great disgrace, branded with 
 a tarniched name. I who had been so proud of 
 our noble name — who had exulted in the honor 
 and good report of many gallant ancestors — who, 
 protected by the shadow of their fame, had made 
 my way fearlessly so far in the world, dreaming 
 that no act or word of mine should ever sully an 
 unspotted shield, that no disgrace through deed 
 of mine should darken the glorious renown of 
 other days. 
 
 And now how was it ? I could have groaned, 
 but that there were malicious ears near to hear 
 and gloiy in my misery. I could have wept bit- 
 ter tears of outraged feeling, but that there were 
 cruel eyes turned on me, that would have taken 
 this as a cowardly shrinking from the conse- 
 quences of sin. I tried to bear up ; if every thing 
 went against me, there would be time enough for 
 grief and anguish by-and-by — all life, in fact ; if 
 I escaped, if the innocence that I knew to be 
 mine was proclaimed openly, sorrow would be 
 wasted ; I would be strong, I would be patient, 
 though it was hard to find either strength or pa- 
 tience nnder the circumstances. 
 
 But in this, at least, I would be master — I 
 
 would govern my own thoughts, if I could con» 
 trol nothing else ; and, full of this determination, 
 I set myself to think of other things. But of 
 what could I think ? Of course my mind turned 
 naturally to Gwendoline, but the only idea con- 
 nected with her that presented itself was, What 
 would she think of this ? Would she believe my 
 innocence, or would she be tempted, by her love 
 for Claude, to take his side in the matter ? I was 
 torturing myself with these questions, to which I 
 could return no possible answer, when a bustle at 
 the other end of the room attracted my attention. 
 
 I heard exclamations of pained surprise, and 
 looking toward the others, saw that they were all 
 gathered round Captain Morton, examining some 
 money he was showing them. He was standing 
 near my easy-chair ; he had taken up the cushion 
 of the seat, and, as well as I could see, had ripped 
 it open. 
 
 "Halloo!" I cried, seeing this, "I don't be- 
 lieve your powers give you the right of tearing up 
 my furniture, and I object. Put down that cush- 
 ion, if you please." 
 
 "We will, with pleasure," replied Captain 
 Morton, in an ironically polite manner. " We 
 have found out all we want from it. The cover- 
 ing of it was a little torn, which led me to ex- 
 amine it, and there I found the missing thirty 
 pounds. It was an ingenious hiding-place, and 
 if you had sat down in it, instead of on the sofa, 
 you might have saved yourself, perhaps. What 
 made you be such a fool ?" 
 
 "Because I did not know as much about it 
 as you did," I answered; "that money was put 
 there, and you were the person who did it !" 
 
 "The money was put there, no doubt, or else 
 it would not be there now," sneered Morton; 
 ' ' but I should like to know how, if it was I put 
 it there, you came to be spending it. There is 
 another fifty pounds, that was taken little by lit- 
 tle at first, before I was aware there was a thief 
 among us : your people will have to pay that up. 
 I made it good, and took my time to catch the 
 culprit ; but for that I should not have found you 
 out now. Your people, I imagine, will be willing 
 to pay higher than that to keep it dark. I should 
 have thought your allowance was sufficiently good 
 to remove all temptation to theft." 
 
 The words were hardly out of his mouth before 
 he measured his length on the ground. ' ' Now," 
 I said, looking round on all the stern, condemning 
 faces around me, " that man is a liar, and I have 
 treated him as he deserves ; I will do the same 
 by any man who addresses such words to me, or 
 whom I hear of as having used such words in 
 regard to me." 
 
 No one spoke ; but this time, as I stood look- 
 ing defiantly at my some-time comrades, so sud- 
 denly transformed into prejudiced judges, no 
 friendly words from Claude's voice exercised 
 their soothing influence over me, no kind press- 
 ure of his hand soothed the turbulence of my 
 troubled spirit. I was all alone, I thought, and 
 the bitterness of that feeling almost unmanned 
 me.' Not one of all my old friends to stand up 
 for me! not one of them to clasp my hand in 
 his, in token of frank and hearty belief! — nothing 
 but cold, stern, frowning faces, whichever way I 
 turned my eyes. 
 
 No, I made a mistake — there was one faithful 
 and true, there was one who understood my sor- 
 row and pitied me, and who, coming up to me 
 
OUE DETACHMENT. 
 
 Ill 
 
 boldly before them all, said clearly and distinctly, 
 " Keep up your heart, Darrell. A great case has 
 been made out against you ; but I know yon, as 
 many here ought to know you, and I declare I 
 would sooner mistrust myself than you. Have 
 no fear, the guilty will be discovered some day, 
 and yon will come out of your trial with untar- 
 nished honor." He took my hand as he spoke, 
 and grasping it warmly, said in a low tone in 
 German : " There is a flaw in this ; I see it — and 
 I think I can trace it out ; but give me a day or 
 two, and say nothing." 
 
 The man who spoke thus boldly and bravely 
 for me was Egerton. He looked as if he had 
 wakened up out of dream-land ; there was a fire 
 in his eye, a decision in his tone, most unusual to 
 him. Whatever had occupied his mind when I 
 saw him musing had apparently resolved itself 
 into some definite resolution, and that resolution, 
 he fancied, would have good results for me. 
 
 But I had no such hope. I thought I knew 
 very well what he was going to do. He intend- 
 ed to declare his share in the matter — to an- 
 nounce that it was he had given me the marked 
 money (for he knew that tlie money found in my 
 desk was part of what he had given me for Twi- 
 light), and perhaps state from whom he had ob- 
 tained it ; but he quite forgot that this would in 
 ' no way account for the money found in the chair- 
 cushion ; or perhaps, in his absent-minded way, 
 he may have thought I hid it there for safety. I 
 could see his plea would avail me little ; there- 
 fore, though I grasped his hand warmly in return, 
 I did not feel as much cheered as I ought to have 
 done. ' 
 
 Then they all left the room, and I was alone. 
 I was placed under arrest, and told that next day 
 some one would be sent to me to tell me what 
 decision they had arrived at after considering the 
 facts brought before them. They would then de- 
 termine whether I should be brought before a 
 court-martial, or in what manner they should 
 deem it advisable to act toward me. ' 
 
 "And," said Morton, turning as he was about 
 to leave the room, "you had better write to the 
 old fellow to stump up ; for whatever leniency 
 we might be inclined to show you in letting you 
 sell out quietly, would be prevented if I had to 
 report the manner in which this money has been 
 lost ; and I must do so soon, if it is not at once 
 made good." 
 
 Before I could answer he had left the room, 
 and the door was shut. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 A MIDNIGHT COUNOIt. 
 
 All my old friends — most of whom, at least, 
 were now friends of mine no longer — went back to 
 Morton's room to talk over the terrible discovery 
 they had just made, and to deliberate what course 
 they should pursue. Egerton went with them, to 
 hear what they had to say, and to raise his voice 
 against the general belief that I was in any way 
 connected with the theft. 
 
 Morton ■was fiendishly exultant, and ex- 
 claimed : 
 
 "This explains the length of time that young 
 villain took examining the lock of that box one 
 
 day he was in my room when you were there, 
 Eeversham. Don't you remember how he look- 
 ed at it, and he said it was the most complicated 
 lock he had ever seen? We were not minding 
 him ; probably he took the impression of the key 
 then. I always suspected him. People who make 
 a loud talk and profession of their upriglitness and 
 principle are nearly always scoundrels." 
 
 "Why, what a bad character you are giving 
 yourself. Captain Morton !" said Egerton, in a sly, 
 quiet tone ; and every one, iu spite of the gener- 
 al concern and annoyance, laughed, for of all the 
 men in the regiment perhaps Morton was the only 
 one who did make much talk about, and a loud 
 profession of, his high principles. We had often 
 been inclined to think they were not more visi- 
 ble than those of most men who said less, but we 
 heard about them all the same. 
 
 Morton bit his lip, and glared at Egerton as if 
 he would like to eat him. 
 
 " You are a friend of that fellow's," he said, 
 "and, I suppose, go in for standing up for him. 
 ' Birds of a feather flock together ' is an old say- 
 ing, and you might as well look out for yourself 
 before you champion him. Are you sure you 
 have none of that money on you?" 
 
 Morton's manner was fearfully insulting, and 
 I suppose everyone looked at Egerton to see. how 
 he would take it — thinking, too, that if Morton 
 did come in for another blow, he would richly de- 
 serve it, and Cecil's conduct would be excusable. 
 Imagine their surprise when Cecil, with a lazy 
 smile, said somewhat irrelevantly, 
 
 " If you give a rogue rope enough, he is sure 
 to hang himself; but you are mistaken about 
 my having any of that money. Captain Morton. 
 Eortunately for myself, I paid it all away a few 
 days ago." 
 
 He. had been leaning up against the door -in 
 a languid attitude, looking very tired and worn 
 out, for he had never thoroughly recovered ,since 
 his accident, and the excitement of the evening 
 had exhausted him. But when he spoke he 
 stood up, and looked at Morton in a peculiar, 
 meaning manner : what the meaning of his look 
 might be no one knew, but its effect on Morton 
 was apparent. For a few seconds he gazed at 
 Cecil as if fascinated, and turned, not \yhite, but 
 a ghastly greenish hue ; then recovering himself, 
 apparently by a powerful effort, he turned away 
 his head, laughed nervously, and said, ■ 
 
 "That is a good joke, Egerton, but you may 
 cany a joke- too far, you know ; and your words 
 can be used against yourself." 
 
 "I never said' I was joking," replied Cecil, 
 falling back languidly into his former position, 
 and taking no notice of the many curious looks 
 directed at him. "Now, gentlemen, please de- 
 cide on something.. I want to turn in, and I 
 can not do so until I hear the result of this. Do 
 you know that it is three o'clock, and we shall 
 soon be having day here again ?" 
 
 He spoke in a pleased,. chee.rfnl.mannei-, and 
 had altogether lost the depression that had ta- 
 ken possession of him when I was'first accused. 
 Feversham looked up at him in surprise. 
 
 "You don't seem very sorry for your friend," 
 he said. 
 
 "No," replied Cecil, "because I don't doubt 
 him ; because I know him to be innocent, and 
 believe his innocence will yet be proved ; because 
 I have not turned my back on him in his trour 
 
112 
 
 OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 ble, and have therefore nothing wherewith to re- 
 proach myself." 
 
 Eeversham's grave, sad eyes looked straight up 
 at Cecil with a little admiration as he said this. 
 
 "Indeed you are right," he answered. "Though 
 you may wonder at my acknowledging you are 
 so, and not being of yonr opinion myself. But 
 I know more of Darrell than you do : I know 
 that he is not what I once thought him — he has 
 disappointed me greatly ; I knoto that it is pos- 
 sible for him to be grossly dishonorable — I have 
 known it for some time, but I did not choose to 
 mention my knowledge, fearing that if eveiy one 
 knew him for what he is, he would lose the in- 
 centive to good behavior furnished in a wish to 
 appear well before the world. I only mention it 
 now to show to you that I have good and just 
 reason for doubting him : knowing, as from ante- 
 cedent circumstances I think I do know, that this 
 charge is true, there is no longer any object in 
 trying to keep up his character before the world, 
 for this theft can not remain hidden." 
 
 "You talk about justice," replied Egerton — 
 "there is not much justice in you when you 
 condemn a man before he is tried. You are too 
 hai-d. Lord Feversham ; yon will not see that 
 circumstances are often against people, and that 
 they sometimes appear to have committed deeds 
 that they have never had any hand in ; some 
 of the best qualities of human nature may pre- 
 vent them clearing themselves fiom the charge 
 brought against them. Such I believe to be the 
 case with Darrell now. I am convinced he 
 knows from whom he received the money ; that 
 lie believes that person to be innocent, and that 
 he prefere rather to bear the blame himself than 
 to shift it on to other shoulders less able tlian 
 his to bear the burden, unless that other comes 
 forward and claims the matter as his own. Af- 
 ter all, though the notes found in the chair were 
 the ones missing, perhaps some one m,"iy yet be 
 found to tell us liow they got there. And out of 
 all the money Captain Morton claims as stolen 
 propertv, only four or five pieces were found with 
 Darrell'." 
 
 "Of course I did not mark it all," growled 
 Morton. "I only scratched about a dozen 
 pieces, between gold and silver." 
 
 "Yes, I can quite understand that," replied 
 Egerton; "a few coins like that soon pass 
 through a good many hands, and are less easily 
 traced to their original source. But, you see, 
 if Darrell has even half of it — that is all — where 
 is the rest ?" 
 
 " I suggested it might bo with you." 
 
 "You did, Captain Morton — thanks for the 
 suggestion ; I shall remember it next time I have 
 dealings with you. But, as I told you before, I 
 have already passed it on. Shall I mention who 
 gave it to me ?" 
 
 " Can't you be serious, Egerton ?" said Crtptain 
 Morton, hai-shly ; " you know veiy well you 
 would not talk that way if you really ever had 
 any of it." ■ 
 
 "Yon don't seem to wish to believe me," said 
 Egerton,'sarca8tically. "I am sure my words 
 are quite suspicious enough to warrant my be- 
 ing searched and put under arrest; why don't 
 you do it?" 
 
 Morton looked greatly distressed and agita- 
 ted ; his expression was that of a hunted wild 
 animal. Every one noticed it, and wondered as 
 
 he glanced from Feversham to Cecil, as though 
 appealing to Feversham to interfere between 
 tliem and make Egerton keep silence. Feversh- 
 am noticed this at last, and looking up, said: 
 ' ' Beally, Egerton, you had much better be quiet, 
 and let us proceed to business. We shall have 
 taken no definite resolution to-night if you in- 
 terrupt the proceedings again in this way. If 
 you interfere, I shall request jou to leave the 
 room." 
 
 Egerton did not answer; and then Morton, 
 having recovered his self-possession, recapitula- 
 ted the facts already related, alluding to Darrell's 
 apparent implication in them with great viru- 
 lence and malignity. 
 
 There was a good deal of talking over the 
 matter, but Claude's words a few minutes before 
 had greatly biased all minds, and it was the 
 opinion of all who had heard him that if Darrell's 
 own cousin believed he was guilty of this act it 
 was as good as proof that he must be guilty. 
 Men are so like a flock of shcej), with all their 
 individual independence of judgment. Where 
 one will step boldly forward and lead, the mass 
 are sure to follow, and will ask no better reason 
 for the course they are pursuing than that so- 
 and-so does it. And in this case of mine it 
 was the same. Claude had taken the lead 
 against me, and his opinions carried more weight 
 than was attached to that of any other man in 
 the regiment ; he was very deservedly popular, 
 and was known to be a just and honorable man. 
 lie would not have condemned me without 
 cause; he must know more about me than 
 others, therefore I was guilty. 
 
 Yes, all those there assembled, with the ex- 
 ception of Egerton, were agreed on that point. 
 It was decided that next morning those of our 
 number who had not been in Morton's rooms 
 that night should be told what had there passed, 
 and should be asked to give their opinion on the 
 matter also. If a majority agreed in thinking 
 me guilty, I was to be given my choice, whether 
 I would sell out at once quietly, paying Morton 
 up the losses to avoid scandal, or whether I 
 would prefer to remain and run my chance at a 
 court-martial. This was the substance of their 
 decision that evening, and certainly it was treat- 
 ing me very leniently, owing, I believe, to 
 Claude's influence. He had done what he 
 thought was right in declaring me guilty, but he 
 put in his voice on the side of mercy, when it 
 came to be a matter of discussing the punish- 
 ment. Strange to say, also, Morton did not 
 urge bringing me before a court-martial; he 
 suggested it once, as a matter of form, but seem- 
 ed relieved when no one took it up; and thus 
 matters were settled before any of the party 
 separated. 
 
 When they were all going off to their own 
 rooms, Cecil followed James, saying, " Will you 
 let me speak to you for a minute; it is about 
 something important, and I will not keep you 
 long." 
 
 "Don't, that's I a good fellow," said James. 
 " I am upset about, this business, and I want to 
 think it over. Of course, if Feversham says 
 Darrell is gnilty, I suppose he is so ; and you 
 see he says he caught him, some time ago, in 
 something dishonor.ibIe ; that is the reason tjiey 
 have not been good friends lately. But I should 
 have held out stoutly against the idea of poor lit- 
 
OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 113 
 
 tie Madcap being concerned in sucli a tiling, but 
 for his cousin saying he was so." 
 
 "Do not believe Eeversham,'' cried Cecil ea- 
 gerly. "I do not mean to say for one minute 
 he would say what was not true, for any one ; 
 but do you not see there has been some misun- 
 derstanding between them, and Feversham is 
 prejudiced." 
 
 They had arrived in James's rooms by this 
 time, and Cecil looked round, as lie always did 
 on entering them, with an overpowering feeling 
 of wonder at the orderly nature of this man. 
 You could see it in his dress and all over him, 
 even in the curl of his mustache, but above all 
 in his rooms. They would have been a lesson 
 to an old maid; and though he was a young 
 fellow — five or six and twenty — his fate was 
 already regarded as sealed. It was not possible 
 that a man so preternaturally and punctiliously 
 neat and orderly would ever consent to unite his 
 lot with that of another person who would prob- 
 ably be unlike him in every lespect, and who 
 would ceaselessly vex his precise soul by untidy, 
 reckless habits. For in his eyes every body was 
 reckless and untidy except himself and his man 
 Martin, whom he had picked up after constant 
 and diligent search, and whom he had drilled in 
 the way he should go, until he as nearly ap- 
 proached perfection as was possible. 
 
 Cecil had always been inclined to be vexed 
 whenever he had entered James's room before. 
 It is human nature to feel a little nettled at seeing 
 any one in any way indisputably superior to one's 
 self, especially when that person is rather fond 
 of alluding to it ; and this, it must be allowed, 
 was a failing with James. .Now, however, Eger- 
 ton looked round with a certain sense of satisfac- 
 tion. A man so very orderly in his mode of liv- 
 ing must naturally be orderly about his money 
 and expenses. 
 
 "Do you remember my paying you a small 
 debt of two or three pounds I owed you, a week 
 or two ago ?" asked Egerton. 
 
 "Yes, certainly," replied James; "I have got 
 it entered here " — taking out a small pocket- 
 book. ' ' It was — let me see — ^just ten days ago. " 
 
 " Have you the money, or have you spent it?" 
 demanded Cecil, eagerly. 
 
 "I have it. I have not been spending much 
 lately, and it happens I have not used that. Do 
 you want it again ?" 
 
 " I want it to look at. Will vou let me see it 
 now?" 
 
 In a few minutes more Cecil was standing by 
 the lamp, turning the money over eagerly in bis 
 hand. 'There were three sovereigns, and sever- 
 al pieces of silver money. Out of all this Cecil 
 picked four pieces, and handing them to James, 
 said, 
 
 "Examine those, and see if they are not mark- 
 ed, like the money we were looking at this even- 
 ing." 
 
 " So they are !" cried James. "Why, I might 
 have been taken up for having stolen money too, 
 if they had only known. But I got them from 
 you, Egerton J .What does it all mean ?" 
 
 Egerton laughed. 
 
 "You heard me tell Morton I had passed on 
 all I had, and, you see, I spoke truly ; but I will 
 tell you more. . I was the person who gave poor 
 Darrell the money that has got him into trouble. 
 I gave it to him iu parment for a horse. Ue, 
 '8 
 
 poor fellow ! did riot like to do me mischief, I 
 could see, and therefore declined to tell how he 
 came by it." 
 
 "But I do not understand this," said James, 
 in a bewildered manner. " Why did you not at 
 once clear him ? Of course, as you acknowledge 
 so coolly having the money, you can account for 
 how you came by it? You really should not let 
 that poor boy pass the night under such an im- 
 putation." 
 
 "I set it all right with liim when I bade him 
 good-night. You must promise not to breathe 
 a word of this to any one until I ask you. /am 
 going to catch a thief now, and secrecy is neces- 
 saiy." 
 
 "Very well," said James. "I must say I 
 think this a rum start — and amatenr thief-taking 
 is not an occupation that seems by any means 
 infaUible, or that I should like to take to, from 
 what I have seen of it. But you know your own 
 business best, and, I must say, I think you will 
 behave better, generally, to those whom you sus- 
 pect than Morton does." 
 
 "Yes," answered Egerton, laughing; "I shall 
 give them time for repentance and confession. 
 But in the ease of the man who did this, I know 
 it will only be giving himself rope to hang him- 
 self with, as I said before." 
 
 " Will you keep the money, or shall I ?" asked 
 James, handling it doubtfully, and looking as if 
 he would like to throw it behind the fire, only 
 there was no fire lighted at the time. 
 
 " Yes, keep it, by all means. It shall not get 
 you into trouble. But now mind, not a word of 
 this to any one. I have not quite finished col- 
 lecting my evidence, and a single premature hint 
 of what was coming might prevent the matter 
 being ever cleared up. And now good-night. 
 Be quite easy about the issue of this, and remem- 
 ber that Darrell iS not the culprit." 
 
 Egerton went away then, and left James in a 
 perplexed frame of mind that made the idea of 
 sleep seem a mockery. At any rate, he reflect- 
 ed, after he had lain some time thinking it over, 
 it was some comfort to find that one person at 
 least firmly believed in Darrell's innocence, though 
 it might be a question whether that person was 
 not implicated in the affair himself, if his own 
 testimony was taken against him. This brought 
 James to a very complicated point in the matter. 
 He could not quite remember whether a man's 
 words would or would not be used as evidence 
 against him in a court of justice. It was either 
 the one or the other, but which was it ? And 
 while considering this intricate problem he fell 
 asleep. 
 
 Cecil had retired to his rooms, pleased and 
 confident of ultimate success in what he had de- 
 cided on undertaking, now that he had ascertain- 
 ed James had the money he had expected to find 
 with him. If James had not kept it the matter 
 would have been different, and the case perhaps 
 more difficult to prove. He had one point now 
 in his favor ; he had an idea he might obtain a 
 point more, in securing a witness that he believed 
 had been present at a transaction that had not 
 yet been laid before Darrell's judges. He did 
 not even to himself specify what his case was, or 
 what he intended to do, though there was a vague 
 foreshadowing of what might happen if such and 
 such preliminaries turned out as he expected and 
 desired. 
 
114 
 
 OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 Feeling particularly plensed with himself, and 
 having for once in hia life a definite purpose that 
 must be wrought out, and that would brook no 
 delay, he kept himself awake also for a time, 
 wondering how he should get hold of Darrell's 
 servant, in order that he might put a few ques- 
 tions to him without exciting suspicion. He 
 could not settle the point that night, however, 
 and was finally obliged to leave it to chance to 
 decide next morning. 
 
 Claude was perhaps the one who was most un- 
 happy at the fate that had befallen me ; all the 
 more because, though he had acted, as he thought, 
 according to the right, he felt that he had aban- 
 doned me when I most stood in need of a friend. 
 It was not less bitter to him to remember that I 
 had found one to stand by me, and that one was 
 not himself. He would never have. believed it 
 possible that I could have been guilty of such a 
 crime, but that the evidence seemed so conclu- 
 sive ; besides, there was my conduct toward him, 
 which proved that I had, as he thought, neither 
 honor nor principle In me. But what was the 
 temptation in this case? In that other, he knew 
 that I had an inducement which I had been un- 
 able to resist, that had lured many a man before 
 me into the lowest depths of dishonor. But 
 about this money — he could not understand it. 
 I had a very liberal allowance ; I was never lim- 
 ited in any way if I wanted to spend beyond that 
 allowance. There was no supposition by which 
 he could account for it, except by putting it down 
 to the innate evil of my disposition. 
 
 It was strange, too, he continued musing, that 
 the evil disposition had not shown itself many 
 years before. Could it be possible that in ail 
 this there had been some hideous mistake, and 
 that he had been a recreant in friendship, and be- 
 lieved the slanders of malicious tongues too hasti- 
 ly? He grew hot at the thought. Was this to 
 be the end of all his fine theories about staunch, 
 true-hearted confidence between those who cared 
 for each other? — tlie end of his oft-proclaimed 
 belief in a loyalty that would stand firm in the 
 face of an army of facts and proofs ? He had 
 latterly got to fancy these theories of the foolish, 
 by-'gqne days when he had first loved Gwendoline 
 Bambridge were childish and Quixotic ; hut now, 
 in his distress at what had happened, his old be- 
 lief in them began to return, and he was harass- 
 ed by doubt and perplexities as to how far his 
 real conduct differed from the conduct he would 
 have adopted had he adhered to his first faith in 
 regard to friendship. 
 
 It is a painful thing to a person of firm, deter- 
 mined character, and strong, high principle, to 
 find he has been acting in a weak, uncertain 
 manner, trying to achieve good by siding first 
 with one party, then with another, and too doubt- 
 ful of where right lies to stand fast by either. 
 He had earnestly desired to do what he believed 
 he ought to do, and now it seemed to him he 
 had not only failed in doing what he had wished, 
 but he had also given opportunity for evil of some 
 kind, which he should have been able to prevent 
 by his influence and example ; for if Darrell was 
 not the culprit, if Feversham had contiimed his 
 friend, this odious attempt to fix the guilt on him 
 would never have taken place ; and if ho was 
 Kuilty, Feversham's friendship and counsel might 
 have kept him from falling into so evil a way. 
 
 No matter how things went, Claude thought 
 
 he must blame himself for mtich of the mischief; 
 and he sat up, staring moodily before him, for 
 nearly an hour after the others had all gone to 
 sleep, trying to settle in what particulars he had 
 been to blame, and wondering sadly whether it 
 was now too late to make amends, and whether 
 he and the boy would ever be again the friends 
 they had once been. He had an uncomfortable 
 feeling that, having rejected my friendship at the 
 time of his illness, I would never be willing to 
 renew my intimacy with him ; that the love then 
 offered and rejected would never be won back to 
 him by a tardy repentance and desire for forgive- 
 ness. 
 
 I do not know whether I ever felt as bitter 
 against him as lie supposed ; I am sure I was 
 very grieved at his conduct toward me, but I al- 
 ways had the feeling that there was some gi'eat 
 reason for his change, all unknown though it was 
 to me, or he would never have behaved to me as 
 he had done. 
 
 Egerton's words had not been the comfort to 
 me he had intended they should be, because I did 
 not in the least understand them, or I understood 
 them in a sense that made them seem very futile 
 to me. It would not please me one bit that my 
 sensitive, gentle-minded friend should have to 
 change places with me, bear all the dreadful over- 
 whelming shame and disgrace of such a charge, 
 and be given over to the decision of a court-mar- 
 tial, which I doubted not would be my fate if he 
 did not step in and rescue me. How he obtained 
 the money was a mystery to me, but one which 
 I knew he would explain when he next saw me. 
 There was one other point which puzzled me 
 more than all the rest, and which, as far as I 
 could judge from his countenance, had actuated 
 him to the course he had taken. This point was 
 the finding of the notes in my chair. Until then 
 I had noticed that his face wore a depressed, anx- 
 ious expression ; then he seemed to relapse into 
 deep thought, out of which he presently aroused 
 himself, looking cheerful, and, for him, very de- 
 termined. Then his whole voice and bearing 
 had been confident and fearless when he had 
 muttered those German words into my ear: he 
 would hardly have looked and spoken so, if the 
 only means of escape for me was to be provided 
 by his taking my place. 
 
 Never mind what he meant, he had been a 
 true friend, when every eye had looked coldly 
 on me ; when maUce had gloated over my piti- 
 ful plight, no friendly hand but his was out- 
 stretched to grasp mine, as I looked round for 
 comfort and support. Do you know what it 
 is to feel yourself an outcast and an alien? — to 
 know that your enemies triumph and scorn 5-ou, 
 that your friends hide their faces and turn away 
 their heads in shame and sorrow, \yhen your 
 name is mentioned? — to feel that for yon, as 
 long as life lasts, while the seasons talje their va- 
 rying course and the old year wastgs away and 
 gives place to the new, there is no longer any 
 hope of restoration to the position you once occu- 
 pied in the honorable esteem of your fellow-men ? 
 — to feel that no repentance can avail to wipe 
 away the stain that rests on your honor, in the 
 sight of those once your equals and your friends, 
 though it may be accepted l>y One higher far and 
 more pitiful than they, and by Him received as 
 a plea for His mercy and succor ? Do you know 
 what it is to feel that you have lost something 
 
OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 115 
 
 lighter than down, more impalpaUe than air, and 
 yet more powerful than the decree of an emperor 
 to raise you in the minds of your fellow -crea- 
 tures, to win their trust and homage? Do you 
 know what it is to feel that, young though you 
 may be, your future is blasted ; that for you 
 there are no more gallant achievements and no- 
 ble deeds, because with them comes observation, 
 and scandal follows hard upon renown, as the 
 jackal follows the lion, to prey upon the offal the 
 noble beast leaves untouched? If you know all 
 this, you know that even the youthful heart will 
 turn sick and faint under the pressure of that 
 heavy chain which the joint opinion of men can 
 lay upon their fellow-men. • Yoii know how that 
 galling yoke can take from the summer sky its 
 beauty, from the green earth its dewy freshness ; 
 how it can steal the enjoyment from health, the 
 pleasure from youth, the strength from a noble 
 heart and an active brain, and even rob beauty 
 of its enchantment, and the excitements of life's 
 spi'ing-time of their ecstasy. 
 
 All this I knew and felt then, and it seemed to 
 me as if the great shadow that had fallen upon 
 me could never be lifted — as if under its baleful 
 darkness I must live a dreaiy, blighted life. Nev- 
 er for me again would friends come gayly and 
 gladly forth to meet me ; the dear people at home 
 would fret sprely and sadly over the blighted 
 prospects and disgraced name Of their loved and 
 only son. They would not believe it of me ; not 
 the less would it break their hearts to know that 
 others believed it. And as I thought of the moth- 
 er of whom I was so proud shunnihg the world 
 she had graced, that she might not have to blush 
 for her boy, my feelings were indescribably bitter. 
 I was young, and did not know how to suffer ; 
 and struggling against the yoke put upon me, 
 the iron entered deeper into my soul, and wound- 
 ed me more and more with every effort of resist- 
 ance. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 THE CULPKIT DETECTED. 
 
 Next day my case was laid before those among 
 the officers of the regiment Who had not been 
 present the night before. They would never 
 have suspected me of such a crime, but the 
 proofs brought forward were startling, and quite 
 strong enough to make these men agree in an 
 opinion that had been expressed by those who 
 were formerly among my best friends. Egerton 
 was absent when this consultation was being held, 
 and James had gone with him : their presence 
 was not needed, however ; they had seen how 
 this affair originated, and had heard the decision 
 arrived at the night before. It was known Eg- 
 erton had maintained my innocence, in the face 
 of the facts brought against me; though James 
 had sided with the others at first, it was deemed 
 probable he might have gone oVer to Egerton's 
 opinion, as they had gone out , together. 
 
 Claude was there, lookil^Vitretchedly pale and 
 haggard; he had passed^'sT sleepless night, up- 
 braiding himself as having had a helping hand 
 in his young cousin's ruin, and he was worn out 
 accordingly. After he had listened to the re- 
 capitulation of the evidence, and seen the man- 
 ner in which it impressed every body, he' began 
 to think that at least he had not erred in his 
 
 opinion of me, and while he still blamed himself 
 for not having kept a stricter watch over me, he 
 reverted to his first idea that all this was due to 
 something evil in my disposition. 
 
 Thus he had again hardened himself against 
 any kindly feeling, when he was called upon to 
 be the bearer of a message from the officers there 
 assembled with him to me. James, who would 
 probably have been sent on this errand, was out 
 of the way, and it was wished to get the affair 
 over as soon as possible. On consideration of 
 my youth, my old friends wished to behave as 
 kindly to me as possible, and they had an idea 
 that in sending my cousin Claude to break their 
 decision to me they were acting with great con- 
 sideration. 
 
 Claude was startled and very much taken 
 aback when he was told what was expected of 
 him ; it was about the very last thing he would 
 have wished to do. He still blamed himself for 
 much of this, and the sight of me stirred up his 
 self-accusing conscience to greater activity : the 
 old affection for his young cousin was not yet 
 extinguished, which made it all the more diffi- 
 cult for him to show to me a proper amount of 
 disapproval and reprobation. He felt much more 
 inclined to implore my forgiveness for Ms having 
 neglected me, and allowed me to be led astray 
 by temptation ; he was very much under the in- 
 fluence of an idea not uncommon in the world, 
 that a man will not go wrong as long as he is 
 strictly watched : he quite forgot, that if evil is 
 in a man, it will come out, if all the eyes of Ar- 
 gus were constantly upon him. 
 
 Under these circumstances, it was with great 
 unwillingness that Claude accepted the duty laid 
 upon him, and went off to my room to lay before 
 me the decision they had arrived at, which was 
 the same as that agreed upon the night before ; 
 namely, that I should be given my choice, wheth- 
 er I would make restitution to Morton of all the 
 losses he had lately sustained, of money stolen 
 from his strong-box, and sell out immediately ; 
 or whether I would prefer to remain and take 
 my chance at a court-martial. Of course they 
 never doubted for a minute but that I would 
 catch gladly at the first offer, and there were 
 some who thought I was' far too leniently treat- 
 ed ; but by acting thus toward me, it would be 
 possible to keep the scandal in the regiment, and 
 not have it published abroad in all the news- 
 papers in the country, as would be the case if 
 they were obliged to pursue the other course. 
 
 I was sitting alone in my room, feeling very 
 dejected. It may be imagined my meditations 
 were not lively, for I saw very clearly I was the 
 victim of a cleverly concocted scheme which was 
 not likely to miscany, and the originator of which 
 was my greatest enemy, a man who hated me as 
 much as I despised him. On both sides these 
 feelings were spontaneous natui'al antipathies; 
 he had done nothing to me, I most certainly had 
 never contaminated myself by haying any thing 
 to do with him; but from the, firS| inofnent we 
 saw one another we had been likg itxe and ice, 
 antagonistic to the last degree, in every phase 
 and particular of daily life and character. 
 
 When Claude entered I looked np, and was 
 very much surprised to see him, of all people, 
 come to visit me, for I did not guess his errand, 
 imagining that he would in any case have de- 
 clined to be the channel through which the ofii- 
 
116 
 
 OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 cers' decision would be sent to mo. Was it pos- 
 sible that Claude had discovered he had wronged 
 me, and had come to ask my pardon for his cruel 
 doubts, or, what was more probable, had come 
 to reproach me with the ignominy my disgrace 
 would bring, not only on my family, but on his 
 also ? I would not ask him to sit down as long 
 as I remained in ignorance of his intentions, so I 
 stood up and waited in silence for him to speak. 
 He seemed to find some difficulty in opening the 
 subject, for there was a pause, during which inter- 
 val I had time to perceive that his face was worn 
 and haggard, and there were lines of grief and 
 thought about his mouth and on his bi'oad, open 
 brow. It was evident that if he condemned me 
 it pained him to do so, and I felt more kindly to- 
 ward him as I noticed this. 
 
 Presently he spoke, and in a low, hurried voice 
 told me my comrades' decision. 
 
 " What answer shall I bring them from you ?" 
 he asked, when he had laid before me the choice 
 presented to me. 
 
 "Tell them,"Isaidfinnly, "I will remain and 
 run my chance at a court-martial. I am inno- 
 cent, and by adopting the other course I should 
 make it appear to every one that I was guilty, and 
 was trying to avoid the punishment justly due to 
 me." 
 
 "You are foolish, Vivian," replied Claude. 
 " What is the use of trying to brazen it out? 
 Your guilt will certainly be brought home to you, 
 and you will fare worse than if you accepted the 
 chance of escape now offered to you. Vivian, 
 how could you have acted thus ? — what tempted 
 you ? I knew before that you were not honora- 
 ble in your dealings toward others, but I never 
 believed you could have been a thief." 
 
 My blood boiled at that word ; besides, an idea 
 flashed into my bead that the time for reckoning 
 between Claude and me had come, I sprang to 
 the door and placed my back against it, deter- 
 mined that he should not leave my room until he 
 had explained to me what it was that he was al- 
 ways hinting as having been done by me, and 
 which had first set him against me, 
 
 " Now," I cried, when I had cut ofFhis chance 
 of escape, "tell me what this wrong and dishon- 
 orable act of mine is to which yon are eternally 
 alluding. All is lost to me now — honor, and 
 name, and fame. A man stripped of every thing 
 becomes reckless, and I swear to you, you shall 
 not leave this place until you have told me what 
 it is you Itnow against me. It matters nothing 
 to me now if insubordination, or mutiny, or any 
 thing else is added to the list of my offenses, but 
 this unknown crime at which you hint must and 
 shall be told to me plainly and openly. Do you 
 think you have acted kindly and honestly by me, 
 as one friend should act toward another, as man 
 should act toward man even were they strangers, 
 when you have believed evil against me, and have 
 given me no chance of clearing myself in your 
 eyes, leaving me in the dark as to what yon deem 
 wrong in my conduct, and yet visiting that 
 wrong-doing upon me? Tell meat once whatit 
 is of which you accuse mo." 
 
 " Of what avail is it your having things reca- 
 pitulated that you know as well as I do ? One 
 can not be concerned in an affair of that kind and 
 forget it ; but since you will have it so, let me ask 
 you if you remember my saying to you one day 
 that I was disappointed in you for writing to my 
 
 mother and telling her of my love for Miss Barn- 
 bridge?" 
 
 " Yes, and I denied it," I answered. " It was 
 false. I denied it then, and I deny it now." 
 
 "Yes, I knew you would," replied Claude, 
 coldly. "The evil has gone deep indeed when 
 you will not confess your guilt, even though you 
 know it is discovered. When I went home after 
 that, I asked my mother whether you had told 
 her. Something had occurred again to raise my 
 suspicions, or else, like a fool, I should have be- 
 lieved and trusted you still. She did not say in 
 so many words you had told her, but she declined 
 to deny it, and equivocated in a manner that it 
 was painful to me to witness. After that there 
 was no longer any room for doubt, and all your 
 denials and pretenses of not understanding me 
 could not produce any impression on my mind, 
 except in deepening the bad opinion I was forced 
 to entertain of you." 
 
 For some minutes after he had finished speak- 
 ing I stood looking at him, almost stupefied at 
 what he had told me. That he should have sus- 
 pected me of such baseness was tenible. The 
 idea should never have entered his head ; but at 
 the time he had told me of it before, I excused it 
 on the plea of jealonsy. That he should question 
 his mother to ascertain if I was speaking the 
 truth, and that she should so miserably deceive 
 him and malign me, I could not understand. 
 And now what was I to do ? It was no good de- 
 nying all this ; it had obtained too firm a hold of 
 his mind, and I had nothing but my own tarnish- 
 ed word to bring against it. No wonder he 
 thought me a. thief, or any thing else any body 
 liked to call me. I only wonder that, with his 
 character, he could bring himself to speak to me 
 at all. I really pitied him as I saw the change 
 sorrow had wrought in his face, and at last I 
 spoke, moi-e quietly than I had done before. 
 
 " If all this is as you say, if your mother led 
 you to believe that I had spoken falsely to you, I 
 do not wonder that you should think this other 
 charge against me true. It is of very little use 
 my telling you that eveiy word of it is false ; you 
 would not believe me now. But I have a strong 
 confidence that some day you will see how gross- 
 ly you have been deceived, and in anticipation 
 of that day, which will surely come, I entreat you 
 to remember that I deny it all. I deny having 
 told your mother, I deny having spoken falsely 
 to you, and, more than all, and above all, I deny 
 this charge for which I am about to suffer. Ee- 
 member this when the time comes, and I know 
 you will be soriy for your hardness to me. Then 
 there will be no place for you to show your re- 
 pentance to me, if the day is far distant, for I 
 will not bear a dishonored name in the country 
 where it was always held in reverence and esteem. 
 You may go now ; I will not make you longer en- 
 dure what I know must be very painful to you. 
 The heart takes a long time to hai-den thorough- 
 ly to those it has once loved. Tell them I will 
 run my chance at the court-martial ; and," I addr 
 ed,-as he was about to leave the room, "would 
 you ask Egerton to come and see me ? I thought 
 he would have been here before this." 
 
 " Ho has gone out with James, but I will tell 
 him you want to see him, wlien he comes in." 
 And so saying, Claude went off and left me. 
 
 So Cecil had gone out, and had not come to 
 see his friend, though he knew I must be wait- 
 
OUB DETACHMENT. 
 
 117 
 
 ing anxiously for his arrival. It was cruel. I 
 had trusted him, and he seemed no kinder to me 
 tlian the others. A few scalding tears forced 
 their way into my eyes as I thought thus, for I 
 was broken down and worn out with trouble, and 
 it seemed to me, besides, that I was utterly de- 
 serted and alone. I kept back the tears with a 
 kind of savage pride. For none of those who 
 had used me so badly would I shed them, nor 
 for the manner in which they had used me. They 
 should not have it in their power to say that they 
 had broken my spirit and triumphed over my 
 manhood. There would be time enough for teare 
 in the years that were to come, that the gold- 
 en sun of happiness should never lighten, nor the 
 brightness of pleasure illumine. 
 
 As I was thinking thus, and trying to occupy 
 myself in some way that would make it easier 
 for me to endure my grief, the door opened, and 
 Egerton entered. 
 
 "My poor fellow!" he said, "it must have 
 seemed unkind of me not to come and see you 
 before, but I have been working hflrd for you, 
 and I have arranged a triumph on a grand scale. 
 Hut first — do you reraeiuber that it was I gave 
 you the marked money?" 
 
 "Yes, certainly," I replied; "I did not hap- 
 pen to have any other at hand." 
 
 " Then why did not you say so last night, and 
 save yourself all this ?" 
 
 "It might have saved me at first," I answer- 
 ed, " but not after my room was searched and 
 the money found in that chair. How did it get 
 there, I wonder ? To me it is quite incompre- 
 hensible." 
 
 "It is not so to me, then," replied Egerton, 
 "any more than your bearing the blame of the 
 other money in silence. I can not tell you what 
 I think of you, Vivian, but I can and do mean 
 to show it, in as far as I am able, by working to 
 save you. And now listen to me till I tell you 
 what it is you must do. Send a message by me, 
 saying that you wish to see all of us together, as 
 you have something important to communicate 
 concerning this business." 
 
 "But I have nothing important to say," I ob- 
 jected. 
 
 "Yes, yon have. You have to say you got 
 those notes from me. Do that, and leave me to 
 manage the rest." 
 
 Egerton's manner was confident, though rath- 
 er excited. As we all knew, he could never act 
 unless he was excited, but then he could act 
 promptly and well. It seemed to me now he 
 had some plan in his head which would have 
 good results ; I therefore acquiesced in his de- 
 mand, and sent a message by him, entreating 
 that I might be allowed to communicate some- 
 thing bearing on the case to the oflScers wlio had 
 sat in judgment on me. 
 
 When he had left me, I began to feel that, al- 
 though Egerton might be put into the same scrape 
 with me, yet I was not likely to get off, for I could 
 not see how Egerton would explain the presence 
 of the notes in the cushion of my chair, and un- 
 til that was satisfactorily accounted for 1 was not 
 likely to be set at liberty. But I had promised 
 to act as Egerton desired, and I must do so. 
 
 Shortly after, James came to tell me that I 
 was to go with him to Major Harvey's rooms, 
 Colonel Dropraore being at that time away on 
 leave. I followed him silently, and he never at- 
 
 tempted to address me, nor showed by his man- 
 ner what view of the case he took, till just as we 
 were going in at the door, when he said in a low 
 tone, 
 
 " Keep up your courage. All is not lost yet." 
 
 These were encouraging words, coming, as they 
 did, from one who had not been inclined to look 
 favorably on me the night before ; but I had not 
 time to think about it when Egerton came for- 
 ward and took my hand before them all; then 
 he placed himself as near me as he could, and 
 Major Harvey asked what it was I wislied to 
 communicate, and for what purpose I had called 
 them together. 
 
 "I wish to account for the manner in which 
 I became possessed of the marked money found 
 on my person and in my desk," I answered. "I 
 said last night I had got it in change, but I de- 
 clined to give the name of the person by whom 
 it had been paid to me, fearing to get him into 
 trouble. It is at his special request that I men- 
 tion him now. I received that money from Mr. 
 Egerton, in payment for a mare I sold him about 
 ten days ago." 
 
 " Egerton !"cried several men in astonishment, 
 looking at him, as he stood calm and unconcerned 
 near me. 
 
 "I thought that fellow had some hand in the 
 matter," said Morton ; "he was Darrell's accom- 
 plice. A nice pair, truly !" 
 
 " You remember. Captain Morton, that I told 
 you last night I had had some of the money, but 
 had passed it on," answered Egerton. "It is 
 true I gave Darrell the money in payment for his 
 mare Twilight." 
 
 "This is very extraordinaiy indeed," mur- 
 mured Major Hai-vey. "I don't know that I 
 ever remember to have met with so extraordina- 
 ry a case. Your statement, Mr. Egerton, explains 
 how Mr. Darrell became possessed of some of the 
 stolen money, but it does not show how he be- 
 came possessed of that part which was hidden in 
 the cushions of his chair, nor how any of it got 
 into your hands, either. Can you tell lis now, 
 Mr. Darrell, how those notes got into the cush- 
 ion?" 
 
 "About that I know nothing," I answered, 
 sadly. " It must have been the work of some 
 one who had a spite against me, I think, and 
 wished to get me out of the regiment." 
 
 Major Hai-vey shook his head ; that did not 
 seem to him at all probable. Then he turned to 
 Egerton. 
 
 "Can you explain the matter?" he said. 
 
 "I think I can," answered Egerton, with 
 flashing eyes, that told his spirit was up, and that 
 the man who had planned this would not escape 
 if it lay in Egeiton's power to unearth hira. 
 " But first let me bring in a witness I have out- 
 side ; it will not do in a case like this to have 
 one's own unsupported word. " 
 
 He was given leave to fetch his witness, and 
 presently returned, to my surprises followed by 
 my sei-vant, who seemed rather bewildered at be- 
 ing brought before such an assemblage of officers. 
 
 " Remember," said Cecil, when he had again 
 taken up his position near me, "this man knows 
 nothing of the case ; you may as well question 
 him, to see that he has in no way been prepared, 
 or put up to what is going on. When the right 
 time comes, I shall ask him to tell you what he 
 saw in a certain place, on a certain day. From 
 
118 
 
 OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 what he snys you may draw your own conclu- 
 sions." 
 
 Morton had been fidgeting about, looking very 
 white and anxious, ever since Egerton had come 
 forward and avowed himself a participator in the 
 business. He now interrupted Cecil, saying, 
 
 ' ' Major Harvey, this is very irregular. That 
 man, who is himself an accomplice in the crime, 
 has no right to be addressing us, and bringing in 
 witnesses for his friend ; and the witness is the 
 culpiit's own servant. I move that Egerton be 
 included in the judgment we have passed on the 
 other." 
 
 " Without hearing if I can account for the 
 way in which I became possessed of that money, 
 I suppose," said Egerton. " No ; you must allow 
 me to give my explanation, and you can then take 
 steps, to verify it. But before I speak and dis- 
 close all. Major Harvey — before I show to what 
 a base apd cowardly plot my poor friend was 
 about to fall a victim, let me pause a moment, 
 and give the real culprit time for repentance and 
 confession, if he will confess. If he were to do 
 so, it might move us to punish him less severely 
 than we shall assuredly do if he persists in the 
 desperate course he has chosen." 
 
 There was a silence, and I could see that Eg- 
 erton kept his eyes steadily fixed on the ground, 
 for fear he might be tempted by the direction of 
 his glance to point the address of his words. I 
 looked round on the faces of those about me : 
 they were very grave, and on all but one there 
 was a concentrated look of intense expectation. 
 On one face alone could be read deadly, sicken- 
 ing, overwhelming apprehension. I was not sur- 
 prised to see that look there, but I wondered 
 greatly — not that Cecil had divined the guilty 
 one — I had all along suspected him myself — but 
 that he should have obtained proofs of his guilt, 
 and proofs he must have, or he would never speak 
 and act as he was speaking and acting now. 
 
 After a few minutes' pause. Major Harvey 
 spoke. 
 
 " Say what you have to say now, Mr. Eger- 
 ton ; it is evident that no one here will acknowl- 
 edge having had any thing to do with this crime. 
 If the culprit is present, as you say, name him, 
 and let the matter be settled at once." 
 
 Then Egerton began. 
 
 "I have confessed," he said, "that I gave 
 Darrell that money ; in support of this assertion, 
 you may question James, to whom I paid some 
 money at the same time, among which you will 
 find four marked pieces. You will want to know 
 how I came by that money : my answer is, it was 
 given to me by Captain Morton, in payment of a 
 debt he owed me. " 
 
 "It is false! — absolutely and entirely false!" 
 shouted Captain Morton, and every one present 
 noticed his ghastly paleness, and that his hands, 
 and even his lips, trembled. ' "Nothing that he 
 says is true. Why listen to him ?" 
 
 "Pardon me," said James, in his quiet, 
 straightforward manner, "I can vouch for the 
 truth of one small part of his statement." 
 
 He threw the four coins on the table as he 
 spoke : they spun round.a moment and then were 
 motionless. 
 
 "Go on, Mr. Egerton,'' said Major Harvey; 
 " we will hear what you have to say, Captain 
 Morton, when he has finished." 
 
 "It is perfectly true," continued Egerton, 
 
 " that I can not prove Captain Morton gave me 
 that money, but I can prove something else that 
 bears very strongly on the case. I was just tam- 
 ing the far corner of the corridor in which Dar- 
 rell's room is situated yesterday, when 1 saw Cap- 
 tain Morton coming out of Darrell's room. He 
 turned the other way when he came out, and 
 therefore did not see me ; but I, who had thought 
 Darrell was out, now imagined he must be in, 
 and went to seek him. He was not there, and I 
 went into the inner room, where I found this 
 man, his servant, who was doing something about 
 the room. I asked him if he knew where his 
 master was ; he said he did not, but that Cap- 
 tain Morton had just been in, he supposed, look- 
 ing for him. I thought nothing more of the 
 matter until the afi'air last night, when the notes 
 were found in the chair-cushion ; then I began 
 to suspect something, and to-day, taking James 
 with me, we went to this man, and asked him if 
 Captain Morton had seen him or spoken to him 
 when he was in Mr. Darrell's room yesterday. 
 He said no ; we then asked him if he had any 
 idea what Captain Morton wanted ; he said he 
 had not, but confessed to having watched the 
 captain, and then related what he had seen. You 
 can ask him about it yourselves." 
 
 The man, on being questioned, said that Cap- 
 tain Morton had walked round the room several 
 times, and then taken the cushion out of the easy- 
 chair and carried it to the window, where, to use 
 the man's expression, he had been fumbling with 
 it for some time. He in the next room, peeping 
 through a crack in the door, could not see dis- 
 tinctly what tlie captain was doing. He might 
 have looked aftenvard, but that Mr. Egerton 
 coming in put the matter out of his head ; in- 
 deed Mr. Egerton stopped a little while in the in- 
 ner room with him, looking at an old sword that 
 was one of his master's curiosities, and before he 
 had done examining it Mr. Darrell returned. 
 
 "Now," said Egerton, when Jenkins had fin- 
 ished giving his evidence, " I assert that I got 
 the marked money that I acknowledge was .in 
 my possession from Captain Morton ; and Jen- 
 kins saw the same man yesterday afternoon do- 
 ing something with the cushion in which the 
 notes , were found. You may draw your own 
 conclusions from that ; at any rate, this is all 
 the light I can throw upon the matter." - 
 
 When he had finished speaking, and before 
 any one else could utter a word. Captain Mor- 
 ton, in a harsh, constrained voice, as though it 
 was a great exertion to him to speak, demanded 
 permission to go and fetch some memoranda 
 that he thought would disprove the charges 
 brought against him. James volunteered to go 
 and fetch them, but he said they were in a secret . 
 drawer, and it would be necessary for him to go 
 himself. Harvey, a good-natured, easy-going 
 man, gave him permission, as this meeting was 
 not an ofiScial aifair, and we need not stand on 
 etiquette. Morton accordingly went. 
 
 We waited for about a half an hour, and then 
 James was sent to huriy him. . In a few minutes 
 James returned, saying he had absconded, that 
 there was no trace of him to be seen, and the sen- 
 try at the gates said he had gone out nearly half 
 an hour before. 
 
 It was true: he had fled from what he saw 
 was before him, and had carried off with him all 
 the money that had been taken out of my room 
 
OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 119 
 
 the night before. What his object had been in 
 acting as he had done was never rightly under- 
 . stood ; perhaps he wanted the money badly when 
 he first took it, and intended to pay. it back ; 
 failing that, he had been obliged to declare it 
 stolen, had persuaded Egerton to lend him money 
 to supply the deficit, and had made a great talk 
 about his catching the thief immediately, and get- 
 ting all that had been stolen refunded. It is prob- 
 able that when Egerton asked him if it would 
 be convenient to him to pay the money lie owed, 
 the idea first came into his head that he might 
 make Cecil the victim, and he accordingly marked 
 the money ; afterward, finding Egerton had paid 
 it over to me, he altered his plans and acted ac- 
 cordingly. 
 
 It was over, and my innocence was proved. I 
 was very glad, very thankful, but I was still 
 more glad and proud and thankful when Claude 
 came over to me, saying, "I can not ask you to 
 forgive me, or to let us be the friends we once 
 were. I have wronged you too deeply for that, 
 but I will ask you to let me tell you how ashamed 
 of myself I am for ever having believed it possible 
 you could have fallen so low from what you once 
 were. I do not understand that matter about 
 my mother, but I no longer believe you were 
 guilty of deceit and treachery; my eyes have 
 been opened, and I see that it is I who have be- 
 haved basely, not you." . 
 
 He was about to turn away, looking very sor- 
 rowful, very unlike the dignified, irreproachable, 
 proud man he once was, and I was moved at the 
 sight of his self-accusation. I caught his hand, 
 
 saying, 
 
 "Don't think of this any more; let all be as 
 it once was, when we were at home together, and 
 let nothing again ever come between us." 
 
 He did not answer, but nothing has ever come 
 between us since then, and we are faster friends 
 than even in the old days. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 AT A BALL. 
 
 April came, and the Bambridges, as had be- 
 fore been determined, went to London, to spend 
 a month or two there during the season. They 
 had a good many friends in town, and were per- 
 suaded Lord Eeversham's military duties would 
 prevent him from putting in an appearance ; they 
 were therefore a little surprised, a day or two af- 
 ter their arrival, to see his name down at various 
 fashionable entertainments, and were rather put 
 out to think that Gwendoline's recoveiT might be 
 retarded by. the presence of the man for-whom 
 they were sure she still sorrowed, though Ijer re- 
 fusal of him remained as impenetrable a mystery 
 as ever. Besides, there were rumors going about 
 which before long reached their ears, that Lord 
 Feversham was about to be married to Miss 
 Prendergast, the heiress. Gwendoline shivered 
 when she heard this confirmation of the story I 
 had hinted to her before, but quickly recovering, 
 she spoke out boldly, and asserted the report to 
 be a calumny. 
 
 Nevertheless, Miss Prendergast was in Lon- 
 don, and her name was also mentioned at every 
 entertainment at which he appeared : that was not 
 wonderful, if the Bambridges had known she was 
 
 staying with Lady Feversham, and going oat 
 under her chaperonage. A knowledge of that 
 fact would, however, have confirmed the truth of 
 the rumor in Gwendoline's eyes, and at present, 
 at least, she was happy enough to be able to dis- 
 believe it, or at least to say that she did so, though 
 at times her faith waxed very low indeed. 
 
 As yet they had not met even in the ride, for 
 horses and various other arrangements were not 
 looked after until they arrived in town ; but 
 Gwendoline knew it could not be long thus, and 
 that pi'obably their first night out, or first day in 
 the Park, would bring them face to face once 
 more. 
 
 After all, there was more truth in this rumor 
 than is generally the case in such things. Ma- 
 bel Prendergast had heard from her lover him- 
 self that there was no present prospect of his ad- 
 vancement, but he did not tell her how very little 
 aptitude he had for his profession, nor that such 
 was the opinion of his seniors. This, however, 
 she learned from Feversham, whom she ques- 
 tioned closely, and who expressed great pity that 
 the young man had so mistaken liis vocation in 
 hfe. ■ 
 
 She listened calmly to this verdict on the future 
 of the man she had promised to marry, the only 
 sign of emotion she gave being that she loosened 
 the ribbon round her white throat, as though the 
 pressure choked her. 
 
 Could she do it? she wondered. Could she 
 throw over this man she felt she loved so dear- 
 ly, even though she now determined he and she 
 must part. Her reason told her she could and 
 would do it ; her heart cried indignantly, ' ' Nev- 
 er I You have enough ; be happy, and leave ev- 
 ery other consideration for the future." 
 
 Her brain was in a whirl whenever she thought 
 about it, and she would often invent an excuse for 
 leaving the room and going to brood over the 
 matter in secret. One day she had thought over 
 it in every light, and had almost resolved to be 
 true, when her maid coming in to lay out her 
 dress for Lady Longwreath's ball that night, piit 
 all idea of self-sacrifice out of her head. Yes, if 
 she was true to her love, and married him, a sub- 
 altern in a marching regiment, then farewell to 
 all the petting, courting, and caressing to which 
 she had been accustomed lately. Then she must 
 give up the balls she had been accustomed to 
 grace, and where her presence was eagerly sought 
 after ; not but that she might no doubt have so- 
 ciety as his wife too, but it would be many de- 
 grees lower than that in which she at present 
 moved ; for, being a woman of the world herself, 
 she could quite understand she must hope for no 
 support or sympathy from her present friends, 
 once she bad so far derogated from her position 
 as to marry a subaltern in a line regiment. 
 
 She pushed the hair back from her aching 
 brow, and tossed her head with her most defiant 
 air, as she decided thus, and determined that at 
 all costs the sacrifice must be made. Claude 
 only wants a little encouragement from me to 
 propose at once, she mused, and I think he likes 
 me a little, though I fear I have not quite 
 eclipsed Miss Bambridge yet; bnt that will come 
 in time. He shall ask me this very night, and 
 then it will be all right. Poor Cecil ! he will feel 
 it dreadfully at first, but I hope, he will liot in- 
 sist on seeing me and asking me about it; I 
 could not bear that. How will he take it, I 
 
120 
 
 OUE DETACHMENT. 
 
 wonder? "Oh! my love," she exclaimed, feel- 
 ing really sony for what she chose to consider 
 the necessity for her falseness, "if I could but 
 spare you this, but I dare not ; I could not take 
 your lot when a brighter and better lies ready 
 to my hand. Is it wonderful I should choose it, 
 and avoid a life of insignificance with you ? Pity 
 me ! forgive me ! but do not hate me though I 
 wrong you. " 
 
 The maid had left the room, and leaning her 
 head on the pillow, she shed a few tears. For 
 a minute or two she wept, and better feelings 
 might have taken possession of her heart, when 
 a warning knock announced the maid's return, 
 and the next minute she entered, caiTying in her 
 hand a magnificent bouquet. Along with it she 
 brought a note from Lord Feversham, explain- 
 ing that he should not meet them before the ball, 
 but he hoped then to have the pleasure of seeing 
 her with his flowers. 
 
 " He shall speak out to-night," she murmur- 
 ed, as she glanced over his note. "Better have 
 it over at once, and my fate decided in some 
 way ; then I shall no doubt be able to put aside 
 these foolish regrets, and banish Cecil's image 
 from my heart." 
 
 She dressed hei-self with more than ordinaiy 
 care that evening, and looked, indeed, lovely and 
 fairy-like in her gauzy green and white dress. 
 No wonder Claude's eyes lighted up when he be- 
 held hei', for beauty commands admiration, even 
 where the heart is not touched : ho was at least 
 bewitched by her, though still true, in a kind of 
 way, to his former love. 
 
 Mabel saw his glance, and hardly restrained a 
 smile of triumph as she thought of the victoiy 
 within her grasp. His mother saw, too, that her 
 plans were nearly realized, and looked commend- 
 ingly on the girl wlio had overcome so many dif- 
 ficulties, and so nearly brought the matter to a 
 successful conclusion. 
 
 Curiously enough, this night on which Mabel 
 Prendergast proposed to make her own of Lord 
 Feversham was the first evening for which the 
 Bambridges had accepted any invitation since 
 they came to London. They were going to 
 Lady Longwreath's, quite unconscious that the 
 Feversham party would be there also, though, of 
 course, that was a thing to be expected. Claris- 
 sa asked Gwendoline, while they were dressing, 
 what she should do if she met him there. 
 
 "Do," replied Gwendoline, rather sharply for 
 her ; " why will you all persist in thinking I care 
 for him ? Ho proposed for . me, and I refused 
 him, that is all. He is not the first man such a 
 fate has happened to, and I do not feel bound to 
 make a scene because of it. I shall bow to him, 
 and pass on. At the same time, I should be bet- 
 ter pleased if we did not meet him." 
 
 The Bambridges gained the ball-room, and 
 were some time in it without seeing any thing of 
 the Fevershams ; the feeling of nervousness that 
 had attacked Gwendoline, though she was a 
 gi'eat deal too proud to own it, at length began 
 to wear off. 
 
 She had just finished one dance, and had re- 
 turned to her mother, waiting for her next part- 
 ner to come and fetch her, when, feeling tired, 
 and seeing the door of a, room that appeared to 
 be a boudoir open near her, she said to Mrs. 
 Bambridge, 
 
 "Mamma, I am going in here to sit down 
 
 and rest for a minute or two : if my partner 
 comes for me, tell him wliere to find me." So 
 saying, Gwendoline passed quietly into the room 
 by herself. 
 
 It was not very light, and for a moment she 
 almost thought she was alone ; then she became 
 aware there was a gentleman standing in the 
 window recess. He was talking earnestly, in a 
 low voice, when she first perceived him, but as 
 she looked again, and discovered it was Lord 
 Feversham, he ceased speaking, and bent forward 
 for an answer to some one sitting near him, whom 
 Gwendohne could not see. Her first impulse was 
 to run away, but on reflection, being convinced 
 she would be discovered before she reached the 
 door, she walked quietly up the room, thinking 
 her movements would acquaint them with her 
 presence at once ; but they were too much ab- 
 sorbed in themselves to heed her quiet, graceful 
 approach. Just as she was about to seat herself 
 in an easy-chair, and to take up a book in order 
 that she might not observe their movements, 
 Claude — her Claude, as she had till then persist- 
 ed in thinking him — bent forward, and taking 
 both the hands of a young and very beautiful 
 girl in his, drew her toward him and kissed her 
 hastily. At this sight Gwendoline felt her heart 
 give one wild bound, and then stand still ; the 
 room seemed to turn round with her ; she made 
 a feeble effort to rise and get away before she 
 could be recognized, but failed, and stood hold- 
 ing on by the table, trembling violently, and gaz- 
 ing at the lovers with scared, amazed eyes. 
 
 Her movement attracted Mabel's attention, 
 and drawing back from Claude's embrace, she 
 murmured, 
 
 "Let me go now; some one is watching us. 
 We will go back to the dancers," she added 
 aloud, taking his arm and leading him toward 
 the door. 
 
 As yet Claude had not seen who the intruder 
 was. As he passed her, with a pleased, excited 
 look on his handsome face, he glanced carelessly 
 toward the interloper, whose intrusion had been 
 discovered just too late to prevent Mabel's an- 
 swer to the question he had often before longed 
 to put. 
 
 But as his indiff'erent, laughing eyes met the 
 mute, agonized gaze in those once so dear to 
 him, all color, and mirth, and light seemed to 
 fade out of his face, and left it fixed and rigid as 
 that of a corpse. He gave no sign of recogni- 
 tion, however, but hurried on with his lately 
 won prize, tliinking no more of her gay chatter, 
 thinking no more of her peerless loveliness, that 
 drew all men's looks toward them ; only think- 
 ing how soon he could get rid of her, how soon 
 he should see that dear — ^)"es, still most dear — 
 grief-struck face again. 
 
 "And yet," he thought to himself angrily, 
 " she would not have me. Am I never to marry 
 for her sake, never to beguile my loneliness by 
 words and looks of love from others ? Had she 
 chosen even to wait for me till I should have 
 earned enough for both to live on, I could have 
 been faithful till death ; but I had no hope, and 
 my mother wished this other match so much, 
 I could not refuse her. I must see her again," 
 he went on thinking ; " surely she does love me, 
 or she would never have looked like that. What 
 is the mystery ? Let me but find it out, and all 
 may yet be well." 
 
OUE DETACHMENT. 
 
 121 
 
 He left Mabel with his mother, and hnrried 
 back to the place where he had seen Gwendoline 
 Bambridge sitting. She was there still, but had 
 recovered her self-possession, and bowed calmly 
 in answer to his salutation. "I am to congrat- 
 ulate you, I see," she said, coldly. Any who had 
 seen her a few minutes previously would hard- 
 ly have believed the haughty beauty, with head 
 erect and nnmoved expression, to be the same 
 pale, despairing girl of a short time before. "I 
 had heard rumors," she went on, "but I scarce- 
 ly believed them to be true ; now, however, that 
 I see they are so, allow me to wish you all hap- 
 piness." 
 
 " Gwendoline," he cried, wildly, driven half 
 beside himself at the chilling hauteur of her 
 look and manner, "do not speak like that ; eveiy 
 word of yours pierces me like a sword, and yet 
 how have I been to blame ?■ You refused me — 
 said you never loved me, and told me there was 
 no hope ; then, when I went home sad and heavy 
 with my disappointment, my mother pressed me 
 to maiTy Miss Prendergast, and, all women be- 
 ing the same to me now, 1 consented. ' Have I 
 sinned so much in all this that you can not for- 
 give me ?■' 
 
 " I never accused you of any sin," she an- 
 swered, coldly; " I only wished you happiness in 
 the change of life before you. Why should you 
 excuse yourself to me for what you have done ? 
 You only acted as all other men act, and there- 
 fore I suppose it is natural that you should forget 
 one love and seek another, as soon as you imag- 
 ined the first hopeless. I do not blame you for 
 it, and wish you joy sincerely." 
 
 The tone of her voice was chill and cold, the 
 words dropped slowly one by one with icy dis- 
 tinctness; every tiling showed to Feversham's 
 eager eye that, despite her refusal in the past 
 and her freezing coldness in the present, she was 
 wounded deeply by his having so quickly found 
 some one to take her place. She loved him, he 
 was certain ; and with that conviction, every re- 
 membi'ance of Mabel Prendergast, and the duty 
 he now owed her, vanished, and he cried, pas- 
 sionately, " Gwendoline, I love you as well, nay, 
 better than ever; take me now, before it is too 
 late. I know you care for me," he went on, tak- 
 ing her hands and turning her face toward him. 
 "You can not look at me and tell me now you 
 never loved me ; yon know you can not, and you 
 turn away ; but I will have an answer, and sure- 
 ly you will not repeat your refusal." She raised 
 her head slowly and proudly, looking him full in 
 the face : " I did right when I would not yield to 
 your prayers," she answered; "you are nowriih, 
 honored, and powerful, with every prospect of a 
 noble and useful life before you ;• how. would it 
 have been had I accepted you, and you were now 
 a poor and struggling man, without any greater 
 help on your path through the world than the 
 affection of the woman who would have brought 
 all that trouble on you ?" 
 
 "I care not for a career or high prospects in 
 life, so long as I have your love. Did I not tell 
 you so before ? Every thing is valueless to me 
 witliout you, every thing golden and beautiful 
 with you by my side. I am young and strong, I 
 have brains also ; but even wanting them, per- 
 severance always succeeds in the end. Trust 
 me, think no more of the future, and I will slave 
 life away before want shall come near you." 
 
 She looked up, about to answer — and who 
 knows what that answer might have been? — 
 when she perceived two ladies advancing toward 
 them. One was the young girl she had before 
 seen with Claude, and whom she knew to beMiss 
 Prendergast ; the other she had also seen before. 
 How well she remembered the day when that 
 haughty old lady called at their lodgings in Dub- 
 lin, to beg her son's refusal from Gwendoline 
 Bambridge ! 
 
 "You here, Claude!" cried Mabel, as they 
 approached, though Gwendoline knew well she 
 had not only seen and recognized him before, 
 but had also heard the conclusion of the last sen- 
 tence. It was not her cue, however, to pretend 
 she had heard any thing, so she went on : " You 
 have found an old acquaintance, I suppose? 
 Will you introduce us? Your mother and I 
 came in ' to rest here for a little ; it is so hot in 
 the ball-room." 
 
 reversham was startled, and turned very white 
 as his betrothed came up to him in so friendly a 
 manner, standing by his side, too, as though she 
 was determined he should introduce her to the 
 lady with him. This, however, he did not care 
 to do, but oft'eiing his arm to Gwendoline, said : 
 
 "Miss Bambridge, can I take you back to 
 your mother ? I think you said you wished to 
 find her. Mother, I will return to you pres- 
 ently;" so saying, he moved off with Gwendo- 
 line, who, as soon as she entered the ball-room, 
 and saw her mother In the distance, said, 
 
 " Good-bye, Lord Feversham. I will not de- 
 tain you any longer from Miss Prendergast ; and 
 in future, if we meet, remember you have no 
 longer a right to speak to me as you spoke to- 
 night." 
 
 He would willingly h.nve gone farther with 
 her, and would have tried hard to persuade her 
 to allow him at least to see her with her moth- 
 er before he left her, but she quietly withdrew 
 her hand from his arm, and moved oflf to her 
 mother, threading the crowd with her peculiar 
 ease and grace. 
 
 None of those who turned to watch her light 
 step and graceful carriage guessed what a heavy 
 heart she carried under that proud demeanor; 
 even her mother, tenderly as she loved her 
 daughter, and anxiously as she watched her, 
 knowing that her old lover was somewhere at 
 the ball, was deceived, and imagined she could 
 not have seen him, or that, if she had, all re- 
 membrance of the old folly had passed away — 
 if indeed Gwendoline had ever cared for him, 
 which Mrs. Bambridge had not been able to 
 prove quite to her satisfaction ; though she was 
 very certain, if she had not cared for him, she 
 had cared for some one else much about that 
 time, and that love of hers had left its mark on 
 her life, as such things will do now and then, 
 when the sufferer is young and impressionable. 
 
 But Gwendoline was not a girl to let the 
 world smile over her misery, so she laughed and 
 flirted through the rest of that long evening, 
 which she thought would never come to an end, 
 as gayly, to all appearance, as the merry, light- 
 hearted Clarissa, who exclaimed, as they drove 
 home, 
 
 "Is not Mr. De Veaux delightful? I wonder 
 how I ever could have thought little Madcap so 
 pleasant. He is not to be compared with Gerald 
 de Veaux." 
 
122 
 
 OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 . "Poor Darrell!" Gwendoline answered, pity- 
 ingly. "So he is really cut out? You don't 
 care for him now ?" 
 
 "Why, no," answered Clarissa. "You see 
 it was very foolish of me ever to think of him ; 
 he was so wrapped up in you no one else had a 
 chance. It was much better I should transfer 
 my aifections than allow them to be blighted, as 
 it seems to me his will be." 
 
 Gwendoline sighed. Perhaps those foolish 
 words of Clarissa's awoke in her mind the idea 
 which she afterward carried out ; perhaps she 
 had been thinking of it before she questioned 
 her sister — who knows ? At any rate, she spoke 
 no moi'e then, but lay back in the carriage, lean- 
 ing her head against the cushions wearily, and 
 wishing she was at home again. 
 
 As for Clarissa, she was too full of her con- 
 quests, and the fun she had had that evening, 
 to be very quiet ; but her chatter could not divert 
 the thoughts of at least one of the party, and 
 after a few attempts to get up a laugh, she ceased 
 trying to do so, and went off into a pleasant rev- 
 erie, in which Gerald de Veaux's handsome face, 
 and the marked attentions he had paid her, 
 formed the principal subject for reflection. 
 
 It was late that morning before Gwendoline's 
 eyes closed in a restless, broken sleep, in which 
 she passed through all the experiences of the 
 night over again, and imagined herself face to 
 fece with Miss Prendergast, defying her to take 
 her lover from her, now that she knew he still 
 cared for her. But when she awoke, and the 
 real events of the evening flashed back on her 
 mind, she felt that, however hard it liad been, she 
 had acted wisely ; - she was sure, despite his ar- 
 dent protestations to her, he had spoken, with 
 wannth and eainestness to Miss Prendergast be- 
 fore he had recognized her, and she was certain 
 his caresses had been more those of a lover than 
 of one acting in obedience to orders. 
 
 After all, her experience of men had told her 
 that it was very possible for a man to love one 
 gill, and yet to flirt with another till he almost 
 fancied himself in love with her also ; but such a 
 character had always seemed to her despicable 
 and unworthy, and was one of the very last she 
 would have ascribed to Lord Feversham. Now 
 her idol was shattered ; he had proved himself 
 before her eyes to be no better than the common 
 clay out of which all her friends' treasured images 
 were foi-med; but though she recognized the 
 fact, and hated herself for ever having been de- 
 ceived,' she found to her astonishment that she 
 cared for him as much as ever. She had thought 
 that scora of his weak fickleness would have 
 rooted np affection in her heart, but it was not 
 so ; on the contrary, the cry of her inmost soul 
 now was, " If I could but liave him again I would 
 forgive him all, and show him how much better 
 my love is than hers. 
 
 "And she is beautiful," Gwendoline went on 
 thinking; "it was not for her money only he 
 took her; she pleased his fancy as well, yet 
 many would think I could rival her, and I will 
 too ; I will show him that, though he may have 
 scorned me, yet there are many others would be 
 glad to gain one of those smiles ho has rejected. 
 Poor Darrell ! he loves me ; though I have re- 
 fused him twice, he has not gone after new faces. 
 I wonder would he take mo now : if he asks me 
 again I will accept him, and some day I shall have 
 
 the precedence of Lord Feversham's wife, and 
 will show him that, though a penniless Irish girl,' 
 I am no disgrace to ahigh position. Yet stay," 
 she added, pressing her hands to her brow, " it 
 is not his fault that we are not now married ; it 
 IS mine. 1 thought such a union would be ruin 
 to him, and I said I never loved Iiim. Truly I 
 am punished for my sin : I did evil that good 
 might come, and it only brings more evil. I 
 think I remember his saying once only truth 
 could prosper; while poor little Madcap agreed 
 with me, and said for the good of a friend he 
 would say what was false and stand by it. Oh, 
 what a fool I have been!" she sobbed; "my 
 punishment is greater than I can bear!" 
 
 After that evening the Bambridges went out 
 everywhere in London, meeting the Feversham 
 party constantly, and everywhere Gwendoline 
 maintained a calm composure by force of will 
 and stern determination. She carried out her 
 resolve that she should be admired, and that 
 Lord Feversham should, see that she was. Her 
 smile was the brightest, her wit the most spark- 
 ling, her dancing the most perfect, of all the beau- 
 ties then crowding the. hot London ball-rooms, 
 and she had soon quite a little court, that fol- 
 lowed her about in all places. La belle Irlan- 
 daise was the fashion ; she was a queen Of beauty, 
 wielding her sceptre gracefully, skillfully, yet very 
 firmly, drawing m,en round her by the magic of 
 a smile, yet keeping them always respectful and 
 devoted, by a certain latent dignity that was more 
 felt than seen, and that would have deterred the 
 boldest from saying a word that could displease 
 her. 
 
 She might have married over and over again, 
 wealth and title too, for men got infatuated about 
 her. Perhaps the one who worshiped her most 
 madly, though always at a distance, was Claude, 
 Feversham, whom Mabel found it almost impos- 
 sible to keep in her train any longer, now that 
 Gwendoline's beauty and Gwendoline's triumph 
 were so constantly before his eyes. 
 
 If Gwendoline had known this, she would per- 
 haps have been satisfied, and not hurried on to 
 another step, which, while it left little mark on 
 her life, fatally injured that of another. 
 
 I came up to London for a few days about this 
 time. My father and mother were there, and I, 
 knowing nothing of what was going on, thought 
 I might get a little amusement and distraction 
 from sad thoughts in the busy life of the metrop- 
 olis. Of course the first thing my mother asked 
 me was whether this beautiful Miss Bambridge, 
 that every body was running after, was the same 
 ladfy I had met in Ireland. A little description 
 sufficed to assure me it was the same ; besides, I 
 knew they had intended to be in London in the 
 spring. 
 
 At the account of the manner in which she 
 was followed and run after, my heart beat very 
 quickly, and jealous fears began to rise. It was 
 impossible that she should not accept one of the 
 many brilliant offers she had received ; and even 
 if she did not, all this flattery and adulation would 
 naturally incline her to look indifferehtly on so 
 small a fish as myself. However, next day at 
 the proper time I was in the Park, mounted of 
 course, on the chance of fate's favoring me and 
 giving me an opportunity of riding beside her. 
 
 Presently she came along, receiving salutations 
 on all sides with her sweet sunny smile, in which 
 
OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 123 
 
 lurked a shade of sadness I did not remember to 
 have noticed there before. Two gentlemen, whom 
 I recognized as two of the most eligible matches 
 at that time in London, rode on either side of her ; 
 while behind came Clarissa, the colonel, and an- 
 other gentleman, who seemed to find that gay 
 yonng lady's smiles no bad substitute for those 
 of her sister. 
 
 As they came near, and I was about to lift my 
 hat, Gwendoline perceived me, and immediately 
 pulled her horse into a walk. 
 
 " I am so glad to see you !" she cried ; " it is 
 long since we have met. How did you get over 
 the cold you had when you left us ?" 
 
 Thus speaking, she reined in sufficiently to 
 place her horse beside mine, throwing one of her 
 escort out of his position, a manoeuvre he did not 
 seem to relish, for, after riding a few steps far- 
 ther, he raised his hat abruptly and left us. 
 
 There was a change in Gwendoline's manner 
 that I, knowing nothing of what had happened^ 
 could not account for ; it seemed to me so strange 
 that she whom I had seen sad and broken-heart- 
 ed should now blaze out the gayest of the gay, 
 the queen of beauty, and the admired of all ad- 
 mirers. But such she appeared to be, and for a 
 few minutes I almost feared that the Gwendoline 
 I had known and loved was gone forever, driven 
 ont by the beautiful worldly spirit now before me. 
 
 But when we were alone for a few minutes to- 
 gether that night at a ball, as we stood talking by 
 an open window, a change passed over her, and 
 from the gay queen of fashion I had just seen she 
 faded quietly into her old sweet gidishness, and 
 spoke of her home under the mountains, and the 
 happy days we had spent there, her glorious eyes 
 gleaming with unshed tears in the soft starlight, 
 
 "But every thing is changed since then," she 
 went on ; " even I am. Do you remember, Viv- 
 ian, what you have twice asked me, and twice I 
 have refused ?" 
 
 I was about to speak and ask her if there was 
 yet hope, but she signed to me to be silent. 
 
 "I must tell you why I refused you tlien — 
 why I would accept you now, if you still cared 
 for me. Do not think me very bad and bold for 
 speaking thus, but I am very unhappy, Vivian, 
 and I feel as if you who are unhappy also would 
 sympathize more with me who have caused your 
 misery, than any one else would be likely to do. 
 I liked some one else better than you when you 
 asked me before to marry you, though circum- 
 stances prevented my having any hope, at least 
 at that time ; yet as long as he remained true to 
 me,' I should have been faithful to him. Now, 
 however, he cares for me no longer ; he is about 
 to marry another, and therefore if you still care 
 for me, knowing that my heart is dead in that 
 other love, I will have you ; I would willingly 
 show him others value me, though he does not. 
 I would not say this to you, but that .you seem 
 so changed and saddened since our last meeting : 
 if the sisterly affection I feel for you seems to 
 you a fitting return for your love, I will give my- 
 self to you gladly." 
 
 "Gwendoline,"! murmured, with a mixture 
 of doubt and raptnre, "you have made me too 
 happy. I do not fear the dead love^t was not 
 worthy of you ; and soon you will teach your 
 heart to care for me more than you once cared 
 for him." 
 
 I pressed her hand to my lips as I spoke, for 
 
 we were quite alone, but I dared not yet take her 
 to my heart as I longed to do. She shuddered 
 a little as my hot lips touched her hand, and drew 
 back, saying, 
 
 " I am cold here ; let us join the dancers." 
 
 So we went back among them, and whirled 
 along as merrily as the rest, I with every pulse 
 in my body bounding with delight; she, I knew 
 long afterward, with so heavy a heart she might' 
 well have envied the poorest beggar in the streets. 
 
 How happy I was! I never cared that she 
 loved another, and that other Claude Teversham. 
 It was quite enough for me that she was mine 
 now : I believed firmly she would, in time, care 
 more for me than she had ever done for Claude. 
 I knew that she liked me very warmly already,- 
 and I felt that my passionate adoration must win 
 more affection in return. Yes, my heart knew 
 no fear at the dangerous contract, and beat high 
 with rapture when I thought with what pride I 
 should present her to my mother. , 
 
 Neither my father nor my mother were at the 
 ball that night, so I knew I must wait at least 
 till next day before I could introduce her to my 
 family ; besides, I should have to talk over the 
 matter with General Bambridge before it could 
 be finally settled; though that, I knew, was a 
 mere matter of form, as of course he would not 
 refuse his consent. I dare say Gwendoline told 
 them all about it that night, ho\yever, for it was 
 evident Clarissa suspected something, and, her 
 suspicions once aroused, there was never rest for 
 any one till her curiosity was satisfied. 
 
 "What has happened to Vivian?" she cried, 
 as I brought Gwendoline back to her mother. 
 "I think I never saw him looking so radiant. 
 And you were very doleful .when you came in 
 this evening,", she continued, tuniing to me. 
 "There is something up. Tell me, what is it?" 
 
 "Miss Bambridge has been with me all the 
 time," I answered; "she knows every thing I 
 know — ask her about it.. And now, I think, 
 this is our dance," I continued, putting my arm 
 round Clarissa's slender waist and whirling her 
 off amidst the dancers. 
 
 Somehow, I can not quite tefl how it was, be- 
 fore we had gone many times round the room 
 Clarissa had found out my secret, and was so 
 evidently delighted that I felt quite pleased, as 
 though I had done some great thing, 
 
 "I am so. glad!" she cried. "Gwendoline, I 
 know, will be happy with you, and we all like you 
 so much that nothing couldgive us more pleasure." 
 
 In what a fool's paradise I passed that even- 
 ing ! , I seemed to move on air, and to be carried 
 along far above mortal pains and sorrows; my 
 head was, turned with happiness, and even the 
 knowledge that her heart was not mine, but per- 
 haps still another's, could not cliill my ecstasy. 
 She would love me soon, I fondly hoped and be- 
 lieved ; she liked me well now. I had only a few 
 more steps to make in her affections, and the 
 battle would be won — she would be mine Entire- 
 ly. So I told myself joyfully, as I walked home 
 through the cool night air, after putting my be- 
 loved, carefully cloaked by my hands, into her 
 carriage. 
 
 The streets were quiet, and the faint gray of 
 the summer twilight miMe them look ghostly and 
 peaceful as I wended my way onward, thinking 
 of my happiness, and vowing to deserve it by 
 such "devotion as no woman ever won before. 
 
124 
 
 OUE DETACHMENT. 
 
 How is it that at some moments of intense 
 joy a shadow passes before you, and dims your 
 visions of the bright future ? — a shadow for which 
 you can not account in any way, that you can not 
 describe, except that it turns the golden dreams 
 dead and dull, all the life and glitter fading out 
 of them, till, bewildered and alarmed, you seek 
 vainly for the cause of this sudden change. 
 
 Such a gloom passed over me as I neared our 
 house. It seemed as if suddenly, and without 
 any warning, a voice in my heart called loudly : 
 "This happiness, that seems within your grasp, 
 is not for you. She whom you love will never 
 he yours." 
 
 As these words passed through me and rang 
 in my ears, I staggered against tlie railings and 
 leaned there for a minute or two, stunned by the 
 sudden revulsion of feeling. Not a footstep rang 
 along the quiet street, tlie lamps were looking 
 pale and sickly in the increasing light of day, and 
 the cool, soft summer air, blowing gently over 
 my brow, calmed me after a time. 
 
 "It is the reaction after being so happy," I 
 muttered. "It seems like a dream, too good to 
 be true. But it is true, I know, and to-morrow 
 I will speak to the general." 
 
 As I decided thus I recovered my spirits again, 
 and, raising my head, stepped gayly on, gained 
 our door, let myself in, and was soon dreaming 
 blissfully about the events of the evening. My 
 first business, next day, was to tell my mother 
 all about it, and get her on my side ; I therefore 
 sent her a message, a little before her usual break- 
 fast hour, to say if she had no objection I would 
 take that meal with her. This was rather an 
 unusual step on my part, as generally I was np 
 to6 late the night before to appear when she did, 
 and my father and she usually took breakfast 
 alone together. Tiiis was only when we were 
 in London, however; in the country we were 
 as regular and domestic as our neighbors, but in 
 town that is out of the question. 
 
 Of course my mother was delighted to have me 
 for a companion, and sent word to that effect. In 
 a short time I was seated opposite to her at table, 
 feeling too nervous to do justice to the meal before 
 me. Certainly I had talked the matter over with 
 my mother before, and she had been most kind and 
 sympathizing about it, in spite of which I could 
 not but feel she might not like so speedy an ar- 
 rangement of the matter as I desired." I did not 
 broach the subject therefore for some time, but 
 sat in an abstracted manner, wondering how I 
 should begin, when she settled that difficulty for 
 me by saying, "What was it you wanted to con- 
 sult me about, my boy? I suppose it must be 
 something important, to have aroused you so 
 early." 
 
 Then I told her all, and, when I had finished, 
 waited impatiently for an answer. She mused 
 thoughtfully for some time over my stor}', and 
 then said: "We would not have a word to say 
 against it, my son, if you were a little older, but 
 you are too young to take so important a step in 
 life. This is your first love, and no doubt very 
 dear to you now, but it is in the nature of most 
 men's hearts that the first love is never the last ; 
 in a year, or at most two, you will have seen 
 some other face you will Sbnsider for a time fair- 
 er and dearer ; or if you marry her, and she has 
 tact and attractions enough to keep you true, and 
 remain in your eyes the one woman in the world 
 
 for you, you will still see everywhere that a young 
 married man like you is iat a great disadvantage 
 in society, and you will perhaps feel inclined to 
 exclaim, 'Why did not my parents make me 
 wait a year or two, till I had seen a little more 
 of life, and was more sobered and steadied 
 down?'" 
 
 "Never, mother, never!" I cried, earnestly; 
 "believe me, she only can make me happy. I 
 tell you, mother, I know my own heart, and I 
 feel that for me at least the first love will be the 
 last. I have her promise now; don't let any 
 worldly scruples spoil my happiness." 
 
 My mother smiled gently down on me as I 
 came and knelt beside her, passing my arm round 
 her waist coaxingly. "My child," she said, " if 
 you are sure of your own heart, and if her people 
 consent, I will answer for your father and myself. 
 I will call on Mrs. Bambridgc to-day and see the 
 young lady. It will be very pleasant to have a 
 daughter as well as a son, and I know j'ou could 
 not love any one who was not good ; therefore I 
 look forward to her being a great comfort to me, 
 now I am getting old." 
 
 "Gettingold, darling mother!" I cried; "why, 
 you look yoimger than most of the belles in their 
 second season here. My mother is the most beau- 
 tiful and youngest-looking matron in London," I 
 added, proudly, as I thought what a sensation her 
 appearance always created, and how men's eyes 
 followed her admiringly wherever she moved. 
 " Did I tell yon," I went on, brimming over with 
 happiness, " what young Montague of the Guards 
 said to me : ' By Jove, Darrell, you're the lucki- 
 est fellow alive to have such a mother. A man 
 need never desire to leave his own fireside when 
 he has such an angel as that always beside it.' 
 And I agree with him, mother, only you will be, 
 if possible, more charming when my Gwendoline 
 is your daughter." 
 
 It was easy to arrange matters with General 
 Bambridge, once my father's consent was guar- 
 anteed, so you may imagine my delight when, 
 preliminaries being settled, and settlements talked 
 over, it was decided we should be manied' within 
 two or three months. I was very much against 
 a long engagement, in which all the elder people 
 agreed with me; for, as my mother said, such 
 an ordeal is generally very trying to young affec- 
 tions. 
 
 As to Gwendoline herself, it struck me some- 
 times that she was afraid of the step she had 
 taken ; but this was more from the manner in 
 which she avoided being left alone with me, or 
 turned off my passionate protestations of aft'ec- 
 tion, than from any avowal on her part that such 
 was the case. Indeed, once or twice, when, stung 
 by this fear, I said, " Gwendoline, darling, I am 
 afraid you regret having made me so happy," she 
 answered, ' ' Do not think so, Vivian. I like you 
 better than ever, but I can not be quite as gay 
 yet as you would wish me to be, and as I hope 
 to be some day." 
 
 At the same time that the news ofour approach- 
 ing marriage startled sleepy chaperons out of their 
 propriety, and caused them to launch into severe 
 condemnation of Lady Travei'scoim's folly in 
 permitting that foolish boy to settle so early in 
 life, and, moreover, in allowing him to choose, 
 not a well-trained bird out of their fashionable 
 nests, but a wild dove out of an Irish dove-cote 
 —before they had got over this shock, I say, they 
 
OUK DETACHMENT. 
 
 123 
 
 received anothei-, less violent certainly, because 
 more correct and conventional, but still severe 
 enough to anxious young men on their prefer- 
 ment, and to the mothers of damsels in the same 
 case — ^viz., that Lord Eeversham was about to be 
 married to Miss Prendergast. 
 
 It was very hard, two such prizes being uni- 
 ted, and rendered useless, but still it was natural 
 and proper : they could be forgiven, while my 
 scheme for my own happiness was utterly pre- 
 posterous and absurd. 
 
 I knew by Gwendoline's face when she heard 
 the news about Lord Eeversham, and I almost 
 felt pleased as I thought that, now all hope was 
 over, she would soon forget him. Certainly suc- 
 cessful love is a selfish passion, let who will say 
 nay. Unsuccessful, one may be self-denying, and 
 think of the happiness of the beloved more than 
 of one's own ; but once fear and doubt are ban- 
 ished, then one takes it for granted that one's 
 own pleasure pleases also the one loved, and, I 
 fear, her wishes are often but little consulted. 
 
 While I dreaded to lose her, I could see how 
 much happier she would be with Eeversham ; I 
 could urge his claims and try to advance his 
 cause. Now, though I knew she still loved him, 
 I was rejoiced at a circumstance that I knew 
 must pain her, and part them forever. 
 
 I think I had a half-ashamed consciousness of 
 this as I looked at her pale face and sad, soft 
 eyes, the day the announcement first reached her 
 ears ; yet, though I pitied her, I triumphed, and 
 would not for worlds have had it otherwise. 
 
 And now my leave was drawing to a close, as 
 was Claude's also ; in fact, we determined to join 
 on the same day, and journey back to Dublin to- 
 gether ; then in about two months' time I hoped 
 to obtain leave again and be married, and I had 
 a kind of idea Feversham's plans were the same 
 as mine, though I had no opportunity of asking 
 him of late. I should hear all about it in the 
 train, I knew, and in the mean time I was a great 
 deal too much taken up with my own happiness 
 to care about him, or to hunt him up now and 
 then for a chat, as I should have done had not 
 my ov/n time been so pleasantly occupied. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXVL 
 
 A SCENE IN BABKACKS. 
 
 After all it is a very pleasant thing, finding 
 one's self back with the regiment after an absence, 
 no matter how one has enjoyed one's self on leave , 
 not because of the regimental work, certainly, for 
 to all except a select few that always remains rath- 
 er a bore than otherwise ; but because one meets 
 again the old cheery, familiar faces, hears all the 
 familiar sounds, and finds one's self once more in 
 an atmosphere of camaraderie never found quite 
 in perfection out of the' service, I fancy. One 
 likes to listen to what so-and-so has been doing 
 with himself during one's absence, and he, in his 
 tui-n, takes an interest in one's exploits, and par- 
 ticipates in the pride with which we tell how we 
 cut down sudh a one in that ti-emendous run with 
 the Blankshire hounds, or made .the largest bag 
 at Lord Bluestocking's battue; for being done 
 by one of "ours," does it not reflect credit on all f 
 
 Something of this pleasant feeling of return 
 among old friends and familiar scenes soothed 
 
 away the loneliness that began to settle on my 
 spirit when I parted from Gwendoline. I was 
 very young, and it was my first experience of 
 separation, so that, with all my buoyancy qf spir- 
 it and hopefulness, I had been rather downcast^ 
 and a poor companion for Claude, who seemed 
 himself in low spirits, and I fancied was inclined 
 almost to avoid me. 
 
 I had not seen him to speak to since his en- 
 gagement became public, so when we were alone 
 in the mail, having a carriage to ourselves, I 
 thought I ought to congratulate him on his ap- 
 proaching happiness, being sure that, if his feel- 
 ings in any way resembled mine, he would be 
 only too pleased to talk about it. 
 
 "You are a. lucky fellow," I said, "to have 
 won that beautiful girl. Miss Prendergast, whom 
 I saw riding with you last winter. You are one 
 of the most fortunate people I know." 
 
 "Do you think so ?" he answered, dryly. "I 
 do not." Then, seeing my expression of aston- 
 ishment, he went on : " My dear Darrell, do not 
 talk about things you do not understand. I 
 dare say I shall do very well ; but I am older 
 and more experienced than you, and can not be 
 expected to fall into the same ecstasies over the 
 common lot of all men as you do." 
 
 He was very silent after this during the whole 
 journey, but told me the wedding was to take 
 place in two months' time — in fact, just about a 
 week after the time fixed for my own ; but of 
 this I did not remind him, as he seemed in no 
 mood to sympathize with my joyful feelings. 
 
 I do not think I had been back long before 
 every fellow in barracks knew all about my fate, 
 and a great deal of condolence I got from them, 
 they having made up their minds that the mar- 
 riage of a young man was an unmitigated evil, 
 and I was to be pitied accordingly. In vain I 
 assured them of my happiness, and represented 
 that Only my own wishes impelled me to the step ; 
 it was all the same to them — they shook their 
 heads gravely, and only replied by some wise old 
 saw, as "A young man married is a man that's 
 marred," or something of that sort. Indeed; 
 Mayleigh said, " Only we know you so well, and 
 you are already in the regiment and liked, we 
 would not have a married ensign. As it is, it is 
 a bad example to the youngsters, and I fear will 
 cause us some trouble." 
 
 What is the origin of the popular prejudice 
 against a young man's marrying, even when he 
 has plenty oflnoney, and can maintain his wife 
 in proper comfort? Of course, if the woman 
 only marries him for his money, or is a coquette, 
 or ill-tempered, no doubt he would do better 
 without her ; but if she loves him, and he loves 
 her, how much trouble and evil-doing does her 
 gentle influence guard him from ; how much 
 fewer scrapes he gets into, and how much hap- 
 pier, even if less boisterously gay, is his life, than 
 when roaming about with several choice spirits, 
 if possible wilder than himself, as it is usual for 
 our young men to do. As for me, I was too 
 happy to mind these expressions of commisera- 
 tion, which indeed would have been better suited 
 to Claude than to me, judging by his counte- 
 nance. 
 
 As I said, every one knew every thing about 
 my engagement just half an hour after I anived 
 in the barracks ; but I do not think Claude told 
 any one of his, and I certainly was not going to 
 
12G 
 
 OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 do so, as I knew he would not take such inter- 
 ference well. 
 
 Next morning, however, Cecil Egerton came 
 into my room, having promised to breakfast 
 with me, and then drive over to Belrush with me, 
 to look at a stream where we had been offered 
 some good fishing. I was not quite ready, so, 
 tossing him the paper, I told him to look at that 
 until I was able to sit down. He did so, and all 
 was quiet for a minute or two, when suddenly I 
 was startled by a smothei'ed exclamation, and, 
 glancing round, saw Egei'ton sitting straight up 
 in his chair, the newspaper lield np before him, 
 showing by its trembling the agitation of his 
 nerves. As I looked be crushed the paper in 
 his hand, and seemed as though he was about to 
 tear it to pieces. I had not read it, however, so 
 I called out, " Halloo ! I say, Egerton, do not de- 
 stroy that before I have seen it."' 
 
 lie started at the sound of my voice, and the 
 blood came back with a rush into his face, as, 
 smoothing out the crumpled sheet slowly and 
 deliberately, he got up as if with an effort, and 
 held it toward me, saying, "Bead that. I did 
 not know Feversham was going to be married." 
 
 I glanced at the place lie pointed out, and saw 
 it was an announcement of the approaching mar- 
 riage of Lord Feversham with Miss Prendergast. 
 It was all plain enough, and quite true, though 
 why it should affect Egerton in so violent a man- 
 ner I was at first at a loss to detennine. Then 
 I remembered he had been staying with the 
 Prendergasts in the winter, and no doubt had 
 fallen under tlie spell of Mabel's fascination. 
 Poor fellow ! it was evident he was desperately 
 hard hit, and I hardly liked to answer his re- 
 mark, when I saw the pain he was suffering. 
 
 "Tell me," he asked again, in a changed, 
 hoarse voice, "is it true? What is the founda- 
 tion for such a report ?" 
 
 "It is true," I replied, briefly. "It is all 
 settled, though I don't think Feversham has told 
 any of our fellows yet." 
 
 As these words, confirming the newspaper re- 
 port, fell slowly and reluctantly from my lips, 
 Egerton turned so white I feared he would have 
 fallen, but he controlled himself, and grasped the 
 back of a chair for support, as he answered, 
 
 "I do not believe it. It is a vile fabrication, 
 got up either by Lord Feversham or his mother, 
 with a view to increasing his importance in the 
 eyes of the world ; they think perhaps by doing 
 this they may cause her to see the'desirability of 
 the step. But their pains are in vain," he went 
 on, with a wild, excited laugh. "I know she is 
 true ; I could not believe her false, if she told me 
 herself she was so. No, she is mine, only mine ! 
 Darrell, you must have made a mistake, or Lord 
 Feversham has deceived you." • 
 
 Hooked at him with astonishment, and began 
 to think he must certainly be a little touched in 
 the brain, for though he had spent a month or 
 two in the winter at The Poplars, yet it was ab- 
 surd to imagine that any thing more than an or- 
 dinary flirtation existed between him and Miss 
 Prendergast. True, I could quite believe any 
 such intimacy with her would be very fatal, but 
 this young fellow seemed to allude to something 
 more ; he spoke of her as his, as though he had 
 told his love and been accepted. It was non- 
 sense, of course ; still I could not help feeling that 
 very likely be had been led on and badly treated. 
 
 and I pitied him accordingly. Noi .so veiy long; 
 ago, under such circumstances, I should have 
 abused all women unmercifully, and thanked my 
 stars I was above siich weakness. Now, I felt 
 for him deeply, and thought thankfully, " Gwen- 
 doline would not have acted so." 
 
 " I suppose Teversham will be in the anteroom 
 after breakfast," went on Egerton. "I must 
 speak to him about this, and get him to contra- 
 dict it. She would not like it a bit more than I 
 do, but if it is denied at once it does not so much 
 matter." 
 
 I was surprised at the tone of proprietorship 
 he assumed when speaking of Miss Prendergast, 
 and began really to think he must be mad, the 
 more so as, though he sat down to breakfast, he 
 continued talking in a flighty, excited manner, 
 and kept helping himself to one dish after an- 
 other, and then pushing away his plate without 
 touching what was on it. 
 
 "Feversham is sure to be about," I answered. 
 " I hope you and he will be able to make it all 
 right with each other. But don't you intend to 
 come with me, then '/" 
 
 "Oh! yes," he replied, "if you do not mind 
 waiting two or three minutes for me. Feversh- 
 am is a good fellow, after all, and, whatever his 
 motive for this can be, I think, when I tell him 
 I object, he will write at once to have it contra- 
 dicted. You do not mind waiting, do you ?" 
 
 " Certainly not," I answered, thinking at the 
 same time the matter promised to be a little 
 more difficult of settlement than Cecil seemed to 
 anticipate, at least by words ; but his trembling 
 hands and hurried, nen-ous manner told a dift'er- 
 ent tale. 
 
 I do not fancy we either of us enjoyed our 
 breakfast much that morning. To me there 
 seemed to be a shadow of coming trouble, or, 
 as I mentally expressed it, of a jolly good row, 
 hanging over our heads ; as for Egerton, I under- 
 stood well afterward why his face had changed 
 so sadly and suddenly, why such a strained, anx- 
 ious look had come into the deep, soft eyes, usu- 
 ally so placid and indolent in their beauty. It 
 was inevitable that a man with bis intensely, 
 womanishly affectionate nature should suffer deep 
 and bitter pain through the keenness of his feel- 
 ings, but it is rare indeed that even those weak 
 as he, where those they love are concerned, are 
 so mercilessly and cruelly betrayed, so shameful- 
 ly deceived ; as yet, though he did not know, 
 though he dared not guess the extent of the ca- 
 lamity that had befallen him, the sensitive nerves 
 of his mind had been jarred, and a thousand 
 vague, wild ideas floated through his brain, like 
 the throbbing pulsations of pain that succeed a 
 heavy blow. 
 
 "I'll go with you, old fellow," I cried, as Ce- 
 cil, after hastily swallowing a cup of coffee, rose 
 to seek Feversham. " I want to speak to May- 
 leigh, and will no doubt find him in the ante- 
 room ; then, after you have settled this matter, 
 we can go off on our expedition. " 
 
 I spoke thus confidently and cheerfully, though 
 I was far from feeling so. I knew for certain 
 Claude was engaged to Mabel Prendergast, and 
 that he would not for a moment think of denying 
 his engagement ; but what course Egerton would 
 take, when he found his worst suspicions con- 
 firmed, I was at a loss to imagine ; besides, above 
 nil, what right had he to demand this explana- 
 
OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 12Y 
 
 tion, and to go on in the violent manner in which' 
 he seemed inclined to act ? 
 
 To tell the truth, my business with Mayleigh 
 ■was purely fictitious. I wanted to be some- 
 where about, so that I might know if there was 
 any row, and perhaps get Claude to explain it 
 all to me afterward. Gwendoline used to say I 
 was the most curious person — man, woman, or 
 child — she had ever, met; and though I do not 
 at all see the truth in that assertion, yet I ac- 
 knowledge on this occasion I was very anxious 
 to know how matters would end. 
 
 Egerton took my paper with him, carrying it 
 so folded as to show the obnoxious paragraph 
 uppermost. He glanced at it once or twice oh 
 the way, and I noticed, as he did so, his very 
 lips grew white witli the intensity of his emo- 
 tion, and though it was a chilly day, large drops 
 stood upon his brow. His eyes, too, as he turn- 
 ed them on me now and then while listening to 
 my chatter, had a sad, pitiful, pleading expression 
 in them, like that you see sometimes in the eyes 
 of a spaniel. 
 
 At last we reached the anteroom : there were 
 several fellows there besides Claude, and I fully 
 expected Egerton would have asked him to leave 
 the room for a minute, that their explanation 
 might be settled in private. No idea of this 
 kind, however, entered Cecil's head ; he was too 
 disturbed, and too terribly in earnest, to heed for 
 one moment the inquisitive eyes around. Once 
 he found himself in Fevereham's presence, he 
 seemed to forget every thing but that the man 
 was before him whom report placed between him 
 and his love. Stepping up to Claude, he laid the 
 paper on the table, and pointing out the place, 
 said, - . 
 
 " Do you see that ? Of course you will deny 
 it!" 
 
 With a quiet, cool gravity that must have been 
 infinitely torturing to the man whose heart was 
 beating so madly with suspense as to cause ev- 
 ery thing in the I'oom to grow dim before him, 
 Claude took up the paper, and read the, passage 
 slowly and deliberately before he answered, look- 
 ing Egerton calmly in the face with curious, ques- 
 tioning eyes, 
 
 " Why, should I deny it ? I did not put it in 
 the papers, but it is true." 
 
 "By heaven, it is false! — false as hell !" cried 
 Egerton, starting into furious, active, passionate 
 life from his late despondency and depression. 
 "Take that!" he went on, striking Claude a 
 blow on the mouth, that caused a deep Hush to 
 spring to his brow, not from the pain of the blow, 
 but from the outrage, the insult from his subal- 
 tern, a man whom he had always befriended. 
 He sprang to his feet, and for a moment, inhis 
 indignation and anger, looked as though he could 
 crush Egerton with one grasp of the strong white 
 fingers be laid on the young man's shoulder. 
 But his nature was a brave and true one. As 
 he faced his foe, a glance at the pale, heart-broken 
 face convinced him something was wrong, and 
 quelling his passion by a powerful effort, he said, 
 gravely, 
 
 "You must be mad, Egerton. Don't you 
 know that in striking me you have laid yourself 
 open to a trial by court-martial, and such a trial 
 can only result in your being dismissed the serv- 
 ice ? What you can possibly mean by speaking 
 in that way to me, I am at a loss to understand ; 
 
 there has been some misconception here. Will 
 you be good enough to explain f " 
 
 The young man drew back from Claude's re- 
 taining hand, and raised his head till his flashing 
 eyes met those of liis opponent haughtily and 
 firmly. I had never seen him look so splendid- 
 ly handsome : the weak look that generally spoil- 
 ed his face had vanished, his slight form had di- 
 lated with the force of his passionate anger, and 
 although his expression was pained and grief- 
 stricken, there was a grandeur of despair in it ; 
 it was an expression such as one might imagine 
 would rest on the countenances of those who fall 
 overpowered by countless numbers, yet fighting 
 bravely to the last. 
 
 He drew back from Claude, and answered cold- 
 ly and sneeringly, "Did not that blow show you 
 my meaning ? I did not think you were a cow- 
 ard, as well as a liar and a sneak 1 If you wish 
 to know why I call you so, I will tell you. The 
 lady whose engagement with you is here an- 
 nounced, and whose engagement you maintain, 
 is not so bound to you — she is mine, we are be- 
 trothed, and only wait for my lieutenancy to be 
 married. ■ If it be true — which I can never be- 
 lieve till I hear it from her own lips^then you 
 have supplanted me, drawn her away from me, 
 bribed her by yonr superior worldly advantages ; 
 in either case the answer to my blow remains the 
 same. Shall I be obliged to refresh your memo- 
 ry with another ?" 
 
 He stepped forward as he spoke, laughing bitter- 
 ly and scornfully. But Claude drew back, saying, 
 
 "This is unnecessary. I comprehend you. 
 But," he added, with a glance round at our sur- 
 prised and anxious faces, " I should have thought 
 more of your love if you had kept this scene pri- 
 vate." 
 
 Egerton started, and flushed blood -red over 
 cheek and brow as he perceived us all looking on. 
 
 ' ' I did not know, " he murmured ; then recov- 
 ering himself, he went on : "You need not teach 
 me what my love requires to make it perfect. If 
 I have erred, it was from intensity, not from want 
 of feeling. I shall be in my room whenever yon 
 have any communication to make to me." And 
 so saying, he turned to leave. As he came near 
 me he staggered, and passed his hand over his 
 eyes with a hurried, nervous motion, then tried 
 to move on, but stumbled, and would have fall- 
 en, only.Icaught him, and helped him into the cool 
 air outside. There he leaned against the wall, 
 and after the breeze had fanned his cheek for a 
 minute or two, he asked, "What did I say just 
 now, DaiTell ? I do not remember. I seem be- 
 wildered ! I know something has happened 
 about Mabel, but I hardly can understand it yet. 
 I thought some one said she had jilted me, but 
 that is false!" 
 
 He would have gone on wildly, but just then 
 the orderly entered the square with the letter-bag 
 — the English letters were always a late post, and 
 this day they were rather later than usual. 
 
 "Wait here for a minute," I cried; "or go 
 back to your quarters, while I go in to see if there 
 are any letters. I will bring yours, if there are 
 any, for you." 
 
 "Very well," he answered absently, and went 
 off, while I followed the orderly in and returned 
 to the anteroom, where I found every one in a, 
 great state of excitement about the scene they 
 hud just witnessed. 
 
128 
 
 OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 "What is the meaning of it all ?" cried sever- 
 al Yoices as I entered the room ; while Claude's 
 quiet sentence could bo heard above all the con- 
 fusion, "I think the fellow is mad !" 
 
 " I do not know the rights of the case," I re- 
 plied, "but, from all I can make out, he seems 
 to fancy himself badly treated by some lady, and 
 thinks that Feversham is the cause of it. " I did 
 not explain more fully, because I thought most 
 probably Claude would not care to have the name 
 of his future wife mixed up in this affair. " Here 
 are the letters," I went on, seizing mine, and 
 glancing rapidly over the outsides to know from 
 whom they came ; " and here is one for Egerton. 
 I suppose I had better take it in to him. And I 
 dare say he can wait a minute or two for that, 
 while I look over mine." 
 
 Claude had also received one or two letters by 
 that post, and I noticed, as he finished reading 
 the one he first opened, he uttered an impatient 
 exclamation, and his face clouded over, as though 
 something had happened to annoy him, then, 
 turning to me, he said, 
 
 " You are going to Egerton's quarters now, are 
 you not ? Let me walk so far with you — I have 
 something to tell you." 
 
 I assented, and as soon as we were outside, 
 and crossing the square, Feversham said to me, 
 
 ' ' I am afraid Egerton has cause for complaint, 
 though I did not think it could be true at first. 
 Here is a letter from her, which I have just re- 
 ceived, confessing that she had, through pity for 
 Egerton when he was ill, consented to engage 
 herself to him, but now that a happier fate " 
 (she calls it that, poor child ! he muttered aside) 
 " has been presented to her, she has not the cour- 
 age to sacrifice herself, and has written to tell him 
 so. She seems veiy penitent for the mischief she 
 may have caused, and begs me not to let Egerton 
 quarrel with me. She appears also to think he 
 will soon get over it, when he finds there is no 
 possible chance of his winning her." 
 
 "So do not I," I replied. "He is awfully 
 cut up, and I am convinced feels himself deeply 
 wronged. It is a bad thing for a girl to do, and 
 I must say I think her conduct heartless." 
 
 "Remember, Dai-rell, my good boy, she is to 
 be my wife, so I must trouble you not to com- 
 ment on her conduct, at least before me. How- 
 ever, I was about to say I think that letter to Eg- 
 erton may be from her, as she told me she was 
 going to write to him." 
 
 "Veiy likely," I answered, coolly. "A girl 
 (though she is to be your wife, I will say it) who 
 could treat a man as she seems to have treated 
 this poor fellow, would also be just the one to 
 write him a calm, cold letter, telling him she had 
 mistaken her feelings, that she never had felt the 
 love for him she had imagined, and now, having 
 found some one on whom her affections really 
 were fixed, he must excuse her breaking off with 
 him, and favoring this other more happy mortal 
 with her hand." 
 
 This I said in spite of Claude's frowning looks, 
 for I felt sure Egerton had been ill-used by the 
 lovely, fair-faced girl I remembered ; moreover, 
 it seemed to me he was not the man to bear up 
 against such a calamity. I could not but pity 
 him, as, I recalled the despair of his handsome 
 face when he first began to realize the truth of 
 the dreadful news, and I was too young, and too 
 happy in my love, not to sympathize, profoundly 
 
 with one whose dream of joy was thus rudeljr 
 shattered. 
 
 When he reached his quarters, Claude, who 
 had been silent since my last speech, said sud- 
 denly, 
 
 " I had better not go near him now. If, when 
 he sees I have spoken the truth, he is willing to 
 withdraw the insulting speeches made to me, and 
 to let the matter rest, I will assuredly not resent 
 his action. His state of mind was too painful 
 forme to think more of his insult than as an out- 
 burst of blind passion, for which he is sure to be 
 sorry when he comes to his senses. I do not 
 fancy you will see much more of him to-day. 
 Shall I wait here for you ?" 
 
 I assented, and running nimbly up stairs, 
 knocked at his door. He opened it slightly, but 
 still standing behind it, so that I could not see 
 his face, and took the letter I held to him, saying 
 as he did so, 
 
 " I fear I can not accomp.iny you to-day, Dar- 
 rell. And I say, old fellow," he added, with an 
 attempt at easy cheerfulness in his voice, "will 
 you see me through this affair — be my second, I 
 mean ?" 
 
 "Do not talk about that now," I answered, 
 thinking that the perusal of the letter he held 
 would change his mind. "Think over it till 
 evening. Then, if you are still of the same 
 mind, I will do what you want, but do not do 
 any thing of this kind in a huriy. You will nev- 
 er repent it but once, you know." 
 
 "You have got an old head on young shoul- 
 ders, DaiTell," he answered, closing his door 
 slowly, " or you would not talk to me like that. 
 Come and see me when you return." And so 
 saying, he shut the door, whUe I went back to 
 Claude. 
 
 "Well, have you heard any thing?" asked 
 Feversham, anxiously, as I rejoined him. 
 
 "No," I replied. "I can not make him oiit. 
 He is evidently trying to bear up and hide what 
 he suffers, but you can see all his misery in the 
 way he shuts himself up, in the very tone of his 
 voice as he answers your most careless speech. 
 I am veiy sorry for him ; he was a good fellow, 
 and a clever one too, but far too sensitive for this 
 hard workaday world, where every one must 
 take his knocks as they come, and smile at the 
 pain they cause him." 
 
 " Poor fellow, I am veiy sorry for him !" mur- 
 mured Claude. "But I can not blamS Mabel. 
 It was natural, poor child, that she should engage 
 herself 'to him, and fancy she loved him; after 
 taking care of him through a long illness, and it is 
 natural now that, finding some one she likes bet- 
 ter, she should wish to free herself from the chain 
 with which she is bound. Doubtless she forms 
 no idea to herself of the misery and hopeless de- 
 spair it is to him, and perhaps would feel the 
 same herself, if she was obliged to hold to her 
 engagement and throw me over. But at least I 
 will not challenge him, as he wishes. I will pass 
 over his insult, if he will allow me, and some 
 day, when he has got over the shock, I am sure 
 he will thank me for not yielding to his mad de- 
 sire for revenge." 
 
 How easy it is to deceive a man, if he thinks 
 himself beloved ! with what dexterity a pair of 
 small white hands can throw a veil over the 
 most clear-sighted eyes, or a few words spoken 
 by a soft voice confuse the clearest judgment !- 
 
OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 129 
 
 Kere was Claude, without doubt a clever, sensi- 
 ble man of the world, up to any trick or plant of 
 the sharpers and blacklegs, both in society and 
 out of it — a man impossible to outmanoeuvre and 
 get round in the general course of events, yet now 
 as completely beguiled and bamboozled as was 
 ever the greenest subaltern in a marching regi- 
 ment. It seemed quite natural to him that Ma- 
 bel should love him better than Egerton, and 
 throw that youngster over for his sake, even 
 though he knew himself he did not bring lier his 
 heart, and he had a slirewd suspicion she was 
 aware of that fact also. Never mind that, how- 
 ever ; it was clear the girl loved him, he thought ; 
 and then, what an innocent, childish thing she 
 was, with her sweet half-smile, and the sudden 
 uplifting of her grave eyes to his ! It was a 
 pretty trick, and at times, as she did it, he was 
 almost angry with himself that he did not love 
 her as he believed she deserved. Had he seen 
 her practice that half-shy, half-tender look before 
 her glass, and then smile a triumphant smile at 
 the resuH, he perhaps would not have admired it 
 quite so much. 
 
 As it was, ho walked across the square with 
 me, and on our way took out her letter, glancing 
 over it with fond eyes, no doubt, but not with 
 that rapturous expression that a love-letter is sup- 
 posed to call forth — indeed, after a moment a 
 troubled look crossed his face. 
 
 " I hope nothing will come of this between 
 Egerton and me," he said slowly; "it would 
 pain and alarm her so, and, after all, she was not 
 much to blame ; it was like her pitying, child-like 
 character to engage herself to the man when he 
 was ill, hoping thereby to please him, and recall 
 him to life and happiness ; and it is equally like 
 an impatient petulance I have sometimes obseiTcd 
 in her character when annoyed, that she should 
 refuse to bear the portion she had chosen for her- 
 self in life when she finds it too irksome,, and 
 when a better one is presented to her. These 
 are faults, no doubt, but she is always the more 
 charming for her faults. A perfect woman could 
 never be so wayward, and yet beguiling, as she 
 is, and one other also whom I have known. " 
 
 He sighed as he spoke the last words, and I 
 knew his thoughts were wandering back to the 
 one woman I believe he had ever really loved as 
 a man should love his bride — the woman that, 
 before many weeks passed, was to be my wife ; 
 and I, knowing well her value and her noble 
 true-heartedness, felt somehow a chillrun through 
 me at that sigh. It seemed to speak of things 
 that might yet be, of old feelings revived, of old 
 memories awaked — nay, if that were possible, 
 old associations, old affections renewed. What 
 if they were to meet now ? — would the ties that 
 bound them be strong enough to keep off una- 
 vailing regrets, painful, yet sweet retrospections, 
 hopes and vows for a future to which they could 
 no longer have the right to look forward ? Yes, 
 I could answer that ; with her, at least, though 
 the troubled heart might throb and beat with vis- 
 ions of by-gone days, no disloyal thought to me 
 would be allowed to harbor there ; and if a strug- 
 gle there was betwixt the old love, vainly given, 
 and the new love that was to come, she would 
 be the, conqueror over the forbidden feeling, and 
 I should be more secure in her heart afterward 
 than before. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 TOR THi: LAST TIME. 
 
 Iff Feversham could have seen Mabel Prender- 
 gast, as she sat down to write that letter to Eger- 
 ton which was to blight his hopes and crush all 
 the young vigorous life out of his heart, he might 
 perhaps have thought her less child-like than he 
 did. . It was a hard task that she had set her- 
 self, and she felt it to be so, even while she de- 
 termined it should be, dope; but the pale, sad 
 face told its own tale of grief, however stenily 
 repressed, as she locked herself into her sunny 
 boudoir and sat down to her self-imposed tiial. 
 
 She placed her elbows on the table, with her 
 open desk before her, and, leaning her head on 
 her hands, meditated long and deeply. The 
 white, soft fingers, buried in the waves of her dark 
 hair, clasped and unclasped themselves nervous- 
 ly ; the glorious eyes, usually so brilliant and full 
 of light, were sombre and deep, with a gloomy 
 pain in their expression ; and tears she was too 
 proud to shed over the love to which she was 
 herself about to deal the death-blow hung glisten- 
 ing in her long thick lashes. Now and then the 
 sensitive, finely-cut lips quivered, but that expres- 
 sion of pain would pass away quipkly, and a res- 
 olute, stern look, strange to that fresh young face, 
 would take its place, and the set, pale features 
 would grow so hard that, had Claude Fever-sham 
 seen her then, he would almost have feared the 
 woman he had chosen for his wife. , • 
 
 Sitting thus, she thought over the young dream 
 of love in which for a short time she had revel- 
 ed, as one basks in the sunshine, and which she 
 was now about to destroy with her own hand and 
 of her own free-will. She lingered over her mem- 
 ories of the past before writing the fatal words 
 that would efface and blot them out forever. 
 She thought of the day she found him, of the 
 evening when she first knew him to be handsome, 
 beautiful as the sun-god of the Greek mythology, 
 and to her the king of men ; she heard again the 
 voice in which he first uttered words of love to 
 her ear ; she remembered the time when he had 
 almost found strength to leave her, and how she 
 had lured him back, and stolen his strength from 
 him by the false promise she was now about to 
 reclaim. 
 
 All these things passed through her mind as 
 she sat there, holding absently his last letter 
 crumpled in her hand. She dared not look at it 
 now ; it was so tender, so true, so trustful, that 
 every word cried out against her meditated 
 treachery, and contrasted strangely with Claude 
 Feversham's kind but never impassioned epistle, 
 lying close by. She felt the difference, and 
 shrugged her shoulders with a scornful gesture, 
 as her eye fell on the favored lover's letter, while 
 she muttered slowly, 
 
 "And for him ! Stupid fool that he is, his 
 heart is so little mine that he never perceives 1 
 have none to give him. Oh, my love, my love I 
 you are worth ten thousand such as he ; and yet 
 he wins the day — or rather," she added, with 
 sudden energy, " not he, but his gold, his influ- 
 ence, his position — these are the foes you had 
 to fight against. They were too many and too 
 strong, and I too weak, for you to prevail against 
 them." 
 
 As she finished this strange soliloquy she seized 
 her pen and began to write with a feverish deter- 
 
130 
 
 OUR DETACHMEXT. 
 
 mination strangely at variance with the cool res- 
 olution of her ordinary character. Often she 
 paused as she wrote, gazing fixedly into vacancy, 
 till some new idea would strike her, and her pen 
 would again glide over the paper with fi'antic 
 haste ; she sighed often and deeply, like one in 
 pain, as her rapid hand traced hard, iiTevocable 
 words ; but when it was ended, the long-drawn 
 breath had as much relief as of sorrow in its 
 sound, and she whispered to herself: 
 
 ' ■ It is all over now, that mad, foolish dream. 
 I wonder will he grieve much ? But I need not 
 wonder. lie told me once if he lost me he should 
 die, and I fear it will be so." 
 
 She paused and clasped her hands tightly, 
 looking irresolutely at the letter lying before her, 
 as though half determined to destroy it ; then 
 slie recovered herself, and shaking her liead with 
 an impatient gesture, she folded, sealed, and di- 
 rected the letter, musing as she did so over its 
 contents. It was all false for the most part, false 
 as her own fair, sweet face, and the tender, lov- 
 ing words she had so lately written to Claude 
 Feversham. 
 
 She told him how pity for him in his state of 
 weakness had misled her, and now she had mis- 
 taken her feelings for something deeper and more 
 tender than they were; that now she had dis- 
 covered herself capable of a stronger, purer af- 
 fection, and tlirew herself on his generosity to 
 release her from the promise given in her foolish, 
 childish days, before she knew what true love 
 was. She feared he would think she had used 
 him badly, and veiy prettily she expressed her 
 contrition for the pain she was about to cause 
 bim, reverting always to her childishness and 
 folly, her ignorance until now of what love really 
 was, and the sin of betraying both him and her- 
 self by concealing the real state of her heart, once 
 she had discovered it. 
 
 It was a letter such as might have been writ- 
 ten by a child without a heart, a mortal Undine, 
 in fact, but never surely by a woman who loved 
 and had been loved, as she had been. And this 
 was the missive I handed in to Egerton that 
 morning through his halt-open door, and that he 
 lield unopened in his hand till I had left. Then 
 he tore it open with eagei', trembling fingers, and 
 glanced hurriedly over its contents. The events 
 of the morning should have prepared him in some 
 way for what was about to happen, yet now the 
 blow seemed to fall with as much force as though 
 it came unexpectedly. He fell back against the 
 window-sash, catching blindly at a chair to steady 
 himself, and moaned the dismal, inarticulate 
 moan of a soul in agony. In that first bitter 
 hour he found no woi'ds to express his anguish ; 
 he only hid his face from the light and groan- 
 ed in his cruel sorrow. He uttered no word 
 or sound as he lay through the weary hours, 
 crouched up in a heap in the window. His face 
 was hidden from sight, had there been any one 
 near to see, by the arm on which his head rest- 
 ed ; he moved not, stirred not; like one dead he 
 lay ; none could know what passed through his 
 mind during that terrible time. The sunlight 
 streamed in through the window, and wandered 
 along the walls, and over the table and floor, 
 resting brightly on every. object in the room, but 
 longest and most gayly on his bowed and strick- 
 en head. But he saw and heeded not ; before 
 Ilia mental eyes the sun should shine never more, 
 
 to him all the beauty and gladsome light of na- 
 ture were dead and gone forever. 
 
 At length he rose, but tottered as he stood up- 
 right, and moved through the room with the fee- 
 ble, uncertain steps of one walking in a strange 
 place in the twilight. After a time he seemed 
 to recover a little, and stepped more certainly, . 
 while his handsome face wore an expression nev- 
 er seen there before: it was pale, calm, and de- 
 termined ; but the calm was that of despair, the 
 determination that of a man whom nothing in 
 heaven or earth could alter, in his resolution. 
 He wrote a note or two, put a few things into 
 a portmanteau, made preparations for a hurried^ 
 journey, all in the same unmoved way, and then 
 paused for a moment, as though uncertain what 
 next to do. 
 
 Just at this moment I appeared, according to 
 promise, having returned empty-handed from my 
 excursion. The alteration in Egerton's manner 
 and appearance in those few short hours was so 
 great that I hardly recognized him, and could 
 not refrain from uttering an exclamation of as- 
 tonishment. But the strange, calm sternness 
 of his pale face awed me; I felt instinctively 
 that grief must indeed be terrible which could so 
 remove all trace of his former self in the expres- 
 sion of a man's countenance. He looked absent- 
 ly at me for a minute or two after he had admit- 
 ted me, and then, as if remembering suddenly the 
 events of the morning, said, 
 
 "I have heard nothing from him as yet;' I 
 expected I should have before now. Do you 
 think he will not take up the matter?" 
 
 "What matter? — what is it you expect?" I 
 asked, hardly recollecting what had happened, 
 and not sure either that he meant to follow up 
 his insult, now he knew all, if Claude declined to 
 take notice of what had already passed. 
 
 "Did you not see? Do you not understand 
 that I want him— the villain who has supplanted 
 me — to meet me in fair fight; that I may revenge 
 myself for the wrong he has wrought me ? , If he . 
 does not take the blow I gave him this morning 
 as a sufiiciently marked insult, and challenge me, 
 I will send him a message ; and if he will not re- 
 ceive that, I will horsewhip his cowardly carcass 
 till he shall wish he had fought with the weap- 
 ons of a brave and honorable man." 
 
 "That will not be necessary, I assure you," 
 I replied, thinking that in courage and strength 
 few men could surpass Claude ; " but if you are 
 determined to fight, you had better send him a 
 challenge, for I know that, considering the paui- 
 ful circumstances of the case, he had intended 
 to pass over your insults this morning, fancying 
 that, after you had thought the matter over a lit- 
 tle, you would see he had not been to blame, and 
 that you had acted hastily." 
 
 "ITo, no," he cried angrily, " I was right, and 
 he shall at least give me this satisfaction. Stay, 
 I will write him a line, which I beg you will take 
 to him ; I must also ask you to be my second in 
 the affair when it comes off'." 
 
 I promised to do as he wished, though in truth 
 I did not care to be mixed up in the affair. In 
 old days it was a feather in a young man's cap 
 to have even assisted at a thing of this sort, while 
 to have been a principal covered one with glory; 
 but now it is all different. People look coldly 
 on the practice, and it is flat against the rules 
 and regulations of the service. So altogether I 
 
OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 131 
 
 shauldhave been just as well pleased had he ask- 
 ed some one else to stand by liim on this occa- 
 sion, and I waited, while he wrote his note, in 
 rather a disturbed frame of mind. 
 
 " There," he said, when it was finished, hand- 
 ing it to me, " I have asked him to meet me at 
 
 A , a small sea-port in Brittany, four days 
 
 hence. You will join me there also : and now 
 I shall apply for a week's leave. Do not let me 
 keep you," he added, seeing me linger, uncertain 
 whether I should again try to dissuade him or 
 not ; " only let me have an answer as soon as 
 possible." 
 
 I knew by the expression of his face that all 
 efforts to turn him from his purpose would fail, 
 so I took the note silently and proceeded with it 
 to Feversham's quarters. 
 
 "It is a bad affair altogether !" he exclaimed, 
 after glancing over the missive I brought, him. 
 "In these days it is hardly possible to hush up 
 a matter of this kind ; and if it once reaches the 
 authorities, we are donefor^-he at least is; as 
 for you and mp, Darrell, we might by interest 
 escape, but we run the risk of losing our profes- 
 sion also. However, what must be must, I sup- 
 pose, so I shall have to agree to this meeting, 
 and will hope it may pass off without injury to 
 any one. I at least will not fire at him. He is 
 much to be pitied, and I greatly fear Mabel has 
 not made a wise choice in preferring my affec- 
 tion at second-hand to his passionate, undivided 
 heart. " 
 
 So it was settled that Feversham and Egertori 
 were to meet at A. — - next Friday, I being Eg- 
 erton's second, and Mayleigh acting in the same 
 capacity for Claude. 
 
 When I went back to tell Egerton all these pre- 
 liminaries had been arranged, and the weapons 
 were to be pistols, I found he had already ob- 
 tained the leave he was about to apply for when 
 I last saw him, and that he was thinking of cross- 
 ing by the early boat next morning. He was 
 calm and collected, with the intense, impenetra- 
 ble calm of despair : it seemed almost as though 
 all human thoughts and passions had left him — 
 as though no wild throbs of hope or fear should 
 ever again cause his pulse to leap madly — as 
 though no danger should ever again call forth a 
 flash of the daring spirit he had once shown. 
 He listened to my words with the same immova- 
 ble countenance, and nodded without speaking, 
 in token that he, was satisfied with the arrange- 
 ments, when I had done detailing them. Then, 
 after a pause, he spoke slowly, and with visible 
 effort: 
 
 "I shall not see you before I go to-morrow, 
 Darrell, and I have a few things to settle in En- 
 gland before I go on, which is what obliges me 
 to leave at once. On Friday we will meet at 
 A-; — ; till then, farewell. Pray that your cous- 
 in's aim be straight and his hand steady — it is 
 the only favor he can do me now." And saying 
 this, with a short and bitter laugh, he turned into 
 the inner room and left me alone. 
 
 I went away, and joined the mess -table in 
 rather low spirits. The man's changed face and 
 manner haunted me, and I seemed to feel that 
 such a nature as his would not only never forget 
 the wound it had received, but that also he wonl4 
 never outlive it — never more be the same sweet- 
 tempered, gay companion, the fonvard rider 
 when the hounds threw their heads, to a burning 
 
 scent, the gracejful valseur in the gay ball-room, 
 that he once had been : even to me, careless and 
 happy, thinking little of others' joys or soitows, 
 it seemed a pity that so promising a life should 
 thus be blighted for the sake of a fair face that I 
 greatly feared was false as fair, and for the mem- 
 ory of honeyed words that carried a sting in their 
 sweetness. , 
 
 And now he was going off in a hurry, though 
 the meeting was not to take place till Friday, 
 and this was Monday. What business could ho 
 have to do? He had no friends or relations 
 that I knew of: then suddenly the conviction 
 flaslied into my mind, he has gone to bid her 
 good-bye, gone to craze liis brain yet more by a 
 sight of her bewitching beauty, gone to try to 
 strike , some spark of feeling from that flinty 
 heart, and gone, as I feared, without the very 
 faintest chance of, success. Much as I pitied 
 him, I could not wish him to succeed, for was 
 not the fair, false-faced girl Claude's promised , 
 bride, and was it not better he should suffer than 
 Feversham, who had once before been so unfoi'- 
 tunate? As I thought this, it flashed througli 
 my mind that Claude would not feel this misfor- 
 tune so deeply ; moreover, he had more strength 
 of character to fall back on in distress. than the 
 handsome, weak young man over whom I was 
 lamenting. 
 
 Next morning, early, Egerton was up and 
 away, leaving no word or message to me or 
 Claude, all arrangements having been settled' the 
 night before. He was gone on liis way to The 
 Poplars, whither the Prendergasts had now re^ 
 turned, and where he hoped to get a farewell 
 glimpse of the girl that had beguiled and be- 
 trayed him. 
 
 He had no definite idea in his head when he 
 set out toward the place where he, had spent so 
 many happy hours ; it was merely a half-formed 
 hope or wish that he might see her, once more 
 before his. death that urged him onward. He 
 had no thought of speaking to h.er in his mind, 
 did not even intend to approach near enough to 
 the house to render a meeting probable; yet, 
 when he found himself on the tamiliar ground, 
 wandering along the well-known shady paths, 
 an, irresistible impulse drew him farther and 
 farther' on, till he approached Mabel's favorite 
 haunt, a seat under a \yide-spreading chestnut 
 that drooped its heavy masses of foliage into tlie 
 still surface of the pond, a large and beaiitiful 
 sheet of artificial water. She was not,there,,and 
 he knew, at tliat hour of day, was most.probably 
 at dinner. There was, therefore, no fear of an 
 interruption from her, and thus thinking, he sat 
 down to dream, and gaze into the still water, 
 which seemed to oftier such a peaceful haven to 
 his weary heart, and under the glassy surface of 
 which he would so gladly have buried his sor- 
 rows, had such a course seemed to him honor- 
 able. 
 
 But though he had not courage to fight the 
 battle of life bravely, now the prize he had hith, 
 erto struggled for was withdrawn, still he pre- 
 feiTed the fictitious appearance of honor and 
 bravery offered by a duel with the man who, had 
 supplanted and robbed , him. It never strucli 
 him that, with the intentions he cherished, a.duel 
 was as cowardly a way of shirking the pairi of 
 living as if he had followed the promptings of 
 his weary heart and thrown himself into the still, 
 
102 
 
 OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 peaceful waters, there to rest safe from all "misery 
 nnd trouble, nenr in death to the false love that 
 had deceived him in life. 
 
 Such vague thoughts, half of pence and dream- 
 less rest, half of bitter sorrow and painful action 
 yet to be gone through, haunted him as he sat 
 there under the broad, leafy boughs, watching 
 with listless, unobservant eyes the dragon-flies 
 hovering over the water, the lazy cattle standing 
 knee-deep in the shady pond, the water-fowl 
 gliding in and out among tjie islets — ^seeing them 
 all without heeding, and the sounds of the hot 
 summer day falling just as unnoticed on his ear. 
 The buzzing of the myriad flies, the chirp of the 
 hidden birds, the grasshopper's loud whining, 
 the gcfttle footfall of some one approaching 
 through the long grass — all these he might have 
 heai-d, but did not, only sat there dreaming a 
 cruel, agonizing dream, but one from which he 
 could not tear himself away. 
 
 Saddenly through his whole frame he seemed 
 to feel her presence, and raised his head hurried- 
 ly, dreading to encounter the glance of those eyes 
 that were, of all things in the world, most dear to 
 him, and yet most to be avoided. His instinct 
 had not deceived him. She was standing by the 
 Avater's edge, her face half turned toward him, 
 yet not seeing him, so completely was he hidden 
 by the overhanging boughs. Silently he gazed, 
 the wildest hopes and fears rising in his mind as 
 he watched her, while she, all unconscious of his 
 presence, remained looking at the wild fowl at 
 play, with a strange wistful glance, as though she 
 gazed at something beyond them that was invis- 
 ible to all but her. She did not seem very hap- 
 py, bethought, nnd certainly she sighed once or 
 twice heavily. After all, he reasoned with him- 
 self, it was possible, nay, it was probable, that the 
 breaking of his engagement was not her doing, 
 but that of her parents ; perhaps her heart was 
 as sore at what she had been forced to do as even 
 his had been, when he read the cruel words that 
 blasted his life and ruined his hopes. 
 ^ Quick as the idea flashed through his mind, 
 new hope sprang up, and he resolved to make 
 one effort more to secure the love that was to 
 him all in all, and without which he was deter- 
 mined not to live. Quietly he stepped from his 
 hiding-place and came toward her : as he drew 
 near, the sound of his footfall caught her ear for 
 the first time, and she turned hurriedly to meet 
 the intruder. As she recognized him, a terrified 
 expression came into her calm, unfathomable 
 eyes, like the piteous gaze of a hunted deer, and 
 she looked eagerly from one side to the other, as 
 thoOgh searching for a means of escape. He 
 was too near for her to get away, so she stood 
 motionless, and cried in a frightened, trembling 
 voice, 
 
 " Leave me, I beg of yon ! I can not speak to 
 yon now, and you must come here no more." 
 
 For the first time in her life, perhaps, the cool, 
 proud-spirited girl felt a sensation of fear, and 
 the feeling was so new to her that for a minute 
 it mastered and overcame her. Her alarm and 
 agitation strengthened in the young man's' mind 
 thei belief that it was not by her will that all this 
 misery had come to pass. As for her, his seek- 
 ing her, after the letter she had written, seemed 
 to her cold mind, which wrts still incapable of 
 comprehending all the depth of feeling in his, 
 lis if revenge alone could be the motive for which 
 
 he sought her presence : the Wild, excited look irt 
 his face as he came toward her confirmed her in 
 this impression. 
 
 She had heard of men who had gone mad un- 
 der such cruel treatment as Egerton had received 
 at her hands — men who had killed the woman 
 they loved, when she proved false to them, soon- 
 er than see her smile on another man as she had 
 once smiled on them; and her blood ran cold 
 as she thought that here, alone and defenseless, 
 tliere was nothing between her and him she had 
 wronged— nothing that could prevent his wreak- 
 ing his vengeance on her, as he had doubtless 
 come with the intention of doing. She trem- 
 bled at the thought, and glanced round wildly to 
 see if there was any way of escape open ; but un- 
 less she had been endowed with the fleetness of 
 a deer, he was too close for flight to avail her, 
 and no help could she discern far or near. 
 
 He whom she wronged thus — for her very sus- 
 picions were yet another wrong done to the gen- 
 erous, tender heart she had betrayed — noticed 
 the teiTor in her looks, and ascribed it to a fear 
 that her parents should discover with whom she 
 was speaking, which confirmed him in his idea 
 that their wishes, and theirs alone, had dictated 
 the letter that had almost broken his heart, and 
 was about to plunge him into a dangerous quar- 
 rel. 
 
 As he thought thus, he stood close before her, 
 and, impelled by tlie strong hope that had sprung 
 up in his heart, lie drew her trembling, shrinking 
 form to him, murmuring, 
 
 " Mabel, dearest, I know you are true. They 
 made you write that heartless letter. But I do 
 not believe it ; nnd we will be happy in spite of 
 them, if you will but wait a little longer." 
 
 He stroked her soft, wavy hair fondly, but she 
 shivered at his touch, and, her confidence return- 
 ing as she felt he would never harm her, she 
 drew herself from him, and with a sigh that was 
 almost a sob, steeled herself for the struggle be- 
 tween love and ambition that lay before her. 
 
 "For Heaven's sake, Mabel," he cried, as she 
 with returning courage drew herself from his 
 embrace, "tell me that you had no part in this 
 crnel business — that you were forced against 
 your will to write that dreadful letter? You 
 love me still, do you not? Time and absence 
 can not change you any more than they can me." 
 
 Then she answered, determined to shelter her- 
 self behind her parents' names, and replied, 
 
 "But how, Cecil, would you have me act 
 against the wishes, of my father and mother? I 
 must obey them, and they do not like our mar- 
 riage." 
 
 " They will cease to object," he answered, 
 eagerly, "if they find you reject the alliance 
 they had designed for you ; and if you are will- 
 ing to wait till I have a home to offer you, they 
 will soon get tired of keeping ns apart. I will 
 work for your sake as I have never worked be- 
 fore, and with the hope I have of your love, suc- 
 cess, I know, will attend me." 
 
 He tried again to draw her toward him, but 
 she stepped back angrily. 
 
 "I will not oppose ray parents," she cried; 
 "and after their kindness to yOn, you should be 
 the last to ask me to do so. It is true I am en- 
 gaged to many Lord Feversliam, as I told you 
 in my letter; knowing that, you should never 
 have come here to speak to me as you have 
 
OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 133 
 
 done ; but as I was in the wrong to give you 
 hopes that can never be realized, I forgive you 
 fully, and hope, when we hext meet, all this may 
 be forgotten, and that we may be the fast friends 
 I should wish us to be." 
 
 As she spoke she held out her hand with a 
 calm smile, though her voice was hardly steady, 
 and one less stunned and blinded than Cecil Eg- 
 erton was could have seen her face paleand her 
 lip quiver as she stepped toward him, about to 
 pass on. But her words had stung him to the 
 soul, and somewhere about thi^ young man, gen- 
 tle and forbearing as he seemed, there lurked a 
 hidden fire that could on occasion blaze up, and 
 burn as fiercely as that which rages in the hearts 
 of other and outwardly more passionate men. 
 
 "You shall not go! "he cUed fieccelj', taking 
 both her hands in his, and holding her full before 
 Iiira — "you' shall not go untU you have told me 
 plainly and clearly, is this all your doing? Your 
 parents, I know, never denied your wishes, and 
 from what you said now, I begin to believe at 
 last that you alone have framed this accursed 
 villainy — that your hand alone has wounded the 
 heart that loved you. " 
 
 She was frightened again now, as he held her 
 with a force that, hurt her hands, and caused the 
 rings to cut into her tender flesh ; but she was 
 brave, in spite of her bad heart — perhaips, indeed, 
 it was the only quality about her that deseiTed 
 real admiration, for it was not the blind bravery 
 of ignorance that knows nothing, and therefore 
 fears nothing ; it was a loftier courage, that, ful- 
 ly comprehending danger, could rise supeiior to 
 natural terror and trample it underfoot. When 
 the first shock of this unexpected meeting had 
 worn off, her old dauntless spirit had returned, 
 and she resolved to put an end to this scene at 
 once, let the consequences to herself be what 
 they might. Looking calmly np into Egerton's 
 excited eyes, she answered, 
 
 "Could you not have told from my letter that 
 such an inteiTiew as this would be disagreeable 
 to me ? It is my wish, as I told you in writing, 
 that everything should be at an end between us. 
 Yon would not be content without hearing the 
 avowal from my lips ; if it has pained you, I am 
 not to blame." 
 
 She tried to wrest herself from his grasp and 
 move off as she spoke, but he still held hit, gaz- 
 ing with eager eyes at the. loveliness he had 
 prized so much, worshiped so bhndly. At length 
 lie spoke, and his voice was so harsh and bitter 
 she hardly recognized the tones. 
 
 " You are right," he said. " I was to blame 
 in coming here, but I believed your mind to be 
 as lovely as your face, and never dreamed so 
 much outward beauty could cover so base a 
 heart. Go," he added, pushing her from him ; 
 "I could curse you for having ruined my life, 
 but henceforth I have no place among men, and 
 the evil wishes of one who will soon be nameless 
 and forgotten shall never cloud the happy future 
 of the woman he loved too well." 
 
 finding herself free to move, Mabel hardly 
 listened to his words, but turned quickly away, 
 walking with a dignified though rapid step, like 
 that of one who, while disdaining to flee, longs 
 to be out of the way as soon as possible. As for 
 Cecil Egerton, he remained where she left him, 
 looking after her retreating form, all life and 
 light fading out of his eyes as he watched, and a 
 
 set, rigid look of overwlielming despair creeping, 
 over his noble face. When she disappearjft un- 
 der the overhanging boughs, he sighed and turn- 
 ed to leave, but it seemed as though the shock, 
 had bewildered and weakened him, for,, gazing 
 blindly around, he turned fir^t in one direction, 
 then in another, unable to remember which path 
 led out of the domain and back to the village. 
 Several times be set out, as he supposed^ in the 
 right way, but always returned to the point from 
 which he had started, and at length sat. down 
 again by the water-side; saying, 
 
 "I must wait a little ; let me think calmly, and 
 then I shall recollect every thing." 
 
 But calm thoughts would not come to his over- 
 taxed brain, only the remembrance of Mabel's 
 cold, unconcerned face when she told him she 
 had written the letter, only her cruel parting 
 words; while now and then a thought of the 
 
 duel that lay before him at A , on Friday, 
 
 darted through his mind, and every time it flash- 
 ed on his memory he would make at; effort to 
 rise, exclaiming, "I must be going," and would 
 then sink down agaiu, ti'embling and confused, 
 on the grassy bank. 
 
 Poor fellow ! he had not the determination or 
 energy to keep down his sorrow with a strong 
 hand, and turn himself to his work in the world, 
 as a relief from agonizing thought. Ko, he was 
 by nature too much of a dreamer to turn to actr 
 ive exertion as a distraction from his grief; and 
 now his golden visions were so shattered, hi? 
 fond hopes so destroyed, that no dreams of a 
 happier future could find place in his ,heait, 
 Satisfied that the world no longer contained any 
 thing worth living for, he let sorrow take posses- 
 sion of him, and sought only for some corner iij 
 which he might lie down and die, apart fronj 
 human observation and sympathy. But. first he 
 must have his revenge — the man who had sup- 
 planted and cheated him must suffer, although 
 he had once been friendly and kind ; yet all that 
 must now be forgotten — no remembrance of any 
 friend must hold back his hand when vengeance 
 lay before him, for this injury Claude Feversham 
 had wrought him was too great, too maddening 
 to pass unpunished. 
 
 It was possible, too, that his rival might es- 
 cape unscathed, and that be might be the one to 
 suffer. It was not only possible, it was probable. 
 All through life he had been unfortunate, strug- 
 gling' to exist, while others no better fitted by na- 
 ture to enjoy prosperity than he were Jiving in 
 happiness and comfort. His genius (for he had 
 genius, certainly) had been unrecognized, and un^ 
 protected, and the short, brief episode of ecstasy- 
 he had enjoyed seemed only to have heen grant* 
 ed him that he might feel more keenly his utter 
 misery when hope and love were snatched from 
 him. Therefore it seemed to him, as he sat 
 there thinking, that the punishment he designed 
 to inflict on Lord Feversham might very proba- 
 bly recoil on his own head ; but this . thought 
 pleased far more than it terrified himj for, after 
 all, death was now what he desired most, and, if 
 he failed in killing his rival, it would be far hap- 
 pier that that fate should await him. One or oth- 
 er it must be — which he hardly cared ; for if he 
 was victor, life had still no attraction for him, 
 was only indeed, to his imagination, a drear}', 
 pain-stricken waste, and he felt, without actual- 
 ly framing any fixed plan in his mind, that he 
 
134 
 
 OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 should not long endure the misery that lay before 
 him, 
 
 ■ When his thoughts reverted to Mabel, his brain 
 seemed to whirl, and his very heart felt on fire | 
 that she whom he had loved as perhaps few men 
 had loved before — that she should have proved 
 so false, was maddening. Had lie been made of 
 sterner and stronger stuff, as a man should be, he 
 might no doubt have felt as keenly ; but after the 
 first shock was over he would have braced up the 
 ner\'es of his mind, and turned resolutely away 
 from all thoughts of the love that had deceived 
 and betrayed him. The wound would open and 
 smart again and again, no doubt, and the strong- 
 er and truer-hearted the man, the longer would 
 the scar throb and burn ; but the old physician. 
 Time, and the work of the busy, bustling world, 
 would at last heal the pain and the achlngj even 
 though the man should be destined to carry the 
 mark to his gt^ve. 
 
 But Cecil Egerton was not a brave soldier in 
 the field of life, as such silent, straggling heroes 
 are. , The great fault of his character was his 
 womanish weakness and tenderness, a fault which 
 caused him at once to give up the battle when 
 the stress and heat of the fight for life threatened 
 to overwhelm him ; the man who loses heart in 
 this strife is as surely lost as though he were dead 
 already, for the crowds behind rash onward mad- 
 ly, not heeding the figure stricken and kneeling 
 in their path ; or, if they notice him at all, they 
 only exclaim', "The goal is before us, we can not 
 wait for him." Then, planting their cruel feet 
 on the weary shoulders, they trample him under 
 the moving mass, never caring that the stepping- 
 stone helping them onward is the prostrate form 
 of one that once felt, and dared, and struggled as 
 they ; that perhaps even yet breathes and groans 
 in his agony, but whose breath in a few short 
 momfents will be qhenched, whose groans will die 
 away in silence, his life beaten and crushed out 
 by the mighty human tide that sweeps so unpity- 
 irigly oyer the fallen. 
 
 'So he sat in his misery through the long hours 
 of the summer's day, only able to realize his pain, 
 only feeling the anguish of love slighted and be- 
 trayed, only exclaiming bitterly in his inmost 
 heart,"God help me! Iloved her too well!" 
 
 It was all he said and all he thought. In the 
 ever-recurring murmur there was a monotonous 
 pathos, corresponding lamentably to the bewil- 
 dered state of his once brilliant mind. Could 
 any have seen and heard, it would have affected 
 them more than the wildest, maddest ejaculations 
 uttered by sorrowing humanity. 
 
 At last, as the evening shadows began to fall, 
 he rose slowly, and, after one or two efforts to 
 collect his scattered thoughts, seemed to remem- 
 ber the road by which he had come. Several 
 times he wandered out of the right patli, but at 
 last reached the village, and learning, in answer 
 to his confused though eager questions, that the 
 last train to London for the night had not passed 
 through,' betook himself to the station, there to 
 await its arrival. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 THE DUEL. 
 
 It was a still, gray morning, and the woods 
 
 around the little village of A were stirred by 
 
 the faint breeze that announced the approach of 
 dawn, when Feversham, Mayleigh, and I drove 
 up to the spot appointed for our meeting with 
 Egerton. I was to be his second, Mayleigh was 
 Claude's ; not perhaps because he was a greater 
 friend of my cousin than any of the others, in- 
 deed he was far less so, but because Mayleigh 
 was on leave, and Claude had feared that so 
 many of us asking for a few days' leave together 
 might excite suspicion if any talk arose about 
 the duel ; besides, Mayleigh, though of a most 
 pertinacious and inquisitive disposition, could 
 keep a secret better than most men. We brought 
 with us a French doctor, a quiet, self-absorbed- 
 looking man, who expressed no curiosity or sur- 
 prise about our quarrel, or the cause of it, but 
 brought what he considered necessary without 
 asking questions, a. characteristic which raised 
 him greatly in our estimation. 
 
 The spot we had appointed for our place of 
 meeting was a beautiful glade in the large wood 
 
 that lies to the south of A . A stream ran 
 
 through it, keeping up constant verdm-e even dur- 
 ing the fierce heats of summer ; now as we entered 
 it in the still gray morning light, the deep repose 
 that rested on every thing, the utter silence, bro- 
 ken only by the tinkling of tlie brook, seemed an 
 unspoken protest against the design with Which 
 we had invaded that peaceful spot, and some at 
 least among us felt that it would be almost sac- 
 rilege to mar with this outbreak of man's worst 
 passions the holy quietude that brooded around. 
 
 At first sight Egerton did not appear to be 
 there, and Feversham, speaking in a low tone to 
 me, said, 
 
 " Darrell, can we not manage to settle this af- 
 fair somehow if he turns up ? — though I would 
 rather he did not keep his appointment, so grieved 
 am I at what has happened. I liked the young 
 fellow, and I can not bear the idea of shooting at 
 him, as if he were a mark set up for practice. 
 Besides, I feel as if I were to blame in the matter, 
 for certainly it was through my instrumentality 
 he was jilted, though of course I was ignorant of 
 his engagement, or I should have taken care to 
 avoid Mabel, instead of seeking her company as 
 I did." 
 
 So spoke Claude, generously trying to take the 
 blame of her false conduct off his fiancie and 
 transfer it to his own shoulders ; but I had seen 
 a little of the young lady's manoeuvres, and had 
 heard more, therefore I could not help thinking 
 that, if the whole truth were known, it would be 
 found she had sought him a great deal more than 
 he had songlit lier. 
 
 I fancy Claude was nnhappy and uneasy when- 
 ever he thought of Mabel's conduct in this affair. 
 Even though he was fairly bewitched by her beau- 
 ty and pretty ways, and mistook his passionate 
 admiration for genuine love, he could not but see 
 that her behavior had been heartless and cruel ; 
 though he excused it to himself on tlie plea of 
 her childishness and youth, and her ardent affec- 
 tion for himself, yet it made him desire earnest- 
 ly to avoid a duel with the young fellow who, he 
 felt, had been cruelly wronged through his means. 
 
 " I shall try and make it up, at all events," he 
 
OUK DETACHMENT. 
 
 135 
 
 . said, turning from me, as a slight figure' stepped 
 into tlie glade, and by the now increasing light 
 we recognized Cecil Egerton. But what misery 
 and despair were visible in his coujitenance ! — 
 hpw changed it was, even since I last saw him, 
 when the blow had only just fallen. He was only 
 the ghost of a man, worn, meagre, hungry-look- 
 ing, with great hollow, wild eyes, that roamed 
 restlessly from one to the other of our party, nev- 
 er remaining steady for an instant, with quiver- 
 ing, eager lipSjthat opened to speak several times, 
 .ind then closed without uttering a sound. Truly 
 he was a pitiable object, for no brave man has 
 a right to give way so to despair while life and 
 work lie before him. 
 
 As he stood thus before us, I saw a change 
 come over Claude Feversham's face — a change 
 expressing soitow, pity, and a kind of pained sur- 
 prise, like that a man might be expected to feel 
 at the sight of one whom he had known and 
 liked, so utterly and irretrievably broken down, 
 and for such a cause. However, after all, it is 
 for such causes that men in all ages, even the 
 best' and wisest, have committed the maddest fol- 
 lies, the blackest crimes — have even allowed the 
 light of fame illumining their works to fade away 
 into darkness, to let their names grow silent on 
 the lips of their brother men — all because a wom- 
 an's smile has been withdrawn, a woman's voice 
 grown cold,a woman's heart proved false. Though 
 such is the case, and the history of the world 
 shows us that in all ages it was so, it seemed to 
 me, as I looked at Egerton standing thqie dull 
 and immovable in his despair, that those men are 
 more noble and worthy by far who, after receiv- 
 ing such a blow, have strength to draw the man- 
 tle of their pride over the wound, to look the 
 world boldly in the face, to seek their work and 
 do it, not stopping to seek for pity and sympathy 
 from the crowd, ever more ready to ridicule than 
 to sympathize, but determined to conquer the 
 pain at last, though utter oblivion of what was 
 once suffered may never be theirs. 
 
 But this was no time for moralizing, and I was 
 just about to settle the preliminaries with May- 
 leigh, when Claude, stepping up to Cecil, said, 
 
 " Can vve not avoid this, Egerton ? I admit 
 I have done you a grievous wrong, hut it was 
 unintentional, and now I can not bear to add to 
 that injury yet this other, of fighting a duel with 
 you. Remember, if discovered, it will cost both 
 of us our commissions; and while. that is a mat- 
 ter of little moment to me, it may perhaps be 
 more important to you. Besides," he -added, 
 showing a little awkwardness in his manner, as 
 men are apt to do when speaking to another on a 
 subject dear to their heart, "she would be pained 
 to-hear of it, and that ought to have some weight, 
 both with you and me." 
 
 Egerton had hardly seemed to listen to these 
 few words, spoken gently, .in Claude's grave, 
 sweet voice ; but no sooner had his captain 
 ceased speaking than a rush of color overspread 
 his; pale face, and a light seemed to flash from 
 his eye. as he raised his head and looked round 
 haughtily. 
 
 '' You seem very anxious on my account. Lord 
 Feversham, to avoid the scandal of this duet. Of; 
 course I can not attribute your backwardness to 
 want of courage, because I believe you do not con- 
 sider yourself at all wanting in tliat quality, what- 
 ever others may think : only I do riot feel in- 
 
 clined to deprive you of this opportunity of dis- 
 playing it — unless,indeed, you might prefer to 
 receive a lesson of a rather more disagreeable 
 natiire from my hands." 
 
 As the young man said this, with the most in- 
 sulting sneer on his handsome features, Claude's 
 face became wliite with passion, and for a minute 
 he looked as if he could have taken Egerton by 
 the throat and choked back the taunting woi-ds 
 ere they came forth ; but with a violent effort he 
 commanded himself, and answered, in a hurried, 
 trembling voice, very unlike his usual sweet tones, 
 
 " Egerton, since you have been under my com- 
 mand you have never bbseiwed any thing in me 
 that authorizes your addressing such language to 
 me ; for the sake of the friendship I felt for you, 
 I am sorry to think yon have used words which I 
 know you believed to be untrue, even whileyou 
 uttered them. But after this, unless you retract 
 what you have said, no course remains open to 
 me but to carry out the object of this meeting. 
 Will you still liave it so ?" 
 
 "You know my wishes,'' answered the young 
 man sternly. "Darrell, pray settle it all as soon 
 as possible. " 
 
 While he spoke, a remerabrsince of Feversham's 
 unvarying kindness, and of the utter injustice of 
 his aspersions; flashed across his mind ; but he 
 was too bent on vengeance for the wrong that had 
 been done him to allow better feelings to turn- 
 him back from the course he had chosen. Be- 
 sides, in it lay his chief hope of oblivion and rest 
 from trouble. Feversham, if roused,was perhaps 
 as blindly passionate as himselti only he was not 
 easily excited to anger. If, however, Egerton 
 could so raise his ire as to make him desirous 
 of injuring his antagonist, his eye was keen, his 
 aim steady, and there would be little doubt the 
 young man's rest from the pain of living would 
 not be long delayed. Indeed Egerton desired 
 this far more than to harm Claude — that would 
 avail him nothing ; besides, his captain had been 
 kind to hipa, and stood by him at all times; 
 above all, any mischief done to Lord Feversham 
 would trouble her most, the girl whom he had 
 loved so well, who had loved him so little, and 
 wronged him so cruelly. 
 
 For all these reasons, therefore, it was but a 
 form Cecil desired to go through — the form of 
 fighting a duel; his real intent was merely to 
 stand as a mark for Feversham's fire, and him- 
 self discharge his pistol in the air. By this time 
 all preliminaries had been settled, the ground had 
 been stepped, the principals plaeed,and only the 
 signal remained to be given. Egerton, who by 
 his looks seemed to have been several days with- 
 out sleep or food, appeared by this time perfect!}' 
 exhausted with all the excitement he had gone 
 through. As he took the pistol I placed in his 
 hands, I could see that he trembled excessively ; 
 as it seemed to me, more from weakness than 
 from any sentiment of fear. 
 
 The signal was given at last, after a final ap- 
 peal orimy part to Egerton that the matter might 
 be made up without proceeding furthfer ; but all 
 was in vain — he was obdurate, and reluctaiitly I 
 signed to Mayleigh that it must go oh. Egerton, 
 near whom I was standing, fired- in the air^that 
 I could see distinctly. I .ilso saw, or seemed to 
 see him start, and press his hand to' his side, di- 
 rectly after Fevei'shani's fire, but he gave no oth- 
 er sign of having been hurt ; and it was impossi- 
 
13G 
 
 OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 ble to tell by liis counteriance if he was wonnded, 
 for it had been before as white and pain-stricken 
 as mortal face could be. 
 
 Turning toward me, without noticing either 
 Eeversham or Mayleigh, he said, "Farewell, 
 Darrell, we shall never meet again. Do not ask 
 me to speak to Captain Feversham — I can not 
 do it. Say good-bye for me to all who cared for 
 me in ' ours. ' And now I must be gone. Fare- 
 well." 
 
 So saying, and just as Claude and Mayleigh 
 approached, he turned away, and pushing into 
 the surrounding woods vanished from sight. 
 Once, as he walked hurriedly away, it seemed to 
 me as if he stumbled and almost fell, but quick- 
 ly recovering he went on, and I thought ng more 
 about it, for the time. 
 
 " Well, this is curious," began Mayleigh, when 
 he came np to me. "Your principal has ske- 
 daddled, without ever stopping to ask mine if he 
 is satisfied, or to make it; up, in case they have 
 both had enough. What does it all mean ?" 
 
 "Don't ask me, indeed," I answered rather 
 crossly, for the whole affair had distressed and 
 annoyed me. "Egerton is an unaccountable 
 fellow at the best of times, and since he heard 
 this bad news I do believe he has been a little 
 touched. He did not fire at you at all, Claude, 
 after his insisting so strenuously on fighting." 
 
 "Did he not?" answered Claude, sadly. 
 "Well, I took no aim at all — I fired straight 
 before me. I was afraid if I fired in the air he 
 might make that an excuse for having another 
 round, he seemed so determined about it. I do 
 not know whether mv ball went near him or not ; 
 do you?" 
 
 "I almost fancied he was hit at first," I re- 
 plied ; " but I think I must have been mistaken, 
 for he said nothing, and walked off quite briskly. 
 I am very sorry all this has occurred, for it seems 
 he does not intend to return to the regiment, and 
 he was always a good kind of fellow. We shall 
 miss him, I am sure." 
 
 "Very likely at our steeple-chases,'' put in 
 Mayleigh, with a cynical smile, "After all, he 
 was a softy, not good for much ; besides, he is aU 
 right — got off better than he deserves, I think. 
 Let us. go back to A now and get some break- 
 fast." - 
 
 This was Maylelgh's way of dismissing the 
 subject, and I have no doubt many of the others 
 would have indorsed his opinion, for Egerton, 
 though greatly liked by those who knew him 
 well,' was somehow too retiring and gentle in his 
 disposition to make friends among the more bois- 
 terous youngsters, of whom there were a good 
 many in. the regiment. As for Jne, I had liked 
 )iim very well, yet, though I confess I had no 
 right to feel it, there was a dash of contempt in 
 my affection for him, which was not at all of the 
 same kind as that, I entertained for my cousin 
 Clande. As I said before, I had hardly any right 
 to think of him in this contemptdous manner, 
 for it was only a difference of disposition, and 
 greater youth, that prevented me from losing my- 
 self as utterly as he had done, when Gwendoline 
 Bambridge first showed me she loved my cousin, 
 and not my^Qlf. 
 
 Claude was silent and grave enough on our 
 
 way back to A ; one would almost have 
 
 thought, from the expression of his countenance, 
 that the duel had had a fatal ending, or that he 
 
 would have been better pleased had the termina- 
 tion been more seiious. Such was not the case, 
 however ; for calling me to him, as soon as onr 
 breakfast was over, he said, 
 
 "I am very uneasy, Vivian, about that poor 
 fellow Egerton. I noticed he appeared hardly 
 able to stand from weakness this morning, and I 
 should say, from the look of his face, he was ill. 
 I fear, indeed, from his conduct altogether, that 
 his brain must be affected, and, having had so 
 much share in causing his misery, I can not be 
 satisfied till I hear of his safety. Let us make 
 a few inquiries through the town, and find out 
 whether he has been here since, and if he has, 
 whether he has yet left." 
 
 We did so accordingly, and succeeded in dis- 
 covering that a young man answering to his de- 
 scription had left A by the earliest train, 
 
 passing through to Calais. Very ill he seemed, 
 the porter said who gave us this information. 
 He kept his hand pressed to his side, and appear- 
 ed to walk with difficulty. 
 
 "Can it be possible he was wounded?" I ask- 
 ed of Claude, when we were alone again ; and I 
 then related what I had seen, or fancied I had 
 seen, at the time of the duel ; but Claude insist- 
 ed I must have been mistaken. 
 
 "I know veiy well the poor fellow is ill," he 
 said, "but it is not the result of a wound. I 
 took no aim, and I don't think it possible, under 
 those circumstances, that I could have hurt him." 
 
 "Perhaps you are right, "I answered, and we 
 thought no more about the matter, only deter- 
 mined to seek him out the moment we returned 
 to England. We did not imagine we should have 
 to look far for him, as we both fancied he must 
 have rejoined, at least until he should have sold 
 out ; for, from his last words to me, I had a kind 
 of idea he did not intend remaining with us. 
 
 But when we got back to Dublin we were 
 rather astonished to find that Cecil had not been 
 heard of by any of our fellows since the day he 
 left ; and a day or two more passed without onr 
 being able to obtain any clue to his whereabouts. 
 Two or three days after our return, when I 
 lounged into the mess-room siiortly after post- 
 hour, Claude was just opening out the Times, 
 with an indifferent, uninterested expression, 
 like that of a man who looked at the news be- 
 cause it was the correct thing to know what was 
 going on, but who did not feel any personal anx- 
 iety about the state of affairs. I had a letter 
 from home, and took, it over to the window to 
 read it in peace, for there were a lot of other 
 fellows in the room, talking and laughing, and I 
 wanted to be quiet while looking at the news from 
 home. 
 
 Suddenly an exclamation from Claude caused 
 me to look up. Ho had sprung to his feet, and 
 stood with horror-stricken face, gazing at the 
 paper that trembled visibly in his hands. 
 
 "What is the matter?" I asked, coming to 
 him, and looking over his shoulder. 
 
 "Look at that!" he answered, pointing to a 
 paragraph in the paper. " He is dead ! Wretch- 
 ed boy, can he have killed himself?" 
 
 By this time every one in the room had 
 crowded round, eager to hear what was up, and 
 it was soon known among them all that their 
 comrade, Cecil- Egerton, was dead. How and 
 why was not yet known, but no doubt nil partic- 
 ulars would come out in time, and in the mean 
 
OUK DETACHMENT. 
 
 137 
 
 while eveiy variety of rfiport was circulated as to 
 the possible manner in which he had come by his 
 death — this much being, at least, known to ns, 
 that his body had been found in the grounds of 
 Mr. Prendergast's place, The Poplars. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 TJNDBK THE GEEENWOOD-TKEE. 
 
 It was a lovely morning early in the summer 
 when Mabel Prendergast sauntered < out of the 
 low French window in the drawing room, on to 
 the green, well-kept lawn, and thence wandered 
 slowly onward through the shady glades, with 
 which the domain abounded. It was a beauti- 
 ful day, and the sun shone down fiercely on the 
 heavy woods by which her home was encircled ; 
 the fresh green of early summer was assuming 
 a bronzed, burnished look that told how, before 
 long, they would don the gorgeous tints of au- 
 tumn. The ferns among the long grass emitted 
 a fdint aromatic fragrance as she crushed them 
 in passing ; the hum of flies among the scented 
 fir boughs sounded like a low, monotonous song; 
 the air seemed thrilling with heat, and life, and 
 sweet odors, as she wandered on, pausing now 
 and then to draw in her breath, with a keen ap- 
 preciation of the delicious feeling of the air, and 
 yet she did not seem particularly happy. To 
 tell the truth, she had never felt so since the day 
 when she wrote that cruel letter to her whilom 
 lover, Cecil Egerton : if it had troubled her be- 
 fore she met him that day at the pond, it had 
 certainly not grieved her less since. 
 
 As slie roamed onward quietly in the balmy 
 morning air, it seemed to her that she might very 
 well have been contented to live with him on 
 what she possessed, without desiring more fame 
 and. power than would in that position fall to her 
 lot. He had loved her so truly — she felt and 
 knew it ; and she — well, she had loved him quite 
 as well as it was in her nature to love — nay, more 
 than she would have thought it possible she could 
 love ; for though ambition had for a while hard- 
 ened her- heart and led her astray, yet now she 
 began to repent, and she felt that if he were to 
 stand before her again and ask her once more 
 to join her fate to his, she could not refuse him. 
 Was it too late even yet ? What if she broke 
 off with Lord Feversham, would he come to her 
 again ? The world, she knew, would be against 
 her ; it was a very small crime that she had jilt- 
 ed a nameless ensign in a marching regiment — 
 indeed, most of the dowagers who sat in con- 
 clave over that misdemeanor, when it became 
 known, had agreed she had done very right, when 
 they found she had by the same stroke succeed- 
 ed in catching one of the best matches going. 
 But it would be a very different matter, she knew, 
 throwing over Lord Feversham. All their circle 
 — and it was a pretty extensive one — would be 
 down on her: after all, what did that matter, 
 with- the object she had in view, though every 
 friend she had should turn against her? He 
 would still be true — nny more, the greater the 
 blame thrown on her, the more censure she re- 
 ceived, the more would he cherish and protect 
 her, if she would grant him the right, to do so. 
 
 But then her long -planned scheme, soon to 
 be fulfilled — could she bear to abandon it now,. 
 
 when so near its completion ? It would be a 
 struggle, and she might repent the sacrifice after- 
 ward ; at any rate, she would do nothing has- 
 tily; she would wander onward, and leave her 
 decision to accident. She would look out for 
 omens, after the manner of the ancient Romans, 
 as perhalps many around us do at . the present 
 day, only we are ashamed of ourselves, and hide 
 our superstitions, while they believed in theirs 
 openly, and admitted them as part of their re- 
 ligion. 
 
 So it happened as Mabel Prendergast went 
 slowly on under the shade of the stately trees, 
 pushing her way, sometimes with difficulty, 
 through the under-wood, she came suddenly on a 
 man, lying apparently asleep under a wide-spread- 
 ing beech. The long gi-ass and bracken nodded 
 over him, half concealing him from sight. His 
 face was turned from her, but -the attitude was 
 that of a man who had lain down in utter weari- 
 ness, and had so fallen asleep. For a minute or 
 two she was frightened by the intense silence and 
 stillness of the place — the very birds seemed to 
 have fled the presence of the intruder, and she 
 dreaded to step backward or forward lest an un- 
 guarded footstep should arouse the slumberer, 
 which, little timid though she was; Mabel Pren- 
 dergast did not desire, now she was alone, a 
 good way from her father's house. 
 
 After pausing for a minute, however, her self- 
 possession returned to her. As well as she could 
 see, he did not look like a vagrant, and something 
 in the faint outline she caught, through waving 
 grass and feathery ferns, reminded her strangely 
 of the man on whom her thoughts had been so 
 lately dwelling. 
 
 Quietly, therefore, she walked round the sleep- 
 er, intending to obtain a view of his face. If it 
 was the person she guessed, her self-questioning 
 was answered at once. She would awake him, 
 ask hia pardou and forgiveness, which she never 
 for one minute doubted he would accord her, and 
 then they would bo happier together than they 
 ever yet had been — for she had learned now to 
 know her own heart, and albeit her suffering had 
 not been great, as hers was not a sensitive na- 
 ture, still it had taught her that affection may be 
 a torment as well as a blessing ; she>had> made 
 up her mind that for her henceforth it should be 
 the latter. If, however, it was a- stranger whom 
 she had discovered lying there, she would retire 
 as quietly as she had come, trusting her noiseless 
 movements would not disturb him. 
 
 As she came round in front of him she per- 
 ceived that his hat had been placed or had fallen 
 over his face, so as to conceal it almost entirely 
 — ^3'et, from the little she did see, she could no. 
 longer doubt ^that it. was Cecil. But how deathly 
 white, howythin, how wretched! And he slept 
 so calmlyy theldeep sleep of exhausted nature, she 
 thought;^ thoiighj as she stood watching, this in- 
 tensity of repose seemed unnatural, and she would 
 fain have awaked him. 
 
 But now that she was beside him, and knew 
 fbr certain it was none other than he, she felt a 
 kind of shyness about what she should' say were 
 she to awake him; she remained standing and 
 hesitating for nearly a quarter of an hour before 
 she could make up her mind to act. Then she 
 bent down beside him, and called gently, " Ce- 
 cil, Cecil ;" but he neither stirred nor answered 
 — only the long grass cast flickering shadows 
 
138 
 
 OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 over Iiis quiet form, nnd a rny of sunlight, dart- 
 ing through the overhanging boughs, lighted up 
 his half-hidden face, maliing it seem even more 
 white and wan than before. Again she called, 
 and again silence only answered her. Her heart 
 began to beat quicker, she hardly knew why, as, 
 impatient and eager, she put out her hand and 
 touched him on the shoulder. But even at her 
 touch, that should have thrilled him through and 
 through^ he stirred not ; she paused, clasping her 
 hands over her heart to still its beating, and 
 looking eagerly roiind as though seeking some 
 companion to assist her, and to chase away the 
 horrible feeling that was creeping over her. 
 
 But no one was in sight, and after a minute's 
 pause, during which period of suspense her breath 
 came in quick, panting sobs, she raised the hat 
 from his face, and as her eyes fell on it, the terri- 
 ble truth against which she had been fighting for 
 the last few minutes forced its way to her heart. 
 She had.never seen death in any human form be- 
 fore,' but her heart told her that the dead now lay 
 before her. Dead ! and through her, conscience 
 whispered to her; and yet she had loved him 
 well, in her fashion. As she knelt beside the 
 cold form, and gazed with dry, aching eyes on the 
 marble face, she felt she had never known till 
 now how much slie cared for him ; and now it 
 was too late ! 
 
 Too late to bring life back to him ; too late for 
 repentance and love to avail ; too late for any 
 thing but despair, remorse, and anguish — that 
 was all that was left her ; and, alas ! the dead 
 could never know that she had sorrowed, that 
 she had repented ; that the burden of her life 
 would be her conduct toward him, her grief for 
 his loss. 
 
 Calm and self-controlled as she was by nature, 
 she was now so no longer ; she threw herself on 
 her knees beside him, kissed his cold brow and 
 the lips that were now rigid and colorless : kissed 
 them with a passionate love she had never felt in 
 the . happy days that were passed, that she was 
 destined never again to feel in the future. It 
 seemed as if her very nature had been changed 
 by the suddenness and magnitude of the blow, 
 for she cried as she knelt beside him, 
 
 "Oh! Cecil, my love! would I had died in- 
 stead of you ! Would to God I lay here, and 
 you were alive and happy ! " 
 
 Thus she cried, half heart-broken by the con- 
 sequences of her own wrong -doing; and the 
 minutes slipped on silently while still she linger- 
 ed, weeping burning, bitter tears that gave no re- 
 lief as they fell. 
 
 She thought no more of the world now, nor of 
 home and parents either ; all she desired was to 
 rest by him, if that might be. Life had nothing 
 more that seemed desirable to her. She sat with 
 her arms supporting the dear head, that was ten 
 thousand times dearer then. than it had ever been 
 before, while the summer day crept on, and the 
 birds, encouraged by the stillness, flitted about, 
 twittering, and the squirrels sprang from branch 
 to branch, eying the sad group inquisitively, and 
 sometimes venturing so near that the girl might 
 almost have touched them. But she never raised 
 her eyes from the pallid face before her, never 
 changed her position from the spot where she 
 had first sat down, heeded not the pattering drops 
 on the leaves overhead, that betokened a passing 
 shower ; she saw only, as through a mist, the eyes 
 
 now glazed and lifeless looking on her with loVe 
 from afar; she only seemed to see the cold, mo- 
 tionless lips smiling tenderly, as they used to do 
 in happy days gone by. Then at length every 
 thing around grew dark and swam before her 
 eyes, and, exhausted by the anguish of her now 
 awakened heart, she fell forward across the dead, 
 almost as lifeless as tlie body on which she lay. 
 
 It was merciful, perhaps, that oblivion had 
 come thus to her, else her remorse would have 
 driven her mad ; for perhaps never had any wom- 
 an sinned more daringly against the dictates of 
 her own heart than she, and perhaps on none had 
 so cruel and sudden a punishment fallen. Por a 
 time she lay there insensible, almost lifeless, across 
 the heart that had throbbed so wildly for love of 
 her, but that could never more feel rapture at her 
 tenderness or despair at her displeasure. 
 
 She was found thus by her father, who had 
 gone out in search of her, her prolonged absence 
 liaving alarmed her family. When she came to 
 herself she was lying on her own bed, arid for a 
 few short minutes flattered herself that the terri- 
 ble truth which had been discovered by her among 
 the luxuriant under-wood and waving ferns in the 
 park was a dream that would vanish before her 
 waking thoughts. But the faces around her were 
 grave and sad, and the first question she put was 
 answered by a pained silence that spoke more 
 than words could have done. Then a kind of 
 madness seized on her. She must know where 
 he was lying ; she mnst see the dear face, so still 
 and marble-white, once more — this she would do, 
 and none should prevent her. 
 
 She sprang from her bed as she thought thus, 
 and, shaking off those who sought to detain her, 
 hurried to where the corpse was laid. She seemed 
 to know by instinct it was lying in the room which 
 he had inhabited when alive. There, having 
 found it, she threw herself on her knees beside 
 the bed, and remained long in that attitude, 
 speechless, because her feelings lay too deep for 
 words. 
 
 At length, yielding to her mother's entreaties, 
 she rose, and passing those around her, made her 
 way, with tottering, feeble steps, to her own room, 
 where she sat down almost unconscious and sul- 
 lenly despairing, refusing either food or comfort, 
 even from those dearest to her. She remained 
 for two days thus, differing little in outward ap- 
 pearance from the dead for whom she grieved. 
 But suddenly a change seemed to come over her 
 — it was as though some recollection of the world 
 had aroused her. Being left alone for a few min- 
 utes, she astonished her mother by appearing 
 dressed in the drawing-room, where Mrs. Pren- 
 dergast was writing to a celebrated London phy- 
 sician for advice on her daughter's case. But 
 the change, though outwardly an improvement, 
 did not seem to benefit her mind. AH her for- 
 mer pursuits were abandoned, and she spent her 
 days roaming restlassly through the house, with 
 dull, unobservant looks, and no apparent cause 
 for her restlessness. 
 
 It had been discovered at.the inquest that Ce- 
 cil Egerton had been very recently wounded ifi 
 the left side, and though the doctor gave it as 
 his opinion that the wound would not have been 
 fatal if properly attended to, yet exposure to cold, 
 damp, and hunger, while so weakened, had caused 
 his death. Thus Claude found himself, at least 
 in part, guilty of liis young comrade's fate, thongh 
 
OUE DETACHMENT. 
 
 139 
 
 lie had, as he thought, made sure of letting him 
 off witliout any injury. Of course he came for- 
 ward and stated his share in the unhappy event, 
 but his family having great interest, and he him- 
 self being considered a rising man, the matter 
 was hushed up, and few knew that he had been 
 mixed np in it at ail. 
 
 Mr. Vansittart bore the loss of his intended 
 heir with the equanimity that might have been 
 expected from him. Cecil had not lately been 
 as strong as the heir to Beaumanoir should have 
 been ; an invalid was not the sort of person who 
 should inherit a fine property, and people who 
 would be more willing than he had ever been to 
 enter into Mr. Vansittart's views, and who were 
 more likely to get on in the world, if given the 
 position of his heir presumptive, were as plentiful 
 as blackberries. So the old man soon consoled 
 himself for his poor nephew's untimely death: 
 
 When some weeks had passed away, and Ma- 
 bel had regained her calmness, though only in 
 the strange, unnatural manner described, her 
 mother found her busy writing one morning. 
 On asking her daughter with whom she was cor- 
 responding, she obseiTed a little hesitation and 
 unwillingness to answer. 
 
 "Never mind, dear," Mrs. Prendergast said 
 kindly ; she was so glad to see her daughter re- 
 sume any of her old occupations, or employ herself 
 at all, that she would have allowed her to cor- 
 respond privately with any one ; besides which, 
 she had implicit faith in the girl's discretion. 
 But Mabel, after a moment's pause, held the let- 
 ter toward her mother, saying, 
 
 "You may read it. You would know all 
 about it soon enough, and I am sure you will 
 think I am right." 
 
 It was a letter to Claude Feversham — a peni- 
 tent, self-reproachful letter; accusing herself of 
 being the cause of all the evil that had happened, 
 and begging Claude to release her fronx her en- 
 gfigement. 
 
 " I can not many you," she said, " for I have 
 never cared for you. It was ambition led me 
 to accept you,- and now that ray conduct has 
 caused the death of the only man I ever loved, 
 ambition has lost its charms for me. ' A quiet, 
 lonely life is all I now. desire or hope for. You 
 will, I am sure, not refuse me this request, the 
 first and last I shall ever make to you. I know," 
 the letter went on, "that I have wronged you 
 deeply, I have persuaded you I loved you, and 
 perhaps have won love from you in return. If 
 tliis bo so, I pray you to pardon me, but also 
 have pity on me. You will find many others to 
 take my place with you; your wound can never 
 go as deep as mine, for it is not your own evil- 
 doing that has caused it." ■ ■ 
 
 So the letter went on, begging forgiveness, and 
 declaring how utterly impossible it was she could 
 ever be more to him than she was then ; in her 
 remorse and anguish, she also confessed that it 
 was she who had found out Claude's love for 
 Miss Bambridge, and had told his mother; 
 
 Her mother read it slowly through, and when 
 she had finished, said gently, 
 
 "Have you considered this step well, Mabel? 
 At some future time you may regret having 
 given up Lord Feversham in the first bitterness 
 of your grief; for you can not feel always as you 
 do now. ■ Your sorrow will wear away, and you 
 will perhaps wish you had not acted so hastily." 
 
 She held the letter in her hand as she spoke, 
 looking irresolutely at her daughter, who hard- 
 ly appeared to hear what was said ; but as her 
 mother ceased speaking, she roused herself with 
 a kind of effort, and in a wondering tone repeated : 
 
 "Wish I had not acted so hastily! Tliis is not 
 a hasty action ; it is the one I have been medita- 
 ting all these days ; only I did not feel myself 
 strong enough to cany out my resolution till to- 
 day. I shall never repent having given up Lord 
 Feversham. My great sorrow is that I ever ac- 
 cepted him. And, mother, you need never more 
 fear your daughter's leaving you. If I were a Ro- 
 man Catholic, I should go into a convent, and seek 
 peace in penance and fasting ; as it is, our home 
 here must be my retreat, and whatever happiness 
 or content the future has in store for me, must 
 be in loving you and my father as you deserve 
 for all your goodness to me, and in trying to do 
 my duty by you, as I fear I have never done it 
 before." 
 
 Mrs. Prendergast said nothing ; she felt that 
 Mabel had sinned, and been grievously punished, 
 for that sin, and she had sorrowed both over the 
 fault and its chastisement, as only a fond moth- 
 er can sorrow over her child's misfortunes. ■ But 
 she knew words of hers could not comfort now; 
 whatever peace her daughter would ever feel in 
 the future, could only be the work of time ; so 
 returning the letter with' the simple remark, "It, 
 shall be as you please, my deafest, " she took up 
 a book and pretended to read, though all the 
 while her eyes were scanning her child's white, 
 wan face, from which all the old laughing looks, 
 the sudden indefinable smiles had fled. 
 
 Claude, when he received Mabel's letter, suf- 
 fered keenly for a few hours, for he had admired 
 her beauty passionately, and hail even loved her, 
 in 11 different way from that in which he had 
 loved Gwendoline Bambridge. And this cleared 
 up all the mystery about the way in which his 
 mother had heard of his attachment, and for her 
 discovery of which he had so long blamed me. 
 But in a short time he began to think that she 
 had acted rightly, after what had passed, in sev- 
 ering herself from him. He could also see plain- 
 ly- now that, true and high-minded as he had 
 fancied her, she had been deceiving him all 
 along ; for in the time of her greatest grief, when 
 the heart speaks its most secret thoughts openlyj 
 she assured him the only man she had ever loved 
 was his old comrade, Cecil Egerton, whose' death 
 clearly lay between him and her. ' Therefore, if 
 this was so, she had done the right thing at last 
 in giving him up. ' After a while, when the first 
 shock had passed over, he expressed himself thus 
 to me, and wrote a short note to her, agreeing 
 in her decision as being the best for them both 
 under the circumstances. ' So this second ro- 
 mance of my handsome cousin's life passed oflF, 
 without resulting either in much misery or hap- 
 piness, as far as he was concerned ; in fact, he 
 never should have taken up with Mabel Prender- 
 gast until he was quite siu'e he had outlived his 
 love for Gwendoline Bambridge; and as he had 
 not done so, it was almost fortunate for him that 
 Mabel threw him off; otherwise he would only 
 have endured a life-long misery ivith a girl so 
 utterly heartless and unimpressionable as she had 
 always been, except in the one instance, when 
 even her cold nature had been stirred into- veal 
 feeling. 
 
140 
 
 OUB DETACHMENT. 
 
 The affair was a nine days' wonder among us 
 all, for of coui'se it got abpnt, and was mucli 
 talked of; but in a short time it was forgotten, 
 as even the most stirring incidents are, and some 
 among us no doubt hardly remembered that poor 
 Egerton had ever lived. 
 
 Such is the way of the world, however, and I 
 think we should be thankful that it is so. Had 
 we not this power of forgetfulness, did not time 
 carry healing as well as destruction with him, 
 life would be one long period of mourning, from 
 its commencement to its . close ; for who has 
 not sustained some grievous blow, even in early 
 life, that, if not mercifully deadened, would have 
 clouded his whole future ? 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 TROUBLES POR VIVIAN DARRELL. 
 
 About this time I ran over to Belmurphy. 
 I had three months' leave, and intended spending 
 the fortnight or so that must elapse before my 
 marriage at. the Bambiidges' house. It was a 
 fine day late in autumn when I arrived at End- 
 ley, and as it was early in the afternoon, I fully 
 expected the young ladies would be out walking, 
 as I had not written to announce my coming. 
 However, my car had hardly drawn up before 
 the door, when Clai;issa came flying down in 
 breathless haste to meet me. 
 
 "Why, Madcap!" she cried — she would still 
 adhere to the title of former days, though I often 
 assured her it was quite a misnomer now — "I 
 am so glad to see you, though we were not ex- 
 jjecting you. Why did you not write and let us 
 know? Wo would have driven to Belmurphy 
 to meet you.^" 
 
 "Well, you see," I replied, "I did not get 
 leave till yesterday morning, so I thought you 
 .would take me without expecting a formal an- 
 nouncement, as I should have had to wait a 
 ,day, that you might get my letter before I could 
 .arrive. Where's Gwendoline?" 
 
 "She has a headache, poor thing," answer- 
 ed, Clarissa, compassionately. "You will see a 
 great change in her, Vivian, I think ; she seems 
 to me looking very ill, and she is always in low 
 spirits now. You remember how different she 
 used to be." 
 
 "What is the matter, Clarissa?"! cried in 
 alarm, for the girl's face was serious, and her 
 voice Jow — in fact, she looked ns unlike her usual 
 laughing self as possible. "Do tell me, quick! 
 ^here's a dear. And why didn't you write and 
 let me know before, if she was ill ?" 
 ] "Oh! it is nothing serious," she said, though 
 I noticed that her face belied her words, and 
 her manner was neiTous and disturbed. " Come 
 ,j»nd take a walk with me, " she went on, after a 
 pause. " Gwen is lying down just now, so you 
 would not see her even if you staid in the house. 
 Come down to tlie river, and let us see what the 
 falls are like after the rain last night; we can 
 have a good quiet talk on the way." 
 
 I assented, as may be imagined. I was anx- 
 ious and alarmed about Gwendoline, and knew I 
 could hear all about it from Clarissa during the 
 walk, so in a minute or two more we were trudg- 
 ing away briskly in the direction of the falls. 
 
 "Now, then," I exclaimed, after a short si- 
 
 lence, '' tell me what is the matter. I know 
 you have something to say, and about Gwen, 
 too." 
 
 "It is only what you knew before, Vivian, as 
 far as regards the cause of her illness — or, at 
 least, you did not know all before, no doubt, 
 though you knew part. But I am almost afraid 
 to tell you, and I know you will not thank me, 
 though for her sake, perhaps, I ought to do it." 
 
 She stopped and looked at me nervously, a 
 most unusual thing with Clarissa Bambridge, 
 and I, seeing she expected me to speak, replied, 
 
 "If it is for her good, tell me, and don't spare 
 my feelings. I can bear any thing necessaiy for 
 me to know. Is she, then, so very ill?" and as 
 I spoke I felt a pang shoot through my heart 
 at the bare idea of danger to her whom I so 
 iQved. 
 
 "No, she is not in danger at present," was 
 the answer; "but her health is not good, and 
 she is unhappy, which makes us fear sometimes 
 that her illness may increase. The doctor tells 
 us to keep her cheerful and lively, but that is 
 rather a hard thing, let me tell you, when a girl 
 js determined to mope. " 
 
 "But what is the canse of this moping?" I 
 inquired, anxiously. "Does she think I should 
 have been more with her? Indeed, I assure 
 you I could not get away one minute sooner, 
 and I did not wait to write to you as it is." 
 
 "Poor fellow! I wish I had not to tell him," 
 sighed Clarissa, half unconsciously; and then, 
 turning to me, she said, "No, Vivian, it is not 
 that ; but do you remember when your cousin, 
 Claude .Feversham, was here, how he admired 
 Gwen, and she liked him too, although she re- 
 fused him ? Why she did so, I could never make 
 out, as I knew she loved him dearly — yes, and 
 loves him still," she continued; "and now you 
 know all I have to tell you. You can find the 
 explanation of her moping in that, can you not ?" 
 
 " I could have found an explanation for her 
 refusing me in that, had she done so," I answer- 
 ed ; " but why she should mope about it now, 
 when every thing is settled, and our marriage is 
 so near, I can not imagine." f ■ 
 
 "It is precisely because your maniage. is 
 drawing near," Clarissa replied, "that she feels 
 so wretched. When it seeined a long way off 
 in the future, she persuaded herself she could 
 live down her love, and be an affectionate and 
 faithful wife to you, if not a passionately at- 
 tached one. But now that the time of trial 
 draws near, I suppose she feels herself unequal 
 to the task, and is wearing herself to death be- 
 tween the natural impulses of her heart and her 
 desire to do her duty, by you." 
 
 Clarissa ceased speaking, and I walked on si- 
 lently beside her, feeling as if I could neither 
 talk nor think ; my brain was in a whirl, and 
 even the girl walking along with me seemed 
 blurred and indistinct, as though a long way oft^ 
 while the landscape around was hidden in a dark 
 mist, which did not quite disperse even when, 
 after several efforts, I had sufBciently mastered 
 myself to speak again. 
 
 " If this be as you saj', Clarissa," I answered, 
 trying hard to steady my voice, and for the hon- 
 or of my boasted manhood to force back the hot 
 tears that rushed to my eyes, "I must speak to 
 Gwendoline, and if she desire it, I suppose I 
 must release her from her engagement. It is 
 
OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 141 
 
 Ttery hard," I went on, all my fortitude giving 
 way; "I love her, and none but hev, and yet 
 have not gained a place in her heart, while he 
 who can take up another love a month after he 
 leaves her obtains all her affection almost with- 
 out seeking for it. I can not help grieving, Cla- 
 rissa ; she is more to me than the world besides ; 
 and I had built so on our marriage, and her learn- 
 ing to love me ! God help me ! I must learn to 
 bear my sorrow, if it is to be so. Let us go homo 
 and ask her to see me — I can not live in this sus- 
 pense ; and when I know the worst, 1 will go or 
 stay — as fate decides." 
 
 " I am so very sorry to have grieved you, Viv- 
 ian!" murmured Clarissa, sorrowfully; "but 
 what could I do ? Gwendoline was getting more 
 and more wretched every day, till really I almost 
 feared she would fret herself to death. I do not 
 know that she will break off with you — I almost 
 think not, as she considers herself in honor bound ; 
 but I hope, when she sees you know the cause of 
 her grief, she will make an effort to conquer it." 
 
 "Don't talk any more to mo just now, Cla- 
 rissa," I said, rather crossly. 
 
 My heart was very sore ; it was she who had 
 dealt the blow, and though I really believed she 
 had done it with the best intentions, I could not 
 bear to hear her calm chatter on the subject just 
 yet a while. My cross tone surprised her for a 
 moment, for she looked up at me anxiously, and 
 then, comprehending perhaps that I was suffer- 
 ing, she ceased speaking, and walked home with 
 me very silently. 
 
 Gwendoline, who had heard of my arrival, was 
 in the drawing-room when we returned, but when 
 Clarissa turned to go away and leave us together, 
 she called her back nervously, and seemed afraid 
 of being alone with me. But Clarissa disregard- 
 ed her entreaties, and, saying she had business 
 to do, vanished, leaving me an opJDortunity for 
 finding out the real feelings of my betrothed. 
 
 I could see at a glance that part of Clarissa's 
 statement was correct, and that Gwendoline had 
 been fretting greatly of late, but it was veiy hard 
 for me to believe just at first that it was on ac- 
 count of her engagement to me. 
 
 I loved her so entirely and devotedly, was so 
 determined to make her happy, it never struck 
 me that very devotion might be the cause of mis- 
 eiy to her. My love, no doubt, was selfish at 
 that time — not intentionally, surely, but selfish 
 without design, as it is, in fact, the nature of 
 man's love to be till tried and purified by suffer- 
 ing. A little of this I was beginning to under- 
 stand as I gazed on my darling's face, made thin 
 and pale by anxiety and grief, and felt that, lov- 
 ing her as I did, I could endure almost any thing 
 so that I might once more behold her bright and 
 radiant as formerly. 
 
 But no thought of giving her up as yet entered 
 my head — indeed, I did not suppose she could 
 wish it — and felt unhappy and anxious on her 
 account solely, not on my own. She did not 
 t,alk much, but after the first few sentences of 
 greeting, remained silent and abstracted, with 
 her hands lying listlessly on her lap, and her 
 deep, sad eyes, fixed on the wild mountain scen- 
 ery visible fi-om the window. So we sat for a 
 little while, I endeavoring to summon up cour- 
 age to speak on what lay next my heart — this 
 communication of Clarissa's relative to her. At 
 length I opened the matter with a jerk, and hur- 
 
 ried over the little speech I had made up, as 
 though I feared the words would stop in my 
 throat arid choke me. 
 
 "Gwendoline,"! said — and I remember still 
 my voice trembled so that I could hardly speak 
 distinctly — "Clarissa tells me your illness is oc- 
 casioned by fretting about our approaching mar- 
 riage. Tell me, dearest, you are not afraid that 
 ihy love will ever weary — that I will ever cease 
 trying to win yours, though I know it is not mine 
 at present." 
 
 "Oh, no!" she cried. "I know you too well, 
 Vivian, to dread that; but I had rather you 
 should hate me, and hold me as your worst en- 
 emy, than that you should view me thus, and 
 cloud your young, hopeful life by trying to win 
 a heart that has died to all such feelings forever." 
 
 "I can not — I will not believe that!" I ex- 
 claimed, passionately. "And if I am not afraid 
 of such a fate, why do you fret and worry your- 
 self about it? You consented to take me if, af- 
 ter hearing what you had to tell me, I should still 
 wish to many you. I did so ; we are engaged, 
 and shall be united veiy shortly; you must have 
 known all this would be so from the moment you 
 submitted to my decision. Why do you grieve 
 over it now, and make me, as well as yourself, 
 miserable?" ' 
 
 She answered impatiently : 
 
 " How can I tell why I do so ? My heart re- 
 bels against this marriage, though I have fought 
 against my feelings, and tried to make them sub- 
 mit. Vivian Darrell, I like you too well to wish 
 to bring upon you all the misery that must be 
 yours if you take me as I now am." 
 
 There were tears in her hot, aching eyes, and; 
 she turned away angrily, as though in contempt 
 of her own weakness. My thoughts flying back 
 to the days passed there long ago, I spoke in sheer 
 desperation. 
 
 "If you loved him, Gwendoline, so that you 
 can not forget him, and so that no other man* 
 can take his place in your heart, why in Heaven's 
 name did you refuse him when he proposed tO' 
 you, a year ago? It would have saved us all- 
 much misery had you known your own mind 
 then." 
 
 I spoke bitterly, for I was stung with a sense 
 of having been unfairly treated ; and I seemed to 
 see vaguely before me that perhaps I should feel 
 myself bound to release her, and lose thus the 
 hopes on which my future happiness was built. 
 
 She turned and looked at me in a frightened 
 manner, and exclaimed hurriedly: 
 
 "Do not blame me for that, Vivian; I had 
 to do it. If you find fault with me, it must bo 
 because I consented to marry you, knowing I 
 loved another, and that I never could care for 
 you as a wife should do. That is all my sin to 
 you ; and you knew all I thought and felt when 
 you consented to take me as I was." 
 
 " But what is the meaning of your conduct to 
 Feversham ?" I continued, still sternly. " You 
 say you had to do it ; tell me every thing-^it is 
 but right I should know — and we shall under- 
 stand each other better afterward." 
 
 For a minute or two she made no answer, then 
 she turned toward me, and said, 
 
 "I will tell you ; and when you know all, you 
 will not speak as harshly to me as you have done 
 just now. His mother came to me one day when 
 we were in Dublin ; she told me, if he married 
 
142 
 
 OUB DETACHMENT. 
 
 me his prospects in life would be ri^ined, nnd be- 
 sought me, if Tiot for my own sake, at least for 
 his, to refuse him. I fought against this, for I 
 loved him dearly, as you, Vivian, guessed even 
 at that time ; but when I heard that lus mother 
 would disown him, and his friends look down on 
 him — that prosperity and fortune would be swept 
 from him by such a step as that, it seemed to me 
 I should be showing him a truer afiection by 
 seeking his interest rather than my own hap- 
 piness ; I promised Lady Feversham her son 
 should never know from me tliat I cared for him 
 otherwise than as a friend. It was just as well 
 for him, I am convinced now," she added, " be- 
 cause in a short time he found some one more 
 suited to him in every way than I could ever 
 have been. But that does not make me feel it 
 the less — knowing that I was right, and that he 
 is reconciled and will be happy." 
 
 "But that engagement is broken off," I said ; 
 and I then wished I had bitten my tongue out 
 before I had spoken. 
 
 What business had I to point out to her that 
 the man she loved was still free, and might re- 
 turn to his old allegiance 7 But she evinced no 
 surprise on hearing it, merely answered, "I be- 
 lieve so," and relapsed again into silence. 
 
 After a pause of a few minutes, during which 
 time I was too busy with bitter, confusing thoughts 
 to speak, she went on : 
 
 "I did wrong, I know, in telling him I did not 
 love him. It was untrue ; and a falsehood will 
 bring its punishment, though told with a good 
 motive. How could I expect to be happy, when 
 I denied the very existence of all that made life 
 pleasant to me, and hurried into an engagement 
 that sometimes seems worse than death to me ?" 
 
 She seemed to have forgotten my presence as 
 she spoke, and gazed fixedly toward the distant 
 mountains, clasping and unclasping her white, 
 thin fingers with a restless action that showed 
 how keenly slie was snfiering. I sat and looked 
 at her, feeling hope and joy ebbing away from me 
 as I watched ; feeling powerless to prevent all I 
 loved from eluding my grasp, and seeing a lone- 
 ly, forsaken future stretching out before me. Yet 
 I could not at first summon up courage to go and 
 meet it like a man, but cowered before it, look- 
 ing at its approach, seeing it was inevitable, yet 
 shrinking from it every minnte, as I saw more 
 and more surely that it must be ; the sacrifice 
 was called for, and I must make it, no matter 
 what pain the effort might cost me. 
 
 At last, as she never moved or spoke, I looked 
 up, and seeing her eyes still fixed vacantly on the 
 distant landscape, I rose, and stood before her, 
 taking her hands and holding her, so as to com- 
 pel her attention. 
 
 " Gwendoline," I said, as steadily as I could 
 force myself to speak, "it seems to me one of 
 US must suffer in this matter. I am the strong- 
 est, and I think (do not bo offended with me, 
 dearest) that I love better than perhaps you can 
 foiTTi any idea of; therefore it is for me to make 
 the sacrifice which I trust will insure your happi- 
 ness. You want your liberty again, though you 
 will not ask me for it ; nnd I am glad you do 
 not — it would make the pain I must bear some- 
 thing greater ; but for the love I bear you, Gwen- 
 doline, I give you back yonr promise. It is bet- 
 ter to say nothing moi-e about it ; but (iccept my 
 offer, if you feel it right. Do not spare mo. I 
 
 was bora, I know, for suffering, and will not 
 shrink from it, if you are made happier by it." 
 
 I turned away as I finished speaking, yet, 
 though not looking at her, I paused anxiously 
 for her answer. I did not dare to hope she 
 would refuse to take back her promise, and still 
 I could not believe all hope was over for me un- 
 til I should hear it from her own lips. I waited 
 therefore in breathless expectation, every minute 
 seeming hours of dull aching pain, and no sound 
 disturbed the silence but the shrill autumnal song 
 of a robin from the old beech-tree outside the 
 window. Even in the midst of my suspense that 
 song struck my ear and imprinted itself on my 
 brain ; I never hear that little red-breasted war- 
 bler nowadays without a vivid image rising be- 
 fore me of that cozy room, with its long window 
 open to the lawn, before which she sat, and her 
 sad, abstracted face as she tunied it toward me, 
 after some minutes' silent thought, and answered, 
 
 " You are too good, too generous, dear Vivian, 
 and I would so gladly be all to you that you de- 
 sire ; but that is not possible, and therefore I 
 will accept your sacrifice, feeling sure that it 
 would be worse pain for you in the end if I ful- 
 filled the letter of the promise and failed in keep- 
 ing the spirit. But I will not pretend it is for 
 you only I do it. I fear my own selfish feelings 
 have the most influence over me, Happy I nev- 
 er expect to be again — at least, not happy as I 
 once was, for Lord Feversham and I can never 
 be as we were to each other ; but contented and 
 cheerful I may now be, when not weighed down 
 by the load of a duty I should never have heart 
 to fulfill. All that makes me sorry now, dear, 
 is what you feel. I wish 1 could have spared 
 you this pain ; but believe me it will be better in 
 the end." 
 
 "Oh! Gwendoline,"! cried passionately, press- 
 ing her hand to my lips again and again, "why 
 could you not learn to love me ? What is there 
 about me that I can not hope to win your affec- 
 tion by mine ? It may be best, as you say, that 
 we should part, since that can not be ; and, once 
 parted, we sliall not soon meet again ; but think 
 of me kindly sometimes, as one who loved you 
 well, and pray for me always, that I may not 
 lose heart and sink into evil, because my love 
 was hopeless." 
 
 I took her in my arms for the last time, and 
 held all I loved best, all that I was forever re- 
 nouncing, to my heart for a few short moments. 
 In the tumult of despair, love, and jealoiLsy that 
 then rose within me, I could almost have killed 
 her, as I held her to my breast. At least she 
 would have died in my arms, and none other 
 could ever have claimed her ; but I put the 
 temptation from me, and loosing her with linger- 
 ing regret, I bounded out of the window and hur- 
 ried away, without ever glancing behind me for 
 an instant. 
 
 After I had gone a little way, I tnrned aside 
 into the woo^y glades that covered the mountain, 
 and, sitting down in a solitary shady spot, leaned 
 my face on my hands and wept. It was a child- 
 ish relief from overwhelming sorrow, no doubt, 
 and many men would have scorned it ; but the 
 tears seemed to scorch my eyes as they rose, and 
 would force their way, no matter how I tried to 
 keep them back. Besides, I Was not much more 
 than a child in years, and had never suffered such 
 sorrow ; so I yielded to my weakness for a while, 
 
OTJR DETACHMENT. 
 
 143 
 
 and then remembering that I had a long way to 
 walk, and must get away from the country as 
 soon as possible, I rose, and gulping down my 
 emotion as best I might, set out on my return 
 back to town. 
 
 This was the end of my sweet, short dream of 
 love ; a hard, cruel ending, that darkened my 
 life, and almost imbittered me with every thing 
 for some time, causing even my gentle mother to 
 exclaim harshly against the girl who was the 
 cause of the cliange. But this I could not al- 
 low. It may have been that I had not been well 
 treated, but of this I was sure, dfvvendoliiie had 
 fought to do right, and it was only when I open- 
 ed the way that her strength yielded and she 
 gave up the straggle. No doubt it was right 
 and good for rae to go through this trial, and 
 most men earlier or later pass through some such 
 sorrow, either having set their affections on what 
 is unattainable, or else faiUng to win the love they 
 crave. 
 
 I was more cut up about it than perhaps a 
 young fellow with life before him should have 
 • been ; but in such troubles as these, my friends, 
 we seldom know reason • and though I strove hard 
 against depression before the eyes of the world, 
 it gained on me, and made me feel as if life liad 
 nothing more in store for rae, now I had lost her 
 love. 
 
 After I had built so long on the certainty of 
 winning her, after our wedding-day had been 
 fixed, after all the fond hopes and aspirations 
 centred in her, it was indeed a cruel shock to 
 find these visions passing away like a morning 
 , dream. I returned home, after that day when I 
 found my fond love and devotion was of no avail, 
 and remained there during the rest of my leave, 
 trying, by hard bodily exercise, and at times by 
 severe study, to lessen the dull, aching pain of 
 unsatisfied longing that tormented me. 
 ' After my leave was out I returned to the rpg- 
 iment, where, of course, every one knew by this 
 time what had befallen me, but where little al- 
 lusion was made to it, all guessing too well that 
 I had rather the matter were passed over in si- 
 lence, than that any attempt were made to con- 
 dole with me. As for Claude, whom at first I 
 almost hated, regarding him as the catiso of all 
 my sorrow, he was so gentle and forbearing, 
 whenever he met, and took so httle notice of my 
 petulant and offensive manner, that I soon be- 
 gan to excuse him in my heart for his share in 
 my misery ; for, after all, it was not his Fault, 
 and, besides, he was in sorrow also, not for the 
 loss of Mabel — that .it never seemed to me he 
 could regret — but because the woman whom both 
 he and I loved, and who had told me she loved 
 him, was lost to him for the present at least, and, 
 as he thought, forever ; but that I did not my- 
 self believe : I knew they would come across each 
 other again some day, and then, I hoped, with a 
 happier result. In the mean time Claude was al- 
 most as much to be pitied as myself; and though 
 I several times determined to let him know his 
 case was not hopeless, and he ; was belovedj yet 
 whenever I approached the subject lie shut me up 
 so sternly that after a while I began to imagine 
 tliere was more in the matter than I had at first 
 thought, and I left interference for some future 
 time. 
 
 Mayleigh was the only man among us who 
 made any jesting allusion to my misfortune, and 
 
 he, with his usual good taste and feeling, ob- 
 served, 
 
 "So you are not going to he a Benedick yet, 
 Master Madcap. A good thing for you, I should 
 say, as I suppose you know the old proverb, 'A 
 young man married is a man that's marred ?' " 
 
 " I'll thank you, Mayleigh, to keep your opin- 
 ions to yourself till you are asked for them," I 
 answered, haughtily. Something in my tone and 
 look so overawed the impudent fellow that I nev- 
 er had any trouble with his impertinent obser- 
 vations from that time forth. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 CLAtTDE FEVEBSHAm's SDOCESS. 
 
 "I AM going on leave next week, Darrell," 
 said Claude Feversham to me one evening, a few 
 months after the events related in the last chap- 
 ter. "What do you say to coming with me? 
 We shall have plenty of hunting, and I think, if 
 we get a little frost between times, we may have 
 a chance at the woodcock." 
 
 "I have been on leave lately," I replied; "I 
 don't think I could get off so soon again. And 
 then the hunting here is just as good as any we 
 could get elsewhere, so I think I shall remain 
 where I am for a little longer. Thanks all the 
 same for thinking of me." 
 
 "The fact is, Vivian, "pursued Feversham, af- 
 ter a pause, " I am sick of this kind of thing. 1 
 do not know that I ever intended going in for any 
 thing else when I first joined the army ; biit too 
 much of it gets wearisome, and I think of selling 
 out, and going on some exploring expedition, ei- 
 ther into Africa after Livingstone, or to the north 
 in search of Sir John Franklin, or on some other 
 stirring and adventurous route, which it will re- 
 quire all a man's wits and all a man's daring to 
 get over safely. Perhaps, in danger and excite- 
 ment, longing, and hope, and disappointment may 
 all be forgotten 5 at any rate, I shall try them, 
 and see whether the Lethe of the ancients was all 
 a fable." 
 
 "I would not, if I were you, Claude,".! an- 
 swered, earnestly; " it would he differentif 1 were 
 to tliink of such a thing. For me there is no 
 hope ; but, were I in your position, 1 would re- 
 main at home, and prefer happiness to peril." 
 
 " I do not see how your position differs from 
 mine," he answered, gloomily ; " we have both 
 been deceived' and jilted by tlie same woman ; 
 and then, again, I was misled by another. ■ Of 
 her, however, I will not speak harshly, as she has 
 suffered for it ; but. there is no excuse, no exten- 
 uating circumstances, to make me think gently 
 of that most acconiplished coquette, Gwendoline 
 Bambridge." 
 
 He spoke very bitterly, and frowned darkly, 
 looking straight before him, as though fearing to 
 meet my eye while uttering these words ; but I 
 cared little for his black looks on such a subject, 
 and interrupted him, saying, 
 
 " Hush ! you know nothing about the matter. 
 You will repent when you know how cruel are 
 the words you have spoken. Gwendoline Bam- 
 bridge loves you, has always loved you, is true to 
 yon now, and yet you speak thus of her. Not 
 knowing this, could you not have dealt more gen- 
 tly with the name of the woman you once said 
 
14* 
 
 OUE DETACHMENT. 
 
 you loved? — or has your affection turned to 
 something more bitter and lasting?" 
 
 I hardly know what gave me strength to make 
 this confession of Gwendoline'* love for him, 
 knowing, as I did, that it would complete the ruin 
 of my hopes ; but, stung by his harshness to her, 
 I blurted it all out before I had time to think of 
 what I said, and almost before I had finished 
 speaking he turned on me sternly. 
 
 "Boy," he said, " do you know what you are 
 saying, what mad hopes and wishes you are stir- 
 ring up anew in my heart ? Do you know that 
 she told me with her own lips she had never loved 
 me, and though I could have sworn that she had, 
 and that she denied it when she knew me poor, 
 yet I was obliged to be satisfied with that an- 
 swer ; indeed, seeing and knowing the reason of 
 her refusal, I would not have altered it if Icould." 
 
 "You wrong her cruelly," I replied, and then 
 I paused. Should I tell him all I knew, and fin- 
 ish the work I had begun ? or should I leave him 
 to work out his fate his own way, and make or 
 mar it as he chose ? A thought decided me : 
 she was unhappy ; she might, by my means, be 
 made happy, and she should be so. It was but 
 a continuation of the struggle against my natu- 
 ral feelings for a little longer, and then all would 
 be over ; my misery might be lessened also by 
 knowing her well-being secured ; arming myself 
 with this thought, I again addressed Feversham, 
 in spite of his lowering brow and threatening 
 glances. 
 
 ' " Don't you know," I continued hnniedly, and 
 with an effort, " why she refused you? As you 
 rightly guessed, she loved you, and having di- 
 vined so much, yon might at least have known 
 her better than to believe your poverty would 
 ever have influenced her to reject you. I am a 
 boy, you say, and you do not think much of my 
 power of loving, but I tell you I could not so in- 
 sult the woman I cared for as to believe, without 
 certain and positive proof, that she was merce- 
 nary enough to throw asideheraifection for riches. 
 If I found such a thing to be true, my love for 
 her would die out at once, like the ashes I knock 
 off this cigar ; but until it was clearly proved to 
 me, the mere suspicion should never be allowed 
 to enter my mind." 
 
 Claude remained silent, looking at me with a 
 troubled expression for a minute or two ; then 
 he answered, 
 
 "Well, but what other meaning could there 
 be for her conduct ? If you know the reason of 
 it, why don't you tell me, instead of talking in 
 such a confoundedly mysterious manner that you 
 make me feel quite uncomfortable — in fact, as 
 if I had behaved badly to her, when at present I 
 can't help thinking she behaved badly to me." 
 
 "It was your mother's doing, Claude," I re- 
 plied. "Do not be angry ; you wish me to speak 
 out, and I will do so. Excuse me if any thing 
 I say pains you. Lady Feversham went over to 
 Dublin when the Barabridges were staying there 
 the spring before last, and when there had a pri- 
 vate interview with Gwe'ndoline. In the conver- 
 sation that took place, she so worked upon the 
 girl's feelings for you, persuading her that, if she 
 accepted you, you would be rained both in for- 
 tune and career, that she wrung from her a prom- 
 ise to refuse you if you should ask her to become 
 your wife; this Gwendoline promised, fearing 
 that, though she was willing to bear poverty and 
 
 trial for your sake, you in time might come to 
 regret the sacrifice you would have to make In 
 marrying her. Believe me, Claude, it was a 
 greater proof of aficction, her studying your hap- 
 piness at the expense of her own, than if she hai' 
 resisted your mother's arguments and accepj! 
 your love as freely as it was offered." , 
 
 " Why do yon tell me this now ?" cried Claui 
 greatly excited. "Do you not know all chancu 
 for me is over ? I have behaved so badly. I had 
 hardly been refused by her when I allowed my 
 mother to cajole me into engaging myself to that 
 poor girl, Mabel Prendergast. Do you think any 
 woman would forgive one after such a thing? 
 No, indeed ! Any thing else seems more pardon- 
 able in their eyes than finding comfort in anoth- 
 er love for their cruelty— ^and Gwendoline will be 
 the same as the others in that respect." 
 
 "I am sure she will not," I answered, eageij 
 ly ; "only try her, and see how readily you wif 
 be forgiven ! Besides, you know that she can n^^ 
 blame you for being unfaithful, because, thou^e 
 true to you in heart always, she was not one wh.). 
 more constant in appearance." 
 
 I stopped with a sigh, and Claude, turning 
 quickly to me, asked, 
 
 "Why do you tell me all this, Vivian ? It is 
 against your own intei-est, you know." 
 
 "I believe it is only with you that she can be 
 happy," I answered, slowly; "and I wish her 
 happiness above all things. I have now done 
 what I could toward setting things straight ; act 
 as you see best, but do not talk to me any more 
 about it." 
 
 So saying, I left the room. Feversham told 
 me no more about his plans just then, but the 
 day before he left he met me going out for a 
 walk, and passing his arm through mine, accom- 
 panied me, talking at first on indiiferent subjects. 
 After a while, however, he began : 
 
 "I am going home to-morrow, Vivian, as I 
 told you, and I intend to ask my mother about 
 that which you mentioned to me the other day. 
 It would make the happiness of my life if this 
 matter could all be settled as I wished long ago ; 
 but I fear I can not hope for such good fortune, 
 as I know I do not deserve it. Whether I am 
 successful or not, old fellow, I can not be too 
 thankful to you for telling what has at least 
 raised my opinion of Gwendoline, and has shown 
 me how unjust I was when I accused her mental- 
 ly of mean and mercenary motives." 
 
 "That is right, Claude," I answered: "you 
 were unjust, and I am glad you see that you 
 were. As to yonr success, I know that if you 
 make a stand with your mother and get her con- 
 sent, yon have nothing to fear from Gwendoline, 
 who, I do not doubt, accuses herself of all the 
 wrong-doing in the matter." 
 
 So Claude went off next day, looking happier 
 than I had seen him look for a long time ; and I 
 remained behind, feeling sad and lonely enough, 
 in spite of Flower's company: he, though amia- 
 ble- and sympathizing, was not very bright, and 
 little calculated to cheer up a fellow who had 
 come such a cropper as I had. Of course I heard 
 all that happened between Claude and his moth- 
 er afterward. It came to pass in this way: 
 
 He had not long been home — about a few 
 hours, perhaps — when, standing near the fire in 
 the twilight before dinner, he asked suddenly, 
 
 " Mother, what is this I hear about your hav- 
 
OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 145 
 
 ing gone over to Dublin last spring ? You never 
 told me of it." 
 
 "I was there such a short time, Claude," she 
 
 answered, rather nervously — "only two days, I 
 
 'link ; and I hardly thought it worth while to 
 
 1 you I had been in Ireland, as I could not 
 ' 1 down and see you." 
 
 "Perhaps yon thought your errand did not 
 concern me,!' he replied, sternly, looking at her 
 as he had never looked at her before. "All this 
 trouble through which I have passed is of your 
 making, and I am not the only one who has 
 suffered through your means. Had you no pity 
 for a woman like yourself that you hunted her 
 out, and bound her over by a promise to sacrifice 
 her heart to your ambition ? Tell me all tbat 
 ■passed between you, for I will k-now it." 
 
 "Oh! Claude," she cried, "don't look at me 
 ind speak to me like that. I did it all for your 
 bod, and she knows I did. She ought to tell 
 ou so, if she ' has any truth iii her. Have you 
 aet her again ? Have you and she been talking 
 ibout it, and arranging how to get round your 
 mother? The artful creature! I knew she 
 would never keep her promise!" 
 
 ' ' Hush ! " he said, holding up his hand warn- 
 ingly. "Not another word against her, if you 
 please. I have never seen her since, and have 
 heard nothing from her. Are you satisfied now ?" 
 
 "Well, I was stupid to think you had heard 
 it from her, " Lady Feversham admitted, more 
 calmly. " Of coui-se she would not look at you 
 noiw, as she has made a better catch in Vivian 
 Darrell. Poor child! I wonder what his par- 
 ents are about, to allow him to make such a 
 match at his age. When does the wedding take 
 place?" 
 
 "Never, I believe,", answered Claude, grow- 
 ing sterner and more stern, as his mother's man- 
 Tier roused all the passionate temper of his race. 
 " But that is not what I wish to talk about. I 
 shall be sorry to speak to you in any way unbe- 
 coming a son to his mother, but in this matter I 
 will not be trifled with. Tell me fully and truly 
 what passed between Miss Bambridge and you 
 that day in Dublin." 
 
 " Well, if you will hear all about it, I suppose i 
 you must, though I do not see what good it can 
 do you now. I imagine, however, froin' your 
 answer about Vivian, the girl has jilted him. 
 The world has come to a pi%tty pass, when a 
 girl like Miss Bambridge thinks she can reject 
 noblemen with as little consideration as though 
 they were ploW-boys ; but, as you must know, 
 all I said to her was that it would be ruin and 
 destruction to your career and prospects marry- 
 ing her; I may say I laid this view of the case 
 very strongly before her, for, to tell the truth, at 
 first she seemed disposed to jgive me a great deal 
 of trouble, and talked about love, and hearts, and 
 all tjiat sentimental kind of nonsense. She said 
 something about loving you, and that, if you ask- 
 ed lier, she would never be so false to you, and 
 to her own heart, as to, reject you; but I piit a 
 stop to that quickly enough, and at length got 
 her to hear reason, and promise you should nev- 
 er know that she regardedt;you with any warm- 
 er feelings than those of mere friendship. Who 
 can have told you the contrary, as you say she 
 did not, I can not think ; but I fancy she is a 
 sensible girl, arid saw so clearly the force of my 
 arguments that she would never take you now 
 10 
 
 without my consent, which you will certainly 
 never obtain." 
 
 Lady Feversham drew herself up as she finish- 
 ed speaking, ahd pulled out the lace border of 
 her handkerchief, as though the subject was 
 finally disposed of, and she intended to occupy 
 her mind with something else. 
 
 "I have no doubt," Claude answered, coldly, 
 "that your estimate, in one way, of Miss Bam- 
 bridge is correct, and that, after what has pass- 
 ed between yon, she would not consent to enter 
 your family unless you yourself begged her to do 
 so. Now that is exactly what I wish you to do ; 
 in fact, I shall not renew my proposals until' you 
 signify to her that you are willing to receive her 
 as my wife.. I wish the. matter settled as soon 
 as possible, and shall bei greatly obliged by your 
 writing as soon as possible to intimate to her the 
 change in your feelings." . 
 ■ "Are you mad,' Claude?" cried his mother, 
 looking up at him with wide-open eyes of amaze- 
 ment. " I have not the smallest intention of do- 
 ing any such thing, and if you wait to marry un- 
 til I do so^yon will have to wait a good while, I 
 warn you.!' ... 
 
 " There is one thing I forgot to mention,'' 
 went on Claude, calmly, as though he had not 
 heard her speak. "In case you refuse my very 
 reasonable request, I intend to sell out, leave En- 
 gland, and seek a better fortune and kinder friends 
 in a strange land. , You can choose between your 
 child and your pride." 
 
 He ceased speaking, and,, as the dinner was 
 just then announced, offered his mother his arm 
 and led her to the dining-room. This opportune 
 diversion enabled Lady Feversham to defer mak- 
 ing any reply to her son's last speech for the pres- 
 ent, for wlfich she'was thankful, as it was very 
 far from her wishes to drive him from her, though 
 she would not yet consent, even in thought, to ac- 
 kncfwledge Gwjendoline as her "daughter. Claude 
 saw that his words were producing an effect in 
 his mother's mind, by the abstracted manner in 
 which she lingered over her dinner,' speaking lit- 
 tle, and avoiding his eye whenever he looked in 
 her dirpction. ' ■ ' 
 
 , She was a stubborn old lady, although as much 
 attached to her son as it was possible for her to 
 be to any one ; but she had taken this idea of 
 furthering his well-being by a rich alliance into 
 her head, and one failure, along With his deter- 
 mined opposition,' was not enough to make her 
 relinquish the scheme. There are as good match- ' 
 es as Mabel Prendergast going, she thoughtj and 
 I am sorry now I wasted so much time endeav- 
 oring to secure her ; but as for this Miss Bam- 
 bridge, that is not to be thought of for a minute. 
 I will wait a day or two, and see what his next 
 move win be. Of course that threat of leaving 
 the army is all nonsense. ' ' 
 
 Claude did not mean it so, however, for two 
 days afterward, when his mother had begun to 
 hope he had forgotten the conversation between 
 them, and that matters would go on as they theii 
 were for a while, she was taken completely by 
 surprise by his entering the room one morning 
 Wth a letter in his hand, which he showed to 
 her as he said, 
 
 " I am writing to my colonel, mother, and per- 
 haps you maygiiess the reason why. It is to tell 
 him I am going to sell out, and that I shall send 
 in my papers in a day oi- two. " 
 
us 
 
 OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 " Oh ! Claude, dear, do not be so rash !" cried 
 Lady Feversham, imploringly, and half crying ; 
 "you surely can never be so foolish as to do 
 such a t^ing all because of that>chit of a girl, 
 whom I wish you had never seen. Just wait a 
 little longer, before taking such an imprudent 
 step. Wait, and see if something will turn up." 
 
 "What do you mean by something turning 
 up, mother?" he demanded, fixing his grave 
 dark eyes on hers. 
 
 " You might see some one else you would like 
 better," she answered faintly, "and so forget this 
 girl. Indeed," she went on, with a little hesita- 
 tion, " Miss Vavasour is coming here next week. 
 I have just written to ask her. I hear she is very 
 handsome, and — " 
 
 "Say no more, mother," he replied, sternly. 
 "I should be a fool indeed if, knowing what I 
 know, I should allow you to bend me a second 
 tinie to your wishes. No; you have heard the 
 only terms on which I wUl consent to remain. 
 Tou have had two days in which to think the 
 matter over, and I insist on getting an answer 
 at once, that I may know what course to pursue 
 without further delay." 
 
 "But tell me, dear," again began Lady Fev- 
 ersham, " if you sell out and leave the country, 
 you are not one whit nearer gaining Miss Bam- 
 bridge than if you remained in the army, and I 
 continued to withhold my consent." 
 
 ' ' That remains for her to decide, " he answered 
 calmly. " Of course I should tell her that I had 
 nothing to offer her but a strong arm and a lov- 
 ing heai-t, but that I hoped the means of earning 
 a livelihood would be open to me, wherever stout 
 hearts and willing hands were needed ; that she 
 could not spoil my prospects in life now, seeing 
 that no prospect is left to me ; and if she be what 
 I take her to be, I should not have to experience 
 a second refusal, when she saw that her love was 
 all I had to look to for comfort and encourage- 
 ment in the new life I was beginning." 
 
 "Well, please yourself; marry her, and remain 
 in the army," replied Lady Feversham, crossly. 
 " I am sure I will not say any thing against it, 
 since you are so set on it ; but mind, you will 
 live to wish you had followed my advice." 
 
 "That will not do, mother," he answered. 
 "If Miss Bambridge remains in this country as 
 my wife, it must be made apparent, not only to 
 herself, but to every one else, that she is so with 
 your approbation. I wish you now to write her 
 a few lines signifying your consent to our mar- 
 riage, and inviting her to come and pay you a 
 visit here before it takes place. Make your let- 
 ter as kind as possible, to do away with any dis- 
 agreeable impression she may have preserved of 
 your last inten'iew." 
 
 "Upon my word, Claude, you take matters 
 with too high a hand. Fancy telling me to do 
 Hway with any impression she may have received 
 pf me last time. I hardly know whether I shall 
 write at all ; but if I do you can hardly expect a 
 letter written under compulsion to be cordial, and 
 I by no. means promise to make it so." 
 
 " I dare say it sounds badly from me to you, 
 mother," he answered ; " but remember, I am a 
 man now, and however much I honor and love 
 you as my mother — and believe me I do, though 
 we differ sometimes — still I can not submit my 
 man's-will and judgment to yours, as I used to do 
 when I was a little boy. Dearest mother, the 
 
 thing I ask of yon is not so much, after all, and 
 it will make me very happy, and you too, when 
 you have got over your prejudice against her. I 
 know you will do it for my sake, and I won't send 
 this letter." 
 
 So saying, he stooped, kissed his mother, andi 
 left the room, confident that what he had said 
 would produce a good effect, and that in a short 
 time he might hope to see the letter, he had asked 
 for written. He was not mistaken in his con- 
 jecture, for about two hours afterward his moth- 
 er entered the library, where he was reading, and 
 holding an open envelope tow.-vrd him, said, 
 
 " It is done, my dear boy, for your sake ; you 
 can see what I have said." 
 
 "Indeed I will not," he answered, rising gay- 
 ly. "I think I can trust my mother to do a 
 thing thoroughly, when she makes up her mind 
 to do it ; but sometimes she takes a good deal of 
 persuasion." 
 
 He kissed his mother fondly, and she smiled, 
 tliough something very like a tear glittered in 
 each eye as she said, tremulously, 
 
 "And now, what are you going to do, Claude? 
 It is no good your sending that, unless you write 
 or go yourself to renew your offer." 
 
 "I will run over myself," he answered, "tak- 
 ing this with me; and, not to lose a day, I will 
 set off this afternoon. I shall not be long before 
 I return, dear, and perhaps Gwendoline will come 
 with me; but you shall hear from me before 
 then, and know what success I have had." 
 
 "Oh! I have no doubt of your success," she 
 muimured, half in bitterness, half in adnairation, 
 as she gazed on her stalwart, handsome son, with 
 his frank, honest ej oS and his sweet smile, think- 
 ing the while, "No girl could refuse him, if she 
 were free to choose." 
 
 Claude set off on bis journey that afleraoon, 
 and arrived next day at Endley, just as it was 
 falling dusk in the evening. As he walked up the 
 avenue, he caught sight of a figure before him 
 that seemed strangely familiar and dear to him : 
 he stepped out more quickly, and presently over- 
 taking Gwendoline, for it was she, stopped beside 
 her and held out his hand. 
 
 It was rather dark, and Gwendoline, a little 
 nervous about being out so late, was hurrying 
 home when this happened. She started, gave 
 one quick glance at his face, and failing to recog- 
 nize him, set off homeward with more speed than 
 before. 
 
 "Are you so angiy with me, then, that you 
 won't speak to me, Gwendoline?" pleaded the 
 intruder, keeping up with her, and bending for- 
 ward to catch a glimpse of her face. 
 
 She knew the voice, and her heart beat high 
 with joy, for she felt assured ho would never have 
 returned thus unless all difficulties in their way 
 had been removed. Half laughing, half crying, 
 she turned, and holding out both hands, ex- 
 claimed, 
 
 " Is it you, indeed ? I did not know you at 
 first, it is so dark." 
 
 Not a word more did she say, but there was 
 more welcome and love in those sentences than 
 many people could have imagined possible. They 
 were quite satisfactQiy to Claude, and he answer- 
 ed them in a very conclusive manner as he mur- 
 mured, 
 
 ' ' You are not going to treat me so badly again, 
 darling?" 
 
OUR DETACHMENT. 
 
 147 
 
 What answer she gave him might have been 
 guessed from their faces as they entered the 
 drawing-room about a quarter of an hour after. 
 
 "Mamma, here is a truant come back to us," 
 cried Gwendoline gayly, drawing Claude out of 
 the shadow, in which he was standing, into the 
 full light of a blazing fire. 
 _ " Claude Feversham, I declare !" cried Cla- 
 rissa, springing up, and throwing a book, over 
 which she had been dozing, to the other end of 
 the room. "You are all right, I can see, Claude," 
 she went on, " so I shall not make the usual po- 
 lite inquiries ; and as to Gwendoline, she must 
 have been in Fairy-land this afternoon, for she is 
 looking at least twenty years younger than when 
 she went out." 
 
 Gwendoline blushed, but was too happy to call 
 her younger sister to order; and Mrs. Bam- 
 bridge, divining the state of affairs at a glance, 
 made room for the new-comer by the fire, order- 
 ed his room to be prepared, and otherwise occu- 
 pied herself about his comfort, while he, the first 
 buzz of greeting over, drew his mother's letter 
 from his pocket and handed it to Gwendoline, 
 wlio forthwith retired to her own room with it, 
 whence she emerged half an hour aftei'ward ra- 
 diantly handsome, but with a slight tendency to 
 redness about the eyes that looked suspicious of 
 tears. 
 
 After this there is not much to tell; for of 
 course Gwendoline accepted Lady Feversham's 
 invitation, which had indeed been expressed very 
 Rraciously, though she told Claude in confidence 
 she only did it for his sake. Now they are, I 
 believe, the best of friends, and I am quite sure 
 the Dowager Lady Feversham regrets nothing so 
 much as that hurried visit she paid to Dublin ; a 
 visit Gwendoline playfully reminded her of after 
 her marriage, when they were all good friends, by 
 
 showing her the dark -red rose the elder lady 
 dropped that day from her bonnet, and that 
 Gwendoline had picked up after she was gone. 
 
 They were married about two months after 
 Lady Fevcrsham's consent had been obtained, 
 and Claude remained in the army ; but I, not 
 having suiificient courage to see my lost love day 
 by day befoi-e me, exchanged into another regi- 
 ment and went out to India. 
 
 I am a good many years older now, and have 
 accustomed myself to think of her as the wife of 
 another man, and that man my cousin and chosen 
 friend ; but still I never think of the time when I 
 fondly dreamed she was my own, and worshiped 
 her with a boy's bhnd adoration, without a dull, 
 aching, regretful pain. And tliough I have seen 
 many women that my eye unwillingly acknowl- 
 edged as fairer, and my mind approved as more 
 clever and witty, yet — ^let people call me roman- 
 tic and absurd as they will — I have never seen 
 one with power to win my heart from its alle- 
 giance to her. • 
 
 Clarissa — pretty, merry Clarissa — made a very 
 good match a few. months after her sister's mar- 
 riage. I have seen her since^ and she has some- 
 times asked me if I intend to become an old 
 bachelor for Gwen's sake ; adding, sometimes, 
 with a half si^, 
 
 "Ah, Vivian! people don't know what they 
 are talking of when they say sometimes with a 
 langh, ' He will get over it. ' I used to think so 
 too, but I know now it is not always true." 
 
 So ends the story of my fife, as far as it goes : 
 its interest to me seems already gone. And 
 though I am not miserable — as who can be while 
 work remains to be done, and while one puts 
 forth one's strength to do it ? — still my best hap- 
 piness all passed away long ago, in that brief 
 dream, though it was only a boy's love. 
 
 THE END. 
 
GRIFFITH GAUNT; 
 
 OR, 
 
 JEALOUSY. 
 
 - 1 . . ^ J. - vJ 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES READE, - 
 
 AUTHOR OF "PEG WOFFINGTON,", "CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE," "NEVER TOO LATE 
 TO MEND," "WHITE LIES," ETC. , 
 
 ',.■ 
 
 . v7 i 
 
 tFITff ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY, 
 
 Late Ticknor & Fields, and Fields, Osgood, & Co. 
 1875. 
 
AUTHOR'S EDITION. 
 
 1 
 
 CHEAP EDITIONS 
 
 OP 
 
 CHARLES READE'S WORKS. 
 
 wow PUBLISHED. 
 FOUL PLAY. . • . . . 1 vol. Illustrated. 25 cents. 
 
 GRIFFITH GAUNT. ... 1 vol. Illustrated. 25 cents. 
 
 FIELDS, OSaOOD, & CO., 
 
 fSUCCESSOES TO TICKNOR AND FIELDS. 
 
 University Press: Welch, Eigelow, & Co., 
 Cambridge. 
 
GRIFFITH GAUNT; 
 
 OR, 
 
 JEALOUSY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 ""r'aEN I say, once for all, that 
 -»- priest shall never darken my 
 doors again." 
 
 " Then I say they are my doors, and 
 not yours, and that holy man shall 
 brighten them whenever he will." 
 
 The gentleman and lady who faced 
 each other pale and furious, and inter- 
 changed this bitter defiance, were man 
 and wife, and had loved each other 
 well. 
 
 Miss Catharine Peyton was a young 
 lady of ancient family in Cumberland, 
 and the most striking, but least popu- 
 lar, beauty in the county. She was very 
 tall and straight, and carried herself a 
 little too imperiously ; yet she would 
 sometimes relax and all but dissolve 
 •that haughty figure, and hang sweetly 
 drooping over her favorites ; then the 
 contrast was delicious, and the woman 
 fascinating. 
 
 Her hair was golden and glossy, her 
 eyes a lovely gray ; and she had a way 
 of turning them on slowly and full, so 
 that their victim could not fail to ob- 
 serve two things : first, that they were 
 grand and beautiful orbs ; secondly, that 
 they were thoughtfully overlooking him, 
 instead of looking at him. 
 
 So contemplated by glorious eyes, a 
 man feels small and bitter. 
 
 Catharine was apt to receive the blunt 
 compliments of the Cumberland squires 
 with this sweet, celestial, superior gaze, 
 and for this and other imperial charms 
 was more admired than liked. 
 
 I 
 
 The family estate was entailed on her 
 brother ; her father spent every far- 
 thing he could ; so she had no mon^ 
 ey, and no expectations, except from a 
 distant cousin, — Mr. Charlton, of Hern- 
 shaw Castle and Bolton Hall. 
 
 Even these soon dwindled. Mr. 
 Charlton took a fancy to his late wife's 
 relation, Griffith Gaunt, and had him 
 into his house, and treated him as his 
 heir. This disheartened two admirers 
 who had hitherto sustained Catharine 
 Peyton's gaze, and they retired. Come- 
 ly girls, girls long-nosed, but rich, girls 
 snub-nosed, but winning, married on 
 all sides of her ; but the imperial beau- 
 ty remained Miss Peyton at two-and- 
 twenty. 
 
 She was rather kind to the poor; 
 would give them money out of her slen- 
 der purse, and would even make clothes 
 for the women, and sometimes read to 
 them : very few of them could read to 
 themselves in that day. All she re- 
 quired in return was, that they should 
 be Roman Catholics, like herself, or at 
 least pretend they might be brought to 
 that faith by little and little. 
 
 She was a high-minded girl, and 
 could be a womanly one, — whenever 
 she chose. 
 
 She hunted about twice a week in 
 the season, and was at home in the 
 saddle, for she had ridden from a child ; 
 but so ingrained was her character, 
 that this sport, which more or less un- 
 sexes most women, had no perceptible 
 effect on her mind, nor even on her 
 manners. The scarlet riding-habit and 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 little purple cap, and the great, white, 
 bony horse she rode, were often seen 
 in a good place at the end of a long 
 run ; but, for all that, the lady was a 
 most ungenial fox-huntress. She never 
 spoke a word but to her acquaintances, 
 and wore a settled air of dreamy indif- 
 ference, except when the hounds hap- 
 pened to be in full cry, and she gallop- 
 ing at their heels. Worse than that, 
 when the dogs were running into the 
 fox, and his fate certain, she had been 
 known to rein in her struggling horse, 
 and pace thoughtfully home, instead of 
 coming in at the death, and claiming the 
 brush. 
 
 One day, being complimented at the 
 end of a hard run by the gentleman 
 who kept the hounds, she turned her 
 celestial orbs on him, and said, — 
 
 " Nay, Sir Ralph, I love to gallop ; 
 and this sorry business gives me an 
 excuse." 
 
 It was full a hundred years ago. The 
 country teemed with foxes ; but it 
 abounded in stiff coverts, and a know- 
 ing fox was sure to run from one to an- 
 other ; and then came wearisome ef- 
 forts to dislodge him ; and then Miss 
 Peyton's gray eyes used to explore va- 
 cancy, and ignore her companions, bi- 
 ped and quadruped. 
 
 But one day they drew Yewtree Brow, 
 and found a stray fox. At Gaylad's 
 first note he broke cover, and went away 
 for home across the open country. A 
 hedger saw him steal out, and gave a 
 view halloo ; the riders came round 
 helter-skelter; the dogs in cover one 
 by one threw up their noses and voices ; 
 the horns blew, the canine music swell- 
 ed to a strong chorus, and away they 
 swept across country, — dogs, horses, 
 men ; and the Dense take the hind- 
 most ! 
 
 It was a gallant chase, and our 
 dreamy virgin's blood got up. Erect, 
 but lithe and vigorous, and one with 
 her great white gelding, she came fly- 
 ing behind the foremost riders, and 
 took leap for leap with them. One 
 glossy, golden curl streamed back in 
 the rushing air ; her gray eyes glowed 
 with earthly fire ; and two red spots on 
 
 the upper part of her cheeks showed 
 she was much excited, without a grain 
 of fear. Yet in the first ten minutes 
 one gentleman was unhorsed before her 
 eyes, and one ckme to grief along with 
 his animal, and a thorough-bred chest- 
 nut^ was galloping and snorting beside 
 her with empty saddle. Presently young 
 Featherstone, who led her by about 
 fifteen yards, crashed through a high 
 hedge, and was seen no more, but heard 
 wallowing in the deep, unsuspected 
 ditch beyond. There was no time to 
 draw bridle. "Lie still, Sir, if you 
 please," said Catharine, with cool civil- 
 ity ; then up rein, in spur, and she 
 cleared the ditch and its muddy con- 
 tents, alive and dead, and away without 
 looking behind her. 
 
 On, on, on, till all the pinks and 
 buckskins, erst so smart, were splashed* 
 with clay and dirt of every hue, and all 
 the horses' late glossy coats were bath- 
 ed with sweat and lathered with foam, 
 and their gaping nostrils blowing and 
 glowing red ; and then it was that Har- 
 rowden Brook, swollen wide and deep 
 by the late rains, came right between 
 the fox and Dogmore Underwood, for 
 which he was making. 
 
 The hunt sweeping down a hillside 
 caught sight of Reynard running for the 
 brook. They made sure of him now. 
 But he lapped a drop, and then slipped 
 in, and soon crawled out on the other 
 side, and made feebly for the covert, 
 weighted with wet fur. 
 
 At sight of him, the hunt hallooed 
 and trumpeted, and came tearing on 
 with fresh vigor. 
 
 But when they came near the brook, 
 lo, it was twenty feet wide, and running 
 fast and brown. Some riders skirted 
 it, looking for a narrow part. Two 
 horses, being spurred at it, came to the 
 bank, and then went rearing round on 
 their heels, depositing one hat and an- 
 other rider in the current. One gallant 
 steed planted his feet like a tower, and 
 snorted down at the water. One flip- 
 ped gravely in, and had to swim, and 
 be dragged out. Another leaped, and 
 landed with his feet on the other bank, 
 his haunches in the water, and his rider 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 curled round his neck, and glaring out 
 between his retroverted ears. 
 
 But Miss Peyton encouraged her 
 horse with spur and voice, set her teeth, 
 turned rather pale this time, and went 
 at the brook with a rush, and cleared 
 it like a deer. She and the huntsman 
 were almost alone together on the other 
 side, and were as close to the dogs as 
 the dogs were to poor Pug, when he 
 slipped through a run in a quickset 
 hedge, and, reducing the dogs to single 
 file, glided into Dogmore Underwood, a 
 stifT hazel coppice of five years' growth. 
 
 The other riders soon straggled up, 
 and then the thing was to get him out 
 again. There were a few narrow roads 
 cut in the underwood ; and up and 
 down these the huntsman and whipper- 
 in went trotting, and encouraged the 
 stanch hounds, and whipped the skulk- 
 ers back into covert. Others galloped 
 uselessly about, pounding the earth, for 
 daisy-cutters were few in those days ; 
 and Miss Peyton relapsed into the 
 transcendental. She sat in one place, 
 with her elbow on her knee, and her 
 fair chin supported by two fingers, as 
 undisturbed by the fracas of horns and 
 voices as an equestrian statue of Diana. 
 
 She sat so still and so long at a cor- 
 ner of the underwood that at last the 
 harassed fox stole out close to her with 
 lolling tongue and eye askant, and took 
 the open field again. She thrilled at 
 first sight of him, and her cheeks burn- 
 ed ; but her quick eye took in all the 
 signs of his distress, and she sat quiet, 
 and watched him coolly. Not so her 
 horse. He plunged, and then trembled 
 all over, and planted his fore-feet to- 
 gether at this angle \, and parted his 
 hind-legs a little, and so stood quiver- 
 ing, with cocked ears, and peeped over 
 a low paling at the retiring quadruped, 
 and fretted and sweated in anticipation 
 of the gallop his long head told him was 
 to follow. He looked a deal more stat- 
 uesque than any three statues in Eng- 
 land, and all about a creature not up to 
 his knee. — And by the bye : the gen- 
 tlemen who carve horses in our native 
 isle, did they ever see one — but of an 
 omnibus? — The whipper-in came by, 
 
 and found him in this gallant attitude, 
 and suspected the truth, but, observing 
 the rider's tranquil position, thought 
 the fox had only popped out and then 
 in again. However, he fell in with the 
 huntsman, and told him Miss Peyton's 
 gray had seen something. The hounds 
 appeared puzzled ; and so the hunts- 
 man rode round to Miss Peyton, and, 
 touching his cap, asked her if she had 
 seen nothing of the fox. 
 
 She looked him dreamily in the face. 
 
 " The fox ? " said she ; " he broke 
 cover ten minutes ago." 
 
 The man blew his horn lustily, and 
 then asked her reproachfully why she 
 had not tally-hoed him, or winded her 
 horn : with that he blew his own again 
 impatiently. 
 
 Miss Peyton replied, very slowly and 
 pensively, that the fox had come out 
 soiled and fatigued, and trailing his 
 brush. " I looked at him," said she, 
 " and I pitied him. He was one, and 
 we are many ; he was so little, and we 
 are so big ; he had given us a good gal- 
 lop j and so I made up my mind he 
 should live to run another day." 
 
 The huntsman stared stupidly at her 
 for a moment, then burst into a torrent 
 of oaths, then blew his horn till it was 
 hoarse, then cursed and swore till he 
 was hoarse himself, then to his horn 
 again, and dogs and men came rushing 
 to the sound. 
 
 " Couple up, and go home to supper," 
 said Miss Peyton, quietly. "The fox 
 is half-way to Gallowstree Gorse ; and 
 you won't get him out of that this after- 
 noon, I promise you." 
 
 As she said this, she just touched 
 her horse with the spur, leaped the low 
 hedge in front of her, and cantered 
 slowly home across country. She was 
 one that seldom troubled the hard road, 
 go where she would. 
 
 She had ridden about a mile, when 
 she heard a horse's feet behind her. 
 She smiled, and her color rose a little ; 
 but she cantered on. 
 
 " Halt, in the king's name ! " shouted 
 a mellow voice ; and a gentleman gal- 
 loped up to her side, and reined in his 
 mare. 
 
Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 " What ! liave they killed ? " inquired 
 Catharine, demurely. 
 
 "Not they; he is in the middle, of 
 Gallowstree Gorse by now." 
 
 " And is this the way to Gallowstree 
 Gorse ? " 
 
 " Nay, Mistress," said the young 
 man; "but when the fox heads one 
 way and the deer another, what is a 
 poor hunter to do ? " 
 
 " P'ollow the slower, it seems." 
 
 " Say the lovelier and the dearer, 
 sweet Kate " 
 
 " Now, Griffith, you know I hate flat- 
 tery," said Kate ; and the next moment 
 came a soft smile, and belied this unso- 
 cial sentiment. 
 
 " Flattery ? " said the lover. " I have 
 no tongue to speak half your praises. 
 I think the people in this country are 
 as bhnd as bats, or they 'd " 
 
 " All except Mr. Griffith Gaunt ; he 
 has found a paragon, where wiser peo- 
 ple see a wayward, capricious girl." 
 
 " Then he is the man for you. Don't 
 you see that. Mistress ? " 
 
 " No, I don't quite see that," said the 
 lady, dryly. 
 
 This cavalier reply caused a dismay 
 the speaker never intended. The fact 
 is, Mr. George Neville, young, hand- 
 some, and rich, had lately settled in the 
 neighborhood, and had been greatly 
 smitten with Kate. The county was 
 talking about it, and Griffith had been 
 secretly on thorns for some days past. 
 And now he could hide his uneasiness 
 no longer ; he cried out, in a sharp, 
 trembling voice, — 
 
 " Why, Kate, my dear Kate ! what ! 
 could you love any man but me ? Could 
 you be so cruel ? could you ? There, 
 let me get off my horse, and lie down 
 on this stubble, and you ride over me, 
 and trample me to death. I would 
 rather have you trample on my ribs 
 than on my heart, with loving any one 
 but me." 
 
 " Why, what now ? " said Catharine, 
 drawing herself up ; " I must scold you 
 handsomely"; and she drew rein and 
 turned full upon him ; but by this means 
 she saw his face was full of real dis- 
 tress ; so, instead of reprimanding- him, 
 
 she said, gently, " Why, Griffith, what 
 is to do ? Are you not my servant ? 
 Do not I send you word, whenever I 
 dine from home ? " 
 
 "Yes, dearest; and then I call at that 
 house, and stick there till they guess 
 what I would be at, and ask me, too." 
 
 Catharine smiled, and proceeded to 
 remind him that thrice a week she per- 
 mitted him to ride over from Bolton, 
 (a distance of fifteen miles,) to see her. 
 
 " Yes," replied Griffith, " and I must 
 say you always come, wet or dry, to the 
 shrubbery-gate, and put your hand in 
 mine a minute. And, Kate," said he, 
 piteously, " at the bare thought of your 
 putting that same dear hand in another 
 man's my heart turns sick within me, 
 and my skin burns and trembles on 
 me." 
 
 " But you have no cause," said Cath- 
 arine, soothingly. " Nobody, except 
 yourself, doubts my affection for you. 
 You are often thrown in my teeth, Grif- 
 fith, — and" (clenching her own) " I like 
 j'ou all the better, of course." 
 
 Griffith replied with a burst of grati- 
 tude ; and then, as men will, proceeded 
 to encroach. 
 
 " Ah," said he, " if you would but 
 pluck up courage, and take the matri- 
 monial fence with me at once." 
 
 Miss Peyton sighed at that, and droop- 
 ed a httle upon her saddle. After a 
 pause, she enumerated the "just imped- 
 iments." She reminded him that nei- 
 ther of them had means to marry on. 
 
 He made light of that ; he should 
 soon have plenty ; Mr. Charlton has 
 as good as told him he was to have 
 Bolton Hall and Grange : " Six hun- 
 dred acres, Kate, besides the park and 
 paddocks." 
 
 In his warmth he forgot that Catha- 
 rine was to have been Mr. Charlton's 
 heir. Catharine was too high-minded 
 to bear Griffith any grudge ; but she 
 colored a little, and said she was averse 
 to come to him a penniless bride. 
 
 " Why, what matters it which of us 
 has the dross, so that there is enough 
 for both ? " said Griffith, with an air of 
 astonishment. 
 
 Catharine smiled approbation, and 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 tacitly yielded that point. But then 
 she objected the difference in their 
 faith. 
 
 "Oh, .honest folk get to heaven by 
 different roads," said Griffith, carelessly. 
 
 " I have been taught otherwise," re- 
 plied Catharine, gravely. 
 
 " Then give me your hand and I '11 
 give you my soul," said Griffith Gaunt, 
 impetuously. " I '11 go to heaven your 
 way, if you can't go mine. Anything 
 sooner than be parted in this world or 
 the next." 
 
 She looked at him in silence ; and it 
 was in a faint, half apologetic tone she 
 objected, that all her kinsfolk were set 
 against it. 
 
 " It is not their business ; it is ours,'' 
 was the prompt reply. 
 
 " Well, then," said Catharine, sadly, 
 " I suppose I must tell you the true 
 reason : I feel I should not make you 
 happy ; I do not love you quite as you 
 want to be loved, as you deserve to be 
 loved. You need not look so ; nothing 
 in flesh and blood is your rival. But my 
 heart bleeds for the Church ; I think 
 of her ancient glory in this kingdom, 
 and, when I see her present condition, 
 I long to devote myself to her service. 
 I am very fit to be an abbess or a nun, 
 — most unfit to be a wife. No, no, — 
 I must not, ought not, dare not, marry 
 a Protestant. Take the advice of one 
 who esteems you dearly ; leave me, — 
 fly from me, — forget me, — do every- 
 thing but hate me. Nay, do not hate 
 me ; you little know the struggle in my 
 mind. Farewell ; the saints, whom you 
 scorn, watch over and protect you ! 
 Farewell ! " 
 
 And with this she sighed, and struck 
 her spur into the gray, and he darted 
 off at a gallop. 
 
 Griffith, little able to cope with such 
 a character as this, sat petrified, and 
 would have been rooted to the spot, if 
 he had happened to be on foot. But 
 his mare set off after her companion, 
 and a chase of a novel kind commen- 
 ced. Catharine's horse was fresher than 
 Griffith's mare, and the latter, not be- 
 ing urged by her petrified master, lost 
 ground. 
 
 But when she drew near to her fa- 
 ther's gate, Catharine relaxed her speed, 
 and Griffith rejoined her. 
 
 She had already half relented, and 
 only wanted a warm and resolute wooer 
 to bring her round. But Griffith was 
 too sore, and too little versed in wo- 
 man. Full of suspicion and bitterness, 
 he paced gloomy and silent by her side, 
 till they reached the great avenue that 
 led to her father's house. 
 
 And while he rides alongside the ca- 
 pricious creature in sulky silence, I may 
 as well reveal a certain foible in his 
 own character. 
 
 This Griffith Gaunt was by no means 
 deficient in physical courage ; but he 
 was instinctively disposed to run away 
 from mental pain the moment he lost 
 hope of driving it away from him. For 
 instance, if Catharine had been ill and 
 her life in danger, he would have ridden 
 day and night to save her, — would have 
 beggared himself to save her ; but if 
 she had died, he would either have kill- 
 ed himself, or else fled the country, and 
 so escaped the sight of every object 
 that was associated with her and could 
 agonize him. ' I do not think he could 
 have attended the funeral of one he 
 loved. 
 
 The mind, as well as the body, has 
 its self-protecting instincts. This of 
 Griffith's was, after all, an instinct of 
 that class, and, under certain circum- 
 stances, is true wisdom. But Griffith, 
 I think, carried the instinct to excess ; 
 and that is why I call it his foible. 
 
 " Catharine," said he, resolutely, " let 
 me ride by your side to the house for 
 once ; for I read your advice my own 
 way, and I mean to follow it : after to- 
 day you will be troubled with me no more. 
 I have loved you these three years, I 
 have courted you these two years, and 
 I am none the nearer ; I see I am not 
 the man you mean to marry : so I shall 
 do as my father did, ride down to the 
 coast, and sell my horse, and ship for 
 foreign parts." 
 
 "Oh, as you will," said Catharine, 
 haughtily : she quite forgot she had 
 just recommended him to do something 
 of this very kind. 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 Presently she stole a look. His fine 
 ruddy cheek was pale ; his manly brown 
 eyes were moist ; yet a gloomy and res- 
 olute expression on his tight-drawn 
 lips. She looked at him sidelong, and 
 thought how often he had ridden thirty 
 miles on that very mare to get a word 
 with her at the shrubbery-gate. And 
 now the mare to be sold ! The man 
 to go broken-hearted to sea, — perhaps 
 to his death ! Her good heart began 
 to yearn. 
 
 "GrifiSth," said she, softly, "it is not 
 as if I were going to wed anybody else. 
 Is it nothing to be preferred by her you 
 say you love ? If I were you, I would 
 do nothing rash. Why not give me a 
 little time ? In truth, I hardly know my 
 own mind about it two days together." 
 
 " Kate," said the young man, firmly, 
 " I am courting you this two years. If I 
 wait two years more, it will be but to see 
 the right man come and carry you in a 
 month ; for so girls are won, when they 
 are won at all. Your sister that is mar- 
 ried and dead, she held Josh Pitt in 
 hand for years ; and what is the up- 
 shot? Why, he wears the willow for 
 her to this day ; and her husband mar- 
 ried again, before her grave was green. 
 Nay, I have done all an honest man 
 can to woo you ; so take me now, or let 
 me go." 
 
 At this, Kate began to waver secret- 
 ly, and ask herself whether it would not 
 be better to yield, since he was so abom- 
 inably resolute. 
 
 But the unlucky fellow did not leave 
 well alone. He went on to say, — 
 
 " Once out of sight of this place, I 
 may cure myself of my fancy. Here I 
 never could." 
 
 "Oh," said Catharine, directly, "if 
 you are so bent on being cured, it would 
 not become me to say nay." 
 
 Griffith Gaunt bit his lip and hung 
 his head, and made no reply. 
 
 The patience with which he received 
 her hard speech was more apparent 
 than real ; but it told. Catharine, re- 
 ceiving no fresh positive provocation, 
 relented again of her own accord, and, 
 after a considerable silence, whispered, 
 softly, — 
 
 "Think how we should all miss 
 you." 
 
 Here was an overture to reconcilia- 
 tion. But, unfortunately, it brought out 
 what had long been rankling in Grif- 
 fith's mind, and was in fact the real 
 cause of the misunderstanding. 
 
 " Oh," said he, " those I care for will 
 soon find another to take my place ! 
 Soon ? quotha. They have not waited 
 till I was gone for that." 
 
 " Ah, indeed ! " said Catharine, with 
 some surprise ; then, like the quick- 
 witted girl she was, " so this is what all 
 the coil is about." 
 
 She then, with a charming smile, beg- 
 ged him to inform her who was his des- 
 tined successor in her esteem. Grif- 
 fith colored purple at her cool hypocri- 
 sy, ( for such he considered it,) and re- 
 plied, almost fiercely, — 
 
 " Who but that young black-a-vis^d 
 George Neville, that you have been co- 
 quetting with this month past, — and 
 danced all night with him at Lady Mun- 
 ster's ball, you did." 
 
 Catharine blushed, and said, depre- 
 catingly, — 
 
 " You were not there, Griflith, or to 
 be sure I had not danced with him.^'' 
 
 " And he toasts you by name, wher- 
 ever he goes." 
 
 " Can I help that ? Wait till I toast 
 him, before you make yourself ridicu- 
 lous, and me very angry — about noth- 
 ing." 
 
 Griffith, sticking to his one idea, re- 
 plied, doggedly, — 
 
 " Mistress Alice Peyton shilly-shal- 
 lied with her true lover for years, till 
 Richard Hilton came, that was not fit 
 to tie his shoes ; and then " • 
 
 Catharine cut him short, — 
 
 " Affi-ont me, if nothing less will serve ; 
 but spare my sister in her grave." 
 
 She began the sentence angrily, but 
 concluded it in a broken voice. Grif- 
 fith was half disarmed ; but only half. 
 He answered, sullenly, — 
 
 " She did not die till she had jilted 
 an honest gentleman and broken his 
 heart, and married a sot, to her cost. 
 And you are of her breed, when all is 
 done ; and now that young coxcomb 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or. Jealousy. 
 
 has come, like Dick Hilton, between 
 you and me." 
 
 " But I do not encourage him." 
 
 " You do not t&courage him," retort- 
 ed Griffith, " or he would not be so hot 
 after you. Were you ever the woman 
 to say, ' I have a servant already that 
 loves me dear ' ? That one frank word 
 had sent him packing." 
 
 Miss Peyton colored, and the water 
 came into her eyes. 
 
 " I may have been imprudent," she 
 murmured. " The young gentleman 
 made me smile with his extravagance. 
 I never thought to be misunderstood 
 by him, far less by you." Then, sud- 
 denly, as bold as brass, — " It 's all your 
 fault ; if he had the power to make you 
 uneasy, why did you not check me be- 
 fore ? " 
 
 " Ay, forsoothj and have it cast in my 
 teeth I was a jealous monster, and played 
 the tyrant before my time. A poor fel- 
 low scarce knows what to be at that 
 loves a coquette." 
 
 " Coquette I am none," repUed the 
 lady, bridling magnificently. 
 
 Griffith took no notice of this inter- 
 ruption. He proceeded to say that he 
 had hitherto endured this intrusion of 
 a rival in silence, though with a sore 
 heart, hoping his patience might touch 
 her, or the fire go out of itself. But at 
 last, unable to bear it any longer in si- 
 lence, he had shown his wound to one 
 he knew could feel for him, his poor 
 friend Pitt. Pitt had then let him know 
 that his own mistake had been over- 
 confidence in Alice Peyton's constancy, 
 
 " He said to me, ' Watch your Kate 
 close, and, at the first blush of a rival, 
 say you to her, Part with him, or part 
 with me.' " 
 
 Catharine pinned him directly. 
 
 "And this is how you take Joshua 
 Pitt's advice, — by oflTering to run away 
 from this sorry rival." 
 
 The shrewd reply, and a curl of the 
 lip, half arch, half contemptuous, that 
 accompanied the thrust, staggered the 
 less ready Griffith. He got puzzled, and 
 showed it. 
 
 "Well, but," stammered he at last, 
 " your spirit is high ; I was mostly 
 
 afeard to put it so pluittp to you. So I 
 thought I would go about a bit. How- 
 ever, it comes to the same thing ; for 
 this I do know, — that, if you refuse me 
 your hand this day, it is to give it to 
 a new acquaintance, as your Alice did 
 before you. And if it is to be so, 't is 
 best for me to be gone : best for him, 
 and best for you. You don't know me, 
 Kate ; for, as clever as you are, at the 
 thought of your playing me false, af- 
 ter all these years, and marrying that 
 George Neville^ my heart turns to ice, 
 and then to fire, and my head seems 
 ready to burst, and my hands to do mad 
 and bloody acts. Ay, I feel I should 
 kill him, or you, or both, at the church- 
 porch. Ah ! " 
 
 He suddenly griped her arm, and at 
 the same time involuntarily checked his 
 mare. . 
 
 Both horses stopped. 
 
 She raised her head with an inquir- 
 ing look, and saw her lover's face dis- 
 colored with passion, and so strangely 
 convulsed that she feared at first he 
 was in a fit, or stricken with death ' or 
 palsy. 
 
 She Uttered a cry of alarm, and 
 stretched forth her hand towafds him. 
 
 But the next moment she drew it back 
 from him ; fof, following his e^e', she 
 discerned the cause of this ghastly look. 
 Her father's house stood at the end of 
 the avenue they had just entered ; but 
 there was another approach to it, name- 
 ly, by a bridle-road at right angles to 
 the avenue or main entrance ; and up 
 that bridle-road a gentleman was walk- 
 ing his horse, and bid fair to meet them 
 at the hall-door. 
 
 It was young Nevillej, There was no 
 mistaking bis piebald charger for any 
 other animal in that county. 
 
 Kate Peyton glanced from lover to 
 lover, and shuddered at Griffith. She 
 was familiar with petty jealousy ; she 
 had even detected it pinching or color- 
 ing many a pretty face that tried very 
 hard to hide it all the time. But that 
 was nothing to what she saw now : hith- 
 erto she had but beheld the feeling of 
 jealousy ; but now she witnessed the 
 
8 
 
 Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 livid passion of jealousy writhing in ev- 
 ery lineament of a human face. That 
 terrible passion had transfigured its vic- 
 tim in a moment : the ruddy, genial, 
 kindly Griffith, with his soft brown eye, 
 was gone ; and in his place lowered a 
 face older, and discolored, and convulsed, 
 and almost demoniacal. 
 
 Women (wiser, perhaps, in this than 
 men) take their strongest impressions 
 by the eye, not ear. Catharine, I say, 
 looked at him she had hitherto thought 
 she knew, — looked and feared him. 
 And even while she looked and Shud- 
 dered, Griffith spurred his mare sharp- 
 ly, and then drew her head across' the 
 gray gelding's path. It was an instinc- 
 tive impulse to bar the lady he loved 
 from taking another step towards the 
 place where his rival awaited her. 
 
 " I cannot bear it," he gasped. 
 " Choose you now, once for all, between 
 that puppy there and me " : and he 
 pointed with his riding-whip at his ri- 
 val, and waited with his teeth clenched 
 for her decision. 
 
 The movement was rapid, the ges- 
 ture large and commanding, and the 
 words manly : for what says the fight- 
 ing poet ? — 
 
 " He either fears his fate too much, 
 Or his deserts are small, 
 Who fears to put it to the touch, 
 To win or lose it all. " 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Miss Peyton drew herself up and 
 back by one motion, like a queen at 
 bay ; but still she eyed him with a cer- 
 tain respect, and was careful now not 
 to provoke nor pain him needlessly. 
 
 "I prefer jcoz^, — though you speak 
 harshly to me, sir,'' said she, with gen- 
 tle dignity. 
 
 " Then give me your hand, with that 
 man in sight, and end my torments ; 
 promise to marry me this very week. 
 Ah, Kate, have pity on your poor, faith- 
 ful servant, who has loved you so 
 long!" 
 
 " I do, Griffith, I do," said she, sweet- 
 ly ; " but I shall never marry now. Only 
 
 set your mind at rest about Mr. Neville 
 there. He has never asked me, for one 
 thing." 
 
 " He soon will, then." 
 
 " No, no ; I declare I will be very 
 cool to him, after what you have said to 
 me. But I cannot marry you, neither. 
 I dare not. Listen to me, and do, pray, 
 govern your temper, as I am doing mine. 
 I have often read of men with a passion 
 for jealousy, — I mean, men whose jeal- 
 ousy feeds upon air, and defies reason. 
 I know you now for such a man. Mar- 
 riage would not cure this madness ; for 
 wives do not escape admiration any 
 more than maids. Something tells me 
 you would be jealous of every fool that 
 paid me some stale compliment, jealous 
 of my female friends, and jealous of my 
 relations, and perhaps jealous of your 
 own children, and of that holy, perse- 
 cuted Church which must still have a 
 large share of tny heart. No, no ; your 
 face and your words have shown me a 
 precipice. I tremble and draw back, 
 and now I never k/z7/ marry at all : from 
 this day I give myself to the Church." 
 
 Griffith did not beheve one word of 
 all this. 
 
 " That is your answer to me," said 
 he, bitterly. " When the right man puts 
 the question (and he is not far off) you 
 will tell another tale. You take me for 
 a fool, and you mock me ; you are not 
 the lass to die an old maid : and men 
 are not the fools to let you. With faces 
 like yours, the new servant comes before 
 the old one is gone. Well, I have got 
 my answer. County Cumberland, you 
 are no place for me ! The ways and the 
 fields we two have ridden together, — 
 oh, how could I bear their sight without 
 my dear ? Why, what a poor-spirited 
 fool I am to stay and whine ! Come, 
 Mistress, your lover waits you there, 
 and your discarded servant knows good- 
 breeding : he leaves the country not to 
 spoil your sport." 
 
 Catharine panted heavily. 
 
 "Well, sir," said she, "then it is 
 your doing, not mine. Will you not 
 even shake hands with me, Griffith ? " 
 
 " I were a brute else," sighed the jeal- 
 ous one, with a sudden revulsion of feel' 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 ing. " I have spent the happiest hours 
 of my life beside you. If I loved thee 
 less, I had never left thee." 
 
 He clung a little while to her hands, 
 more like a drowning man than any- 
 thing else, then let them go, and sud- 
 denly shook his clenched fist in the 
 direction of George Neville, and cried 
 out with a savage yell, — 
 
 " My curse on him that parts us 
 twain ! And you, Kate, may God bless 
 you single, and curse you married ! and 
 that is my last word in Cumberland." 
 
 " Amen ! " said Catharine, resignedly. 
 
 And even with this they wheeled their 
 horses apart, and rode away from each 
 other : she very pale, but erect with 
 wounded pride ; he reeling in his sad- 
 dle like a drunken man. 
 
 And so Griffith Gaunt, stung mad by 
 jealousy, affronted his sweetheart, the 
 proudest girl in Cumberland, and, yield- 
 ing to his foible, fled from his pain. 
 
 Our foibles are our manias. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Miss Peyton was shocked and griev- 
 ed ; but she was also affronted and 
 wounded. Now anger seems to have 
 some fine buoyant quahty, which makes 
 it rise and come uppermost in an agi- 
 tated mind. She rode proudly into the 
 court-yard of her father's house, and 
 would not look once behind to see the. 
 last of her perverse lover. 
 
 The old groom, Joe, who had taught 
 her to ride when she was six years old, 
 saw her coming, and hobbled out to hold 
 her horse, while she alighted. 
 
 " Mistress Kate," said he, " have you 
 seen Master Griffith Gaunt anywheres ? " 
 
 The young lady colored at this ques- 
 tion. 
 
 " Why ? " said she. 
 
 "Why?" repeated Old Joe, a little 
 contemptuously. "Why, where have 
 you been not to know the country is 
 out after un ? First comed Jock Den- 
 net, with his horse all in a lather, to say , 
 old Mr. Charlton was took ill, and had 
 asked for Master Griffith. I told him 
 to go to Dogmore Copse : ' Our Kate is 
 
 a-huntirig to-day,' says I ; ' and your 
 Griffith, he is sure not to be far from 
 her gelding's tail ' ; a sticks in his spurs 
 and away a goes. What, ha'n't you seen 
 Jock, neither ? " 
 
 " No, no," replied Miss Peyton, im- 
 patiently. " What, is there anything 
 the matter?" 
 
 " The matter, quo' she ! Why, Jock 
 had n't been gone an hour when in rides 
 the new footman all in a lather, and 
 brings a letter for Master Griffith from 
 the old gentleman's housekeeper. ' You 
 leave the letter with me, in case,' says 
 I, and I sends him a-field after t' other. 
 Here be the letter." 
 
 He took off his cap and produced the 
 letter. 
 
 Catharine started at the sight of it. 
 
 "Alack ! " said she, "this 'is a heavy 
 day. Look, Joe ; sealed with black. 
 Poor Cousin Charlton ! I doubt he is 
 no more." 
 
 Joe shook his head expressively, and 
 told her the butcher had come from that 
 part not ten minutes ago, with word that 
 the blinds were all down at Bolton Hall. 
 
 Poor human nature ! A gleam of joy 
 shot through Catharine's heart ; this sad 
 news would compel Griffith to stay at 
 home and bury his benefactor ; and that 
 delay would give him time to reflect ; 
 and, somehow or other, she felt sure 
 it would end in his not going at all. 
 
 But these thoughts had no sooner 
 passed through her than she was asham- 
 ed of them and of herself What ! wel- 
 come that poor old man's death because 
 it would keep her cross-grained lover 
 at home ? Her cheeks burned with 
 shame ; and, with a superfluous exer- 
 cise of self-defence, she retired from 
 Old Joe, lest he should divine what 
 was passing in her mind. 
 
 But she was so wrapt in thought that 
 she carried the letter away with her un- 
 consciously. 
 
 As she passed through the hall, she 
 heard George Neville and her father in 
 animated conversation. She mounted 
 the stairs softly, and went into a little 
 boudoir of her own on the first floor, 
 and sat down. The house stood higli, 
 and there was a very expansive and 
 
lO 
 
 Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 beautiful view of the country from this 
 window. She sat down by it and droop- 
 ed, and looked wist^Uy through the 
 window, and thought of the past, and 
 fell into a sad reverie. Pity began to 
 soften her pride and anger, and present- 
 ly two gentle tears dimmed her glorious 
 eyes a moment, then stole down her 
 delicate cheeks. 
 
 While she sat thus lost in the past, 
 jovial voices and creaking boots broke 
 suddenly upon her ear, and came up 
 the stairs ; they jarred upon her ; so 
 she cast one last glance out of the win- 
 dow, and rose to get out of their way, if 
 possible. But it was too late ; a heavy 
 step came to the door, apd a ruddy, 
 Port-drinking face peeped in. It was 
 her father. 
 
 " See-ho ! " roared the jovial Squire. 
 " I 've found the hare on her form ; 
 bide thou outside a moment." 
 
 And he entered the room ; but he 
 had no sooner closed the door than his 
 whole manner changed from loud and 
 jovial to agitated and subdued. 
 
 " Kate, my girl," said he, piteously, 
 " I have been a bad father to thee. I 
 have spent all the money that should 
 have been thine ; thy poor father can 
 scarce look thee in the face. So now 
 I bring thee a good husband ; be a 
 good child now, and a dutiful. Neville's 
 Court is his, and Neville's Cross will 
 be, by the entail ; and so will the bar- 
 onetcy. I shall see my girl Lady Nev- 
 ille." 
 
 " Never, papa, never ! " cried Kate. 
 
 " Hush ! hush ! " said the Squire, and 
 put up his hand to her in great agitation 
 and alarm ; " hush, or he will hear ye. 
 Kate," he whispered, " are you mad ? 
 Little I thought, when he asked to see 
 me, it was to oflFer marriage. Be a good 
 girl now ; don't you quarrel with good 
 luck. You are not fit to be poor ; and 
 you have made enemies ; do but thinjc 
 how they will flout you when I die, and 
 Bill's jade of a wife puts you to the 
 door, as she will. And now you can 
 triumph over them all, my Lady Nev- 
 ille, — and make your poor father hap- 
 py, my Lady Neville. Enough said, for 
 I promised you ; so don't go and make a 
 
 fool of me, and yourself into the bar^ip. 
 And — : and — a word in your ear : he 
 hath lent me a hundred pounds." 
 
 At this chmax, the father hung his 
 he£|,d ; the daughter vsfinced and moaned 
 out, — 
 
 " Papa, how could yoTx ? " 
 
 Mr. Peyton had gradually descended 
 to that intermediate stage of degrada- 
 tion, when the substance of dignity is 
 all gone, but its shadow, shame, re- 
 mains. He stamped impatiently on the 
 ground, and cut his humilia,tion sho^:t 
 by rushing out of the room. 
 
 " Here, try your own luck, young- 
 ster," he cried at the door. " She knows 
 my mind." 
 
 He trampled down the stairs, an.d 
 young George Neville knocked respect- 
 fully at the door, though it was half 
 open, and came in with youth's light 
 foot, and a handsome face flushed into 
 beauty by love and hope. 
 
 Miss Peyton's eye just swept him as 
 he entered, and with the same move- 
 ment she turned away her fair head and 
 blushing cheek towards the window ; 
 yet — must I own it ? — she quietly 
 moxilded the letter tliat lay in her lap, 
 so that the address was no loijger vis- 
 ible to the new-comer. 
 
 ( Small secrecy, verging on deceit, you 
 are bred in woman's bones ! ) 
 
 This blushing and averted cheek is 
 one of those equivocal receptions that 
 have puzzled many a sensible man. It 
 is a sign of coy love ; it is a sign of 
 gentle aversion ; our mode of interpret- 
 ing it is simple and judicious : which- 
 ever it happens to be, we go and take 
 it for the other. 
 
 The brisk, bold wooer that now en- 
 gaged Kate Peyton was not the man to 
 be dashed by a woman's coyness. Hand- 
 some, daring, good-humored, and vain, 
 he had everything iij his favor but his 
 novelty. 
 
 Look at Kate ! her eye lingers wist- 
 fully on that disconsolate horseman 
 whose every step takes him farther 
 from her ; but George has her ear, and 
 draws closer and closer to it, and pours 
 love's mellow murmurs into it. 
 
krnjjitn LrCiunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 II 
 
 He told het he had made the grand 
 tour, atid seen the beauties of every 
 land, but none like her ; other ladies 
 had cei'tainly pleased his eye for a mo- 
 ment, but she alone had conquered his 
 heart. He said many charming things 
 to her, such as Griffith Gaunt had nev- 
 er said. Amongst the rest, he assured 
 her the beauty of her person would not 
 alone have fascinated him so deeply ; 
 but he had seen the beauty of her mihd 
 in those eyes of hers, that seemed not 
 eyes, but souls ; and begging her par- 
 don for his pi-6sumption, he aspired to 
 wed her mind. 
 
 Such ideas had often risen in Kate's 
 own mind ; but to hear them from a 
 man was new. She looked askant 
 through the window at the lessening 
 Griffith, and thought " how the grand 
 tour improves a man ! " and said, as 
 coldly as she could, — 
 
 " I esteem you, sir, and cannot but 
 be flattered by sentiments so superior 
 to those I am used to hear ; but let 
 this go no farther. I shall never marry 
 now." 
 
 Instead of being angry at this, or 
 telling her she wanted to marry some- 
 body else, as the injudicious Griffith 
 had done, young Neville had the ad- 
 dress to treat it as an excellent jest, 
 and drew such comical pictures of all 
 the old maids in the neighborhood that 
 she could not help smiling. 
 
 But the moment she smiled, the in- 
 flammable George made hot love to her 
 again. Then she besought him to leave 
 her, piteously. Then he said, cheerful- 
 ly, he would leave her as soon as ever 
 she had promised to be his. At that 
 she turned sullen and haughty, and 
 looked through the window and took 
 no notice of him whatever. Then, in- 
 stead of being discouraged or mortified; 
 he showed imperturbable confidence 
 and good-humor, and begged archly to 
 know what interesting object was in 
 sight from that window. On this she 
 blushed and withdrew her eyes from 
 the window, and so they met his. On 
 that he threw himself on his knees 
 (custohi of the day), and wOoed her with 
 such a burst of passionate and tearful 
 
 eloquence that she began to pity him, 
 and said, lifting her lovely eyes, — 
 
 " Alas ! I was born to make all those 
 I esteem unhappy ! " and she sighed 
 deeply. 
 
 " Not a bit of it," said he ; " you 
 were born, like the sun, to bless all you 
 shine upon. Sweet Mistress Kate, I 
 love you as these country boors can 
 never be taught to love. I lay my 
 heart, my name, my substance, at your 
 feet ; you shall not be loved, — you 
 shall be worshipped. Ah ! turn those 
 eyes, brimful of soul, on me again, and 
 let me try and read in them that one 
 day, no matter how distant, the delight 
 of my eyes, the joy of all my senses, 
 the pride of Cumberland, the pearl of 
 England, the flower of womankind, the 
 rival of the angels, the darling of George 
 Neville's heart, will be George Neville's 
 wife." 
 
 Fire and water were in his eyes, pas- 
 sion in every tone ; his manly hand 
 grasped hers and trembled, and drew 
 her gently towards him. 
 
 Her bosom heaved ; his passionate 
 male voice and touch electrified her, 
 and made her flutter. 
 
 " Spare me this pain," she faltered ; 
 and she looked through the window and 
 thought, " Poor Griffith was right, after 
 all, and I was wrong. He had cause 
 for jealousy, and cause for fear." 
 
 And then she pitied him who panted 
 at her side, and then she was sorry for 
 him who rode away disconsolate, still 
 lessening to her eye ; and what with 
 this conflict and the emotion her quar- 
 rel with Griffith had already caused her, 
 she leaned her head back against the 
 Shutter, and began to sob low, but al- 
 most hysterically. 
 
 Now Mr. George Neville was nei- 
 ther a fool nor a novice ; if he had nev- 
 er been downright in love before (which 
 I crave permission to doubt), he had 
 gone far enough on that road to make 
 one Italian lady, two French, one 
 Austrian, and one Creole, in love with 
 him ; and each of these love-affairs had 
 given him fresh insight into the ways 
 of woman. Enlightened by so many 
 bitter - sweet experiences, he saw at 
 
12 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy, 
 
 once that there was something more 
 going on inside Kate's heaving bosom 
 than he could have caused by offering 
 her his hand. He rose from his knees 
 and leaned against the opposite shut- 
 ter, and fixed his eyes a little sadly, 
 but very observantly, on her, as she 
 leaned back against the shutter, sobbing 
 low, but hysterically, and quivering all 
 over. 
 
 " There 's some other man at the 
 bottom of this," thought George Nev- 
 ille. 
 
 " Mistress Kate," said he, gently, " I 
 do not come here to make you weep. I 
 love you like a gentleman. If you love 
 another, take courage, tell me so, and 
 don't let your father constrain your in- 
 clinations. Dearly as I love you, I 
 would not wed your person, and your 
 heart another's : that would be too cru- 
 el to you, and " (drawing himself up 
 with sudden majesty) " too unjust to 
 myself." 
 
 Kate looked up at him through her 
 tears, and admired this man, who could 
 love ardently, yet be proud and just. 
 And if this appeal to her candor had 
 been made yesterday, she would have 
 said, frankly, " There is one I — es- 
 teem." But, since the quarrel, she 
 would not own to herself, far less to 
 another, that she loved a man who had 
 turned his back upon her. So she par- 
 ried. 
 
 " There is no one I love enough to 
 wed," said she. " I am a cold-hearted 
 girl, born to give pain to my betters. 
 But I shall do something desperate to 
 end all this." 
 
 " All what ? " said he, keenly. 
 
 " The whole thing : my unprofitable 
 life." 
 
 " Mistress Kate," said Neville, " I 
 asked you, was there another man. If 
 you had answered me, ' In truth there 
 is, but he is poor and my father is averse 
 or the like,' then I would have secret- 
 ly sought that man, and, as I am very 
 rich, you should have been happy." 
 
 '' O, Mr. Neville, that is very gener- 
 ous, but how meanly you must think 
 of me ! " 
 
 " And what a bungler you must think 
 
 me 1 I tell you, you should never have 
 known. But let that pass ; you have 
 answered my question ; and you say 
 there is no man you love. Then I say 
 you shall be Dame Neville." 
 
 " What, whether I will or no ? " 
 
 " Yes ; whether you think you will or 
 no." 
 
 Catharine turned her dreamy eyes on 
 him. 
 
 " You have had a good master. Why 
 did you not come to me sooner ? " 
 
 She was thinking more of him than 
 of herself, and, in fact, paying too little 
 heed to her words. But she had no 
 sooner uttered this inadvertent speech 
 than she felt she had said too much. 
 She blushed rosy red, and hid her face 
 in her hands in the most charming con- 
 fusion. 
 
 " Sweetest, it is not an hour too late, 
 as you do not love another," was stout 
 George Neville's reply. 
 
 But nevertheless the cunning rogue 
 thought it safest to temporize, .and put 
 his coy mistress off her guard. So he 
 ceased to alarm her by pressing the 
 question of marriage, but seduced her 
 into a charming talk, where the topics 
 were not so personal, and only the tones 
 of his voice and the glances of his ex- 
 pressive eyes were caressing. He was 
 on his mettle to please her by hook or 
 by crook, and was dehghtful, irresistible. 
 He set her at ease, and she began to 
 listen more, and even to smile faintly, 
 and to look through the window a little 
 less perseveringly. 
 
 Suddenly the spell was broken for a 
 while. 
 
 And by whom ? 
 
 By the other. 
 
 Ay, you may well stare. It sounds 
 strange, but it is true, that the poor for- 
 lorn horseman, hanging like a broken 
 man, as he was, over his tired horse, 
 and wending his solitary way from her 
 he loved, and resigning the field, like a 
 goose, to the very rival he feared, did 
 yet (like the retiring Parthian) shoot 
 an arrow right into that pretty boudoir 
 and hit both his sweetheart and his ri- 
 val, — hit them hard enough to spoil 
 their sport, and make a little mischief 
 
Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 13 
 
 between them — for that afternoon, at 
 all events. 
 
 The arrow came into the room after 
 this fashion. 
 
 Kate was sitting in a very feminine 
 attitude. When a man wants to look 
 in any direction, he turns his body and 
 his eye the same way, and does it ; but 
 women love to cast oblique regards ; 
 and this their instinct is a fruitful source 
 of their graceful and characteristic pos- 
 tures. 
 
 Kate Peyton was at this moment a 
 statue of her sex. Her fair head lean- 
 ed gently back against the corner of the 
 window-shutter ; her pretty feet and fair 
 person in general were opposite George 
 Neville, who sat facing the window, but 
 in the middle of the room ; her arms, 
 half pendent, half extended, went list- 
 lessly aslant her, and somewhat to the 
 right of her' knees, yet, by an exquisite 
 turn of the neck, her gray eyes contriv- 
 ed to be looking dreamily out of the 
 window to her left. Still in this figure, 
 that pointed one way and looked an- 
 other, there was no distortion ; all was 
 easy, and full of that subtile grace we 
 artists call repose. 
 
 But suddenly she dissolved this fem- 
 inine attitude, rose to her feet, and in- 
 terrupted her wooer civilly. 
 
 " Excuse me," said she, " but can you 
 tell me which way that road on the hill 
 leads to ? " 
 
 Her companion stared a little at so 
 sudden a turn in the conversation, but 
 replied by asking her, with perfect 
 good-humor, what road she meant. 
 
 " The one that gentleman on horse- 
 back has just taken. Surely," she con- 
 tinued, "that road dpes not take to 
 Bolton Hall." 
 
 " Certainly not," said George, follow- 
 ing the direction of her finger. " Bol- 
 ton lies to the right. That road takes 
 to the sea-coast by Otterburyand Stan- 
 hope." 
 
 "I thought so," said Kate. "How 
 unfortunate ! He cannot know ; but, 
 indeed, how should he ? " 
 
 " Who cannot know ? and what ? 
 You speak in riddles. Mistress. And 
 how pale you are ! Are you ill ? " 
 
 " No, not ill, sir," faltered Kate ; 
 "but you see me much discomposed. 
 My cousin Charlton died this day ; and 
 the news met me at the very door." 
 She could say no more. 
 
 Mr. Neville, on hearing this news, 
 began to make inany excuses for having 
 inadvertently intruded himself upon her 
 on such a day ; but, in the midst of his 
 apologies, she suddenly looked him full 
 in the face, and said, with nervous ab- 
 ruptness, — 
 
 " You talk like a preux chevalier. I 
 wonder whether you would ride five or 
 six miles to do me a service." 
 
 " Ay, a thousand ! " said the young 
 man, glowing with pleasure. " What is 
 to do ? " 
 
 Kate pointed through the window. 
 
 "You see that gentleman on horse- 
 back. Well, I happen to know that he 
 is leaving the country ; he thinks that 
 he — that I — that Mr. Charlton has 
 many years to live. He must be told 
 Mr. Charlton is dead, and his presence 
 is required at Bolton Hall. I should 
 like somebody to gallop after him, and 
 give him this letter ; but my own horse 
 is tired, and I am tired ; and, to be 
 frank, there is a little coolness between 
 the gentleman himself and me. O, I 
 wish him no ill, but really I am not up- 
 on terms — I do not feel complaisant 
 enough to carry a letter after him ; yet 
 I do feel that he must have it. Do not 
 you think it would be malicious and un- 
 worthy in me to keep the news from 
 him, when I know it is so ? " 
 
 Young Neville smiled. 
 
 " Nay, Mistress, why so many words ? 
 Give me your letter, and I will soon 
 overtake the gentleman ; he seems in 
 no great hurry." 
 
 Kate thanked him, and made a polite 
 apology for giving him so much trouble, 
 and handed him the letter. When it 
 came to that, she held it out to him 
 rather irresolutely ; but he took it 
 promptly, and bowed low, after the 
 fashion of the day. She curtsied ; he 
 marched off with alacrity. She sat 
 down again, and put her head in her 
 hand to think it all over, and a chill 
 thought ran through her. Was her 
 
H 
 
 Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealomy. 
 
 conduct wise? What would Griffith 
 think at her employing his rival ? 
 Would he not infer Neville had entered 
 her service in more senses than one ? 
 Perhaps he would throw the letter in 
 the dirt in a rage, and never read it. 
 
 Steps came rapidly, the door opened, 
 and there was George Neville again, 
 but not the same George Neville that 
 went out but thirty seconds before. He 
 stood in the door looking very black, 
 and with a sardonic smile on his lips. 
 
 " An excellent jest, Mistress ! " said 
 he, ironically. 
 
 " Why, what is the matter ? " said 
 the lady, stoutly ; but her red cheeks 
 belied her assumption of innocence. 
 
 " O, not much," said George, with 
 a bitter sneer. " It is an old story ; 
 only I thought you were nobler than 
 the rest of your sex. This letter is to 
 Mr. Griffith Gaunt." 
 
 " Well, sir ! " said Kate with a face 
 of serene and candid innocence. 
 
 " And Mr. Griffith Gaunt is a suitor 
 of yours." 
 
 " Say, was. He is so no longer. He 
 and I are out. But for that, think you 
 I had even listened to — what you have 
 been saying to me this ever so lojig .' " 
 
 " O, that alters the case," said 
 George. " But stay ! " and he knitted 
 his brows and reflected. 
 
 Up to a moment ago, the loftiness of 
 Catharine Peyton's demeanor, and the 
 celestial something in her soul - like, 
 dreamy eyes, had convinced him she 
 was a creature free from the small disT 
 honesty and lubricity he had noted in 
 so many women otherwise amiable and 
 good. But this business of the letter 
 had shaken the illusion. 
 
 " Stay ! " said he, stiffly. " You say 
 Mr. Gaunt and you are out ? " 
 
 Catharine assented by a movement 
 of her fair head. 
 
 "And he is leaving the country. 
 Perhaps this letter is to keep him from 
 leaving the country." 
 
 " Only until he has buried his bene- 
 factor," murmured Kate, in deprecating 
 accents. 
 
 George wore a bitter sneer at this. 
 
 " Mistress Kate," said he, after a 
 
 significant pause, " do you read Mo- 
 li&re ? " 
 
 She bridled a little, and would not 
 reply. She knew Molifere quite well 
 enough not to want his wit levelled at 
 her head. 
 
 "Do you admire the character of 
 Cdlim^ne ? " 
 
 No reply. 
 
 " You do pot. How can you ? She 
 was too much your inferior. She never 
 sent one of her lovers with a letter to 
 the other to stop his flight. Well, you 
 may eclipse Cdlimtee ; but permit me 
 to remind you that I am George Neville, 
 and not Georges Dandin." 
 
 Miss Peyton rose from her seat with 
 eyes that literally flashed fire ; and — 
 the horrible truth must be told — her 
 first wild impulse was to reply to all 
 this Molifere with one cut of her little 
 riding-whip. But she had a swift mind, 
 and two reflections entered it together : 
 first, that thi? would be unlike a gentie- 
 woman ; secondly, that, if she whipped" 
 Mr. Neville, however inefficaciously, he 
 would not lend her his piebald horse. 
 So she took stronger measures ; she 
 just sank down again, and faltered, — 
 
 " I do not understand these bitter 
 words. I have no lover at all ; I never 
 will have one again. But it is hard to 
 think I cannot make a friend nor keep 
 a friend," — and so lifted up her hands, 
 and began to cry piteously. 
 
 Then the stout George was taken 
 aback, and made to think himself a 
 ruffian. 
 
 " Nay, do not weep so. Mistress 
 Kate," said he, hurriedly. " Come, take 
 courage. I am not jealous of Mr. Gaunt, 
 ^ a man that bath been two years dan- 
 gling after you, and could not win you. 
 I look but to my own self-respect in the 
 matter. I know your sex better than 
 you know yourselves. Were I to carry 
 that letter, you would thank me now, 
 but by and by despise me. Now, as I 
 mean you to be my wife, I will not risk 
 your contempt. Why not take my 
 horse, put whom you like on him, and 
 so convey the letter to Mr. Gaunt .' " 
 
 Now this was all the fair mournef 
 wanted ; so she said, — 
 
Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 15 
 
 " No, no, she would not be beholden 
 to him for anything ; he had spoken 
 harshly to her, and misjudged her cru- 
 elly, cruelly, — oh ! oh ! oh ! " 
 
 Then he implored her to grant him 
 this small favor ; then she cleared up, 
 and said. Well, sooner than bear mal- 
 ice, she would. He thanked her for 
 granting him that favor. She went off 
 with the letter, saying, — 
 
 " I will be back anon." 
 
 But once she got clear, she opened 
 the door again, and peeped in at him 
 gayly, and said she, — 
 
 " Why not ask me who wrote the let- 
 ter, before you compared me to that 
 French coquette ? " — and, with this, 
 made him an arch curtsy and triipped 
 away. 
 
 Mr. George Neville opened his eyes 
 with astonishment. This arch ques- 
 tion, and Kate's manner of putting it, 
 convinced him the obnoxious missive 
 was not a love-letter at all. He was 
 sorry now, and vexed with himself, for 
 having called her a coquette, and made 
 her cry. After all, what was the mighty 
 favor she had asked of him ? To carry 
 a sealed letter from somebody or other 
 to a person who, to be sure, had been 
 her lover, but was so no longer, — a 
 simple act of charity and civility ; and 
 he had refused it in injurious terms. 
 
 He was glad he had lent his horse, 
 and almost sorry he had not taken the 
 letter himself 
 
 To these chivalrous self-reproaches 
 succeeded an uneasy feeling that per- 
 haps the lady might retaliate somehow. 
 It struck him, on reflection, that the 
 arch query she had let fly at him was 
 accompanied with a certain sparkle of 
 the laughing eye, such as ere now had, 
 in his experience, preceded a stroke of 
 the feminine claw. 
 
 As he walked up and down, uneasy, 
 awaiting the fair one's return, her father 
 came up, and asked him to dine and 
 sleep. What made the invitation more 
 welcome was, that it in reality came 
 from Kate. 
 
 " She tells me she has borrowed your 
 horse," said the Squire ; "so, says she, 
 I am bound to take care of you till day- 
 
 light ; and,' indeed, our ways are peril- 
 ous at night." 
 
 " She is an angel ! " cried the lover, 
 all his ardor revived by this unexpected 
 trait. " My horse, my house, my hand, 
 and my heart are all at her service, by 
 night and day." 
 
 Mr. Peyton, to wile away the time 
 before dinner, invited him to walk out 
 and see — a hog, deadly fat, as times 
 went. But Neville denied himself that 
 satisfaction, on the plea that he had his 
 orders to await Miss Peyton's return 
 where he was. The Squire was amused 
 at his excessive docility, and winked, 
 as much as to say, " I have been once 
 upon a time in your plight," and so 
 went and gloried in his hog alone. 
 
 The lover fell into a delicious reverie. 
 He enjoyed, by anticipation, the novel 
 pleasure of an evening passed all alone 
 with this charming girl. The father, 
 being friendly to his suit, would go to 
 sleep after dinner; and then, by the 
 subdued light of a wood fire, he would 
 murmur his love into that sweet ear 
 for hours, until the averted head should 
 come round by degrees, and the deli- 
 cious lips yield a coy assent. He re- 
 solved the night should not close till 
 he had surprised, overpowered, and se- 
 cured his lovely brides 
 
 These soft meditations reconciled 
 him for a while to the prolonged ab- 
 sence of their object. 
 
 In the midst of them, he happened 
 to glance through the window ; and he 
 saw a sight th'at took his very breath 
 away, and rooted him in amazement to 
 the spot. About a mile from the house, 
 a lady in a scarlet habit was galloping 
 across country as the crow flies. Hedge, 
 ditch, or brook, nothing stopped her an 
 instant ; and as for the pace, — 
 
 " She seemed in running to devour the way." 
 
 It was Kate Peyton on his piebald 
 horse- 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Griffith Gaunt, unknown to him- 
 self, had lost temper as well as heart 
 before he took the desperate step of 
 
i6 
 
 Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy: 
 
 leaving the country. Now his temper' 
 was naturally good ; and ere he had 
 ridden two miles, he recovered it. To 
 his cost ; for the sustaining force of an- 
 ger being gone, he was alone with his 
 grief. He drew the rein half mechani- 
 cally, and from a spirited canter declined 
 to a walk. 
 
 And the slower he went, the chillier 
 grew his heart, till it lay half ice, half 
 lead, in his bosom. 
 
 Parted ! oh, word pregnant with mis- 
 ery ! 
 
 Never to see those heavenly eyes 
 again, nor hear that silver voice ! Nev- 
 er again to watch that peerless form 
 walk the minuet ; nor see it lift the 
 gray horse over a fence with the grace 
 and spirit that seemed inseparable from 
 it! 
 
 Desolation streamed over him at the 
 thought. And next his forlorn mind 
 began to cling even to the inanimate 
 objects that were dotted about the place 
 which held her. He passed a little 
 farm-house into which Kate and he 
 had once been driven by a storm, and 
 had sat together by the kitchen fire ; 
 and the farmer's wife had smiled on 
 them for sweethearts, and made them 
 drink- rum and milk and stay till the 
 sun was fairly out. 
 
 "Ah ! good by, little farm ! " he sighed ; 
 " when shall I ever see you again ? " 
 
 He passed a brook where they had 
 often stopped together and given their 
 panting horses just a mouthful after a 
 run with the harriers. 
 
 " Good by, little brook I " said he ; 
 " you will ripple on as before, and war- 
 ble as you go ; but I shall never drink 
 at your water more, nor hear your pleas- 
 ant murmur with her I love." 
 
 He sighed and crept away, still mak- 
 ing for the sea. 
 
 In the icy depression of his heart 
 his body and his senses were half para- 
 lyzed, and none would have known the 
 accomplished huntsman in this broken 
 man, who hung anyhow over his mare's 
 Deck and went to and fro in the sad- 
 dle. 
 
 When he had gone about five miles, 
 he came to the crest of a hill ; he re- 
 
 membered, that, once past that brow, 
 he could see Peyton Hall no more. He 
 turned slowly and cast a sorrowful look 
 at it. 
 
 It was winter, but the afternoon sun 
 had come out bright. The horizontal 
 beams struck full upon the house, and 
 all the western panes shone like bur- 
 nished gold. Her very abode, how glo- 
 rious it looked ! And he was to see it 
 no more. 
 
 He gazed and gazed at the bright 
 house till love and sorrow dimmed his 
 eyes, and he could see the beloved place 
 no more. Then his dogged will pre- 
 vailed and carried him away towards 
 the sea, but crying like a woman now, 
 and hanging all dislocated over his 
 horse's mane. 
 
 Now about half a mile farther on, as 
 he crept along on a vile and narrow 
 road, all woebegone and broken, he heard 
 a mighty scurry of horse's feet in the 
 field to his left ; he looked languidly 
 up ; and the first thing he saw was a 
 great piebald horse's head and neck in 
 the act of rising in the .air, and doub- 
 ling his fore-legs under him, to leap the 
 low hedge a yard or two in front of 
 him. 
 
 He did leap, and landed just in front 
 of Griffith ; his rider curbed him so 
 keenly that he went back almost on his 
 haunches, and then stood motionless 
 all across the road, with quivering tail. 
 A lady in a scarlet riding-habit and 
 purple cap sat him as if he had been a 
 throne instead of a horse, and, without 
 moving her body, turned her head swift 
 as a snake, and fixed her great gray 
 eyes full and searching upon Griffith 
 Gaunt. 
 
 He uttered a little shout of joy 
 and amazement ; his mare reared and 
 plunged, and then was quiet. And thus 
 Kate Peyton and he met, — at right an- 
 gles., — and so close that it looked as if 
 she had meant to ride him down. 
 
 How he stared at her ! How more 
 than mortal fair she shone, returning to 
 those'bereaved eyes of his, as if she 
 had really dropt from heaven ! 
 
 His clasped hands, his haggard face 
 channelled by tears, showed the keen 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 17 
 
 girl she was strong where she had 
 thought herself weak, and she com- 
 ported herself accordingly, and in one 
 moment took a much higher tone 
 than she had intended as she came 
 along. 
 
 " I am afraid," said she, very coldly, 
 " you will have to postpone your journey 
 a day or two. I am grieved to tell you 
 that poor Mr. Charlton is dead." 
 
 Griffith uttered an exclamation. 
 
 " He asked for you ; and messengers 
 are out after you on every side. You 
 must go to Bolton at once." 
 
 " Well-a-day ! " said Griffith, " has he 
 left me, too ? Good, kind old man, on 
 any other day I had found tears for 
 thee ! But now, methinks, happy are 
 the dead. Alas ! sweet mistress, I 
 hoped you came to tell me you had — I 
 might — what signifies what I hoped ? — 
 when I saw you had deigned to ride af- 
 ter me. Why should I go to Bolton, 
 after all .? " 
 
 " Because you will be an ungrateful 
 wretch else. What ! leave others to car- 
 ry your kinsman and your benefactor 
 to his grave, while you turn your back 
 on him, and inherit his estate ? For 
 shame, sir ! for shame ! " 
 
 Griffith expostulated, humbly. 
 
 " How hardly you judge me ! What 
 are Bolton Hall and Park to me now ? 
 They were to have been yours, you 
 know. And yours they shall be. I 
 came between and robbed you. To be 
 sure, the old man knew my mind. He 
 said to himself, — ' Griffith or Kate, what 
 matters it who has the land? They 
 w.ill live together on it' But all that is 
 changed now; you will never share it 
 with me ; and so I do feel I have no 
 right to the place. Kate, my own Kate, 
 I have heard them sneer at you for be- 
 ing poor, and it made my heart ache. 
 I '11 stop that, any way. Go you in 
 my place to the funeral ; he that is dead 
 will forgive me ; his spirit knows now 
 what I endure ; and I '11 send you a 
 writing, aU Sealed and signed,^ shall 
 make Bolton Hall and Park yours ; 
 and when you are happy with some 
 one you can love, as well as I love you, 
 think sometimes of poor jealous Grif- 
 
 2 
 
 'fith, that loved you dear and grudged 
 you nothing ; but," grinding his teeth 
 and turning white, " I can^t live in Cum- 
 berland, and see you in another man's 
 arms." 
 
 Then Catharine trembled, and could 
 not speak awhile ; but at last she fal- 
 tered out, — 
 
 " You will make me hate you." 
 
 " God forbid ! " said simple Griffith. 
 
 " Well, then, don't thwart me, and 
 provoke me so, but just turn your horse's 
 head and go quietly home to Bolton 
 Hall, and do your duty to the dead and 
 the living. You can't go this way, for 
 me and my horse." Then, seeing him 
 waver, this virago faltered out, " And I 
 have been so tried to - day, first by 
 one, then by another, surely joz^ might 
 have some pity on me. Oh ! oh ! oh ! 
 oh ! " 
 
 "Nay, nay," cried Griffith, all in a 
 flutter, " I '11 go without more words ; 
 as I am a gentleman, I will sleep at 
 Bolton this night, and will do my duty 
 to the dead and the living. Don't you 
 cry, sweetest ; I give in. I find I have 
 no will but yours." 
 
 The next moment they were canter- 
 ing side by side, and never drew rein 
 till they reached the cross-roads. 
 
 " Now tell me one thing,!' stammered 
 Griffith, with a most ghastly attempt at 
 cheerful indifference. " How — do you 
 -T- happen to be — on George Neville's 
 horse ? " 
 
 Kate had been expecting this ques- 
 tion for some time ; yet she colored 
 high when it did come. However, she 
 had her answer pat. The horse was 
 in the stable-yard, and fresh ; her own 
 was tired. 
 
 "What was I to do, Griffith? And 
 now," added she, hastily, " the sun will 
 soon set, and the roads are bad ; be 
 careful. I wish I could ask you to 
 sleep at our house ; but — there are' 
 reasons " 
 
 She hesitated ; she could not well 
 tell him George Neville was to dine 
 and sleep there. 
 
 . Griffith assured her there was no 
 danger ; his mare knew every foot of 
 the way. 
 
i8 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy, 
 
 They parted : GriiEth,rode to Bolton, 
 and Kate rode home. 
 
 It was past dinner-time. She ran up 
 stairs, and hurried on her best gown 
 and her diamond comb. For she be- 
 gan to quake now at the prank she had 
 played with her guest's horse ; and Na- 
 ture taught her that the best way to soft- 
 en censure is — to be beautiful. 
 
 " On pardonne tout aux belles." 
 
 And certainly she was passing fair, and 
 queenly with her diamond comb. 
 
 She came down stairs and was re- 
 ceived by her father. He grumbled at 
 being kept waiting for dinner. 
 
 Kate easily appeased the good-na- 
 tured Squire, and then asked what had 
 become of Mr. Neville. 
 
 " O, he is gone long ago ! Remein- 
 bered, all of a suidden, he had promised 
 to dine with a neighbor." 
 
 Kate shook her head sceptically, but 
 said nothing. But a good minute after, 
 she inquired, — 
 
 " How did he go ? on foot ? " 
 
 The Squire did not know. 
 
 After dinner old Joe sought an inter- 
 view, and was admitted into the dining- 
 room. 
 
 " Be it all right about the gray horse, 
 Master ? " 
 
 « What of him ? " asked Kate. 
 
 " He be gone to Neville Court, Mis- 
 tress. But I suppose " (with a horrid 
 leer) "it is all right. Muster Neville 
 told me all about it. He said, says 
 he, — 
 
 " ' Some do break a kine or the likes 
 on these here j'yful occasions ; other 
 some do exchange goold rings. Your 
 young mistress and me, we exchange 
 nags. She takes my pieball, I take her 
 gray,' says he. ' Saddle him for me> 
 Joe,' says he, ' and wish me j'y.' 
 
 " So I clapped Muster Neville's sad- 
 dle on the gray, and a gave me a goold- 
 en guinea, a did ; and I was so struck 
 of a heap I let un go without wishing 
 on him j'y ; but I hollered it arter un, 
 as hard as I could. How you looks ! 
 It be all right, bain't it ? " 
 
 Squire Peyton laughed heartily, and 
 said he concluded it was all right. 
 
 " The piebald," said he, " is. rising five, 
 and Pve had the gray ten years. We 
 have got the sunny side of that bargain, 
 Joe." 
 
 He gave Joe a glass of wine and sent 
 him off, inflated with having done a good 
 stroke in horseflesh. 
 
 As for Kate, she was red as fire, and 
 kept her lips close as wax ; not a word 
 could be got out of her. The less she 
 said, the more she thought. She was 
 thoroughly vexed, and sore perplexed 
 how to get her gray horse back from 
 such a man as George Neville ; and 
 yet she could not help laughing at the 
 trick, and secretly admiring this cheva- 
 lier, who had kept his mortification to 
 himself, and parried an affront so gal; 
 lantly. 
 
 " The good-humored wretch ! " said 
 she to herself " If Griffith ever goes 
 away again, he will have me, whether I 
 like or no. No lady could resist the 
 monster long without some other man 
 close at hand to help her." 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 As, when a camel drops in the des- 
 ert, vultures, hitherto unseen, come fly- 
 ing from the horizon, so Mr. Charlton 
 had no sooner succumbed than the air 
 darkened with undertakers flocking to 
 Bolton for a lugubrious job. They rode 
 up on black steeds, they crunched the 
 gravel in grave gigs, and sent in black- 
 edged cards to Griffith, and lowered 
 their voices, and bridled their, brisk- 
 ness, and tried hard, poor souls ! to be 
 sad ; and were horribly complacent be^ 
 neath that thin japan of venal sympa- 
 thy. 
 
 Griffith selected his Raven, and 
 then sat down to issue numerous in- 
 vitations. 
 
 The idea of eschewing funereal pomp 
 had not yet arisen. A gentleman of that 
 day liked his very remains to make a 
 stir, and did not see the fun of stealing 
 into his grave like a rabbit slipping 
 aground. Mr. Charlton had even left 
 behind him a sealed letter containing a 
 list of the persons he wished to follow 
 
Griffith GduM ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 19 
 
 him to the grave and attend the read- 
 ing of his wili. These were thirty-four, 
 and amongst them three Icnbwn to fame : 
 namely, George Neville, Esq., Edward 
 Peyton, Esq., and Miss Catharine Pey- 
 ton. 
 
 To all and each of the thirty -four 
 young Gaunt wrote a formal letter, in- 
 viting them to pay respect to their de- 
 ceased friend, and to honor himself, by 
 coming to Bolton Hall at nigh noon on 
 Saturday next. These letters, in com- 
 pliance with another custom of the time 
 and place, were all sent by mounted 
 messengers, and the answers came on 
 horseback, too ; so there was much clat- 
 tering of hoofs coming and going, and 
 much roasting, baking, drinking of ale, 
 and bustling, all along of him who lay 
 so still in an upper chamber. 
 
 And every man and woman came to 
 Mr. Gaunt to ask his will and advice, 
 however simple the matter ; and the 
 servants turned very obsequious, and 
 laid themselves out to please the new 
 master,' and retain their old places. 
 
 And, what with the sense of authori- 
 ty, and the occupation, and growing am- 
 bition, love-sick Griffith grew another 
 man, and began to forget that two days 
 ago he was leaving the country and 
 going to give up the whole game. 
 
 He found time to seiid Kate a loving 
 letter, but no talk of marriage in it He 
 remembered she had asked him to give 
 her time. Well, he would take her ad- 
 vice. 
 
 It wanted just three days to the funer- 
 al, when Mr. Charlton's own carriage, 
 long unused, was found to be out of 
 repair. Griffith had it sent to the near- 
 est town, and followed it on that and 
 other business. Now it happened to 
 be what the country folk called "jus- 
 ticing day " ; and who should ride into 
 the yard of the " Roebuck " but the new 
 magistrate, Mr. Neville ? He alighted 
 off a great bony gray horse before Grif- 
 fith's very nose, and sauntered into a 
 private room. 
 
 Griffith looked, and looked, and, 
 scarcely able to believe his senses, fol- 
 lowed Neville's horse to the stable, and 
 examined him all round. 
 
 Griffith was sore perplexed, and stood 
 at the stable-door glaring at the horse ; 
 and sick misgivings troubled him. He 
 forgot the business he came about, and 
 went and hung about the bar, and tried 
 to pick up a clew to this mystery. The 
 poor wretch put on a miserable assump- 
 tion of indifference, and asked one or 
 two of the magistrates if that was not 
 Mr. Peyton's gray horse young Neville 
 had ridden in upon. 
 
 Now amongst these gentlemen was a 
 young squire Miss Peyton had refused, 
 and galled him. He had long owed 
 Gaunt a grudge for seeming to succeed 
 where he had notably failed, and now, 
 hearing him talk so much about the 
 gray, he smelt a rat He stepped into 
 the parlor and told Neville Gaunt was 
 fuming about the gray horse, and ques- 
 tioning everybody. Neville, though he 
 put so bold a face on his recent adven- 
 ture at Peyton Hall, was siecretly smart- 
 ing, and quite disposed to sting Gaunt 
 in return. He saw a t6ol in this treach- 
 erous young squire, — his. name was 
 Galton, — and used him accbrdingly. 
 
 Gallon, thoroughly primed by Nev- 
 ille, slipped back, and choosing his op- 
 portunity, poisoned Griffith Gaunt. 
 
 And this is how he poisoned him. 
 
 " Oh," said he, " Neville has bought 
 the gray nag ; and cost him dear, it 
 did." 
 
 Griffith gave a sigh of relief ; for he 
 at once concluded old Peyton had sold 
 his daughter's very horse. He resolved 
 to buy her a better one next week with 
 Mr. Charlton's money. 
 
 But Galton, who was only playing 
 with him, went on to explain that Nev- 
 ille had paid a double price for the nag : 
 he had given Miss Peyton his piebald 
 horse in exchange, ahd his troth into 
 the bargain. In shoirt, he lent the mat- 
 ter so adroit a turn, that the exchange 
 of horses seemed to be Kate's act as 
 much as Neville's, and the inference in- 
 evitable. 
 
 " It is a falsehood ! " gasped Grif- 
 fith. 
 
 " Nay," said Galton, " I had it on the 
 best authority : but you shall not quar- 
 rel with me about it ; the lady is nought 
 
20 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 to me, and I but tell the tale as 't was 
 told to me." 
 
 " Then who told it you ? " said Gaunt, 
 sternly. 
 
 " Why, it is all over the country, for 
 that matter." 
 
 " No subterfuges, sir ! I am the lady's 
 servant, and you know it ; this report, 
 it slanders her, and insults me : give 
 me the author, or I '11 lay my hunting- 
 whip on your bones." 
 
 " Two can play at that game," said 
 Gallon ; but he turned pale at the pros- 
 pect of the pastime. 
 
 Griffith strode towards him, black 
 with ire. 
 
 Then Galton stammered out, — 
 
 " It was Neville himself told me." 
 
 " Ah ! " said Griffith ; « I thought so. 
 He is a har, and a coward." 
 
 " I would not advise you to tell him 
 so," said the other, maliciously. " He 
 has killed his man in France : spitted 
 him like a lark." 
 
 Griffith replied by a smile of con- 
 tempt. 
 
 " Where is the man ? " said he, after 
 a pause. 
 
 " How should I know ? " asked Gal- 
 ton, innocently. 
 
 " Where did you leave him five min- 
 utes ago ? " 
 
 Galton was dumfoundered at this 
 stroke, and could find nothing to say. 
 
 And now, as often happens, the mat- 
 ter took a turn not in the least antici- 
 pated by the conspirators. 
 
 " You must come with me, sir, if you 
 please," said Griffith, quietly : and he 
 took Galton's arm. 
 
 " Oh, with all my heart," said the 
 other. "But, Mr. Gaunt, do not you 
 take these idle reports to heart: /never 
 do. What the Devil, where are you car- 
 rying me to ? For Heaven's sake, let 
 this foohsh business go no farther." 
 
 For he found Griffith was taking 
 him to the very room where Neville 
 was. 
 
 Griffith deigned no reply ; he just 
 opened the door of the room in ques- 
 tion, and walked the tale-bearer into 
 the presence of the tale-maker. George 
 Neville rose and confronted the pair 
 
 with a vast appearance of civility ; but 
 under it a sneer was just discernible. 
 
 The rivals measured each other from 
 head to foot, and then Neville inquired 
 to what he owed the honor of this visit. 
 
 Griffith replied, — 
 
 " He tells me you told him Miss Pey- 
 ton has exchanged horses with you." 
 
 " Oh, you indiscreet person ! " said 
 George, shaking his finger playfully at 
 Galton. 
 
 " And, by the same token, has plight- 
 ed her troth to you." 
 
 "Worse and worse," said George. 
 " Galton, I '11 never trust you with any 
 secrets again. Besides, you exaggerate." 
 
 " Come, sir," said Griffith, sternly, 
 "this Ned Galton was but your tool, 
 and your moutli-piece ; and therefore I 
 bring him in here to witness my reply 
 to you : Mr. George Neville, you are a 
 liar and a scoundrel." 
 
 George Neville bounded to his feet 
 like a tiger. 
 
 " I '11 have your life for those two 
 words," he cried. 
 
 Then he suddenly governed himself 
 by a great effort. 
 
 " It is not for me to bandy foul terms 
 with a Cumberland savage," said he. 
 " Name your time and place." 
 
 " I will. Ned Galton, you may go. 
 I wish to say a few words in private to 
 Mr. Neville." 
 
 Galton hesitated. 
 
 " No violence. Gentlemen : consider." 
 
 " Nonsense ! " said Neville. " Mr. 
 Gaunt and I are going to fight : we are 
 not going to brawl. Be so good as to 
 leave us." 
 
 " Ay," said Griffith ; " and if you re- 
 peat a word of all this, woe be to your 
 skin ! " 
 
 As soon as he was gone, Griffith 
 Gaunt turned very grave and calm, and 
 said to George Neville, — 
 
 " The Cumberland savage has been 
 better taught than to expose the lady he 
 loves to gossiping tongues." 
 
 Neville colored up to the eyes at this 
 thrust. 
 
 Griffith continued, — 
 
 " The least you can do is to avoid 
 fresh scandal." 
 
Griffith, Gaunt ; or, Jealousy, 
 
 21 
 
 *' I shall be happy to co-operate with 
 you so far," said Neville, stiffly. " I 
 undertake to keep Galton silent ; and 
 for the rest, we have only to name an 
 early hour for meeting, and confide it 
 to but one discreet friend apiece who 
 will attend us to the field. Then there 
 will be no gossip, and no bumpkins nor 
 constables breaking in : such things 
 have happened in this country, I hear.'' 
 
 It was Wednesday. They settled to 
 meet on Friday at noon on a hillside 
 between Bolton and Neville's Court. 
 The spot was exposed, but so wild 
 and unfrequented that no interruption 
 was to be feared. Mr. Neville being 
 a practised swordsman. Gaunt chose 
 pistols, — a weapon at which the com- 
 batants were supposed to be pretty 
 equal. To this Neville very hand- 
 somely consented. 
 
 By this time a stiff and elaborate ci- 
 vility had taken the place of their heat, 
 and at parting they bowed both long and 
 low to each other. 
 
 Grifiith left the inn and went into the 
 street ; and as soon as he got there, 
 he began to realize what he had done, 
 and that in a day or two he might very 
 probably be a dead man. The first 
 thing he did was to go with sorrowful 
 face and heavy step to Mr. Houseman's 
 office. 
 
 Mr. Houseman was a highly respect- 
 able solicitor. His late father and he 
 had long enjoyed the confidence of the 
 gentry, and this enabled him to avoid 
 litigious business, and confine himself 
 pretty much to the more agreeable and 
 lucrative occupation of drawing wills, 
 settlements, and conveyances, and ef- 
 fecting loans, sales, and transfers. He 
 visited the landed proprietors, and dined 
 with them, and was a great favorite in 
 the country. 
 
 "Justicing day" brought him many 
 visits : so on that day he was always at 
 his place of business. Indeed, a client 
 was with him when Griffith called, and 
 the young gentleman had to wait in the 
 outer office for full ten minutes. 
 
 Then a door opened and the client in 
 question came out, looking mortified 
 and anxious. It was Squire Peyton. 
 
 At sight of Gaunt, who had risen to 
 take his vacant place, Kate's father gave 
 him a stiff nod, and an unfriendly glance, 
 then hurried away. 
 
 Grifiith was hurt at his manner. He 
 knew very well Mr. Peyton looked high- 
 er for his daughter than Griffith Gaunt : 
 but for all that the old gentleman had 
 never shown him any personal dislike 
 or incivility until this moment. 
 
 So Griffith could not but fear that 
 Neville was somehow at the bottom of 
 this, and that the combination was very 
 strong against him. Now in thus inter- 
 preting Mr. Peyton's manner he fell 
 into a very common error and fruitful 
 cause of misunderstanding. We go and 
 fancy that Everybody is thinking of us. 
 But he is not : he is like us ; he is 
 thinking of himself. 
 
 "Well, well," thought Griffith, "if I 
 am not to have her, what better place 
 for me than the grave ? " 
 
 He entered Mr. Houseman's private 
 room and opened his business at once. 
 
 But a singular concurrence of cir- 
 cumstances induced Lawyer Houseman 
 to confide to a third party the substance 
 of what passed between this young 
 gentleman and himself So, to avoid 
 repetition, the best -way will be to let 
 Houseman tell this part of my tale, in- 
 stead of me ; and I only hope his com- 
 munication, when it comes, may be half 
 as interesting to my reader as it was to 
 his hearer. 
 
 Suffice it for me to say that lawyer 
 and client were closeted a good hour, 
 and were still conversing together when 
 a card was handed in to Mr. Houseman 
 that seemed to cause him both surprise 
 and pleasure. 
 
 "In five minutes," said he to the 
 clerk. Griffith took the hint, and bade 
 him good by directly. 
 
 As he went out, the gentleman who 
 had sent in his card rose from a seat in 
 the outer office to go in. 
 
 It was Mr. George Neville. 
 
 Griffith Gaunt and he saluted and 
 scanned each other curiously. They 
 little thought to meet again so soon. 
 The clerks saw nothing more than two 
 polite gentlemen passing each other. 
 
22 
 
 Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 The more Griffith thought of the ap- 
 proaching duel, the less he liked it. He 
 was an impulsive man, for one thing ; 
 and with such, a cold fit naturally suc- 
 ceeds a hot one. And besides, as his 
 heat abated, Reason and Reflection 
 made themselves heard, and told him 
 that in a contest with a formidable rival 
 he was throwing away an advantage. 
 After all, Kate had shown him great 
 favor; she had ridden Neville's horse 
 after him, and made him resign his pur- 
 pose of leaving her ; surely, then, she 
 preferred him on the whole to Neville ; 
 yet he must go and risk his chance of 
 possessing her upon a personal encoun- 
 ter, in which Neville was at least as 
 likely to kill him as he to kill Nev- 
 ille. He saw too late that he was 
 playing his rival's game. He felt cold 
 and despondent, and more and more 
 convinced that he should never marry 
 Kate, but that she would very likely 
 bury him. 
 
 With all this he was too game to re- 
 coil, and indeed he hated his rival too 
 deeply. So, like many a man before 
 him, he was going doggedly to the field 
 against his judgment, with Uttle to win 
 and all to lose. 
 
 His deeper and more solemn anxie- 
 ties were diversified by a hghter one. 
 A few days ago he had invited half the 
 county to bury Mr. Charlton on Satur- 
 day, the 19th of February. But now 
 he had gone and fixed Friday the 
 1 8th for a duel. A fine thing if he 
 should be himself a corpse on Friday 
 afternoon ! Who was to receive the 
 guests ? who conduct the funeral ? 
 
 The man, with all his faults, had a 
 grateful heart ; and Mr. Charlton was 
 his benefactor, and he felt he had no 
 right to go and get himself killed until 
 he had paid the last rites to his best 
 friend. 
 
 The difficulty admits of course of a 
 comic view, and smells Hibernian. ; but 
 these things seem anything but droll to 
 those whose lives and feelings are at 
 Rtake ; and, indeed, there was something 
 chivalrous and touching in Griffith's vex- 
 ation at the possibility of his benefac- 
 tor being buried without due; honors,, ow- 
 
 ing to his own intemperate haste to be 
 killed. He resolved to provide against 
 that contingency : so, on the Thursday, 
 he wrote an urgent letter to Mr. House- 
 man, telling him he must come early to 
 the funeral, and be prepared to conduct 
 it. 
 
 This letter was carried to Mr. House- 
 man's office at three o'clock on Thurs- 
 day afternoon. 
 
 Mr. Houseman was not at home. He 
 was gone to a country-house nine miles 
 distant. But Griffith's servant was well 
 mounted, and had peremptory orders ; 
 so he rode after Mr. Houseman, and 
 found him at Mr. Peyton's house, — 
 whither, if you please, we, too, will fol- 
 low him. 
 
 In the first place, you must know that 
 the real reason why Mr. Peyton looked 
 so savage, coming out of Mr. House- 
 man's office, was this : Neville had said 
 no more about the hundred pounds, 
 and, indeed, had not visited the house 
 since ; so Peyton, who had now begun 
 to reckon on this sum, went to House- 
 man to borrow it. But Houseman po- 
 litely declined to lend it him, and gave 
 excellent reasons. All this was natural 
 enough, common enough ; but the real 
 reason why Houseman declined was a 
 truly singular one. The fact is, Catha- 
 rine Peyton had made him promise to 
 refuse. 
 
 Between that young lady and the 
 Housemans, husband and wife, there 
 was a sincere friendship, founded on 
 mutual esteem ; and Catharine could 
 do almost what she liked with either of 
 them. Now, whatever might have been 
 her faults, she was a proud girl, and an 
 intelligent one : it mortified her pride 
 to see her father borrowing here, and 
 borrowing there, and unable to repay ; 
 and she had also observed that he al- 
 ways celebrated a new loan by a new 
 extravagance, and so was never a penny 
 the richer for borrowed money. He had 
 inadvertently'let fall that he should ap- 
 ply to Houseman. She raised no open 
 objection, but just mounted Piebald, and 
 rode off to Houseman, and made him 
 solemnly promise her not to lend her 
 faither a shiUing. 
 
Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealouiy. 
 
 23 
 
 Houseman kept his word ; but his re- 
 fusal cost him more pain than he had 
 calculated on when he made the prom- 
 ise. Squire Peyton had paid him thou- 
 sands, first and last ; and when he left 
 Houseman's room, with disappointment, 
 mortification, and humiliation deeply 
 marked on his features, usually so hand- 
 some and jolly, the lawyer felt sorry and 
 ashamed, — and did not show it. 
 
 But it rankled in him ; and the very 
 next day he took advantage of a little 
 business he had to do in Mr. Peyton's 
 neighborhood, and drove to Peyton 
 Hall, and asked for Mistress Kate. 
 
 His was a curious errand. Indeed, I ' 
 think it would not be easy to rind a par- 
 allel to it. 
 
 For here was an attorney calling upon 
 a beautiful girl, — to do what ? 
 
 To soften her. 
 
 On a daughter, — to do what ? 
 
 To persuade her to permit him to 
 lend her father ;^ioo on insufficient 
 security. 
 
 Well, he reminded her of his ancient 
 obligations to her family, and assured 
 her he could well afford to risk a hun- 
 dred or even a thousand pounds. He 
 then told her that her father had shown 
 great pain at his refusal, and that he 
 himself was human, and could not di- 
 vest himself of gratitude and pity and 
 good-nature, — all for ;^ioo. 
 
 " In a word," said he, " I have brought 
 the money ; and you must give in for 
 this once, and let me lend it him with' 
 out more ado." 
 
 Miss Peyton was gratified and affect- 
 ed, and a tear trembled a moment in her 
 eye, but went in-doors again, and left 
 her firm as a rock sprinkled with dew. 
 She told him she could quite understand 
 his feeling, and thanked him for it ; but 
 she had long and seriously weighed the 
 matter, and could not release him from 
 his promise. 
 
 " No more of this base borrowing," 
 said she, and clenched her white teeth 
 indomitably. 
 
 He attacked her with a good many 
 weapons ; but she parried them all so 
 gently, yet so nobly, and so successfully, 
 that he admired her more than ever. 
 
 Still, lawyers fight hard, and die very 
 hard. Houseman got warm in his cause, 
 and cross-examined this defendant, and 
 asked her whether she would refuse to 
 lend her father ;£ioo out of a full purse. 
 
 This question was answered only by 
 a flash of her glorious eyes, and a mag- 
 nificent look of disdain at the doubt im- 
 plied. 
 
 "Well, then," said Houseman, "be 
 your father's surety for repayment, with 
 interest at six per centum, and then 
 there will be nothing in the business to 
 wound your dignity. I have many hun- 
 dreds out at six per centum." 
 
 " Excuse me : that would be dishon- 
 est," said Kate ; " I have no money to 
 repay you with." 
 
 " But you have expectations." 
 
 " Nay, not I." 
 
 " I beg your pardon." 
 
 " Methinks I should know, sir. What 
 expectations have I ? and from whom ? " 
 
 Houseman fidgeted on his seat, and 
 then, with some hesitation, replied, — 
 
 " Well, from two that I know of" 
 
 " You are jesting, methinks, good Mr. 
 Houseman," said she, reproachfully. 
 
 " Nay, dear Mistress Kate, I wish you 
 too well to jest on such a theme." 
 
 The lawyer then fidgeted again on his 
 seat in silence, — sign of an inward strug- 
 gle, — during which Kate's eye watched 
 him with some curiosity. At last his 
 wavering balance inclined towards re- 
 vealing something or other. 
 
 " Mistress Kate," said he, " my wife 
 and I are both your faithful friends and 
 humble admirers. We often say you 
 would grace a coronet, and wish you 
 were as rich as you are good and beau- 
 tiful." 
 
 Kate turned her lovefly head away, and 
 gave him her hand. That incongruous 
 movement, so full of womanly grace and 
 feeling, and the soft pressure of her 
 white hand, completed her victory, and 
 the remains of Houseman's reserve 
 melted away. 
 
 " Yes, my dear youtig lady," said he, 
 warmly, "I have good news for you; 
 only mind, not a living^ soul must ever 
 know it from your lips. Why, I am go- 
 ing to do for you what I never did in 
 
24 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy^ 
 
 my life before, — going to tell you some- 
 tliiiig that passed yesterday in my of- 
 fice. But then I know you ; you are a 
 young lady out of a thousand ; I can 
 trust you to be discreet and silent, — 
 can I not ? " 
 "As the grave." 
 
 " Well, then, my young mistress, — in 
 truth it was like a play, though the scene 
 was but a lawyer's office " - — - 
 
 " Was it ? " cried Kate. " Then you 
 set me all of a flutter ; you must sup 
 here, and sleep here. Nay, nay," said 
 she, her eyes sparkling with animation, 
 " I '11 take no denial. My father dines 
 abroad : we shall have the house to our- 
 selves." 
 
 Her interest was keenly excited : but 
 she was a true woman, and must co- 
 quette with her very curiosity ; so she 
 ran oif to see with her own eyes that 
 sheets were aired, and a roasting fire 
 lighted in the ■ blue bedroom for her 
 guest. 
 
 While she^was away, a servant brought 
 in Griffith Gaunt's letter, and a sheet 
 of paper had to be borrowed to answer 
 it. 
 
 The answer was hardly written and 
 sent out to Griffith's servant, when sup- 
 per and the fair hostess came in almost 
 together. 
 
 After supper fresh logs were heaped 
 on the fire, and the lawyer sat in a cosey 
 arm-chair, and took out his diary, and 
 several papers, as methodically as if he 
 was going to lay the case by counsel 
 before a judge of assize. 
 
 Kate sat opposite him with her gray 
 eyes beaming on him all the time, and 
 searching for the hidden meaning of 
 everything he told her. During the 
 recital which follows, her color often 
 came and went, but those wonderful 
 eyes never left the narrator's face a 
 moment. 
 
 They put the attorney on his mettle, 
 and he elaborated the matter more than 
 I should have done : he articulated his 
 topics ; marked each salient fact by a 
 long pause. In short, he told his story 
 like an attorney, and not like a roman- 
 cist. I cannot help that, you know; 
 I 'm not Procrustes. 
 
 MR. houseman's little narrative. 
 
 "Wednesday, the seventeenth day 
 of February, at about one of the clock, 
 called on me at my place of business 
 Mr. Griffith Gaunt, whom I need not 
 here describe, inasmuch as his person 
 and place of residence are well known 
 to the court — what am I saying ? — I 
 mean, well known to yourself, Mistress 
 Kate. 
 
 "The said Griffith, on entering my 
 room, seemed moved, and I might say 
 distempered, and did not give himself 
 time to salute me and receive my obei- 
 sance, but addressed me abruptly and 
 said as follows : ' Mr. Houseman, I am 
 come to make my will.' " 
 
 (" Dear me ! " said Kate : then blush- 
 ed, and was more on her guard.) 
 
 " I seated the young gentleman, and 
 then replied, that his resolution afore- 
 said did him credit, the young being as 
 mortal as the old. I said further, that 
 many disasters had happened, in my ex- 
 perience, owing to the obstinacy with 
 which men, in the days of their strength, 
 shut their eyes to the precarious tenure 
 under which all sons of Adam hold ex- 
 istence ; and so, many a worthy gentle- 
 man dies in his sins, — and, what is 
 worse, dies intestate. 
 
 " But the said Griffith interrupted me 
 with some signs of impatience, and ask- 
 ed me bluntly, would I draw his will, 
 and have it executed on the spot. 
 
 " I assented, generally ; but I request- 
 ed him, by way of needful preliminary, 
 to obtain for me a copy of Mr. Charl- 
 ton's will, under which, as I have al- 
 ways understood, the said Griffith in- 
 herits whatever real estate he hath to 
 bequeath. ' ' 
 
 " Mr. Griffith Gaunt then replied to 
 me, that Mr. Charlton's will was in Lon- 
 don, and the exact terms of it could 
 not be known until after the funeral, — 
 that is to say, upon the nineteenth in- 
 stant 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 25 
 
 " Thereupon I explained to Mr. Gaunt 
 that I must see and know what proper- 
 ties were devised in the will aforesaid, 
 by the said Charlton, to Gaunt afore- 
 said, and how devised and described. 
 Without this, I said, I could not cor- 
 rectly and sufficiently describe the same 
 in the instrument I was now requested 
 to prepare. 
 
 " Mr. Gaunt did not directly reply to 
 this objection. But he pondered a lit- 
 tle while, and then asked me if it were 
 not possible for him, by means of gen- 
 eral terms, to convey to a sole legatee 
 whatever lands, goods, chattels, etc., 
 Mr. Charlton might hereafter prove to 
 have devised to him, the said Griffith 
 Gaunt. -. 
 
 " I admitted this was possible, but ob- 
 jected that it was dangerous. I let him 
 know that in matters of law general 
 terms are a fruitful source of dispute, 
 and I said I was one of those who hold 
 it a duty to avert litigation- from our 
 clients. 
 
 " Thereupon Mr. Gaunt drew out of 
 his bosom a pocket-book. 
 
 " The said pocket-book was shown to 
 me by the said Gaunt, and I say it con- 
 tained a paragraph from a newspaper, 
 which I believe to have been cut out of 
 the said newspaper with a knife, or a 
 pair of scissors, or some trenchant in- 
 strument ; and the said paragraph pur- 
 ported to conta!in an exact copy of a cer- 
 tain will and testament under which 
 (as is, indeed, matter of public notori- 
 ety) one Dame Butcher hath inherited 
 and now enjoys the lands, goods, and 
 chattels of a certain merry parson late 
 deceased in these parts, and, / believe, 
 little missed. 
 
 '' Mr. Gaunt would have me read the 
 will and testament aforesaid, and I 
 read it accordingly : and inasmuch as 
 bad things are best remembered, the 
 said will and testament did, by its sin- 
 gularity and profaneness, fix itself forth- 
 with in my memory ; so that I can by 
 
 no means dislodge it thence, do what I 
 may. 
 
 " The said document, to the best of 
 my memory and belief, runneth after 
 this fashion. 
 
 " ' I, John Raymond, clerk, at present 
 residing at Whitbeck,'in the County of 
 Cumberland, being a man sound in body, 
 mind, and judgment, do deliver this as 
 my last will and testament. 
 
 " ' I give and bequeath all my real 
 property, and all my personal property, 
 and all the property, whether real or 
 personal, I may hereafter possess or 
 become entitled to, to my housekeeper, 
 Janet Butcher. 
 
 " ' And I appoint Janet Butcher my 
 sole executrix, and I make Janet Butch- 
 er my sole residuary legatee ; save and 
 except that I leave my solemn curse to 
 any knave who hereafter shall at any 
 time pretend that he does not under- 
 stand the meaning of this my will and 
 testament' " 
 
 (Catharine smiled a little at this last 
 bequest.) 
 
 " Mr. Gaunt then solemnly appealed 
 to me as an honest man to tell him 
 whether the aforesaid document was 
 bad, 6r good, in law. 
 
 " I was fain to admit that it was suf- 
 ficient in law ; but I qualified, and said 
 I thought it might be attacked on the 
 score of the hussy's undue influence, 
 and the testator's apparent insanity. 
 Nevertheless, I concluded candidly that 
 neither objection would prevail in our 
 courts, owing to the sturdy prejudice 
 in the breasts ofEnglish jurymen, whose 
 ground of faith it is that every man has 
 a right to do what he will with his own, 
 and even to do it how he likes. 
 
 " Mr. Gaunt did speedily abuse this 
 my candor. He urged me to lose no 
 time, but to draw his will according to 
 the form and precedent in that case 
 made and provided by this mad parson ; 
 and my clerks, forsooth, were to be the 
 witnesses thereof. 
 
 " I refused, with some heat, to sully 
 
26 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy, 
 
 my office by allowing such an instru- 
 ment to issue therefrom ; and I asked 
 the said Gaunt, in high dudgeon, for 
 what he took me. 
 
 "Mr. Gaunt then offered, in reply, 
 two suggestions that shook me. Im- 
 primis, he told me the person to whom 
 he now desired to leave his all was Mis- 
 tress Catharine Peyton." (An ejacula- 
 tion from Kate.) " Secundo, he said he 
 would go straight from me to that cox- 
 comb Harrison, were I to refuse to serve 
 him in the matter. 
 
 "On this, having regard to your in- 
 terest and my own, I temporized : I of- 
 fered to let him draw a will after his 
 parson's precedent, and I agreed it 
 should be witnessed in my office ; only 
 I stipulated that next week a proper 
 document should be drawn by myself, 
 with due particulars, on two sheets of 
 paper, and afterwards engrossed and 
 witnessed : and to this Mr. Gaunt as- 
 sented, and immediately drew his will 
 according to newspaper precedent. 
 
 "But when I came to examine his 
 masterpiece, I found he had taken ad- 
 vantage of my pliability to attach an 
 unreasonable condition, to wit : that 
 the said Catharine should forfeit all 
 interest under this will, in case she 
 should ever marry a certain party 
 therein nominated, specified, and de- 
 scribed." 
 
 ("Now that was Griffith all over," 
 cried Catharine, merrily.) 
 
 " I objected stoutly to this. I took 
 leave to remind the young gentleman, 
 that, when a Christian man makes his 
 last will and testametit, he should think 
 of the grave and of the place beyond, 
 whither we may carry our affections, 
 but must leave the bundle of our hates 
 behind, the gate being narrow. I even 
 went so far as to doubt whether such a 
 proviso could stand in law ; and I also 
 put a practical query : what was to hin- 
 der the legatee from selling the proper- 
 ty and diverting the funds, and then 
 marrying whom she liked ? 
 
 " Mr. Gaunt was deaf to reason. He 
 bade me remember that he was neither 
 saint nor apostle, but a poor gentle- 
 man of Cumberland, who saw a stran- 
 ger come between him and his lover 
 dear : with that he was much moved, 
 and did not conclude his argument at 
 all, but broke off, aiid was fain to hide 
 his face with both hands awhile. In 
 truth, this touched me ; and I looked 
 another way, and began to ask myself, 
 why should I interfere, who, after all, 
 know not your heart in the matter ; and, 
 to be brief, I withstood him and Par- 
 son's law no more, but sent his draught 
 will to the clerks, the which they copied 
 fair in a trice, and the duplicates were 
 signed and witnessed in red-hot haste, 
 — as most of men's follies are done, for 
 that matter. 
 
 "The paper writing now produced 
 and shown to me — tush ! what am I 
 saying ? — I mean the paper writing I 
 now produce and show to you is the 
 draught of the will aforesaid, in the hand- 
 writing of the testator." 
 
 And with this he handed Kate Pey- 
 ton Griffith Gaunt's will, and took a 
 long and satirical pinch' of snuff while 
 she examined it 
 
 Miss Peyton took the will in her 
 white hands and read it. But, in read- 
 ing it, she held it' up and turned it so 
 that her friend could not see her face 
 while she read it, but only her white 
 hands, in which the document rustled a 
 little. 
 
 It ran thus : — 
 
 " I, Griffith Gaunt, late of the Eyrie, 
 and now residing at Bolton Hall, in the 
 County of Cumberland, being sound in 
 body and mind, do deliver this as my 
 last will and testament. I give and 
 bequeath all the property, real or per- 
 sonal, which I now possess or may 
 hereafter become entitled to, to my dear 
 friend and mistress, Catharine Peyton, 
 daughter of Edward Peyton, Esquire, of 
 Peyton Hall ; provided always that the 
 said Catharine Peyton shall at no time 
 within the next ten years marry George 
 Neville of Neville's Court in this couri- 
 
Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealoxisy. 
 
 27 
 
 ty. But shpuld the said Catharine, maf- 
 ry the said George within ten years of 
 this day, then I leave all my said prop- 
 erty, in possession, remainder, or rever- 
 sion, to my heir-at-law." 
 
 The fair legatee read this extraor- 
 dinary testament more than once. At 
 last she handed it back to Mr. House- 
 man without a word. But her cheek 
 was red, and her eyes glistening. 
 
 Mr. Houseman was surprised at her 
 silence ; and as he was curious to know 
 her heart, he sounded her, asked her 
 what she thought of that part of his 
 story. But she evaded him with all the 
 tact of her sex. 
 
 " What ! that is not all, then ? " said 
 she, quickly. 
 
 Houseman replied, that it was barely 
 half. 
 
 " Then tell me all, pray, tell me all," 
 said Kate, earnestly. 
 
 " I am here to that end," said House- 
 man, and recommenced his narrative. 
 
 " The business being done to Mr. 
 Gaunt's satisfaction, though not to mine, 
 we fell into some friendly talk ; but in 
 the midst of it my clerk Thomas brought 
 me in the card of a gentleman whom I 
 was very desirous to secure as a client. 
 
 " Mr. Gaunt, I think, read my mind ; 
 for he took leave of me forthwith. I 
 attended him to the door, and then wel- 
 comed the gentleman aforesaid. It was 
 no other than Mr. George Neville. 
 
 " Mr. Neville, after such gracious 
 civilities as his native breeding and for- 
 eign travel have taught him, came to 
 business, and requested me — to draw 
 his will." 
 
 ("La! "said Kate.) 
 
 " I was a little startled, but hid it and, 
 took his instructions. This done, I re- 
 quested to see the title-deeds of his es- 
 tates, with a view to describing them, 
 and he went himself to his banker's for 
 them and placed them in my hands. 
 
 "I then promised to have the will 
 
 ready in a week or ten days, But Mr. 
 Neville, with many polite regrets for 
 hurrying me, told me upon his honor he 
 could give me but twenty-four hours. 
 'After that,' said he, 'it might be too 
 late.' " 
 (" Ah ! " said Miss Peyton.) 
 
 " Determined to retain my new client, 
 I set my clerks, to work, and this very 
 day was engrossed, signed, and wit- 
 nessed, the last will and testament of 
 George Neville, Esquire, of Neville's 
 Court, in the County of Cumberland, 
 and Leicester Square, London, where 
 he hath a noble mansion. 
 
 " Now as to the general disposition of 
 his lands, manorial rights, messuages, 
 tenements, goods, chattels, etc., and his 
 special legacies to divers ladies and 
 gentlemen and domestic servants, these 
 I will not reveal even to you. 
 
 " The paper I now produce is a copy 
 of that particular bequest which I have 
 decided to communicate to you in strict 
 and sacred confidence." 
 
 And he handed her an extract from 
 George Neville's wilL 
 
 Miss Peyton then read what fol- 
 lows : — 
 
 "And, I give and bequeath to Mis- 
 tress Catharine Peyton, of Peyton Hall, 
 in the said County of Cumberland, in 
 token of my respect and regard, all that 
 my freehold estate called Moniton 
 Grange, with the messuage or tenement 
 standing and being thereon, and the. 
 farrn-yard buildings and appurtenances 
 belonging thereto, containing by esti- 
 mation three hundred and seventy-six 
 acres three roods and five perches, be 
 the same little more or less, to hold to 
 her the said Catharine Peyton, her heirs 
 and assigns, forever." 
 
 The legatee laid down the paper, and 
 Ipaned her head softly on her fair hand, 
 and her eyes explored vacancy. 
 
 " What means all this ? " said she, 
 aloud, but to herself. 
 
 Mr. Houseman undertook the office 
 of interpreter. 
 
28 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 " Means ? Why, that he has left you 
 one of the snuggest estates in the coun- 
 ty. 'T is not quite so large as Bolton ; 
 but lies sunnier, and the land richer. 
 Well, Mistress, was I right ? Are you 
 not good for a thousand pounds ? " 
 
 Kate, still manifestly thinking of 
 something else, let fall, as it were, out 
 of her mouth, that Mr. Gaunt and Mr.. 
 Neville were both men in the flower of 
 their youth, and how was she the richer 
 for their folly .? 
 
 " Why," said Houseman, " you will 
 not have to wait for the death of these 
 testators, — Heaven forbid! But what 
 does all this making of wills show me ? 
 That both these gentlemen are deep in 
 love with you, and you can pick and 
 choose ; I say, you can wed with Bol- 
 ton Hall or Neville's Court to-morrow ; 
 so, prithee, let the Squire have his hun- 
 dred pounds, and do you repay me at 
 your leisure." 
 
 Miss Peyton made no reply, but 
 leaned her exquisite head upon her 
 hand and pondered. 
 
 She did not knit her brows, nor labor 
 visibly at the mental oar ; yet a certain 
 reposeful gravity and a fixity of the 
 thoughtful eye showed she was apply- 
 ing all the powers of her mind. 
 
 Mr. Houseman was not surprised at 
 that : his own wife had but little intel- 
 lect : yet had he seen her weigh two 
 rival bonnets in mortal silence, and with 
 all the seeming profundity of a judge on 
 the bench. And now this young lady 
 was doubtless weighing farms with sim- 
 ilar gravity, care, and intelligence. 
 
 But as this continued, and still she 
 did not communicate her decision, he 
 asked her point-blank which of the two 
 she settled to wed : Neville's Court or. 
 Bolton Grange. „,r 
 
 Thus appealed to. Miss Peyton„ 
 turned her great eye on him, without 
 really looking at him, and replied, — 
 
 " You have made me very uneasy." 
 
 He stared. She relapsed into thought 
 a moment, and then, turning to House- 
 man, asked him how he accounted for 
 those two gentlemen making their wills. 
 They were very young to make their 
 wills all of a sudden. 
 
 " Why," said Houseman, " Mr. Nev- 
 ille is a man of sense, and every man 
 of sense makes his will ; and as for 
 Mr. Gaunt, he has just come into pros- 
 pect of an estate ; that 's why." 
 
 " Ah, but why could not Griffith wait 
 till after the funeral ? " 
 
 " Oh, clients are always in a hurry." 
 
 " So you see nothing in it ? nothing 
 alarming, I mean ? " 
 
 " Nothing very alarming. Two land- 
 ed proprietors in love with you ; that is 
 all." 
 
 "But, dear Mr. Houseman, that is 
 what makes me uneasy; at this rate, 
 they must look on one another as — as 
 — rivals ; and you know rivals are some- 
 times enemies." 
 
 " Oh, I see now," said Houseman : 
 "you apprehend a quarrel between the 
 gentlemen. Of course there is no love 
 lost between them : but they met in my 
 office and saluted each other with perfect 
 civility. I saw them with my own eyes." 
 
 " Indeed ! I am glad to hear that, — 
 very glad. I hope it was only a coin- 
 cidence then, their both making their 
 wills." 
 
 " Nothing more, you may depend : 
 neither of them knows from me what 
 the other has done, nor ever will." 
 
 " That is true," said Kate, and 
 seemed considerably relieved. 
 
 To ease her mind entirely, Houseman 
 went on to say, that, as to the report that 
 high words had passed between the cli- 
 ents in question at the " Roebuck," he 
 had no doubt it was exaggerated. 
 
 " Besides," said he, " that was not 
 about a lady : I 'm told it was about a 
 horse, — some bet belike." 
 
 Catharine uttered a faint cry. 
 
 " About a horse ? " said she. " Not 
 about a gray horse ? " 
 
 " Nay, that is more than I know.'' 
 
 " High words about a horse," said 
 Catharine, — " and they are making their 
 wills. Oh ! my mind misgave me from 
 the first." And she turned pale. Pres- 
 ently she clasped her hands together,. — 
 "Mr. Houseman!" she cried, "what 
 shall I do ? What ! do you not see that 
 both their lives are in danger, and that 
 is why they make their wills ? And how 
 
Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 29 
 
 should both their h'ves be in danger, but 
 from each other ? Madmen ! they have 
 quarrelled ; they are going to fight, — 
 fight to the death ; and I fear it is about 
 me, — me, who love neither of them, 
 you know." 
 
 " In that case, let them fight," said her 
 legal adviser, dispassionately. " Which- 
 ever fool gets killed, you will be none 
 the poorer." And the dog wore a sober 
 complacency. 
 
 Catharine turned her large eyes on 
 him with horror and amazement, but 
 said nothing. 
 
 As for the lawyer, he was more struck 
 with her sagacity than with anything. 
 He somewhat overrated it, — -not being 
 aware of the private reasons she had 
 for thinking that her two testators were 
 enemies to the death. 
 
 " I almost think you are right," said 
 he ; " for I got a curious missive from 
 Mr. Gaunt scarce an hour agone, and 
 he says — let me see what he says " 
 
 " Nay, let me see," said Kate. 
 
 On that he handed her Griffith's note. 
 It ran thus : — 
 
 " It is possible I may not be abl^ to 
 conduct the funeral. Should this be so, 
 I appoint you to act for me. So, then, 
 good Mr. Houseman, let me count on 
 you to be here at nine of the clock. For 
 Heaven's sake fail me not. 
 
 "Your humble servant, 
 ' " G. G." 
 
 This note left no doubt in Kate's 
 mind. 
 
 " Now, first of all," said she, " what 
 answer made you to this ? " 
 
 " What answer should I make ? I 
 pledged my word to be at Bolton at nine 
 of the clock." 
 
 " Oh, blind I " sighed Kate. " And I 
 must be out of the room ! What shall I 
 do ? My dear friend, forgive me : I am 
 a wretched girl. I am to blame. I ought 
 to have dismissed them both, or else 
 decided between them. But who would 
 have thought it would go this length ? I 
 did not think Griffith was brave enough. 
 Have pity on me, and help me. Stop 
 this fearful fighting." And now the 
 young creature clung to the man-of- 
 
 business, and prayed and prayed him 
 earnestly to avert bloodshed. 
 
 Mr. Houseman was staggered by this 
 passionate appeal from one who so rare- 
 ly lost her self-command. He soothed 
 her as well as he could, and said he 
 would do his best, — but added, which 
 was very true, that he thought her inter- 
 ference would be more effective than his 
 own. 
 
 "What care these young bloods for 
 an old attorney ? I should fare ill, came 
 I between their rapiers. To be sure, I 
 might bind them over to keep the peace. 
 But, Mistress Kate, now be frank with 
 me ; then I can serve you better. You 
 love one of these two :, that is clear. 
 Which is the man ? — that I may know 
 what I am about." 
 
 For all her agitation, Kate was on her 
 guard in some things. 
 
 " Nay," she faltered, " I love neither, 
 — not to say love them : but I pity him 
 so!" 
 
 " Which ? " 
 
 " Both." 
 
 "Ay, Mistress ; but which do you 
 pity most ? " asked the shrewd lawyer. 
 
 " Whichever shall come to harm for 
 my sake," replied the simple girl. 
 
 " You could not go to them to-night, 
 and bring them to reason ? " asked she, 
 piteously. 
 
 She went to the window to see what 
 sort of a night it was. She drew the 
 heavy crimson curtains and opened the 
 window. In rushed a bitter blast laden 
 with flying snow. The window-ledges, 
 too, were clogged with snow, and all the 
 ground was white. 
 
 Houseman shuddered, and drew near- 
 er to the blazing logs. Kate closed the 
 window with a groan. 
 
 " It is not to be thought of," said she, 
 " at your age, and not a road to be seen 
 for snow. What shall I do ? " 
 
 "Wait till to-morrow," said Mr. 
 Houseman. 
 
 ( Procrastination was his daily work, 
 being an attorney.) 
 
 " To - morrow ! " cried Catharine. 
 " Perhaps to-morrow will be too late. 
 Perhaps even now they have met, and 
 he lies a corpse." 
 
30 
 
 Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 " Who ? " 
 
 " Whichever it is, I shall end my days 
 in a convent praying for his soul." 
 
 She wrung her hands while she said 
 this, and still there was no catching 
 her. 
 
 Little did the lawyer think to rouse 
 such a storm with his good news. And 
 now he made a feeble and vain attempt 
 to soothe her, and ended by promising 
 to start the first thing in the morning 
 and get both her testators bound over 
 to keep the peace by noon. With this 
 resolution he went to bed early. 
 
 She was glad to be alone, at all events. 
 
 Now, mind you, there were plenty of 
 vain and vulgar, yet respectable girls, in 
 Cumberland, who would have been de- 
 lighted to be fought about, even though 
 bloodshed were to be the result. But 
 this young lady was not vain, but proud. 
 She was sensitive, too, and troubled 
 with a conscience. It reproached her 
 bitterly : it told her she had permitted 
 the addresses of two gentlemen, and so 
 mischief had somehow arisen — out of 
 her levity. Now her life had been un- 
 eventful and innocent : this was the very 
 first time she had been connected with 
 anything like a crime, and her remorse 
 Was great ; so was her grief; but her 
 fears were greater still. The terrible 
 look Griffith had cast at his rival flash- 
 ed on her : so did his sinister words. 
 She felt, that, if he and Neville met, 
 nothing less than Neville's death or his 
 own would separate them. Suppose 
 that even now one of them lay a corpse, 
 cold and ghastly as the snow that now 
 covered Nature's face I 
 
 The agitation of her mind was such 
 that her body could not be still. Now 
 she walked the room in violent distress, 
 wringing her hands ; now she kneeled 
 and prayed fervently for both those lives 
 she had endangered ; often she flew to 
 the window and looked eagerly out, 
 writhing and rebelling against the net- 
 work of female custom that entangled 
 her and would not let her fly out of her 
 cage even to do a good action, — to avert 
 a catastrophe by her prayers, or her 
 tears, or her good sense. 
 
 And all ended in her realizing that 
 
 she was a woman, a poor, impotent be- 
 ing, born to lie quiet and let things go : 
 at that she wept helplessly. 
 
 So wore away the first night of agony 
 this young creature ever knew. 
 
 Towards morning, exhausted by her 
 inward struggles, she fell asleep upon a 
 sofa. 
 
 But her trouble followed her. She 
 dreamed she was on a horse, hurried 
 along with prodigious rapidity, in a dark- 
 ened atmosphere, a sort of dry fog : she 
 knew somehow she was being taken to 
 see some awful, mysterious thing. By 
 and by the haze cleared and she came 
 out upon pleasant, open, sunny fields, 
 that almost dazzled her. She passed 
 gates, and hedges too, all clear, dis- 
 tinct, and individual. Presently a voice jg, 
 by her side said, " This way ! " and her 
 horse seemed to turn of his own accord ;^ 
 through a gap, and in one moment she 
 came on a group of gentlemen. It was 
 Griffith Gaunt, and two strangers. Then 
 she spoke, and said, — 
 
 " But Mr. Neville ? " 
 
 No answer was made her ; but the; 
 group opened in solemn silence, and 
 there lay George Neville on the snow, 
 stark and stiif, with blood issuing from 
 his temple, and trickling along the snow. 
 
 She saw distinctly all his well-known 
 features : but they were pinched and 
 sharpened now. And his dark olive 
 skin was turned to bluish wiite. It 
 was his corpse. And now her horse 
 thrust out his nose and snorted like 
 a demon. She looked down, and ah ! 
 the blood was running at her preternat- 
 urally fast along the snow. She scream- 
 ed, her horse reared high, and she was 
 falling on the blood-stained snow. She 
 awoke, screaming ; and the sunlight 
 seemed to rush in at the window. 
 
 Her joy that it was only a dream over- 
 powered every other feeling at first. 
 She kneeled and thanked God for that. 
 
 The next thing was, she thought it 
 might be a revelation of what had ac- 
 tually occurred. 
 
 But this chilling fear did not affect 
 her long. Nothing could shake her con- 
 viction that a duel was on foot, — and, 
 indeed, the intelligent . of her sex do 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 31 
 
 sometimes put this and that together, 
 and spring to a just, but obvious infer- 
 ence, in a way that looks to a slower 
 and safer reasoner like divination, — but 
 then she knew that yesterday evening 
 both parties were alive. Coupling this 
 with Griifith's broad hint that after the 
 funeral might be too late to make his 
 will, she felt sure that it was this very 
 day the combatants were to meet. Yes, 
 and this very morning : for she knew 
 that gentlemen always fought in the 
 morning. 
 
 If her dream was false as to the past, 
 it might be true as to what was at hand. 
 Was it not a supernatural warning, sent 
 to her in mercy ? The history of her 
 Church abounded in such dreams and 
 visions ; and, indeed, the time and place 
 she lived in were rife with stories of 
 the kind, — one, in particular, of recent 
 date. 
 
 This thought took hold of her, and 
 grew on her, till it overpowered even 
 the diffidence of her sex ; and then up 
 started her individual character ; and 
 now nothing could hold her. For, lan- 
 guid and dreamy in the common things 
 of life, this Catharine Peyton was one 
 of those who rise into rare ardor and 
 activity in such great crises as seem to 
 benumb the habitually brisk, and they 
 turn tame and pa.ssive. 
 
 She had seen at a glance that House- 
 man was too slow and apathetic for such 
 an emergency. She resolved to act her- 
 self. She washed her face and neck and 
 arms and hands in cold water, and was 
 refreshed and invigorated. She put on 
 her riding-habit and her little gold spur, 
 (Griffith Gaunt had given it her,) and 
 hurried into the stable-yard. 
 
 Old Joe and his boy had gone away 
 to breakfast : he lived in the village. 
 
 This was unlucky : Catharine must 
 wait his return and lose time, or else 
 saddle the horse herself. She chose the 
 latter. The piebald was a good horse, 
 but a fidgetty one ; so she saddled and 
 bijdled him at his stall. She then led 
 him out to the stone steps in the stable- 
 yard, and tried to mount him. But he 
 sidled away ; she had nobody to square 
 him ; and she could get nothing to 
 
 mount but his head. She coaxed him, 
 she tickled him on the other side with 
 her whip. It was all in vain. 
 
 It was absurd, but heart-sickening. 
 She stared at him with wonder that he 
 could be so cruel as to play the fool 
 when every minute might be life or 
 death. She spoke to him, she implored 
 him piteously, she patted him. All was 
 in vain. 
 
 As a last resource, she walked him 
 back to the stable and gave him a sieve- 
 ful of oats, and set it down by the corn- 
 bin for him, and took an opportunity to 
 mount the bin softly. 
 
 He ate the oats, but with retroverted 
 eye watched her. She kept quiet and 
 affected nonchalance till he became less 
 cautious, — then suddenly sprang on him, 
 and taught him to set his wit against a 
 woman's. My Lord wheeled round di- 
 rectly, ere she could get her leg over the 
 pommel, and made for the stable-door. 
 She lowered her head to his mane and 
 just scraped out without injury, — not an 
 inch to spare. He set off at once, but 
 luckily for her she had often ridden a 
 bare-backed horse. She sat him for the 
 first few yards by balance, then reined 
 him in quietly, and soon whipped her 
 left foot into the stirrup and her right 
 leg over the pommel ; and then the pie- 
 bald nag had to pay for his pranks : the 
 roads were clogged with snow, but she 
 fanned him along without mercy, and 
 never drew bridle till she pulled him up, 
 drenched and steaming like a washtub, 
 at Netley Cross-Roads. 
 
 Here she halted irresolute. The road 
 to the right led to Bolton, distant two 
 miles and a half. The road in front led 
 to Neville's Court, distant three miles. 
 Which should she take ? She had 
 asked herself this a dozen times upon 
 the road, yet could never decide until 
 she got to the place and must. The 
 question was. With which of them had 
 she most influence ? She hardly knew. 
 But Griffith Gaunt was her old sweet- 
 heart ; it seemed somewhat less strange 
 and indelicate to go to him than to the 
 new one. So she turned her horse's 
 head towards Bolton ; but she no lon- 
 ger went quite so fast as she had gone 
 
32 
 
 Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 before she felt going to either in partic- 
 ular. Such is the female mind. 
 
 She reached Bolton at half past elev- 
 en, and, now she was there, put a bold 
 face on it, rode up to the door, and, 
 leaning forward on her horse, rang the 
 hall-bell. 
 
 A footman came to the door. 
 
 With composed visage, though beat- 
 ing heart, she told him she desired to 
 speak for a moment to Mr. Griffith 
 Gaunt. He asked her would she be 
 pleased to alight ; and it was clear by 
 his manner no calamity had yet fallen. 
 
 "No, no," said Kate ; "let me speak 
 to him here." 
 
 The servant went in to tell his mas- 
 ter. Kate sat quiet, with her heart still 
 beating, but glowiAg now with joy. She 
 was in time, then, thanks to her good 
 horse. She patted him, and made the 
 prettiest excuses aloud to him for rid- 
 ing him so hard through the snow. 
 
 The footman came back to say that 
 Mr. Gaunt had gone out. 
 
 "Gone out? Whither? On horse- 
 back?" 
 
 The footman did not know, but would 
 ask within. 
 
 While he was gone to inquire, Cath- 
 arine lost patience, and rode into the 
 stable-yard and asked a young lout, 
 who was lounging there, whether his 
 master was gone out on horseback. 
 
 The lounging youth took the trouble 
 to call out the groom, and asked him. 
 
 The groom said, "No," and that 
 Mr. Gaunt was somewhere about the 
 grounds, he thought. 
 
 But in the midst of this colloquy, one 
 of the maids, curious to see the lady, 
 came out by the kitchen-door, and curt- 
 sied to Kate, and told her Mr. Gaunt 
 was gone out walking with two othet 
 gentlemen. In the midst of her dis- 
 course, she recognized the visitor, and, 
 having somehow imbibed the notion 
 that Miss Peyton was likely to be Mrs. 
 Gaunt, and govern Bolton Hall, decided 
 to curry favor with her ; so she called 
 her " My Lady," and was very commu- 
 nicative. She said one of the gentle- 
 men was strange to her ; but the other 
 was Doctor Islip, from Stanhope town. 
 
 She knew him well : he had taken off 
 her own brother's leg in a jiffy. 
 
 " But, dear heart. Mistress," said she, 
 " how pale you be ! Do come in, and 
 have a morsel of meat and a horn of 
 ale." 
 
 " Nay, my good girl," said Kate ; " I 
 could not eat ; but bring me a mug of 
 new milk, if you will. I have not broken 
 my fast this day." 
 
 The maid bustled in, and Catharine 
 asked the groom if there were no means 
 of knowing where Mr. Gaunt was. The 
 groom and the boy scratched their heads, 
 and looked puzzled. The lounging lout 
 looked at their perplexity, and grinned 
 satirically. 
 
 This youth was Tom Leicester, born 
 in wedlock, and therefore, in the law's 
 eye, son of old Simon Leicester ; but 
 gossips said his true father was the late 
 Captain Gaunt. Tom ran with the 
 hounds for his own sport, — went out 
 shooting with gentlemen, and belabored 
 the briers for them at twopence per 
 day and his dinner, — and abhorred all 
 that sober men call work. 
 
 By trade, a Beater ; profession, a 
 Scamp. 
 
 Two maids came out together now, — 
 one with the milk an'd a roll, the other 
 with a letter. Catharine drank the 
 milk, but could not eat. Then says the 
 other maid, — ' 
 
 " If so be you are Mistress Peyton, 
 why, this letter is for you. Master left 
 it on his table in his bedroom." 
 
 Kate took the letter and opened it all 
 in a flutter. It ran thus : — 
 
 " Sweet Mistress, — When this 
 reaches you, I shall be no more here 
 to trouble you with my jealousy. This 
 Neville set it abroad that you had 
 ch'^nged horses with him, as much as 
 to say you had plighted troth with him. 
 !He is a liar, and I told him so to his 
 teeth. We are to meet at noon this 
 day, and one must die. Methinks I 
 shall be the one. But come what may, 
 I have taken care of thee ; ask Jack 
 Houseman else. But, O dear Kate, 
 think of all that hath passed between 
 us, and do not wed this Neville, or I 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or, jFealousy. 
 
 33 
 
 could not rest in my grave. Sweet- 
 heart, many a letter have I written thee, 
 but none so sad as this. Let the grave 
 hide my faults from thy memory ; think 
 only that I loved thee well. I leave 
 thee my substance — would it were ten 
 times more ! — and the last thought of 
 my heart. 
 
 " So no more in this world 
 
 " From him that is thy true lover 
 'j And humble servant till death, 
 "Griffith Gaunt." 
 
 There seems to be room in the mind 
 for only one violent emotion at one in- 
 stant of time. This touching letter did 
 not just then draw a tear from her, who 
 now received it some hours sooner than 
 the writer intended. Its first effect 
 was to paralyze her. She sat white 
 4nd trembling, and her great eyes filled 
 with horror. Then she began to scream 
 wildly for help. The men and women 
 came round her. 
 
 " Murder ! murder ! " she shrieked. 
 " Tell me where to find him, ye wretch- 
 es, or may his blood be on your heads ! " 
 
 The Scamp bounded from his loung- 
 ing position, and stood before her 
 straight as an arrow. 
 
 " Follow me ! " he shouted. 
 
 Her gray eyes and the Scamp's black 
 ones flashed into one another directly. 
 He dashed out of the yard without an- 
 other word. 
 
 And she spurred her horse, and clat- 
 tered out after him. 
 
 He ran as fast as her horse could 
 canter, and soon took her all round the 
 house ; and while he ran, his black gypsy 
 eyes were glancing in every direction. 
 
 When they got to the lawn at the 
 back of the house, he halted a moment, 
 and said quietly, — 
 
 " Here they be.'' 
 
 He pointed to some enormous foot- 
 steps in the snow, and bade her notice 
 that they commenced at a certain glass 
 door belonging to the house, and that 
 they all pointed outwards. The lawn 
 was covered with such marks, but the 
 Scamp followed those his intelligence 
 had selected, and they took him through 
 a gate, and down a long walk, and into 
 
 3 
 
 the park. Here no other feet had trod- 
 den that morning except those Tom 
 Leicester was following. 
 
 " This is our game," said he. " See, 
 there be six footsteps ; and, now I look, 
 this here track is Squire Gaunt's. I 
 know his foot in the snow among a hun- 
 dred. Bless your heart, I 've often been 
 out shooting with Squire Gaunt, and 
 lost him in the woods, and found him 
 again by tracking him on dead leaves, 
 let alone snow. I say, was n't they use- 
 less idiots ? Could n't tell ye how to run 
 into a man, and snow on the ground! 
 Why, you can track a hare to her form, 
 and a rat to his hole, — let alone such 
 big game as this, with a hoof like a fry- 
 ing-pan, — in the snow." 
 
 " Oh, do not talk ; let us make haste," 
 panted Kate. 
 
 " Canter away ! " replied the Scamp. 
 
 She cantered on, and he ran by her 
 side. 
 
 " Shall I not tire you ? " said she. 
 
 The mauvais sujet laughed at her. 
 
 " Tire me ? Not over this ground. 
 Why, I run with the hounds, and mostly 
 always in at the death ; but that is not 
 altogether speed ; ye see I know Pug's 
 mind. What ! don't you know me ? I 'm 
 Tom Leicester. Why, I know you : I say, 
 you are a good-hearted one, you are." 
 
 " Oh, no ! no ! " sighed Kate. 
 
 " Nay, but you are," said Tom. " I 
 saw you take Harrowden Brook that 
 day, when the rest turned tail ; and that 
 is what I call having a good heart. 
 Gently, Mistress, here, — this is full of 
 rabbit-holes. I seen Sir Ralph's sorrel 
 mare break her leg in a moment in one 
 of these. Shot her dead that afternoon, 
 a did, and then b'iled her for the hounds. 
 She 'd often follow at their tails ; next 
 hunting-day she ran inside their bellies. 
 Ha ! ha ! ha ! " 
 
 " Oh, don't laugh ! I am in agony ! " 
 
 " Why, what is up. Mistress ? " asked 
 the young savage, lowering his voice. 
 ' Murder,' says you ; but that means 
 nought. The lasses they cry murder, if 
 you do but kiss 'em." 
 
 " Oh, Tom Leicester, it is murder ! 
 It 's a duel, a fight to the death, unless 
 we are in time to prevent them." 
 
34 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 " A jewel ! " cried Master Leicester, 
 his eyes glittering witli delight. " I 
 never saw a jewel. Don't you hold 
 him in for me, Mistress : gallop down 
 this slope as hard as you can pelt ; it is 
 grass under foot, and ye can't lose the 
 tracks, and I shall be sure to catch ye 
 in the next field." 
 
 The young savage was now as anx- 
 ious to be in at the death as Kate was 
 to save life. As he spoke, he gave her 
 horse a whack on the quarter with his 
 stick, and away she went full gallop, and 
 soon put a hundred yards between her 
 and Tom. 
 
 The next field was a deep fallow, 
 and the hard furrows reduced her to a 
 trot ; and before she got out of it Tom 
 was by her side. 
 
 « Did n't I tell you ? " said he. " I 'd 
 run you to Peyton Hall for a pot o' 
 beer." 
 
 " Oh, you good, brave, clever boy ! " 
 said Kate, "how fortunate I am to have 
 you ! I think we shall be in time." 
 
 Tom was flattered. 
 
 " Why, you see, I am none of Daddy 
 Leicester's breed," said he. " I 'm a 
 gentleman's by-blow, if you know what 
 that is." 
 
 " I can't say I do," said Kate ; "but 
 I know you are very bold and hand- 
 some, and swift of foot ; and I know 
 my patron saint has sent you to me in 
 my misery. And, oh, my lad, if we are 
 in time, — what can I do for you .? Are 
 you fond of money, Tom ? " 
 
 " That I be, — when I can get it." 
 
 " Then you shall have all I have got 
 in the world if you get me there in time 
 to hinder mischief." 
 
 " Come on ! " shouted Tom, excited 
 in his turn, and took the lead ; and not 
 a word more passed till they came to 
 the foot of a long hill. Then said 
 Tom, — 
 
 " Once we are at top of this, they 
 can't fight without our seeing 'em. 
 That is Scutchemsee Nob : you can 
 see ten miles all round from there." 
 
 At this information Kate uttered an 
 ejaculation, and urged her horse for- 
 ward. 
 
 The first part of this hill, which stood 
 
 between her and those whose tracks 
 she followed, was grass ; then came a 
 strip of turnips ; then on the bleak top 
 a broad piece of heather. She soon 
 cantered over the grass, and left Tom 
 so far behind he could not quite catch 
 her in the turnips. She entered the 
 heather, but here she was much retard- 
 ed by the snow-drifts and the ups and 
 downs of the rough place. But she 
 struggled on bravely, still leading. 
 
 She fixed her eyes earnestly on the 
 ridge, whence she could cry to the com- 
 batants, however distant, and stop the 
 combat. 
 
 Now as she struggled on, and Tom 
 came after, panting a little for the first 
 time, suddenly there rose from the crest 
 of the hill two columns of smoke, and 
 the next moment two sharp reports ran 
 through the frosty air. 
 
 Kate stopped, and looked round to 
 Tom with a scared, inquiring air. 
 
 " Pistols ! " yelled Tom behind her. 
 
 At that the woman overpowered the 
 heroine, atid Kate hid her face and fell 
 to trembUng and wailing. Her wearied 
 horse came down to a walk. 
 
 Presently up comes Tpm. 
 
 " Don't lose your stomach for that," 
 he panted out. " Gentlefolks do pop at 
 one another all day sometimes, and no 
 harm done." 
 
 " Oh, bless you ! " cried Kate ; " I 
 may yet be in time." 
 
 She spurred her horse on. He did his 
 best, but ere he had gone twenty yards 
 he plunged into a cavity hidden by the 
 snow. 
 
 While he was floundering there, crack 
 went a single pistol, and the smoke rose 
 and drifted over the hill-top. 
 
 " Who— op ! " muttered Tom, with 
 horrible sang-froid. " There 's one 
 done for this time. Could n't shoot back, 
 ye see." 
 
 Atthis horrible explanation Kate sank 
 forward on her horse's mane as if she 
 herself had been killed j and the smoke 
 from the pistol came floating thinner 
 and thinner, and eddied high over her 
 head. 
 
 Tom spoke rude words of encourage- 
 ment to her. She did not even seem to 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 35 
 
 hear them. Then he lost all patience 
 at her, and clutched her arm to make 
 her hear him. But at that it seemed as 
 if some of his nature passed into her 
 down his arm ; for she turned wild di- 
 rectly, and urged her horse fiercely up 
 the crest. Her progress was slow at 
 first ; but the sun had melted the snow 
 on the Nob or extreme summit. She 
 tore her way through the last of the 
 snow on to the clear piece, — then, white 
 as ashes, spurred and lashed her horse 
 over the ridge, and dashed in amongst 
 them on the other side. For there they 
 were. 
 
 What was the sight that met her 
 eyes .■■ 
 
 That belongs to the male branch of 
 my story, and shall be told forthwith, 
 but in its proper sequence. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 The two combatants came to the 
 field in a very different spirit. Neville 
 had already fought two duels, and been 
 successful in both. He had confidence 
 in his skill and in his luck. His con- 
 science, too, was tolerably clear ; for 
 he was the insulted person ; and if a 
 bullet should remove this dangerous 
 rival from his path, why, all the better 
 for him, and all the worse for the fool 
 who had brought the matter to a bloody 
 issue, though the balance of the lady's 
 heart inclined his way. 
 
 He came in high spirits, and rode 
 upon Kate Peyton's gray, to sting his 
 adversary, and show his contempt of 
 him. 
 
 Not so Griffith Gaunt. His heart 
 was heavy, and foreboded ill. It was 
 his first duel, and he expected to be 
 killed. He had played a fool's game, 
 and he saw it. 
 
 The night before the duel he tried 
 hard to sleep ; he knew it was not giv- 
 ing his nerves fair play to lie thinking 
 all night. But coy sleep, as usual when 
 most wanted, refused to come. At day- 
 break the restless man gave it up in 
 despair, and rose and dressed himself. 
 He wrote that letter to Catharine, little 
 
 thinking it would fall into her hands 
 while he lived. He ate a little toast, 
 and drank a pint of Burgundy, and then 
 wandered listlessly about till Major 
 Rickards, his second, arrived. 
 
 That experienced gentleman brought 
 a surgeon with him, — Mr. Islip. 
 
 Major Rickards deposited a shallow 
 wooden box in the hall ; and the two 
 gentlemen sat down to a hearty break- 
 fast. 
 
 GriflSth took care of his guests, but 
 beyond that spoke scarcely a word ; and 
 the surgeon, after a ghastly attempt at 
 commonplaces, was silent too. Major 
 Rickards satisfied his appetite first, and 
 then, finding his companions dumb, set 
 to work to keep up their spirits. He 
 entertained them with a narrative of the 
 personal encounters he had witnessed, 
 and especially of one in which his prin- 
 cipal had fallen on his face at the first 
 fire, and the antagonist had sprung into 
 the air, and both had lain dead as door- 
 nails, and never moved, nor even winked, 
 after that single discharge. 
 
 Griffith sat under this chilling talk 
 for more than an hour. 
 
 At last he rose gloomily, and said it 
 was time to go. 
 
 " Got your tools, Doctor ? " inquired 
 the Major. 
 
 The surgeon nodded slightly. He 
 was more discreet than his friend. 
 
 When they had walked nearly a mile 
 in the snow, the Major began to com- 
 plain. 
 
 " The Devil ! " said he ; " this is 
 queer walking. My boots are full of 
 water. I shall catch my death." 
 
 The surgeon smiled satirically, com- 
 paring silent Griffith's peril with his 
 second's. 
 
 Griffith took no notice. He went like 
 Fortitude plodding to Execution. 
 
 Major Rickards fell behind, and whis- 
 pered Mr. Islip, — 
 
 " Don't like his looks ; does n't march 
 like a winner. A job for you or the sex- 
 ton, you mark my words." 
 
 They toiled up Scutchemsee Nob, 
 and when they reached the top, they 
 saw Neville and his second, Mr. Ham- 
 
36 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy . 
 
 mersley, riding towards them. The 
 pair had halters as well as bridles, and, 
 dismounting, made their nags fast to a 
 large blackthorn that grew there. The 
 seconds then stepped forward, and sa- 
 luted each other with formal civility. 
 
 Griffith looked at the gray horse, and 
 ground his teeth. The sight of the an- 
 nual in Neville's possession stirred up 
 his hate, and helped to steel his heart. 
 He stood apart, still, pale, and gloomy. 
 
 The seconds stepped out 'fifteen pa- 
 ces, and placed the men. Then they 
 loaded two pair of pistols, and put a 
 pistol in each man's hand. 
 
 Major Rickards took that opportunity 
 to advise his principal. 
 
 " Stand sharp. Keep your arm close 
 to your side. Don't fire too high. How 
 do you feel ? " 
 
 " Like a man who must die, but will 
 try to die in company." 
 
 The seconds now withdrew to their 
 places ; and the rivals held their pistols 
 lowered, but fixed their deadly eyes on 
 each other. 
 
 The eye, in such a circumstance, is a 
 terrible thing : it is literally a weapon 
 of destruction ; for it directs the dead- 
 ly hand that guides the deadly bullet. 
 Moreover, the longer and the more 
 steadily the dueUist fixes his eye on his 
 adversary, the less likely he is to miss. 
 
 Griffith was very pale, but dogged. 
 Neville was serious, but firm. Both 
 eyed each other unflinchingly. 
 
 " Gentlemen, are you ready .■' " asked 
 ^Seville's second. 
 ( " Yes." 
 ("Yes." 
 
 "Then," said Major Rickards, "you 
 will fire when I let fall this handker- 
 chief, and not before. Mark me. Gen- 
 tlemen : to prevent mistakes, I shall 
 say, ' One, — two, — three ! ' and then 
 drop the handkerchief. Now, then, 
 once more, are you quite ready ? " 
 V « Yes." 
 \ " Yes." 
 
 " .One, two, three ! " 
 
 He dropped the handkerchief, and 
 both gentlemen fired simultaneously. 
 Mr. Neville's hat spun into, the air ; 
 Griffith stood untouched. 
 
 The bullet had passed through Nev- 
 ille's hat, and had actually cut a lane 
 through his magnificent hair. 
 
 The seconds now consulted, and it 
 was intimated to Griffith that a word 
 of apology would be accepted by his 
 antagonist. Griffith decUned to utter 
 a syllable of apology. 
 
 Two more pistols were given to the 
 men. 
 
 " Aim lower," said Rickards. 
 
 " I mean to," said Griffith. 
 
 The seconds withdrew, and the men 
 eyed each other, — Griffith dogged and 
 pale, as before, Neville not nearly so 
 self-assured : Griffith's bullet, in graz- 
 ing him, had produced the eifect of a 
 sharp, cold current of air no wider than 
 a knife. It was like Death's icy fore- 
 finger laid on his head, to mark him for 
 the next shot, — as men mark a tree, 
 then come again and fell it. 
 
 " One, - 
 
 -two. 
 
 ■three!" 
 
 And Griffith's pistol missed fire ; but 
 Neville's went off, and Griffith's arm 
 sank powerless, and his pistol rolled 
 out of his hand, He felt a sharp twinge, 
 and then something trickled down his 
 arm. 
 
 The surgeon and both seconds ran to 
 him. 
 
 " Nay, it is nothing," said he ; "I 
 shoot far better with my left hand than 
 my right. Give me another pistol, and 
 let me have fair play. He has hit me ; 
 and now I '11 hit him." 
 
 Both seconds agreed this was impos- 
 sible. 
 
 " It is the chance of war," said Major 
 Rickards ; "you cannot be allowed to 
 take a cool shot at Mr. Neville. If you 
 fire again, so must he." 
 
 " The affair may very well end here," 
 said Mr. Hammersley. " I understand 
 there was some provocation on our 
 side ; and on behalf of the party insult- 
 ed I am content to let the matter end, 
 Mr. Gaunt being wounded." 
 
 " I demand my second shot to his 
 third," said Griffith, sternly ; " he will 
 not decline, unless he is a poltroon, as 
 well as — what I called him." 
 
 The nature of this reply was com- 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 37 
 
 municated to Neville, and the seconds, 
 with considerable reluctance, loaded 
 two more pistols ; and during the pro- 
 . cess Major Rickards glanced at the 
 combatants. 
 
 Griffith, exasperated by his wound 
 and his jealousy, was wearing out the 
 chivalrous courage of his adversary ;. 
 and the Major saw it. His keen eye 
 noticed that Neville was getting rest- 
 less, and looking confounded at his de- 
 spised rival's pertinacity, and that Gaunt 
 was more dogged and more deadly. 
 
 " My man will kill yours this time," 
 said he, quietly, to Neville's second ; 
 " I can see it in his eye. He is hun- 
 gry : t' other has had his bellyful." 
 
 Once more the men were armed, and 
 the seconds withdrew to their places, 
 intimating that this was the last shot 
 they would allow under any circum- 
 stances whatever. 
 
 " Are you both ready ? " 
 
 5 « Yes." 
 
 l"Yes." 
 
 A faint wail seemed to echo the re- 
 sponse. 
 
 All heard it, and in that superstitious 
 age believed it to be some mysterious 
 herald of death. 
 
 It suspended even Major Rickards's 
 voice a minute. He recovered himself, 
 however, and once more his soldier-like 
 tones rang in the keen air : — 
 
 "One, " 
 
 There was a great rushing, and a 
 pounding of the hard ground, and a 
 scarlet Amazon galloped in, and drew 
 up in the middle, right between the 
 levelled pistols. 
 
 Every eye had been so bent on the 
 combatants, that Kate Peyton and her 
 horse seemed to have sprung out of the 
 very earth. And there she sat, pale 
 as ashes, on the steaming piebald, and 
 glanced from pistol to pistol. 
 
 The duellists stared in utter amaze- 
 ment, and instinctively lowered their 
 weapons ; for she had put herself right 
 in their line of fire with a recklessness 
 that contrasted nobly with her fear for 
 others. In short, this apparition liter- 
 ally petrified them all, seconds as well 
 as combatants. 
 
 And while they stood open-mouthed, 
 yet dumb, in came the Scamp, and, with 
 a brisk assumption of delegated author- 
 ity, took Griffith's weapon out of his 
 now unresisting hand, then marched to 
 Neville. He instantly saluted Catha- 
 rine, and then handed his pistol to her 
 seeming agent, with a high-bred and 
 inimitable air of utter nonchalance. 
 
 Kate, seeing them, to her surprise, 
 so easily disarmed, raised her hands 
 and her lovely eyes to heaven, and, in 
 a feeble voice, thanked God and Saint 
 Nescioquis. 
 
 But very soon that faint voice qua- 
 vered away to nothing, and her fair 
 head was seen to droop, and her eyes 
 to close ; then her body sank slowly 
 forward like a broken lily, and in an- 
 other moment she lay fainting on the 
 snow beside her steaming horse. 
 
 He never moved, he was so dead 
 beat too. 
 
 O, lame and impotent conclusion of 
 a vigorous exploit ! Masculine up to 
 the crowning point, and then to go and 
 spoil all with " woman's weakness " ! 
 
 " N. B. This is rote sarcasticul," as 
 Artemus the Delicious says. Woman's 
 weakness ! If Solomon had planned 
 and Samson executed, they could not 
 have served her turn better than this 
 most sfeasonable swooning did ; for, lo . 
 at her fall, the doughty combatants ut- 
 tered a yell of dismay, and there was 
 an indiscriminate rush towards the fair 
 sufferer. 
 
 But the surgeon claimed his rights. 
 
 " This is my business," said he, au- 
 thoritatively. " Do not crowd on her, 
 gentlemen : give her air." 
 
 Whereupon the duellists and sec- 
 onds stood respectfully aloof, in a mixed 
 group, and watched with eager interest 
 and pity. 
 
 The surgeon made a hole in the 
 snow, and laid his fair patient's head 
 low. 
 
 " Don't be alarmedj" said he ; " she 
 has swooned ; that is all." 
 
 It was all mighty fine to say, "Don't 
 be alarmed." But her face was ashy, 
 and her lips the color of lead ; and she 
 was so like death, they could not help 
 
38 
 
 Griffith Gaunt;, or, Jealousy. 
 
 being terribly alarmed ; and now, for 
 the first time, the duellists felt culprits ; 
 and as for fighting, every idea of such 
 a thing went out of their heads. The 
 rivals now were but rival nurses ; and 
 never did a lot of women make more 
 fuss over a child than all these blood- 
 thirsty men did over this Amazon man- 
 qtUe. They produced their legendary 
 lore. One's grandmother had told him 
 burnt feathers were the thing ; another, 
 from an equally venerable source, had 
 gathered that those pink palms must 
 be profanely slapped by the horny hand 
 of man, — for at no less a price could 
 resuscitation be obtained. The surgeon 
 scorning all their legends, Griffith and 
 Neville made hasty rushes with brandy 
 and usquebaugh ; but whether to be 
 taken internally or externally they did 
 not say, nor, indeed, know, but only 
 thrust their flasks wildly on the doctor ; 
 and he declined them loftily. He melt- 
 ed snow in his hand, and dashed it hard 
 in her face, and put salts close to her 
 pretty little nostrils. And this he re- 
 peated many times without eifect. 
 
 But at last her lips began to turn from 
 lead color to white, and then from white 
 to pink, and her heavenly eyes to open 
 again, and her mouth to murmur things 
 pitiably small and not bearing on the 
 matter in hand. 
 
 Her cheek was still colorless, when 
 her consciousness came back, and she 
 found she was lying on the ground with 
 ever so many gentlemen looking at 
 her. 
 
 At that, Modestj' alarmed sent the 
 blood at once rushing to her pale cheek. 
 
 A lovely lily seemed turning to a love- 
 ly rose before their eyes. 
 
 The next thing was, she hid that 
 blushing face in her hands, and began 
 to whimper. 
 
 The surgeon encouraged her : " Nay, 
 \ie. are all friends," he whispered, pater- 
 nally. 
 
 She half parted her fingers and peered 
 through them at Neville and Gaunt. 
 Then she remembered all, and began to 
 cry hysterically. 
 
 New dismay of the unprofessionals ! 
 
 "JVow, gentlemen, if you will knd 
 
 me your flasks," said Mr. Islip, mighty 
 calmly. 
 
 Griffith and Neville were instantly at 
 his side, each with a flask. 
 
 The surgeon administered snow and 
 brandy. Kate sipped these, and gulped 
 down her sobs, and at last cried com- 
 posedly. 
 
 But when it came to sipping bran- 
 died snow and crying comfortably. Ma- 
 jor Rickards's anxiety gave place to 
 curiosity. Without taking his eye off 
 her, he beckoned Mr.' Hammersley 
 apart, and whispered, — 
 
 " Who the Dense is it ? " 
 
 " Don't you know ? " whispered the 
 other in return. " Why, Mistress Pey- 
 ton herself" 
 
 " What ! the girl it is all about ? Well, 
 I never heard of such a thing : the causa 
 belli to come galloping and swooning on 
 the field of battle, and so stop the fight- 
 ing ! What will our ladies do next ? 
 By Heaven ! she is worth fighting for, 
 though. Which is the happy man, I 
 wonder ? She does n't look at either 
 of them." 
 
 " Ah ! " said the gentleman, " that is 
 more than I know, more than Neville 
 knows, more than anybody knows." 
 
 " Bet you a guinea she knows', — and 
 lets it out before she leaves the field," 
 said Major Rickards. 
 
 Mr. Hammersley objected to an even 
 bet ; but said he would venture one to 
 three she did not. It was an age of 
 bets." 
 
 " Done ! " said the Major. 
 
 By this time Kate had risen, with Mp. 
 Islip's assistance, and was now stand- 
 ing with her hand upon the piebald's 
 mane. She saw Rickards and Ham- 
 mersley were whispering about her, and 
 she felt very uneasy : so she told Mr. 
 Islip, timidly, she desired to explain 
 her conduct to all the gentlemen pres- 
 ent, and avert false reports. 
 
 They were soon all about her, and 
 she began, with the most engaging em- 
 barrassment, by making excuses for her 
 weakness. She said she had ridden all 
 the way from home, fasting ; that was 
 what had upset her. The gentlemen 
 took the cue directly, and vowed eager- 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 39 
 
 ly and unanimously it was enough to 
 upset a porter. 
 
 " But, indeed," resumed Kate, blush- 
 ing, "I did not come here to make a 
 fuss, and be troublesome, but to pre- 
 vent mischief, and clear up the strangest 
 misunderstanding between two worthy 
 gentlemen, that are, both of them, my 
 good friends. 
 
 She paused, and there was a chilling 
 silence : everybody felt she was getting 
 on ticklish ground now. She knew that 
 well enough herself But she had a 
 good rudder to steer by, called Mother- 
 Wit. 
 
 Says she, with inimitable coolness, — 
 
 " Mr. Gaunt is an old friend of mine, 
 and a little too sensitive where I am 
 concerned. Some chatterbox has been 
 and told him Mr. Neville should say I 
 have changed horses with him ; and on 
 that the gossips put their own construc- 
 tion. Mr. Gaunt hears all this, and ap- 
 plies insulting terms to Mr. Neville. 
 Nay, do not deny it, Mr. Gaunt, for I 
 have it here in your own handwriting. 
 
 " As for Mr. Neville, he merely de- 
 fends his honor, and is little to blame. 
 But now I shall tell the true story about 
 these horses, and make you aU ashamed 
 of this sorry quarrel. 
 
 " Gentlemen, thus it is. A few days 
 ago Mr. Gaunt bade me farewell, and 
 started for foreign parts. He had not 
 been long gone, when word came from 
 Bolton that Mr. Charlton was no more. 
 You know how sudden it was. Consid- 
 er, gentlemen : him dead, and his heir 
 riding off to the Continent in ignorance. 
 So I thought, 'O, what shall I do ? ' 
 just then Mr. Neville visited me, and I 
 told him : on that he offered me hispie- 
 bald horse to carry the news after Mr. 
 Gaunt, because my gray was too tired : 
 it was the day we drew Yew-tree Brow, 
 and crossed Harrowden Brook, you 
 know," 
 
 GrifiSth interrupted her. 
 
 " Stay a bit," said he : " this is news 
 to me. You never told me he had lent 
 you the piebald nag to do me a good 
 turn." 
 
 " Did I not ? " said Kate, mighty in- 
 nocently. " Well, but I tell you now. 
 
 Ask him : he cannot deny it. As for 
 the rest, it was all done in a hurry ; Mr. 
 Neville had no horse now to ride home 
 with ; he did me the justice to think I 
 should be very ill pleased, were he to 
 trudge home afoot and suffer for his 
 courtesy ; so he borrowed my gray to 
 keep him out of the mire ; and, indeed, 
 the ways were fouler than usual, with 
 the rains. Was there any ill in all this ? 
 
 HONI SOIT QUI MAL Y PENSE ! say I." 
 
 The gentlemen all sided loudly with 
 heron this appealj — except Neville, who 
 held his tongue, and smiled at her plau- 
 sibility, and Griffith, who hung his head 
 at her siding with Neville. 
 
 At last he spoke, and said, sorrowful- 
 
 " If you did exchange horses with 
 him, of course I have only to ask his 
 pardon — and go." 
 
 Catharine reflected a moment before 
 she replied. 
 
 " Well," said she, " I did exchange, 
 and I did not. Why quarrel about a 
 word .' Certainly he took my horse, and 
 I took his ; but it was only for the nonce. 
 Mr. Neville is foreign bred, and an ex- 
 ample to us all : he knows his piebald is 
 worth two of my gray, and so he was 
 too fine a gentleman to send me back 
 my old hunter and ask for his young 
 chai-ger. He waited for me to do that ; 
 and if anybody deserves to be shot, it 
 must be Me. But, dear heart, I did not 
 foresee all this fuss ; I said to myself, 
 ' La, Mr. Neville will be sure to call on 
 my father or me some day, or else I 
 shall be out on the piebald and meet 
 him on the gray, and then we can each 
 take our own again.' Was I so far out 
 in my reckoning ? Is not that my Rosi- 
 nante yonder .■' Here, Tom Leicester, 
 you put my side-saddle on that gray 
 horse, and the man's saddle on the pie- 
 bald there. And now, Griffith Gaunt, 
 it is your turn : you must withdraw your 
 injurious terras, and end this superla- 
 tive folly." 
 
 Griffith hesitated. 
 
 " Come," said Kate, " consider : Mr. 
 Neville is esteemed by all the county : 
 you are the only gentleman in it who 
 has ever uttered a disparaging word 
 
40 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 against him. Are you sure you are 
 more free from passion and prejudice 
 and wiser than all the county ? Oblige 
 me and do what is right. Come, Grif- 
 fith Gaunt, let your reason unsay the 
 barbarous words your passion hath ut- 
 tered against a worthy gentleman whom 
 we all esteem." 
 
 Her habitual influence, and these last 
 words, spoken with gentle and persua- 
 sive dignity, turned the scale. GriiBth 
 turned to Neville, and said in a low 
 voice that he began to fear he had been 
 hasty, and used harsher words than the 
 occasion justified : he was going to 
 stammer out something more, but Nev- 
 ille interrupted him with a noble ges- 
 ture. 
 
 " That is enough, Mr. Gaunt,'' said 
 he. " I do not feel quite blameless in 
 the matter, and have no wish to mor- 
 tify an honorable adversary unnecessa- 
 rily." 
 
 " Very handsomely said," put in Ma- 
 jor Rickards ; " and rtow let me have a 
 word. I say that both gentlemen have 
 conducted themselves like men — under 
 fire ; and that honor is satisfied, and the 
 misunderstanding at an end. As for my 
 principal here, he has shown he can 
 fight, and now he has shown he can hear 
 reason against himself, when the lips of 
 beauty utter it. I approve his conduct 
 fi-om first to last, and am ready to de- 
 fend it in all companies, and in the field, 
 should it ever be impugned." 
 
 Kate colored with pleasure, and gave 
 her hand eloquently to the Major. He 
 bowed over it, and kissed the tips of her 
 fingers. 
 
 " Oh, sir," she said, looking on him. 
 now as a friend, " I dreamed I saw Mr. 
 Neville lying dead upon the snow, with 
 the blood trickling from his temple." 
 
 At this Neville's dark cheek glowed 
 with pleasure. So ! it was her anxiety 
 on his account had brought her here. 
 
 Griifith heard too, and sighed patient- 
 
 Assured by Major Rickards that there 
 neither could nor should be any -more 
 fighting, Kate made her adieus, mounted 
 her gray horse, and rode off, discreetly 
 declining all attendance. She beckoned! 
 
 Tom Leicester, however. But he pre- 
 tended not to see the signal, and let her 
 go alone. His motive for lingering be- 
 hind was characteristic, and will trans- 
 pire shortly. 
 
 As soon as she was gone, Griffith 
 Gaunt quietly reminded the surgeon 
 that there was a bullet in his arm all 
 this time. 
 
 " Bless my soul ! " said Mr. Islip, " I 
 forgot that, I was so taken up with the 
 lady. 
 
 Griffith's coat was now taken off, and 
 the bullet searched for : it had entered 
 the fleshy part of his arm below the el- 
 bow, and, passing round the bone, pro- 
 jected just under the skin. The sur- 
 geon made a slight incision, and then, 
 pressing with his finger and thumb, out 
 it rolled. Griffith put it in his pocket. 
 
 Neville had remained out of civility, 
 and now congratulated his late antago- 
 nist, and himself, that it was no worse. 
 
 The last words that passed between 
 the rivals, on this occasion, were worth 
 recording, and characteristic of the 
 time. 
 
 Neville addressed Gaunt with elabo- 
 rate courtesy, and to this effect : — 
 
 " I find myself in a difficulty, sir. 
 You did me the honor to invite me to 
 Mr. Charlton's funeral, and I accepted ; 
 but now I fear to intrude a guest, the 
 sight of whom may be disagreeable to 
 you. And, on the other hand, my ab- 
 sence might be misconstrued as a mark 
 of disrespect, or of a petty hostility I 
 am far froni feeling. Be pleased, there- 
 fore, to dispose of me entirely in this 
 matter." 
 
 Griffith reflected. 
 
 " Sir," said he, " there is an old say- 
 ing, ' Let every tub stand on its own bot- 
 tom.' The deceased wished you to fol- 
 low him to the grave, and therefore I 
 would on no account have you absent. 
 Besides, now I think of it, there will be 
 less gossip about this unfortunate busi- 
 ness, if our neighbors see you under my 
 roof, and treated with due consideration 
 there, as you will be." 
 
 " I do not doubt that, sir, from so 
 manly an adversary ; and I shall do my- 
 self the honor to come." 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 41 
 
 Such was Neville's reply. The rivals 
 then saluted each other profoundly, and 
 parted. 
 
 Hammersley and Rickards lingered 
 behind their principals to settle their 
 little bet about Kate's affections : and, 
 by the by, they were indiscreet enough 
 to discuss this delicate matter within a 
 dozen yards of Tom Leicester : they 
 forgot that "little pitchers have long 
 
 Catharine Peyton rode slowly home, 
 and thought it all over as she went, and 
 worried herself finely. She was one that 
 winced at notoriety ; and she could not 
 hope to escape it now. How the gos- 
 sips would talk about her ! they would 
 say the gentlemen had fought about her; 
 , and she had parted them for love of one 
 of them. And then the gentlemen them- 
 selves ! The strict neutrality she had 
 endeavored to maintain on Scutchemsee 
 Nob, in order to make peace, would it 
 not keep them both her suitors ? She 
 foresaw she should be pulled to pieces, 
 and live in hot water, and be " the talk 
 of the county." 
 
 There were but two ways out : she 
 must marry one of them, and petition 
 the other not to shoot him ; or else she 
 must take tlie veil, and so escape them 
 both. 
 
 She preferred the latter alternative. 
 She was more enthusiastic in religion 
 than in any earthly thing ; and now the 
 angry passions of men thrust her the 
 same road that her own devout mind 
 had always drawn her. 
 
 As soon as she got home, she sent a 
 message to Father Francis, who drove 
 her conscience, and begged him to come 
 and advise her. 
 
 After that she did the wisest thing, 
 perhaps, she had done all day, — went 
 to bed. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 The sun was just setting when Cath- 
 arine's maid came into her room and 
 told her Father Francis was below. She 
 sent down to say she counted on his 
 
 sleeping at Peyton Hall, and she would 
 come down to him in half an hour. She 
 then ordered a refection to be prepared 
 for him in her boudoir ; and made her 
 toilet with all reasonable speed, not to 
 keep him waiting. Her face beamed 
 with quiet complacency now, for the 
 holy man's very presence in the house 
 was^a comfort to her. 
 
 Father Francis was a very stout, mus- 
 cular man, with a ruddy countenance ; 
 he never wore gloves, and you saw at 
 once he was not a gentleman by birth. 
 He had a fine voice : it was deep, mel- 
 low, and, when he chose, sonorous. 
 This, and his person, ample, but not 
 obese, gave him great weight, especially 
 with his female pupils. If he was not 
 quite so much reverenced by the men, 
 yet he was both respected and liked ; in 
 fact, he had qualities that make men 
 welcome in every situation, — good hu- 
 mor, good sense, and tact. A good son 
 of his Church, and early trained to let' 
 no occasion slip of advancing her in- 
 terests. 
 
 I wish my readers could have seen 
 the meeting between Catharine Peyton 
 and this burly ecclesiastic. She came 
 into the drawing-room with that im- 
 perious air and carriage which had 
 made her so unpopular with her own 
 sex ; and at the bare sight of Father 
 Francis, drooped and bent in a moment 
 as she walked ; and her whole body in- 
 dicated a submissiveness, graceful, but 
 rather abject : it was as if a young 
 poplar should turn to a weeping willow 
 in half a moment. Thus metamor- 
 phosed, the Beauty of Cumberland 
 glided up to Francis, and sank slowly 
 on her knees before him, crossed her 
 hands on her bosom, lowered her lovely 
 head, and awaited his benediction. 
 
 The father laid two big, coarse hands, 
 with enormous fingers, on that thor- 
 ough-bred head and golden hair, and 
 blessed her business-like. 
 
 "The hand of less employment hath the daintier 
 sense." — Shakespeare, 
 
 Father Francis blessed so many of 
 these pretty creatures every week, that 
 he had long outgrown your fine, roman- 
 tic way of blessing a body. (We man- 
 
42 
 
 Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 age these things better in the theatre.) 
 Then he lent her his hand to rise, and 
 asked her in what she required his di- 
 rection at present. 
 
 "In that which shall decide my whole 
 life," said she. 
 
 Francis responded by a look of pater- 
 nal interest. 
 
 "But first," murmured she, "let me 
 confess to you, and obtain absolution, 
 if I may. Ah, Father, my sins have been 
 many since last confession ! " 
 
 " Be it so," said Father Francis, re- 
 signedly. " Confession is the best pref- 
 ace to Direction." And he seated him- 
 self with a certain change of manner, an 
 easy assumption of authority. 
 
 " Nay, Father," suggested the lady, 
 " we shall be more private in my 
 room." 
 
 "As you will. Mistress Catharine 
 Peyton," said the priest, returning to 
 his usual manner. 
 
 So then the fair penitent led her 
 spiritual judge captive up another flight 
 of stairs, and into her little boudoir. A 
 cheerful wood fire crackled and flamed 
 up the chimney, and a cloth had been 
 laid on a side table : cold turkey and 
 chine graced the board, and a huge 
 glass magnum of purple Burgundy 
 glowed and shone in the rays of the 
 cheery fire. 
 
 Father Francis felt cosey at the sight ; 
 and at once accepted Kate's invitation 
 to take some nourishment before enter- 
 mg on the labor of listening to the cata- 
 logue of her crimes. " I fasted yester- 
 day," he muttered ; and the zeal with 
 which he attacked the viands rendered 
 the statement highly credible. 
 
 He invited Kate to join him, but she 
 declined. 
 
 He returned more than once to the 
 succulent meats, and washed all down 
 with a pint of the fine old Burgundy, 
 perfumed and purple. Meantime she 
 of the la'ity sat looking into the fire with 
 heavenly-minded eyes. 
 
 At last, with a gentle sigh of content, 
 the ghostly father installed himself in 
 an arm-chair by the fire, and invited his 
 penitent to begin. 
 
 She took a footstool and brought it 
 
 to his side, so that, in confessing her 
 blacker vices, she might be able to whis- 
 per them in his very ear. She kneeled 
 on her little footstool, put her hands 
 across her breast, and in this lowly atti- 
 tude murmured softly after this fashion, 
 with a contrite voice : — 
 
 " I have to accuse myself of many 
 vices. Alas ! in one short fortnight I 
 have accumulated the wickedness of a 
 life. I have committed the seven dead- 
 ly sins. I have been guilty of Pride, 
 Wrath, Envy, Disobedience, Immod- 
 esty, Vanity, Concupiscence, Fibs," 
 
 " Gently, daughter," said the priest, 
 quietly ; " these terms are too general : 
 give me instances. Let us begin with 
 Wrath : ah ! we are all prone to that." 
 
 The fair penitent sighed and said, — 
 
 " Especially me. Example : I was , 
 angry beyond reason with my maid, 
 Ruth. (She does comb my hair so 
 uncouthly ! ) So, then, the other night, 
 when I was in trouble, and most need- 
 ed soothing by being combed womanly, 
 she gets thinking of Harry, that helps 
 in the stable, and she tears away at my 
 hair. I started up and screamed out, 
 ' Oh, you clumsy thing ! go curry-coteib 
 my horse, and send that oaf your head 
 is running on to handle my hair.' And 
 I told her my grandam would have 
 whipped her well for it, but now-a-days 
 mistresses were the only sufferers : we 
 had lost the use of our hands, we are 
 grown so squeamish. And I stamped 
 like a fury, and said, ' Get you gone 
 out of the room ! ' and ' I hated the sight 
 of her ! ' And the poor girl went from 
 me, crying, without a word, being a bet- 
 ter Christian than her mistress. Mea 
 culpa ! mea culpa ! " 
 
 " Did you slap her ? " 
 
 " Nay, Father, not so bad as that." 
 
 " Are you quite sure you did not slap 
 her ? " asked Francis, quietly. 
 
 " Nay. But I had a mind to. My 
 heart slapped her, if my hand forbore. 
 Alas ! " 
 
 " Had she hurt you ? " 
 
 "That she did, — but only my head. 
 I hurt her heart ; for the poor wench 
 loves me dear, — the Lord knows for 
 what." ' 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or. Jealousy. 
 
 43 
 
 " Humph ! — proceed to Pride." 
 
 "Yes, Father. I do confess that I 
 was greatly puffed up with the praises 
 of men. I was proud of the sorriest 
 things : of jumping a brook, when 't was 
 my horse jumped It, and had jumped it 
 better with a fly on his back than the 
 poor worm Me ; of my good looks, for- 
 getting that God gave them me ; and 
 besides, I am no beauty, when all is 
 done ; it is all their flattery. And at 
 my Lady Munster's dinner I pridefully 
 walked out before Mistress Davies, the 
 rich cheesemonger's wife, that is as 
 proud of her money as I of my old 
 blood, (God forgive two fools ! ) which 
 I had no right to do, — a maid to walk 
 before a wife ; and oh. Father, I whis- 
 pered the gentleman who led me out — 
 it was Mr. Neville " 
 
 Here the penitent put one hand be- 
 fore her face, and hesitated. 
 
 " Well, daughter, half-confession is 
 no confession. You said to Mr. Nev- 
 ille ? " 
 
 "I said,' Nothing comes after cheese.' " 
 
 This revelation was made most dole- 
 fully. 
 
 " It was pert and unbecoming," said 
 Father Francis, gravely, though a twin- 
 kle in his. eye showed that he was not 
 so profoundly shocked as his penitent 
 appeared to be. "But go to graver 
 matters. Immodesty, said you? I shall 
 be very sorry, if this is so. You did 
 not use to be immodest." 
 
 " Well, Father, I hope I have not alto- 
 gether laid aside modesty ; otherwise it 
 would be time for me to die, let alone 
 to confess ; but sure it cannot be 
 modest of me to ride after a gentleman 
 and take him a letter. And then that 
 was not enough : I heard of a duel, — 
 and what did I do but ride to Scutch- 
 emsee Nob, and interfere ? What gen- 
 tlewoman ever was so bold ? I was 
 not their wife, you know, — neither of 
 them's." 
 
 " Humph ! " said the priest, " I have 
 already heard a whisper of this, — but 
 told to your credit. Beati pacifici : 
 Blessed are the peacemakers. You had 
 better lay that matter before me by and 
 by, as your director. As your confessor, 
 
 tell me why you accuse yourself of con- 
 cupiscence." 
 
 " Alas ! " said the young lady, " scarce 
 a day passes that I do not offend in that 
 respect. Example : last Friday, dining 
 abroad, the cooks sent up i. dish of col- 
 lops. O, Father, they smelt so nice ! 
 and I had been a-hunting. First I 
 smelt them, and that I could n't help. 
 But then I forgot custodia oculorum, 
 and I eyed them. And the next thing 
 was, presently — somehow — two of 'em 
 were on my plate." 
 
 " Very wrong," said Francis ; " but 
 that is a harsher term than I should 
 have applied to this longing of a hungry 
 woman for coUops o' Friday. Pray, 
 what do you understand by that big 
 word ? " 
 
 " Why, you explained it yourself, in 
 your last sermon. It means ' unruly and 
 inordinate desires.' Example : Edith 
 Hammersley told me I was mad to ride 
 in scarlet, and me so feir and my hair so 
 light. ' Green or purple is your color,' 
 says she ; and soon after this did n't I 
 see in Stanhope town the loveliest piece 
 of purple broadcloth ? O, Father, it had 
 a gloss like velvet, and the sun did so 
 shine on it as it lay in the shop- window ; 
 it was fit for a king or a bishop ; and I 
 stood and gloated on it, and pined for it, 
 and died for it, and down went the Tenth 
 Commandment." 
 
 "Ah," said Francis, "the hearts of 
 women are set on vanity ! But tpU me, 
 — these unruly affections of yours, are 
 they ever fixed on persons of the other 
 sex ? " 
 
 The fair sinner reflected. 
 
 " On gentlemen ? " said she. " Why, 
 they come pestering one of their own 
 accord. No, no, — I could do without 
 them very well. What I sinfully pine 
 for is meat on a Friday as sure as 
 ever the day comes round, and high- 
 couraged horses to ride, and fine clothes 
 to wear every day in the week. Mea 
 culpa ! 7nea culpa ! " 
 
 Such being the dismal state of things, 
 Francis slyly requested her to leave the 
 seven deadly' sins in peace, and go 
 td her small offences : for he argued, 
 shrewdly enough, that, since her sins 
 
44 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or. Jealousy. 
 
 were peccadilloes, perhaps some of her 
 peccadilloes might turn out to be sins. 
 
 " Small ! " cried the culprit, turning 
 red, — " they are none of them small." 
 
 I really think she was jealous of her 
 reputation as a sinner of high degree. 
 
 However, she comphed, and, putting 
 up her mouth, murmured a miscellane- 
 ous confession without end. The ac- 
 cents were soft and musical, lilce a bab- 
 bhng brook ; and the sins, such as they 
 were, poor things, rippled on in endless 
 rotation. 
 
 Now nothing tends more to repose 
 than a purling brook ; and erelong 
 something sonorous let the fair culprit 
 know she had lulled her confessor 
 asleep. 
 
 She stopped, indignant. But at that 
 he instantly awoke, {sublatd causa, tol- 
 litur effectus,) and addressed her thus, 
 with sudden dignity, — 
 
 " My daughter, you will fast on Mon- 
 day next, and say two Aves and a 
 Credo. Absolve te." 
 
 " And now," said he, " as I am a prac- 
 tical man, let us get back from the im- 
 aginary world into the real. Speak to 
 me at present as your director ; and 
 mind, you must be serious now, and call 
 things by their right names." 
 
 Upon this Kate took a seat, and told 
 her story, and showed him the difficulty 
 she was in. 
 
 She then reminded him, that, notwith- 
 standing her unfortunate itch for the sev- 
 en deadly sins, she was a good Catholic, 
 a zealous daughter of the Church ; and 
 she let him know her desire to retire 
 from both lovers into a convent, and 
 so, freed from the world and its temp- 
 tations, yield up her soul entire to ce- 
 lestial peace and divine contemplation. 
 
 " Not so fast," said the priest. " Even 
 zeal is naught without obedience. If 
 you could serve the Church better than 
 by going into a convent, would you be 
 wilful ? " 
 
 " O, no. Father ! But how can I 
 serve the Church better than by re- 
 nouncing the world ? " 
 
 " Perhaps by remaining in the world, 
 as she herself does, — and by making 
 converts to the faith. You could hard- 
 
 ly serve her worse than by going into a 
 convent : for our convents are poor, and 
 you have no means ; you would be a 
 charge. No, daughter, we want no 
 poor nuns ; we have enough of them. 
 If you are, as I think, a true and zeal- 
 ous daughter of the Church, you must 
 marry, and instil the true faith, with all 
 a mother's art, a mother's tenderness, 
 into your children. Then the heir to 
 your husband's estates will be a Cath- 
 olic, and so the true faith get rooted in 
 the soil." 
 
 " Alas ! " said Catharine, " are we to 
 look but to the worldly interests of the 
 Church } " 
 
 " They are inseparable from her spir- 
 itual interests here on earth : our souls 
 are not more bound to our bodies." 
 
 Catharine was deeply mortified. 
 
 "So the Church rejects me because 
 I am poor,'' said she, with a sigh. 
 
 "The Church rejects you not, but 
 only the Convent. No place is less fit 
 for you. You have a high spirit, and 
 high religious sentiments : both would 
 be mortified and shocked in a nunnery. 
 Think you that convent-walls can shut 
 out temptation ? I know them better 
 than you : they are strongholds of 
 vanity, folly, tittle-tattle, and all the 
 meanest vices of your sex. Nay, I for- 
 bid you to think of it : show me now 
 your faith by your obedience." 
 
 " You are harsh to me, Father," said 
 Catharine, piteously. 
 
 " I am firm. You are one that needs 
 a tight hand. Mistress. Come, now, 
 humility and obedience, these are the 
 Christian graces that best become your 
 youth. Say, can the Church, through 
 me, its minister, count on these from 
 you? or" (suddenly letting loose his 
 diapason ) " did you send for me to ask 
 advice, and yet go your own way, hid- 
 ing a high stomach and a wilful heart 
 under a show of humility ? " 
 
 Catharme looked at Father Francis 
 with dismay. This was the first time 
 that easy-going priest had shown her 
 how impressive he could be. She was 
 downright frightened, and said she 
 hoped she knew better than to defy her 
 director ; she laid her will at his feet, and 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or. Jealousy. 
 
 45 
 
 would obey him like a child, as was her 
 duty. 
 
 " Now I know my daughter again," 
 said he, and gave her his horrible paw, 
 the which she kissed very humbly, and 
 that matter was settled to her entire 
 dissatisfaction. 
 
 Soon after that, they were both sum- 
 moned to supper ; but as they went 
 down, Kate's maid drew her aside and 
 told her a young man wanted to speak 
 to her. 
 
 " A young man ? " screamed Kate. 
 " Hang young men ! They have got 
 me a fine scolding just now ! Which is 
 it, pray ? " 
 
 " He is a stranger to me." 
 
 " Perhaps he comes with a message 
 from some fool. You may bring him 
 to me in the hall, and stay with us : it 
 may be a thief, for aught I know." 
 
 The maid soon reappeared, followed 
 by Mr. Thomas Leicester. 
 
 That young worthy had lingered on 
 ScHtchemsee Nob, to extract the last 
 drop of enjoyment from the situation, 
 by setting up his hat at ten paces, and 
 firing the gentlemen's pistols at it. I 
 despair of conveying to any rational 
 reader the satisfaction, keen, though 
 brief, this afforded him ; it was a new 
 sensation : gentlemen's guns he had 
 fired many; but duelling -pistols, not 
 one, till that bright hour. 
 
 He was now come to remind Catha- 
 rine of his pecuniary claims. Luckily 
 for him, she was one who did not need 
 to be reminded of her promises. 
 
 " Oh, it is you, child ! " said she. 
 " Well, I '11 be as good as my word." 
 
 She then dismissed her maid, and 
 went up stairs, and soon returned with 
 two guineas, a crown piece, and three 
 shillings in her hand. 
 
 " There," said she, smiling, " I am 
 sorry for you, but that is all the money 
 I have in the world." 
 
 The boy's eyes glittered at sight of 
 the coin : he rammed the silver into his 
 pocket with hungry rapidity ; but he 
 shook his head about the gold. 
 
 " I 'm afeard o' these," said he, and 
 eyed them mistrustfully in his palm. 
 "These be the friends that get you 
 
 your throat cut o' dark nights. Mis- 
 tress, please you keep 'em for me, and 
 let me have a shilling now and then 
 when I 'm dry." 
 
 " Nay," said Kate, " but are you not 
 afraid I shall spend your money, now 
 I have none left of my own ? " 
 
 Tom seemed quite struck with the 
 reasonableness of this observation, and 
 hesitated. However, he concluded to 
 risk it. 
 
 " You don't look one of the sort to 
 wrong a poor fellow," said he; "and 
 besides, you '11 have brass to spare of 
 your own before long, I know." 
 
 Kate opened her eyes. 
 
 " Oh, indeed ! " said she ; " and pfay, 
 how do you know that ? " 
 
 Mr. Leicester favored her with a 
 knowing wink. He gave her a moment 
 to digest this, and then said, almost in 
 a whisper, — 
 
 " Hearkened the gentlefolks on Scutch- 
 emsee Nob, after you was gone home, 
 Mistress." 
 
 Kate was annoyed. 
 
 " What ! they must be prating as 
 soon as one's back is turned 1 Talk of 
 women's tongues ! Now what did they 
 say, I should like to know ? " 
 
 " It was about the bet, ye know." 
 
 "A bet? Oh, that is no affair of 
 mine." 
 
 " Ay, but it is. Why, 't was you they 
 were betting on. Seems that old soger 
 and Squire Hammersley had laid three 
 guineas to one that you should let out 
 which was your fancy of them two." 
 
 Kate's cheeks were red as fire now ; 
 but her delicacy overpowered her curi- 
 osity, and she would not put any more 
 questions. To be sure, young Hopeful 
 needed none ; he was naturally a chat- 
 terbox, and he proceeded to tell her, that, 
 as soon as ever she was gone, Squire 
 Hammersley took a guinea and offered 
 it to the old soldier, and told him he 
 had won, and the old soldier pocketed 
 it. But after that, somehow. Squire 
 Hammersley let drop that Mr. Neville 
 was the favorite. 
 
 "Then," continued Mr. Leicester, 
 " what does the old soger do, but pull 
 out guinea again, and says he, — 
 
46 
 
 Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 " ' You must have this back ; bet is 
 not won ; for you do think 't is Neville ; 
 now I do think 't is Gaunt.' 
 
 " So then they fell to argufying and 
 talking a lot o' stuff" 
 
 " No doubt, the insolent meddlers ! 
 Can you remember any of their non- 
 sense ? — not that it is worth remember- 
 ing, I '11 be bound." 
 
 " Let me see. Well, Squire Ham- 
 mersley, he said you owned to dream- 
 ing of Squire Neville, — and that was 
 a sign of love, said he ; and, besides, 
 you sided with him against t' other. 
 But the old soger, he said you called 
 Squire Gaunt ' Griffith ' ; and he built 
 on that. Oh, and a said you changed 
 the horses back to please our Squire. 
 Says he, — 
 
 " ' You must look to what the lady 
 did ; never heed what she said. Why, 
 their sweet lips was only made to kiss 
 us, and deceive us,' says that there old 
 soger." 
 
 " I '11 — I 'U And what did you 
 
 say, Sir ? — for I suppose your tongue 
 was not idle." 
 
 " Oh, me ? I never let 'em know I 
 was hearkening, or they 'd have 'greed in 
 a moment for to give me a hiding. Be- 
 sides, I had no need to cudgel my brains ; 
 I 'd only to ask you plump. You '11 
 tell me, I know. Which is it. Mistress ? 
 I 'm for Gaunt, you know, in course. 
 Alack, Mistress," gabbled this voluble 
 youth, " sure you won't be so hard as 
 sack my Squire, and him got a bullet 
 in his carcass, for love of you, this 
 day." 
 
 Kate started, and looked at him in 
 surprise. 
 
 " Oh," said she, "a bullet ! 'Did they 
 fight again the moment they saw my 
 back was turned ? The cowards ! " 
 
 And she began to tremble. 
 
 " No, no," said Tom ; " that was done 
 before ever you came up. Don't ye 
 remember that single shot while we 
 were climbing the Nob ? Well, 't was 
 Squire Gaunt got it in the arm that 
 time." 
 
 " Oh ! " 
 
 " But I say, was n't our man game ? 
 Never let out he was hit while you was 
 
 there ; but as soon as ever you was 
 gone, they cut the bullet out of hira, 
 and I seen it." 
 
 "Ah! — ah!" 
 
 " Doctor takes out his knife, — pre- 
 cious sharp and shiny 't was I — cuts 
 into his arm with no more ado than if 
 he was carving a pullet, — out squirts 
 the blood, a good un." 
 
 " Oh, no more ! no more ! You cruel 
 boy ! how could you bear to look ? " 
 
 And Kate hid her own face with both 
 hands. 
 
 " Why, 't was n't my skin as was cut 
 into. Squire Gaunt, he never hollered ; 
 a winced, though, and ground his teeth ; 
 but 't was over in a minute, and the 
 bullet in his hand. 
 
 "'That is for my wife,' says he, 'if 
 ever I have one,' — and puts it in his 
 pocket. 
 
 " Why, Mistress, you be as white as 
 your smock ! " 
 
 " No, no ! Did he faint, poor soul ? " 
 
 " Not he ! What was there to faint 
 about ? " 
 
 " Then why do I feel so sick, even to 
 hear of it?" 
 
 " Because you ha'n't got no stom- 
 ach," said the boy, contemptuously. 
 "Your courage is skin-deep, I 'm think- 
 ing. However, I 'm glad you feel for 
 our Squire, about the bullet ; so now I 
 hope you will wed with ^zV/z, and sack 
 Squire Neville. Then you and I shall 
 be kind o' kin : Squire Gaunt's feyther 
 was my feyther. That makes you stare; 
 Mistress. Why, all the folk do know it. 
 Look at this here little mole on my 
 forehead. Squire Gaunt have got the 
 fellow to that." 
 
 At this crisis of his argument he sud- 
 denly caught a ghmpse of his personal 
 interest ; instantly he ceased his advo- 
 cacy of Squire Gaunt, and became lu- 
 dicrously impartial. 
 
 " Well, Mistress ; wed whichever you 
 like," said he, with sublime indifference ; 
 "only whichever you tfo wed, prithee 
 speak a word to the gentleman, and get 
 me to be his gamekeeper. I 'd liever 
 be your goodman's gamekeeper than 
 king of England." 
 
 He was proceeding with vast volubil- 
 
Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 47 
 
 ity to enumerate his qualifications for 
 that confidential post, when the lady 
 cut him short, and told him to go and 
 get his supper in the kitchen, for she was 
 wanted elsewhere. He made a scrape, 
 and clattered away with his hobnailed 
 shoes. 
 
 Kate went to the hall window and 
 opened it, and let the cold air blow over 
 her face. 
 
 Her heart was touched, and her bos- 
 om filled with pity for her old sweet- 
 heart. 
 
 How hard she had been ! She had 
 sided with Neville against the wounded 
 man. And she thought how sadly and 
 patiently he had submitted to her de- 
 cision, — and a bullet in his poor arm 
 all the time. 
 
 -The gentle bosom heaved, and heav- 
 ed, and the tears began to run. 
 
 She entered the dining-room timidly, 
 expecting some comment on her discour- 
 teous absence. Instead of that, both 
 her father and her director rose respect- 
 fully, and received her with kind and 
 affectionate looks. They then pressed 
 heir to eat this and that, and were re- 
 markably attentive and kind. She could 
 see that she was deep in their good books. 
 This pleased her ; but she watched 
 quietly, after the manner of her sex, to 
 learn what it was all about. Nor was 
 she left long in the dark. Remarks 
 were made that hit her, though they 
 were none of them addressed to her. 
 
 Father Francis delivered quite a lit- 
 tle homily on Obedience, and said how 
 happy a thing it was, when zeal, a virtue 
 none too common in these degenerate 
 days, was found tempered by humility, 
 and subservient to ghostly counsel and 
 authority. 
 
 Mr. Peyton dealt in no general topics 
 of that kind ; his discourse was secu- 
 lar :, it ran upon Neville's Cross, Nev- 
 ille's Court, and the Baronetcy; and 
 he showed Francis how and why this 
 title rnust sooner or later come to 
 George Neville and the heirs of his 
 body. 
 
 Francis joined in this topic for a 
 while, but speedily diverged into what 
 
 might be called a collateral theme. He 
 described to Kate a delightful spot 
 on the Neville estate, where a nunnery 
 might be built and endowed by any 
 good Catholic lady having zeal, and 
 influence with the owner of the estate, 
 and with the lord-lieutenant of the 
 county. 
 
 " It is three parts an island, (for the 
 river Wey curls round it lovingly,) but 
 backed by wooded slopes that keep off 
 the north and east winds : a hidden and 
 balmy place, such as the forefathers- of 
 the Church did use to choose for their 
 rustic abbeys, whose ruins still survive 
 to remind us of the pious and glorious 
 days gone by. Trout and salmon come 
 swimming to the door ; hawthorn and 
 woodbine are as rife there as weeds be 
 in some parts ; two broad oaks stand 
 on turf like velvet, and ring with song- 
 birds. A spot by nature sweet, calm, 
 and holy, — good for pious exercises 
 and heavenly contemplation : there, me- 
 thinks, if it be God's will I should see, 
 old age, I would love to end my own 
 days, at peace with Heaven and witli 
 all mankind." 
 
 Kate was much moved by this pic- 
 ture, and her clasped hands and glis- 
 tening eyes showed the glory and de- 
 light it would be to her to build a con- 
 vent on so lovely a spot. But her words 
 were vague. " How sweet ! how sweet ! " 
 was all she committed herself to. For, 
 after what Tom Leicester had just told 
 her, she hardly knew what to say or 
 what to think or what to do ; she felt 
 she had become a mere puppet, first 
 drawn one way, then another. 
 
 One thing appeared pretty clear to 
 her now : Father Francis did not mean 
 her to choose between her two lovers ; 
 he was good enough to relieve her of 
 that difficulty by choosing for her. She 
 was to marry Neville. 
 
 She retired to rest directly after sup- 
 per ; for she was thoroughly worn out. 
 And the moment she rose to go, her 
 father bounced up, and lighted the bed- 
 candle for her with novel fervor, and 
 kissed her on the cheek, and said in 
 her ear, — 
 
 " Good night, my Lady Neville ! " 
 
48 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 What with the day's excitement, and 
 a sweet secluded convent in her soul, 
 and a bullet in her bosom, and a ringing 
 in her ear, that sounded mighty like 
 " Lady Neville ! Lady Neville ! Lady 
 Neville ! " Kate spent a restless night, 
 and woke with a bad headache. 
 
 She sent her maid to excuse her, on 
 this score, from going to Bolton Hall. 
 But she was informed, in reply, that the 
 carriage had been got ready expressly 
 for her ; so she must be good enough 
 to shake off disease and go ; the air 
 would do her a deal more good than 
 lying abed. 
 
 Thereupon she dressed herself in her 
 black silk gown, and came down, look- 
 ing pale and languid, but still quite love- 
 ly enough to discharge what in this age 
 of cant I suppose we should call " her 
 mission " : videlicet^ to set honest men 
 by the ears. 
 
 At half past eight o'clock the carriage 
 came round to the front door. Its body 
 all glorious with the Peyton armorials 
 and with patches of rusty gilding, swung 
 exce^cUjJgly loose on long leathern straps 
 instead of springs ; and the fore- wheels 
 were a inile from the hind-wheels, more 
 or less. A pretentious and horrible en- 
 gine ; drawn by four horses ; only two 
 of them being ponies impaired the sym- 
 metry and majestic beauty of the pag- 
 eant. Old Joe drove the wheelers ; his 
 boy rode the leaders, and every now 
 and then got off and kicked them in the 
 pits of their stomachs, or pierced them 
 with hedge-stakes, to rouse their mettle. 
 Thus encouraged and stimulated, they 
 effected an average of four miles and a 
 half per hour, notwithstanding the snow, 
 and reached Bolton just in time. At the 
 lodge, Francis got out, and lay in am- 
 bush, — but only for a time. He did not 
 think it orthodox to be present at a 
 religious ceremony of his Protestant 
 friends, — nor common-sense-o-dox to 
 turn his back upon their dinner. 
 
 The carriage drew up at the hall-door. 
 It was wide open, and the hall lined with 
 servants, male and female, in black. In 
 the midst, between these two rows, stood 
 
 Griffith Gaunt, bareheaded, to welcome 
 the guests. His arm was in a sling. He 
 had received all the others in the middle 
 of the hall ; but he came to the thresh- 
 old to meet Kate and her father. He 
 bowed low and respectfully, then gave 
 his left hand to Kate to conduct her, 
 after the formal fashion of the day. The 
 sight of his arm in a sling startled and 
 affected her ; and with him giving her 
 his hand almost at the same moment, 
 she pressed it, or indeed squeezed it 
 nervously, and it was in her heart to say 
 something kind and womanly : but her 
 father was close behind, and she was 
 afraid of saying something too kind, if 
 she said anything at all ; so Griffith only 
 got a little gentle nervous pinch. But 
 that was more than he expected, and 
 sent a thrill of delight through him ; his 
 brown eyes replied with a volume, and 
 holding her hand up in the air as high 
 as her ear, and keeping at an incredible 
 distance, he led her solemnly to a room 
 where the other ladies were, and left her 
 there with a profound bow. 
 
 The Peytons were nearly the last per- 
 sons expected ; and soon after their arri- 
 val the funeral procession formed. This 
 part was entirely arranged by the under- 
 taker. The monstrous custom of forbid- 
 ding ladies to follow their dead had not 
 yet occurred even to the idiots of the na- 
 tion, and Mr. Peyton and his daughter 
 were placed in the second carriage. The 
 first contained Griffith Gaunt alone, as 
 head mourner. But the Peytons were 
 not alone : no other relation of the de- 
 ceased being present, the undertaker 
 put Mr. Neville with the Peytons, be- 
 cause he was heir to a baronetcy. 
 
 Kate was much startled, and aston- 
 ished to see him come out into the hall. 
 But when he entered the carriage, she 
 welcomed him wannly. 
 
 " Oh, I am so glad to see you here ! " 
 said she. 
 
 " Guess by that what my delight at 
 meeting you must be," said he. 
 
 She blushed and turned it off. 
 
 " I mean, that your coming here gives 
 me good hopes there will be no more 
 mischief." 
 
 She then lowered her voice, and beg- 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 49 
 
 ged him on no account to tell her papa, 
 of her ride to Scutchemsee Nob. 
 
 " Not a word," said George. 
 
 He knew the advantage of sharing a 
 secret with a fair lady. He proceeded 
 to whisper something very warm in her 
 ear : she listened to some of it ; but then 
 remonstrated, and said, — 
 
 " Are you not ashamed to go on so 
 at a funeral ? Oh, do, pray, leave com- 
 pliments a moment, and think of your 
 latter end." 
 
 He took this suggestion, as indeed he 
 did everything from her, in good part ; 
 and composed his visage into a decent 
 gravity. 
 
 Soon after this they reached the 
 church, and buried the deceased in his 
 family vault. 
 
 People who are not bereaved by the 
 death are always inclined to chatter. 
 Coming home from a funeral. Kate now 
 talked to Neville of her own accord, 
 and asked him if he had spoken to his 
 host. He said yes, and, more than 
 that, had come to a clear understand- 
 ing with him. 
 
 " We agreed that it was no use fight- 
 ing for you. I said, if either of us two 
 was to kill the other, it did not follow 
 you would wed the survivor." 
 
 " Me wed the wretch ! " said Kate. 
 " I should abhor him, and go into a con- 
 vent in spite of you all, and end my 
 days praying for the murdered man's 
 soul." 
 
 " Neither of us is worth all that," 
 suggested Neville, with an accent of 
 conviction. 
 
 " That is certain," replied the lady, 
 dryly ; " so please not to do it." 
 
 He bade her set her mind at ease : 
 they had both agreed to try and win 
 her by peaceful arts. 
 
 " Then a pretty life mine will be ! " 
 
 "Well, I think it will, till you de- 
 cide." 
 
 " I could easily decide, if it were not 
 for giving pain to — somebody." 
 
 " Oh, you can't help that. My sweet 
 inistress, you are not the first that has 
 had to choose between two' worthy men. 
 For, in sooth, I have nothing to say 
 against my rival, neither. I know him 
 
 4 
 
 better than I did : he is a very worthy 
 gentleman, though he is damnably in 
 my way." 
 
 " And you are a very noble one to 
 say so." 
 
 " And you are one of those that make 
 a man noble : I feel that petty arts are 
 not the way to win you, and I scorn 
 them. Sweet Mistress Kate, I adore 
 you ! You are the best and noblest, as 
 well as the loveliest of women ! " 
 
 " Oh, hush, Mr. Neville ! I am a crea- 
 ture of clay, — and you are another,— 
 and both of us coming home from a 
 funeral. Do think of thaV 
 
 Here they were interrupted by Mr. 
 Peyton asking Kate to lend him a shil- 
 ling for the groom. Kate replied aloud 
 that she had left her purse at home, then 
 whispered in his ear that she had not 
 a shilling in the world : and this was 
 strictly true ; for her little all was Tom 
 Leicester's now. With this they reached 
 the Hall, and the coy Kate gave both 
 •Neville and Gaunt the slip, and got 
 amongst her mates. There her tongue 
 went as fast as her neighbors', though 
 she had just come back from a funeral. 
 
 But soon the ladies and gentlemen 
 were all invited to the reading of the 
 will. 
 
 And now chance, which had hitherto 
 befriended Neville by throwing him into 
 one carriage with Kate, gave Gaunt a 
 turn. He found her a moment alone 
 and near the embrasure of a window. 
 He seized the opportunity, and asked 
 her, might he say a word in her ear ? 
 
 " What a question ! " said she, gayly ; 
 and the next moment they had the em- 
 brasure to themselves. 
 
 " Kate," said he, hurriedly, " in a few 
 minutes, I suppose, I shall be master 
 of this place. Now you told me once 
 you would rather be an abbess or a nun 
 than marry me." 
 
 " Did I ? " said Kate. « What a sen- 
 sible speech ! But the worst of it is, 
 I 'm never in the same mind long." 
 
 « Well," replied Griffith, " I think of 
 all that falls from your lips, and your 
 will is mine ; only for pity's sake do not 
 wed any man but me. You have known 
 me so long ; why, you know the worst 
 
50 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy, 
 
 of me by this time : and you have only 
 seen the outside oihim." 
 
 " Detraction ! is that what you want- 
 ed to say to me ? " aslced Kate, freezing 
 suddenly. 
 
 " Nay, nay ; it was about the abbey. 
 I find you can be an abbess without go- 
 ing and shutting yourself up and break- 
 ing one's heart. The way is, you build 
 a convent in Ireland, and endow it ; and 
 then you send a nun over to govern it 
 under you. Bless your heart, you can 
 do anything with money; and I shall 
 have money enough before the day is 
 over. To be sure, I did intend to build 
 a kennel and keep harriers, and you 
 know that costs a good penny : but we 
 could n't manage a kennel and an ab- 
 bey too ; so now down goes the Eng- 
 lish kennel, and up goes the Irish ab- 
 bey." 
 
 " But you are a Protestant gentle- 
 man. You could not found a nunnery.'' 
 "But my wife could. Whose busi- 
 ness is it what she does with her mon- 
 ey?" 
 
 " With your money, you mean." 
 " Nay, with hers, when I give it her 
 with all my heart." 
 
 "Well, you astonish me," said Kate, 
 thoughtfully. " Tell me, now, who put 
 it into your head to bribe a poor girl in 
 this abominable way ? " 
 
 " Who put it in my head ? " said Grif- 
 fith, looking rather puzzled ; " why, I 
 suppose my heart put it in my head." 
 
 Kate smiled very sweetly at this an- 
 swer, and a wild hope thrilled through 
 Griffith that perhaps she might be 
 brought to terms. 
 
 But at this crisis the lawyer from 
 London was announced, and Griffith, as 
 master of the house, was obliged to seat 
 the company. He looked bitterly dis- 
 appointed at the interruption, but put 
 a good face on it, and had more chairs 
 in, and saw them all seated, beginning 
 with Kate and the other ladies. 
 
 The room was spacious, and the en- 
 tire company sat in the form of a horse- 
 shoe. 
 
 The London solicitor was introduced 
 by Griffith, and bowed in a short, busi- 
 ness-like way, seated himself in the 
 
 horse-shoe aforesaid, and began to read 
 the will aloud. 
 
 It was a lengthy document, and there 
 is nothing to be gained by repeating 
 every line of it. I pick* out a clause 
 here and there. 
 
 " I, Septimus Charlton, of Hernshaw 
 Castle and Bolton Grange, in the County 
 of Cumberland, Esquire, being of sound 
 mind, memory^.,_and understanding, — 
 thanks be to God, — do make this my 
 last will and testament, as follows : — 
 
 " First, I commit my soul to God who 
 gave it, and my body to the earth from 
 which it came. I desire my executors 
 to discharge my funeral and testament- 
 ary expenses, my just debts, and the 
 legacies hereinafter bequeathed, out of 
 my personal estate." 
 
 Then followed several legacies of fifty 
 and one hundred guineas ; then sev- 
 eral small legacies, such as the follow- 
 ing : — 
 
 " To my friend Edward Peyton, of 
 Peyton Hall, Esquire, ten guineas to 
 buy a mourning ring. 
 
 " To the worshipful gentlemen and 
 ladies who shall follow my body to the 
 grave, ten guineas each, to buy a mourn- 
 ing ring." 
 
 " To my wife's cousin, Griffith Gaunt, 
 I give and bequeath the sum of two 
 thousand pounds, the same to be paid 
 to him within one calender month from 
 the date of my decease. 
 
 " And as to all ray messuages, or ten- 
 ements, farms, lands, hereditaments, 
 and real estate, of what nature or what 
 kind soever, and wheresoever situate, 
 together with all my moneys, mortgages, 
 chattels, furniture, plate, pictures, wine, 
 liquors, horses, caixiages, stock, and all 
 the rest, residue, and remainder of my 
 personal estate and effects whatsoever, 
 (after the payment of the debts and leg- 
 acies hereinbefore mentioned,) I give, 
 devise, and bequeath the same to my 
 cousin, Catharine Peyton, daughter of 
 Edward Peyton, Esquire, of Peyton 
 Hall, in the County of Cumberland, her 
 heirs, executors, administrators, and as- 
 signs, forever." 
 
 When the lawyer read out this unex- 
 
Griffith Gaunt ; or, yealousy. 
 
 51 
 
 pectecl blow, the whole company turned 
 in their seats and looked amazed at her 
 who in a second and a sentence was 
 turned before their eyes from the poor- 
 est girl in Cumberland to an heiress in 
 her own right, and proprietor of the 
 house they sat in, the chairs they sat 
 on, and the lawn they looked out at. 
 
 Ay, we turn to the rising sun. Very 
 few looked at Griffith Gaunt to see how 
 he took his mistress's good fortune, that 
 was his calamity ; yet his face was a 
 book full of strange matter. At first a 
 flash of loving joy crossed his counte- 
 nance ; but this gave way immediately 
 to a haggard look, and that to a glare 
 of despair. 
 
 As for the lady, she cast one depre- 
 cating glance, swifter than lightning, at 
 him she had disinherited, and then she 
 turned her face to marble. In vain did 
 curious looks explore her to detect the 
 delight such a stroke of fortune would 
 have given to themselves. Faulty, but, 
 great of soul, and on her guard against 
 the piercing eyes of her own sex, she 
 sat sedate, and received her change of 
 fortune with every appearance of cool 
 composure and exalted indifference ; 
 and as for her dreamy eyes, they seemed 
 thinking of heaven, or something almost 
 as many miles away from money and 
 land. 
 
 But the lawyer had not stopped a 
 moment to see how people took it ; he 
 hadgone steadily on through the usual 
 formal clauses ; and now he brought 
 his monotonous voice to an end, and 
 added, in the same breath, but in a nat- 
 ural and cheerful tone, — 
 
 " Madam, I wish you joy." 
 
 This operated hke a signal. The 
 company exploded in a body ; and then 
 they all came about the heiress, and 
 congratulated her in turn. She curtsied 
 politely, though somewhat coldly, but 
 said not a word in reply, till the disap- 
 pointed one spoke to her. 
 
 He hung back at first. To under- 
 stand his feelings, it must be remem- 
 bered, that in his view of things, Kate 
 gained nothing by this bequest, com- 
 pared with what he lost. As his wife, 
 she would have been mistress of Bolton 
 
 Hall, etc. But now she was placed too 
 far above him. Sick at heart, he stood 
 aloof while they all paid their court to 
 her. But by and by he felt it would 
 look base and hostile, if he alone said 
 nothing ; so he came forward, strug- 
 gling visibly for composure and manly 
 fortitude. 
 
 The situation was piquant ; and the 
 ladies' tongues stopped in a moment, 
 and they were all eyes and ears. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Griffith, with an effort he had not 
 the skill to hide, stammered out, " Mis- 
 tress Kate, I do wish you joy." Then, 
 with sudden and touching earnestness, 
 " Never did good fortune hght on one 
 so worthy of it." 
 
 " Thank you, Griffith," replied Kate, 
 softly. (She had called him "Mr. 
 Gaunt " in public till now.) " But mon- 
 ey and lands do not always bring con- 
 tent. I think I was happier a minute 
 ago than I feel now," said she, quietly. 
 
 The blood rushed into Griffith's face 
 at this ; for a minute ago might mean 
 when he and she were talking almost 
 like lovers about to wed. He was so 
 overcome by this, he turned on his heel, 
 and retreated hastily to hide his emo- 
 tion, and regain, if possible, composure 
 to play his part of host in the house 
 that was his no longer. 
 
 Kate herself soon after retired, nom- 
 inally to make her toilet before dinner ; 
 but really to escape the public and think 
 it all over. 
 
 The news of her advancement had 
 spread like wildfire ; she was waylaid 
 at the very door by the housekeeper, 
 who insisted on showing her her house. 
 
 " Nay, never mind the house," said 
 Kate ; "just show me one room where 
 I can wash my face and do my hair." 
 
 Mrs. Hill conducted her to the best 
 bedroom ; it was lined with tapestry, 
 and all the colors flown ; the curtains 
 were a deadish jellow. 
 
 " Lud ! here 's a colored room to show 
 me into," said the blonde Kate ; " and 
 a black grate, too. Why not take m« 
 
52 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 out o' doors and bid me wash in the 
 snow ? " 
 
 " Alack, mistress," said the woman, 
 feeling very uneasy, "we had no or- 
 ders from Mr. Gaunt to light fires up 
 stairs." 
 
 " O, if you wait for gentlemen's or- 
 ders to make your house fit to live in ! 
 You knew there were a dozen ladies 
 coming, yet you were not woman enough 
 to light them fires. Come, take me to 
 your own bedroom." 
 
 The woman turned red. " Mine is 
 but a small room, my lady," she stam- 
 mered. 
 
 " But there 's a fire in it," said Kate, 
 spitefully. " You servants don't wait 
 for gentlemen's orders, to take care of 
 yourselves." 
 
 Mrs. Hill said to herself, "1 'm to 
 leave ; that 's flat." However, she led 
 the way down a passage, and opened 
 the door of a pleasant httle room in a 
 square turret ; a large bay window oc- 
 cupied one whole side of the room, and 
 made it inexpressibly bright and cheer- 
 ful, though rather hot and stuffy ; a clear 
 coal fire burned in the grate. 
 
 " Ah ! " said Kate, " how nice ! Please 
 open those little windows, every one. 
 I suppose you have sworn never to let 
 wholesome air into a room. Thank 
 you : now go and forget every cross 
 word I have said to you, — I am out of 
 sorts, and nervous, and irritable. There, 
 run away, my good soul, and light fires 
 in every room ; and don't you let a crea- 
 ture come near me, or you and I shall 
 quarrel downright." 
 
 Mrs. Hill beat a hasty retreat. Kate 
 locked the door and threw herself back- 
 wards on the bed, with such a weary 
 recklessness and abandon as if she was 
 throwing herself into the sea, to end 
 all her trouble, — and burst out crying. 
 
 It was one thing to refuse to marry 
 her old sweetheart ; it was another to 
 take his property and reduce him to 
 poverty. But here was she doing both, 
 and going to be persuaded to marry 
 Neville, and swell his wealth with the 
 very possessions .she had taken from 
 Griffith ; and him wounded into the bar- 
 gain for love of her. It was really top, 
 
 cruel. It was an accumulation of dif- 
 ferent cruelties. Her bosom revolted ; 
 she was agitated, perplexed, irritated, 
 unhappy, and all in a tumult ; and al- 
 though she had but one fit of crying, — 
 to the naked eye, — yet a person of 
 her own sex would have seen that at 
 one moment she was crying from agi- 
 tated nerves, at another from worry, 
 and at the next from pity, and then from 
 grief. 
 
 In short, she had a good long, hearty, 
 multiform cry ; and it relieved her swell- 
 ing heart, so far that she felt able to go 
 down now, and hide her feelings, one 
 and all, from friend and foe ; to do 
 which was unfortunately a part of her 
 nature. 
 
 She rose and plunged her face into 
 cold water, and then smoothed her 
 hair. 
 
 Now, as she stood at the glass, two 
 familiar voices came in through the 
 open window, and arrested her atten- 
 tion directly. It was her father con- 
 versing with Griffith Gaunt. Kate 
 pricked up her quick ears and lis- 
 tened, with her back hair in her hand. 
 She caught the substance of their talk, 
 only now and then she missed a word 
 or two. 
 
 Mr. Pe)'ton was speaking rather 
 kindly to Griffith, and telling him he 
 was as sorry for his disappointment as 
 any father could be whose daughter 
 had just come into a fortune. But 
 then he went on and rather spoiled this 
 by asking Griffith bluntly what on earth 
 had ever made him think Mr. Charlton 
 intended to leave him Bolton and Hern- 
 shaw. 
 
 Griffith replied, with manifest agita- 
 tion, that Mr. Charlton had repeatedly 
 told him he was to be his heir. " Not," 
 said Griffith, "that he meant to wrong 
 Mistress Kate, neither : poor old man, 
 he always thought she and I should be 
 one." 
 
 " Ah ! well," said Squire Peyton, 
 coolly, " there is an end of all that 
 now." 
 
 At this observation Kate glided to 
 the window, and laid her cheek on the 
 sill to listea more closely. 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 53 
 
 But Griffith made no reply. 
 
 Mr. Peyton seemed dissatisfied at his 
 silence, and being a person who, not- 
 withstanding a certain superficial good- 
 nature, saw his own side of a question 
 very big, and his neighbor's very little, 
 he was harder than perhaps he intended 
 to be. 
 
 " Why, Master Gaunt," said he, " sure- 
 ly you would not follow my daughter 
 now, — to feed upon a woman's bread. 
 Come, be a man ; and, if you are the 
 girl's friend, don't stand in her light. 
 You know she can wed your betters, 
 and clap Bolton Hall on to Neville's 
 Court. No doubt it is a disappoint- 
 ment to you . but what can't be cured 
 must be endured ; pluck up a bit of 
 courage, and turn your heart another 
 way ; and then I shall always be a good 
 friend to you, and my doors open to you 
 come when you will." 
 
 Griffith made no reply. Kate strained 
 her ears, but could not hear a syllable. 
 A tremor ran through her. She was in 
 distance farther from Griffith than her 
 father was ; but superior intelligence 
 provided her with a bridge from her 
 window to her old servant's mind. And 
 now she felt that this great silence was 
 the silence of despair. 
 
 But the Squire pressed him for a 
 definite answer, and finally insisted on 
 one. " Come, don't be so sulky," said 
 he ; "I 'm her father : give me an an- 
 swer, ay or no." 
 
 Then Kate heard a violent sigh, and 
 out rushed a torrent of words that each 
 seemed tinged with blood from the un- 
 fortunate speaker's heart. " Old man," 
 he almost shrieked, "what did I ever 
 do to you, that you torment me so ? 
 Sure you were born without bowels. 
 Beggared but an hour agone, and now 
 you must come and tell me I have lost 
 her by losing house and lands ! D'ye 
 think I need to be told it ? She was 
 too far above me before, and now she 
 is gone quite out of my reach. But why 
 come and fling it in my face ? Can't 
 you give a poor, undone man one hour 
 to draw his breath in trouble ? And 
 when you know I have got to play the 
 host this bitter day, and smile, and 
 
 smirk, and make you all merry, with my 
 heart breaking ! O Christ, look down 
 and pity me, for men are made of stone ! 
 Well, then, no ; I will not, I cannot say 
 the word to give her up. She will dis- 
 charge me, and then I '11 fly the country 
 and never trouble you more. And to 
 think that one little hour ago she was 
 so kind, and I was so happy ! Ah, sir, 
 if you were born of a woman, have a 
 little pity, and don't speak to me of her 
 at all, one way or other. What are you 
 afraid of? I am a gentleman and a 
 man, though sore my trouble : I shall 
 not run after the lady of Bolton Hall. 
 Why, sir, I have ordered the servants 
 to set her chair in the middle of the 
 table, where I shall not be able to speak 
 to her, or even see her. Indeed I dare 
 not look at her : for I must be merry. 
 Merry ! My arm it worries me, my 
 head it aches, my heart is sick to death. 
 Man ! man ! show me some little grace, 
 and do not torture me more than flesh 
 and blood can bear." 
 
 " You are mad, young sir," said the 
 Squire, sternly, " and want locking up 
 on bread and water for a month." 
 
 " I am almost mad," said Griffith, 
 humbly. " But if you would only let 
 me alone, and not tear my heart out 
 of my body, I could hide my agony 
 from the whole pack of ye, and go 
 through my part like a man. I wish 
 I was lying where I laid my only friend 
 this afternoon." 
 
 " O, I don't want to speak to you," 
 said Peyton, angrily; "and, by the same 
 token, don't you speak to my daughter 
 no more." 
 
 " Well, sir, if she speaks to me, I 
 shall be sure to speak to her, without 
 asking your leave or any man's. But 
 I will not force myself upon the lady 
 of Bolton Hall ; don't you think it. 
 Only for God's sake let me alone. I 
 want to be by myself." And with this 
 he hurried away, unable to bear it any 
 more. 
 
 Peyton gave a hostile and contemp- 
 tuous snort, and also turned on his 
 heel, and went off in the opposite di- 
 rection. 
 
 The effect of this dialogue on the 
 
54 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 listenei was not to melt, but exasper- 
 ate her. Perhaps she had just cried 
 away her stock of tenderness. At any 
 rate, she rose from her ambush a very 
 basilisk ; her eyes, usually so languid, 
 flashed fire, and her forehead was red 
 with indignation. She bit her lip, and 
 clenched her hands, and her little foot 
 beat the ground swiftly. 
 
 She was still in this state when a 
 timid tap came to the door, and Mrs. 
 Hill asked her pardon, but dinner was 
 ready, and the ladies and gentlemen all 
 a waiting for her to sit down. 
 
 This reminded Kate she was the 
 mistress of the house. She answered 
 civilly she would be down immediately. 
 She then took a last look in the glass ; 
 and her own face startled her. 
 
 " No," she thought, " they shall none 
 of them know nor guess what I feel." 
 And she stood before the glass and 
 deliberately extracted all emotion fi-om 
 her countenance, and by way of prep- 
 aration screwed on a spiteful smile. 
 
 When she had got her face to her 
 mind, she went down stairs. 
 
 The gentlemen awaited her with im- 
 patience, the ladies with curiosity, to 
 see how she would comport herself in 
 her new situation. She entered, made a 
 formal courtesy, and was conducted to 
 her seat by Mr. Gaunt. He placed her 
 in the middle of the table. " I play the 
 host for this one day," said he, with 
 some dignity ; and took the bottom of 
 the table himself 
 
 Mr. Hammersley was to have sat on 
 Kate's left, but the sly Neville per- 
 suaded him to change, and so got next 
 to his inamorata : opposite to her sat 
 her father, Major Rickards, and others 
 unknown to fame. 
 
 Neville was in high spirits. He had 
 the good taste to try and hide his satis- 
 faction at the fatal blow his rival had 
 received, and he entirely avoided the 
 topic ; but Kate saw at once, by his 
 demure complacency, he was delighted 
 at the turn things had taken, and he 
 gained nothing by it : he found her a 
 changed girl. Cold monosyllables were 
 all he could extract from her. He re- 
 turned to the charge a hundred times, 
 
 with indomitable gallantry, but it was 
 no use. Cold, haughty, sullen ! 
 
 Her other neighbor fared little bet- 
 ter ; and in short the lady of the house 
 made a vile impression. She was an 
 iceberg, — a beautiful kill-joy, — a wet 
 blanket of charming texture. 
 
 And presently Nature began to co- 
 operate with her : long before sunset it 
 grew prodigiously dark ; and the cause 
 was soon revealed by a fall of snow in 
 flakes as large as a biscuit. A shiver 
 ran through the people ; and old Pey- 
 ton blurted out, " I shall not go home 
 to-night." Then he bawled across the 
 table to his daughter: "You are at 
 home. We will stay and take posses- 
 sion." 
 
 " O papa ! " said Kate, reddening 
 with disgust. 
 
 But if dulness reigned around the la- 
 dy of the house, it was not so every- 
 where. Loud bursts of merriment were 
 heard at the bottom of the table. Kate 
 glanced that way in some surprise, and 
 found it was Griffith making the com- 
 pany merry, ^- Griffith of aU people. 
 
 The laughter broke out at short inter- 
 vals, and by and by became uproarious 
 and constant. At last she looked at 
 Neville inquiringly. 
 
 " Our worthy host is setting us an 
 example of conviviality," said he. " He 
 is getting drunk." 
 
 " O, I hope not," said Kate. " Has 
 he no friend to tell him not to make a 
 fool of himself ? " 
 
 " You take a great interest in him," 
 said Neville, bitterly. 
 
 " Of course I do. Pray, do you de- 
 sert your friends when iU luck 'falls on 
 them ? " 
 
 " Nay, Mistress Kate, I hope not." 
 
 " You only triumph over the misfor- 
 tunes of your enemies, eh ? " said the 
 stinging beauty. 
 
 " Not even that. And as for Mr. 
 Gaunt, I am not his enemy." 
 
 " O no, of course not. You are his 
 best friend. Witness his arm at this 
 moment." 
 
 " I am his rival, but not his enemy. 
 I '11 give you a proof." Then he low- 
 ered his voice, and said in her ear : 
 
Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy^ 
 
 55 
 
 " You are grieved at his losing Bolton ; 
 and, as you are very generous and no- 
 ble-minded, you are all the more grieved 
 because his loss is your gain." (Kate 
 blushed at this shrewd hit.) Neville 
 went on : " You don't like him well 
 enough to marry him ; and since you 
 cannot make him happy, it hurts your 
 good heart to make him poor." 
 
 " It is you for reading a lady's heart," 
 said Kate, ironically. 
 
 George proceeded steadily. " I '11 
 show you an easy way out of this di- 
 lemma." 
 
 " Thank you,'' said Kate, rather in- 
 solently. 
 
 " Give Mr. Gaunt Bolton and Hern- 
 shaw, and give me — ■ your hand." 
 
 Kate turned and looked at him with 
 surprise ; she saw by his eye it was no 
 jest. For all that, she affected to take 
 it as one. " That would be long and 
 short division," said she ; but her voice 
 faltered in saying it. 
 
 " So it would," replied George, cool- 
 ly ; " for Bolton and Hernshaw both are 
 not worth one finger of that hand I ask 
 of you. But the value of things lies in 
 "the mind that weighs 'em. Mr. Gaunt, 
 you see, values Bolton and Hernshaw 
 very highly ; why, he is in despair at 
 losing them. Look at him ; he is get- 
 ting rid of his reason before your very 
 eyes, to drown his disappointment." 
 
 " Ah ! oh ! that is it, is it ? " And, 
 strange to say, she looked rather re- 
 lieved. 
 
 " That is it, believe me : it is a way 
 we men have. But, as I was saying, / 
 don't care one straw for Bolton and 
 Hernshaw. It \5y0u I love, — not your 
 land nor your house, but your sweet 
 self; so give me that, and let the law- 
 yers make over this famous house and 
 lands to Mr. Gaunt. His antagonist I 
 have been in the field, and his rival I 
 am and must be, but not his enemy, you 
 see, and not his ill-wisher." 
 
 Kate was softened a little. " This is 
 all mighty romantic," said she, " and 
 very like a preux chevalier, as you are ; 
 but you know very well he would fling 
 land and house in your face, if you of- 
 fered them him on these terms." 
 
 " Ay, in my face, if I offered them ; 
 but not in yours, if you." 
 
 " I am sure he would, all the same." 
 
 " Try him." 
 
 " What is the use ? " 
 
 " Try him." 
 
 Kate showed symptoms of uneasi- 
 ness. "Well, I will," said she, stoutly. 
 " No, that I will not. You begin by 
 bribing me ; and then you would set 
 me to bribe him." 
 
 " It is the only way to make two hon- 
 est men happy." 
 
 "If I thought that — " 
 
 "You know it. Try him." 
 
 " And suppose he says nay ? " 
 
 " Then we shall be no worse than 
 we are." 
 
 " And suppose he says ay ? " 
 
 " Then he will wed Bolton Hall and 
 Hernshaw, and the pearl of England 
 will wed me." 
 
 " I have a great mind to take you at 
 your word," said Kate ; " but no ; it is 
 really too indelicate." ' 
 
 George Neville fixed his eyes on her. 
 "Are you not deceiving yourself?" 
 said he. " Do you ndt like Mr. Gaunt 
 better than you think ? I begin to fear 
 you dare not put him to this test : you 
 fear his love would not stand it ? " 
 
 Kate colored high, and tossed her 
 head proudly. " How shrewd you gen- 
 tlemen are ! " she said. " Much you 
 know of a lady's heart. Now the truth 
 is, I don't know what might not happen 
 were I to do what you bid me. Nay, 
 I 'm wiser than you would have me ; 
 and I '11 pity Mr. Gaunt at a safe dis- 
 tance, if you please, sir." 
 
 Neville bowed gravely. He felt sure 
 this was a plausible evasion, and that 
 she' really was afraid to apply his test 
 to his rival's love. > 
 
 So now, for the first time, he became 
 silent and reserved by her side. The 
 change was noticed by Father Francis, 
 and he fixed a grave, remonstrating 
 glance on Kate. She received it, un- 
 derstood it, affected not to notice it, and 
 acted upon it. 
 
 Drive a donkey too hard, it kicks. 
 
 Drive a man too hard, it hits. 
 
 Drive a woman too hard, it cajoles. 
 
56 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealeui^. 
 
 Now amongst them they had driven 
 Kate Peyton too hard ; so she secretly 
 formed a bold resolution ; and, this 
 done, her whole manner changed for 
 the better. She turned to Neville, and 
 flattered and fascinated him. The most 
 feline of her sex could scarcely equal 
 her calinerie on this occasion. But she 
 did not confine her fascination to him. 
 She broke out, /r(7 bono publico, like the 
 sun in April, with quips and cranks and 
 dimpled smiles, and made everybody 
 near her quite forget her late hauteur 
 and coldness, and bask in this sunny, 
 sweet hostess. When the charm was 
 at its height, the siren cast a seeming 
 merry glance at Griffith, and said to a 
 lady opposite, " Methinks some of the 
 gentlemen will be glad to be rid of us," 
 and so carried the ladies off to the 
 drawing-room. 
 
 There her first act was to dismiss her 
 smiles without ceremony ; and her sec- 
 ond was to sit down and write four 
 lines to the gentleman at the head of 
 the dining-table. 
 
 And he was as drunk as a fiddler. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Griffith's friends laughed heartily 
 with him while he was getting drunk ; 
 and when he had got drunk, they 
 laughed still louder, only at him. 
 
 They " knocked him down " for a 
 song ; and he sang a rather Anacreon- 
 tic one very melodiously, and so loud 
 that certain of the servants, listening 
 outside, derived great delectation from 
 it ; and Neville applauded ironically. 
 
 Soon after, they "knocked him down " 
 for a story ; and as it requires more 
 brains to tell a story than to sing a 
 song, the poor butt made an ass of him- 
 self. He maundered and wandered, 
 and stopped, and went on, and lost one 
 thread and took up another, and got 
 into a' perfect maze. And while he was 
 thus entangled, a servant came in and 
 brought him a note, and put it in his 
 hand. The unhappy narrator received 
 it with a sapient nod, but was too polite, 
 or else too stupid, to open it, so closed 
 
 his fingers on it, and went maundering 
 on till his story trickled into the sand 
 of the desert, and somehow ceased ; for 
 it could not be said to end, being a 
 thing without head or tail. 
 
 He sat down amidst derisive cheers. 
 About five minutes afterwards, in some 
 intermittent flash of reason, he found 
 he had got hold of something. He 
 opened his hand, and lo, a note ! On 
 this he chuckled unreasonably, and dis- 
 tributed sage, cunning winks around, as 
 if he, by special ingenuity, had caught 
 a nightingale, or the like ; then, with 
 sudden hauteur and gravity, proceeded 
 to examine his prize. 
 
 But he knew the handwriting at 
 once ; and it gave him a galvanic shock 
 that half sobered him for the moment. 
 
 He opened the note, and spelled it 
 with great difficulty. It was beautifully 
 written, in long, clear letters ; but then 
 those letters kept dancing so ! 
 
 " I much desire to speak to you be- 
 fore 't is too late, but can think of no 
 way save one. I lie in the turreted 
 room : come under my window at nine 
 of the clock ; and prithee come sober, 
 if you respect yourself, or 
 
 " Kate." 
 
 Griffith put the note in his pocket, 
 and tried to think ; but he could not 
 think to much purpose. Then this 
 made him suspect he was drunk. Then 
 he tried to be sober ; but he found he 
 could not. He sat in a sort of stupid 
 agony, with Love and Drink battling 
 for his brain. It was piteous to see the 
 poor fool's struggles to regain the rea- 
 son he had so madly parted with. He 
 could not do it ; and when he found 
 that, he took up a finger-glass, and 
 gravely poured the contents upon his 
 head. 
 
 At this there was a burst of laughter. 
 
 This irritated' Mr. Gaunt ; and, with 
 that rapid change of sentiments which 
 marks the sober savage and the drunk- 
 en European, he offered to fight a gen- 
 tleman he had been hitherto holding up 
 to the company as his best friend. But 
 his best friend (a very distant acquaint- 
 
unpim Uaunt ; or, Jealousy, 
 
 57 
 
 ance) was by this time as tipsy as him- 
 self, and offered a piteous disclaimer, 
 mingled with tears ; and these maudlin 
 drops so affected GriflSth that he flung 
 his one available arm round his best 
 friend's head, and wept in turn ; and 
 down went both their lachrymose, emp- 
 ty noddles on the table. Griffith's re- 
 mained there ; but his best friend extri- 
 cated himself, and, shaking his skull, 
 said, dolefully, " He is very drunk." 
 This notable discovery, coming from 
 such a quarter, caused considerable 
 merriment. 
 
 " Let him alone," said an old toper ; 
 and Griffith remained a good hour with 
 his head on the table. Meantime the 
 other gentlemen soon put it out of their 
 power to ridicule him on the score of 
 intoxication. 
 
 Griffith, keeping quiet, got a little 
 better, and suddenly started up with a 
 notion he was to go to Kate this very 
 moment. He muttered an excuse, and 
 staggered to a glass door that led to the 
 lawn. He opened this door, and rushed 
 out into the open air. He thought it 
 would set him all right ; but, instead 
 of that, it made him so much worse that 
 presently his legs came to a misunder- 
 standing, and he measured his length 
 on the ground, and could not get up 
 again, but kept slipping down. 
 
 Upon this he groaned and lay quiet. 
 
 Now there was a foot of snow on the 
 ground ; and it melted about Griffith's 
 hot temples and flushed face, and might- 
 ily refreshed and revived him. 
 
 He sat up and kissed Kate's letter, 
 and Love began to get the upper hand 
 of Liquor a little. 
 
 Finally he got up and half strutted, 
 half staggered, to the turret, and stood 
 under Kate's window. 
 
 The turret was covered with luxuri- 
 ant ivy, and that ivy with snow. So 
 the glass of the window was set in a 
 massive frame of winter ; but a bright 
 fire burned inside the room, and this 
 set the panes all aflame. It was cheery 
 and glorious to see the window glow 
 like a sheet of transparent fire in its 
 deep frame of snow ; but Grifiith could 
 not appreciate all that. He stood there 
 
 a sorrowful man. The wine he had 
 taken to drown his despair had lost its 
 stimulating effect, and had given him a 
 heavy head, but left him his sick heart. 
 
 He stood and puzzled his drowsy fac- 
 ulties why Kate had sent for him. Was 
 it to bid him good by forever, or to less- 
 en his misery by telling him she would 
 not marry another ? He soon gave up 
 cudgeUing his enfeebled brains. Kate 
 was a superior being to him, and often 
 said things, and did -things, that sur- 
 prised him. She had sent for him, and 
 that was enough. He should see her 
 and speak to her once more, at all 
 events. He stood, alternately nodding 
 and looking up at her glowing room, 
 and longing for its owner to appear. 
 But as Bacchus had inspired him to 
 mistake eight o'clock for nine, and as 
 she was not a votary of Bacchus, she 
 did not appear ; and he stood there till 
 he began to shiver. 
 
 The shadow of a female passed along 
 the wall ; and Griffith gave a great start. 
 Then he heard the fire poked. Soon 
 after he saw the shadow again ; but it 
 had a large servant's cap on : so his 
 heart had beaten high for Mary or Su- 
 san. He hung his head disappointed ; 
 and, holding on by the ivy, fell a nod- 
 ding again. 
 
 By and by one of the little casements 
 was opened softly. He looked up, and 
 there was the right face peering out. 
 
 O, what a picture she was in the 
 moonlight and the firelight ! They both 
 fought for that fair head, and each got 
 a share of it : the full moon's silvery 
 beams shone on her rose-like cheeks 
 and lilified them a shade, and ht her 
 great gray eyes and made them gleam 
 astoundingly ; but the ruby firehght 
 rushed at her from behind, and flowed 
 over her golden hair, and reddened and 
 glorified it till it seemed more than 
 mortal. And all this in a very pic- 
 ture-frame of snow. 
 
 Imagina, then, how sweet and glori- 
 ous she glowed on him who loved her, 
 and who looked at her perhaps for the 
 last time. 
 
 The sight did wonders to clear his 
 head ; he stood open-mouthed, with his 
 
58 
 
 Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy, 
 
 heart beating. She looked him all over 
 a moment. "Ah!" said she. Then, 
 quietly, " I am so glad you are come." 
 Then, kindly and regretfully, " How- 
 pale you look ! you are unhappy." 
 
 This greeting, so gentle and kind, 
 overpowered Griffith. His heart was 
 too full to speak. 
 
 Kate waited a moment ; and then, as 
 he did not reply to her, she began to 
 plead to him. "I hope you are not 
 angry with me,^' she said, "/did not 
 want him to leave me your estates. I 
 would not rob you of them for the 
 world, if I had my way." 
 
 " Angry with you ! " said Griffith. 
 " I 'm not such a villain. Mr. Charl- 
 ton did the right thing, and — " He 
 could say no more. 
 
 "I do not think so," said Kate. "But 
 don't you fret : all shall be settled to 
 your satisfaction. I cannot quite love 
 you, but I have a sincere affection for 
 you ; and so I ought. Cheer up, dear 
 Griffith ; don't you be down-hearted 
 about what has happened to-day." 
 
 Griffith smiled. " I don't feel un- 
 happy," he said ; " I did feel as if my 
 heart was broken. But then you seemed 
 parted from me. Now we are together, 
 I feel as happy as ever. Mistress, don't 
 you ever shut that window and leave 
 me in the dark again. Let me stand 
 and look at your sweet face all night, 
 and I shall be the happiest man in 
 Cumberland." 
 
 "Ay," said Kate, blushing at his ar- 
 dor ; " happy for a single night ; but 
 when I go away you will be in the 
 dumps again, and perhaps get tipsy ; 
 as if that could mend matters ! Nay, I 
 must set your happiness on stronger 
 legs than that. Do you know I have, 
 got permission to undo this cruel will, 
 and let you have Bolton Hall and 
 Hernshaw again ? " 
 
 Griffith looked pleased, but rather 
 puzzled. , 
 
 Kate went on, but not so glibly now. 
 "However," said she, a little nervously, 
 " there is one condition to it that will 
 cost us both some pain. If you consent 
 to accept these two estates from me, who 
 don'tvalue them one straw,why then — " 
 
 "Well, what? "he gasped. 
 
 "Why, then, my poor Griffith, we 
 shall be bound in honor — you and I 
 — not to meet for some months, per- 
 haps for a whole year : in one word, — 
 do not hate me, — not till you can 
 bear to see me — another — man's — 
 wife." 
 
 The murder being out, she hid her 
 face in her hands directly, and in that 
 attitude awaited his reply. 
 
 Griffith stood petrified a moment ; 
 and I don't think his intellects were 
 even yet quite clear enough to take 
 it all in at once. But at last he did 
 comprehend it, and when he did, he 
 just uttered a loud cry of agony, and 
 then turned his back on her without a 
 word. 
 
 Man does not speak by words alone. 
 A mute glance of reproach has ere now 
 pierced the heart a tirade would have 
 left untouched ; and even an inarticu- 
 late cry may utter volumes. 
 
 Such an eloquent cry was that with 
 which Griffith Gaunt turned his back 
 upon the angelical face he adored, and 
 the soft, i>ersuasive tongue. There 
 was agony, there was shame, there was 
 wrath, all in that one ejaculation. 
 
 It frightened Kate. She called him 
 back. " Don't leave me so," she said. 
 " I know I have affironted you ; but I 
 meant all for the best. Do not let us 
 part in anger." 
 
 At this Griffith returned in violent 
 agitation. " It is your fault for making 
 me speak," he cried. " I was going 
 away without a word, as a man should, 
 that is insulted by a woman. You 
 heartless girl ! What ! you bid me sell 
 you to that man for two dirty farms ! 
 O, well you know Bolton and Hern- 
 shaw were but the steps by which I 
 hoped to climb to you : and now you 
 tell me to part with you, and take those 
 miserable acres instead of my darling. 
 Ah, mistress, you have never loved, 
 or you would hate yourself and despise 
 yourself for what you have done. Love ! 
 if you had known what that word means, 
 you could n't look in my face and stab 
 me to the heart like this. God forgiva 
 
Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 59 
 
 you ! And sure I hope he will ; for, af- 
 ter all, it is not your fault that you were 
 born without a heart. Why, Kate, you 
 
 ARE CRYING." . 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 " Crying ! " said Kate. " I could cry 
 my eyes out to think what I have done ; 
 but it is not my fault : they egged me 
 on. I knew you would fling those two 
 miserable things in my face if I did, and 
 I said so ; but they would be wiser than 
 me, and insist on my putting you to the 
 proof." 
 
 " They ? Who is they ? " 
 
 " No matter. Whoever it was, they 
 will gain nothing by it, and you will 
 lose nothing. Ah, Griffith, I am so 
 ashamed of myself, — and so proud of 
 you." 
 
 " They ? " repeated Griffith, suspi- 
 ciously. "Who is this they?" 
 
 "What does that matter, so long as 
 it was not Me ? Are you going to be 
 jealous again ? Let us talk of you and 
 me, and never mind who them is. You 
 have rejected my proposal with just 
 scorn : so now let me hear yours ; for . 
 we must agree on something this very 
 night. Tell me, now, what can I say or 
 do to make you happy ? " 
 
 Griffith was sore puzzled. " Alas ! 
 sweet Kate," said he, " I don't know 
 what you can do for me now, except 
 stay single for my sake." 
 
 " I should like nothing better," re- 
 plied Kate warmly ; " but unfortunately 
 they won't let me do that. Father Fran- 
 cis will be at me to-morrow, and insist 
 on my marrying Mr. Neville." 
 
 " But you will refuse." 
 
 " I would, if I could but find a good 
 excuse." 
 
 " Excuse ? why, say you don't love 
 him." 
 
 " O, they won't allow that for a rea- 
 son." 
 
 "Then I am undone," sighed Grif- 
 fith. 
 
 " No, no, you are not ; if I could be 
 brought to pretend I love somebody 
 else. And really, if I don't quite love 
 
 you, I like you too well to let you be 
 unhappy. Besides, I cannot bear to 
 rob you of these unlucky farms : I 
 think there is nothing I would not do 
 rather than that. I think — I would 
 rather — do — -something very silly in- 
 deed. But I suppose you don't want 
 me to do that now ? Why don't you 
 answer me ? Why don't you say some- 
 thing ? Are you drunk, sir, as they 
 pretend ? or are you asleep ? O, I 
 can't speak any plainer : this is intol- 
 erable. Mr. Gaunt, I 'm going to shut 
 the window.'' 
 
 Griffifli got alarmed, and it sharp- 
 ened his wits. " Kate, Kate ! " he 
 cried, " what do you mean 1 am I in 
 a dream ? would you marry poor me 
 after all ? " 
 
 " How on earth can I tell, till I am 
 asked ? " inquired Kate, with an air of 
 childhke innocence, and inspecting the 
 stars attentively. 
 
 " Kate, will you marry me ? " said 
 Griffith, all in a flutter. 
 
 "Of course I will — if you will let 
 me," replied Kate, coolly, but rather 
 tenderly, too. 
 
 Griffith burst into raptures. Kate 
 listened to them with a complacent 
 smile, then delivered herself after this 
 fashion : " You have very httle to thank 
 me for, dear Griffith. I don't exactly 
 downright love you, but I could not rob 
 you of those unlucky farms, and you 
 refuse to take them back any way but 
 this ; so what can I do ? And then, for 
 all I don't love you, I find I am always 
 unhappy if you are unhappy, and happy 
 when you are happy ; so it comes pretty 
 much to the same thing. I declare I 
 am sick of giving you pain, and a little 
 sick of crying in consequence. There, 
 I have cried more in the last fortnight 
 than in all my life before, and you know 
 nothing spoils one's beauty like crying. 
 And then you are so good, and kind, 
 and true, and brave ; and everybody is 
 so unjust and so unkind to you, papa 
 and all. You were quite in the right 
 about the duel, dear. He is an impu- 
 dent puppy ; and I threw dust in your, 
 eyes, and made you own you were in 
 the wrong, and it was a great shame of 
 
6o 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 me, but it was because I liked you b^st. 
 I could take liberties with you, dear. 
 And you are wounded for me, and now 
 I have disinherited you. O, I can't bear 
 it, and I won't. My heart yearns for 
 you, — bleeds for you. I would rather 
 die than you should be unhappy ; I 
 would rather follow you in rags round 
 the world than marry a prince and make 
 you wretched. Yes, dear, I am yours. 
 Make me your wife ; and then some 
 day I dare say I shall love you as I 
 ought." 
 
 She had never showed her heart to 
 him like this before ; and now it over- 
 powered him. So, being also a httle 
 under vinous influence, he stammered 
 out something, and then fairly blub- 
 bered for joy. Then what does Kate 
 do, but cry for company .' 
 
 Presently, to her surprise, he was 
 half-way up the turret, coming to her. 
 
 " O, take care ! take care ! " she 
 cried. " You '11 break your neck." 
 
 " Nay," cried he ; "I must come at 
 you, if I die for it." 
 
 The turret was ornamented from top 
 to bottom with short ledges consisting 
 of half-bricks. This ledge, shallow as 
 it was, gave a slight foothold, insuffi- 
 cient in itself; but he grasped the 
 strong branches of the ivy with a pow- 
 erful hand, and so between the two con- 
 trived to get up and hang himself out 
 close to her. 
 
 " Sweet mistress," said he, "put out 
 your hand to me ; for I can't take it 
 against your will this time. I have got 
 but one arm." 
 
 But this she declined. " No, no," 
 said she ; "you do nothing but torment 
 and terrify me, — there." And so gave 
 it him ; and he mumbled it. 
 
 This last feat won her quite. She 
 thought no other man could have got 
 to her there with two arms ; and Grif- 
 fith had done it with one. She said to 
 herself, " How he loves me ! — more 
 than his own neck." And then she 
 thought, " I shall be wife to a strong 
 man ; that is one comfort." 
 
 In this softened mood she asked him 
 demurely, would he take a friend's ad- 
 vice. 
 
 " If that friend is you, ay." 
 
 " Then," said she, " I '11 do a down- 
 right brazen thing, now my hand is in. 
 I declare I '11 tell you how to secure me. 
 You make me plight my troth with you 
 this minute, and exchange rings with 
 you, whether I like or notj engage my 
 honor in this foolish business, and if 
 you do that, I really do think you will 
 have me in spite of them all. But 
 there, — la ! — am I worth all this 
 trouble ? " 
 
 Griffith did not share this chilling 
 doubt. He poured forth his gratitude, 
 and then told her he had got his moth- 
 er's ring in his pocket ; I meant to ask 
 you to wear it," said he. 
 
 " And why did n't you ? " 
 
 " Because you became an heiress all 
 of a sudden." 
 
 " Well, what signifies which of us has 
 the dross, so that there is enough for 
 both ? " 
 
 " That is true," said Griffith, approv- 
 ing his own sentiment, but not recog- 
 nizing his own words. " Here 's my 
 mother's ring, on my litde finger, sweet 
 mistress. But I must ask you to draw 
 it oif, for I have but one hand." 
 
 Kate made a wry face, " Well, that 
 is my fault," said she, " or I would not 
 take it from you so." 
 
 She drew off his ring, and put it on 
 her finger. Then she gave him her 
 largest ring, and had to put it on his lit- 
 tle finger for him. 
 
 " You are making a very forward girl 
 of me," said she, pouting exquisitely. 
 
 He kissed her hand while she was 
 doing it. 
 
 " Don't you be so silly," said she ; 
 " and, you horrid creature, how you 
 smell of wine ! The bullet, please." 
 
 " The bullet ! " exclaimed Griffith. 
 " What bullet ? " 
 
 " The bullet. The one you were 
 wounded with for my sake. I am told 
 you put it in your pocket ; and I see 
 something bulge in your waistcoat. That 
 bullet belongs to me now." 
 . " I think you are a witch," said he. 
 " I do carry it about next my heart. 
 Take it out of my waistcoat, if you will 
 be so good." 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 6i 
 
 She blushed and declined, and, with 
 the refusal on her very lips, fish^ it 
 out with her taper fingers. She eyed 
 it with a sort of tender horror. The 
 sight of it made her feel faint a moment. 
 She told him so, and that she would 
 keep it to her dying day. Presently 
 her delicate finger found something was 
 written on it. She did not ask him 
 what it was, but withdrew, and exam- 
 ined it by her candle. Griffith had en- 
 graved it with these words : — 
 
 "I LOVE KATE." 
 
 He looked through the window, and 
 taw her examine it by the candle. As 
 she read the inscription, her face, glori- 
 fied by the light, assumed a celestial 
 tenderness he had never seen it wear 
 before. 
 
 She came back and leaned eloquently 
 cut as if she would fly to him. " O 
 Griffith, Griffith ! " she murmured, and 
 somehow or other their lips met, in spite 
 of all the difficulties, and grew together 
 in a long and tender embrace. 
 
 It was the first time she had ever 
 given him more than her hand to kiss, 
 and the rapture repaid him for all. 
 
 But as soon as she had made this 
 great advance, virginal instinct suggest- 
 ed a proportionate retreat. 
 
 "You must go to bed," she said, aus- 
 terely ; " you will catch your death of 
 cold out here." 
 
 He remonstrated : she insisted. He 
 held out : she smiled sweetly in his 
 face, and shut the window in it pretty 
 sharply, and disappeared. He went 
 distonsolately down his ivy ladder. 
 As .soon as he was at the bottom, she 
 opened the window again, and asked 
 him, demurely, if he would do something 
 to oblige her. 
 
 He replied like a lover ; he was ready 
 to be cut in pieces, drawn asunder with 
 wild horses, and so on. 
 
 " O, I know you would do anything 
 stupid for me," said she ; "but will you 
 do something clever for a poor girl that 
 is in a fright at what she is going to do 
 for you ? " 
 
 " Gi\'e your orders, mistress," said 
 GriflSith, " and don't talk of me obliging 
 
 you. I feel quite ashamed to hear you 
 talk so, — to-night especially." 
 
 " Well, then," said Kate, " first and 
 foremost, I want you to throw your- 
 self on Father Francis's neck." 
 
 " I '11 throw myself on Father Fran- 
 cis's neck," said Griffith, stoutly. " Is 
 that all ? " 
 
 " No, nor half. Once upon his neck 
 you must say something. Then I had 
 better settle the very words, or perhaps 
 you will make a mess of it. Say after 
 me now : O Father Francis, 't is to you 
 I owe her." 
 
 " O Father Francis, 'tis to you I owe 
 her." 
 
 " You and I are friends for life." 
 
 " You and I are friends for life.'' 
 
 " And, mind, there is always a bed in 
 our home for you, and a plate at our 
 table, and a right welcome, come when 
 you will." 
 
 Griffith repeated this line correctly, 
 but, when requested to say the whole, 
 broke down. Kate had to repeat the 
 oration a dozen times ; and he said it 
 after her, like a Sunday-school scholar, 
 till he had it pat. 
 
 The task achieved, he inquired of 
 her what Father Francis was to say in 
 reply. 
 
 At this simple question Kate showed 
 considerable alarm. "Gracious heav- 
 ens ! " she cried, " you must not stop 
 talking to him ; he will turn you in- 
 side out, and I shall be undone. Nay, 
 you must gabble these words out, and 
 then run away as hard as you can gal- 
 lop." 
 
 " But is it true ? " asked Griffith. " Is 
 he so much my friend ? " 
 ° " Hum ! " said Kate, " it is quite true, 
 and he is not at all your friend. There, 
 don't you puzzle yourself, and pester 
 me ; but do as you are bid, or we are 
 both undone." 
 
 Quelled by a menace so mysterious, 
 Griffith promised blind obedience ; and 
 Kate thanked him, and bade him good 
 night, and ordered him peremptorily to 
 bed. 
 
 He went. 
 
 She beckoned him back. 
 
 He came. 
 
52 
 
 Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 She leaned out, and inquired, in a 
 soft, delicious whisper, as follows ; "Are 
 you happy, dearest ? " 
 
 " Ay, Kate, the happiest of the happy." 
 
 " Then so am I," she murmured. 
 
 And now she slowly closed the win- 
 dow, and gradually retired from the 
 eyes of her enraptured lover. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 But while Griffith was thus sweetly 
 employed, his neglected guests were 
 dispersing, not without satirical com- 
 ments on their truant host. Two or 
 three, however, remained, and slept in 
 the house, upon special invitation. And 
 that invitation came from Squire Pey- 
 ton. He chose to conclude that Grif- 
 fith, disappointed by the will, had va- 
 cated the premises in disgust, and left 
 him in charge of them ; accordingly he 
 assumed the master with alacrity, and 
 ordered beds for Neville, and Father 
 Francis, and Major Rickards, and an- 
 other. The weather was inclement, and 
 the roads heavy ; so the gentlemen thus 
 distinguished accepted Mr. Peyton's of- 
 fer cordially. 
 
 There were a great many things sung 
 and said at the festive board in the 
 course of the evening, but ^ery few of 
 them would amuse or interest the read- 
 er as they did the hearers. One thing, 
 however, must not be passed by, as it 
 had its consequences. Major Rickards 
 drank bumpers apiece to the King, the 
 Prince, Church and State, the Army, 
 the Navy, and Kate Peyton. By the 
 time he got to her, two thirds of his 
 discretion had oozed away in loyalty, 
 esprit du corps, and port wine ; so he 
 sang the young lady's praises in vinous 
 terms, and of course immortalized the 
 very exploit she most desired to consign 
 to oblivion : Arrna viraginemque cane- 
 bat. He sang the duel, and in a style 
 which I could not, consistently with the 
 interests of literature, reproduce on a 
 large scale. Hasten we to the conclud- 
 ing versicles of his song. 
 
 " So then, sir, we placed our men for 
 the third time, and, you may take my 
 
 word for it, one or bbth of these heroes 
 would have bit the dust at that dis- 
 charge. But, by Jove, sir, just as they 
 were going to pull trigger, in galloped 
 your adorable daughter, and swooned 
 ofiF her foaming horse in the middle of 
 us, — disarmed us, sir, in a moment, 
 melted our valor, bewitched our senses, 
 and the great god of war had to retreat 
 before little Cupid and the charms of 
 beauty in distress." 
 
 " Little idiot ! " observed the tender 
 parent ; and was much distempered. 
 
 He said no more about it to Major 
 Rickards ; but when they all retired for 
 the night, he undertook to show Father 
 Francis his room, and sat in it with him 
 a good half-hour talking about Kate. 
 
 "Here's a pretty scandal," said he. 
 " I must marry the silly girl out of hand 
 before this gets wind, and you must 
 help me." 
 
 In a word, the result of the confer- 
 ence was that Kate should be publicly 
 engaged to Neville to-morrow, and mar- 
 ried to him as soon as her month's 
 mourning should be over. 
 
 The conduct of the affair was con- 
 fided to Father Francis, as having un- 
 bounded influence with her. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Next morning Mr. Peyton was up 
 betimes in his character of host, and 
 ordered the servants about, and was in 
 high spirits ; only they gave place to 
 amazement when Griffith Gaunt came 
 down, and played the host, and was in 
 high spirits. 
 
 Neville too watched his rival, and 
 was puzzled at his radiancy. 
 
 So breakfast passed in general mys- 
 tification. Kate, who could have thrown 
 a light, did not come down to breakfast. 
 She was on her defence. 
 
 She made her first appearance out of 
 doors. 
 
 Very early in the morning, Mr. Pey- 
 ton, in his quality of master, had or- 
 dered the gardener to cut and sweep 
 the snow off the gravel walk that went 
 round the lawn. And on this path 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or. Jealousy. 
 
 63 
 
 Miss Peyton was seen walking ijriskly 
 to and fro in the frosty, but sunny air. 
 
 Griffith saw her first, and ran out to 
 bid her good morning. 
 
 Her reception of him was a farce. 
 She made him a stately courtesy for the 
 benefit of the three faces glued against 
 the panes, but her words were incon- 
 gruous. " You wretch," said she, " don't 
 come here. Hide about, dearest, till 
 you see me with Father Francis. I '11 
 raise my hand so when you are to cud- 
 dle him, and fib. There, make me a 
 low bow, and retire." 
 
 He obeyed, and the whole thing 
 looked mighty formal and ceremonious 
 from the breakfast-room. 
 
 " With your good leave, gentlemen," 
 said Father Francis, dryly, " I will be 
 the next to pay my respects to her." 
 With this he opened the window and 
 stepped out. 
 
 Kate saw him, and felt very nervous. 
 She met him with apparent delight. 
 
 He bestowed his morning benedic- 
 tion on her, and then they walked si- 
 lently side by side on the gravel ; and 
 from the dining-room window it looked 
 like anything but what it was, — a fen- 
 cing match. 
 
 Father Francis was the first to break 
 silence. He congratulated her on her 
 good fortune, and on the advantage it 
 might prove to the true Church. 
 
 Kate waited quietly till he had quite 
 done, and then said, " What, I may go 
 into a convent now that I can bribe 
 the door open ? " 
 
 The scratch was feline, feminine, sud- 
 den, and sharp. But, alas ! Father 
 Francis only smiled at it. Though not 
 what we call spiritually-minded, he was 
 a man of a Christian temper. " Not 
 with my good-will, my daughter," said 
 he ; "I am of the same mind still, and 
 more than ever. You must marry forth- 
 with, and rear children in the true 
 faith." 
 
 " What a hurry you are in." 
 
 " Your own conduct has made it ne- 
 cessary." 
 
 " Why, what have I done now ? " 
 
 "No harm. It was a good and hu- 
 mane action to prevent bloodshed, but 
 
 the world is not always worthy of good 
 actions. People are beginning to make 
 free with your name for your interfering 
 in the duel." 
 
 Kate fired up. " Why can't people 
 mind their own business ? " 
 
 " I do not exactly know," said the 
 priest, coolly, " nor is it worth inquir- 
 ing. We must take human nature as it 
 is, and do for the best. You must mar- 
 ry him, and stop their tongues." 
 
 Kate pretended to reflect. " I believe 
 you are right," said she, at last ; " and 
 indeed I .must do as you would have 
 me ; for, to tell the truth, in an un- 
 guarded moment, I pitied him so that I 
 half promised I •would." 
 
 " Indeed ! " said Father Francis. 
 " This is the first I have heard of it." 
 
 Kate replied that was no wonder, for 
 it was only last night she had so com- 
 mitted herself 
 
 " Last night ! " said Father Francis ; 
 " how can that be ? He was never out 
 of my sight till we went to bed." 
 
 " O, there I beg to differ," said the 
 lady. " While you were all tippling in 
 the dining-room, he was better em- 
 ployed, — making love by moonlight. 
 And O what a terrible thing opportu- 
 nity is, and the moon another ! There ! 
 what with the moonlight, and my pity- 
 ing him so, and all he has suffered for 
 me, and my being rich now, and having 
 something to give him, we two are en- 
 gaged. See, else : this was his moth- 
 er's ring, and he has mine." 
 
 « Mr. Neville ? " 
 
 " Mr. Neville ? No. My old ser- 
 vant, to be sure. What, do you think 
 I would go and marry for wealth, when 
 I have enough and to spare of my own ? 
 O, what an opinion you must have of 
 me ! " • 
 
 Father Francis was staggered by this 
 adroit thrust. However, after a con- 
 siderable silence he recovered him- 
 self, and inquired gravely why she had 
 given him no hint of all this the other 
 night, when he had diverted her from 
 a convent, and advised her to marry 
 Neville. 
 
 " That you never did, I '11 be sworn," 
 said Kate. 
 
64 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 Father Francis reflected. 
 
 " Not in so many words, perhaps ; 
 but I said enough to show you." 
 
 " O ! " said Kate, " such a matter was 
 too serious for hints and innuendoes ; if 
 you wanted me to jilt my old servant 
 and wed an acquaintance of yesterday, 
 why not say so plainly ? I dare say I 
 should have obeyed you, and been un- 
 happy for life ; but now my honor is 
 solemnly engaged ; my faith is plighted ; 
 and were even you to urge me to break 
 faith, and behave dishonorably, I should 
 resist. I would liever take poison, and 
 die." 
 
 Father Francis looked at her steadi- 
 ly, and she colored to the brow. 
 
 " You are a very apt young lady," 
 said he ; " you have outwitted your di- 
 rector. That may be my fault as much 
 as yours ; so I advise you to provide 
 yourself with another director, whom 
 you will be unable, or unwilling, to out- 
 wit." 
 
 Kate's high spirit fell before this : 
 she turned her eyes, full of tears, on 
 hiffl; " O, do not desert me, now that 
 I shall need you more than ever, to 
 guide me in my new duties. Forgive 
 me ; I did not know my own heart 
 — quite. I '11 go into a convent now, 
 if I must ; but I can't marry any man 
 but poor Griffith. Ah, father, he is 
 more generous than any of us ! Would 
 you believe it ? when he thought Bol- 
 ton and Hernshaw were coming to him, 
 he said if I married him I should have 
 the money to build a convent with. 
 He knows how fond I am of a con- 
 vent." 
 
 " He Was jesting ; his religion would 
 not allow it." 
 
 " His religion ! " cried Kate. Then, 
 lifting her eyes to Heaven, and looking 
 just like an angel, "Love is ^£r religion !" 
 said she, warmly. 
 
 " Then his religion is Heathenism," 
 said the priest, grimly. 
 
 " Nay, there is too much charity in it 
 for that," retorted Kate, keenly. 
 
 Then she looked down, hke a cunning, 
 guilty thing, and murmured : " One of 
 the things I esteem him for is he always 
 speaks well oi you. To be sure, just 
 
 now the poor soul thinks you are his 
 best friend with me. But that is my 
 fault ; I as good as told him so : and it 
 is true, after a fashion ; for you kept me 
 out of the convent that was his only 
 real rival. Why, here he comes. O 
 father, now don't you go and tell him 
 you side with Mr. Neville." 
 
 At this crisis Griffith, who, to tell the 
 truth, had received a signal from Kate, 
 rushed at Father Francis and fell upon 
 his neck, and said with great rapidity : 
 " O Father Francis, 't is to you I owe 
 her, — you and I are friends for life. So 
 long as we have a house there is a 
 bed in it for you, and whilst we have a 
 table to sit down to there 's a plate at 
 it for you, and a welcome, come when 
 you will." 
 
 Having gabbled these words he winked 
 at Kate, and fled swiftly. 
 
 Father Francis was taken aback a 
 little by this sudden burst of affection. 
 First he stared, — then he knitted his 
 brows, — then he pondered. 
 
 Kate stole a look at him, and her eyes 
 sought the ground. 
 
 " That is the gentleman you arranged 
 matters with last night ? " said he, 
 drily. 
 
 " Yes," replied Kate, faintly. 
 
 "Was this scene part of the busi- 
 ness ? " 
 
 " O father ! " 
 
 " Why I ask, he did it so unnatural. 
 Mr. Gaunt is a worthy, hospitable gen- 
 tleman ; he and I are very good friends ; 
 and really I never doubted that I should 
 
 be welcome in his house until this 
 
 moment." 
 
 " And can you doubt it now ? " 
 
 " Almost : his manner just now was 
 so hollow, so forced ; not a word of all 
 that came from his heart, you know." 
 
 " Then his heart is changed very 
 lately." 
 
 The priest shook his head. "Any- 
 thing more like a puppet, and a parrot 
 to boot, I never saw. 'T was done so 
 timely, too. He ran in upon our dis- 
 course. Let me see your hand, mis- 
 tress. Why, where is the string with 
 which you pulled yonder machine in so 
 pat upon the word ? " 
 
Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 65 
 
 " Spare me ! " muttered Kate, faintly. 
 
 "Then do you drop deceit and the 
 silly cunning of your sex, and speak to 
 me from your heart, or not at all." (Di- 
 apason.) 
 
 At this Kate began to whimper. 
 
 " Father," she said, " show me some 
 mercy." Then, suddenly clasping her 
 hands : " Have pity on him, and on 
 
 ME." 
 
 This time Nature herself seemed to 
 speak, and the eloquent cry went clean 
 through the priest's heart. 
 
 " Ah ! " said he ; and his own voice 
 trembled a little : " now you are as 
 strong as your cunning was weak. 
 Come, I see how it is with you ; and I 
 am human, and have been young, and a 
 lover into the bargain, before I was a 
 priest. There, dry thy eyes, child, and 
 go to thy room ; he thou couldst not 
 trust shall bear the brunt for thee this 
 once." 
 
 Then Kate bowed her fair head and 
 kissed the horrid paw of him that had 
 administered so severe but salutary a 
 pat. She hurried away up stairs, right 
 joyful at the unexpected turn things had 
 taken. 
 
 Father Francis, thus converted to her 
 side, lost no time ; he walked into the 
 dining-room and told Neville he had 
 bad news for him. 
 
 " Summon all your courage, my young 
 friend," said he, with feeling, "and re- 
 member that this world is full of disap- 
 pointments." 
 
 Nevilje said nothing, but rose and 
 stood rather pale, waiting like a man 
 for the blow. Its nature he more than 
 half guessed : he had been at the win- 
 dow. 
 
 It fell. 
 
 " She is engaged to Gaunt, since last 
 night ; and she loves him." 
 
 " The double-faced jade I " cried Pey- 
 ton, with an oath 
 
 " The heartless coquette ! " groaned 
 Neville. 
 
 Father Francis made excuses for her : 
 " Nay, nay, she is not the first of her 
 sex that did not know her own mind all 
 at once. Besides, we men are blind , 
 
 S 
 
 in matters of love ; perhaps a woman 
 would have read her from the first. Af- 
 ter all, she was not bound to give us the 
 eyes to read a female heart." 
 
 He next reminded Neville that Gaunt 
 had been her servant for years. " You 
 knew that," said he, "yet you came 
 
 between them at your peril. Put 
 
 yourself in his place : say you had suc- 
 ceeded : would not his wrong be greater 
 than yours is now .'' Come, be brave ; 
 be generous ; he is wounded, he is dis- 
 inherited ; only his love is l^ft him : 't is 
 the poor man's lamb ; and would you 
 take it.?" 
 
 " O, I have not a word to say against 
 the 7nan,^'' said George, with a mighty 
 eifort. 
 
 " And what use is your quarrelling 
 with the woman ? " suggested the prac- 
 tical priest. 
 
 "None whatever," said George, sul- 
 lenly. After a moment's silence he rang 
 the bell feverishly. " Order my horse 
 round directly," said he. Then he sat 
 down, and buried his face in his hands, 
 and did not, and could not, listen to the 
 voice of consolation. 
 
 Now the house was full of spies in 
 petticoats, amateur spies, that ran and 
 told the mistress everything of their 
 own accord, to curry favor. 
 
 And this no doubt was the cause that, 
 just as the groom walked the piebald 
 out of the stable towards the hall door, 
 a maid came to Father Francis with a 
 little note : he opened it, and found 
 these words written faintly, in a fine 
 Italian hand : — 
 
 " I scarce knew my own heart till I 
 saw him wounded and poor, and myself 
 rich at his expense. Entreat Mr. Nev- 
 ille to forgive me." 
 
 He handed the note to Neville with- 
 out a word. 
 
 Neville read it, and his lip trembled ; 
 but he ^aid nothing, and presently went 
 out into the hall, and put on his hat, for 
 he saw his nag at the door. 
 
 Father Francis followed him, and 
 said, sorrowfully, " What, not one word 
 in reply to so humble a request ? " 
 
 " Well, here 's my reply," said George, 
 
66 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealotisy, 
 
 grinding his teeth. " She l<nows French, 
 though she pretends not. 
 
 ' Le bruit est pour le fat, la plainte est pour le sot, 
 L'honnete homme tromp^ s'eloigne et iie dit mot.' " 
 
 And with this he galloped furiously 
 away. 
 
 He buried himself at Neville's Crosg 
 for several days, and would neither see 
 nor speak to a soul. His heart was 
 sick, his pride lacerated. He even shed 
 some scalding tears in secret ; though, 
 to look at him, that seemed impos- 
 sible. 
 
 So passed a bitter week : and in the 
 course of it he bethought him of the 
 tears he had made a true Italian lady 
 shed, and never pitied her a grain till 
 now. 
 
 He was going abroad : on his desk 
 lay a httle crumpled paper. It was 
 Kate's entreaty for forgiveness. He 
 had ground it in his hand, and ridden 
 away with it. 
 
 Now he was going away, he resolved 
 to answer her. 
 
 He wrote a letter full of bitter re- 
 proaches ; read it over ; and tore it up. 
 
 He wrote a satirical and cutting let- 
 ter ; read it ; and tore it up. 
 
 He wrote her a mawkish letter ; read 
 it ; and tore it up. 
 
 The priest's words, scorned at first, 
 had sunk into him a little. 
 
 He walked about the room, and tried 
 to see it all like a by-stander. 
 
 He examined her writing closely : the 
 pen had scarcely marked the paper. 
 They were the timidest strokes. The 
 writer seemed to kneel to him. He sum- 
 moned all his manhood, his fortitude, 
 his generosity, and, above all, his high- 
 breeding; and produced the following 
 letter ; and this one he sent : — 
 
 " Mistress Kate, — I leave Eng- 
 land to-day for your sake ; and shall 
 never return unless the day shall come 
 when I can look on you but as a friend. 
 The love that ends in hate, that is too 
 sorry a thing to come betwixt you and 
 me. 
 
 " If you have used me ill, your pun- 
 ishment is this ; you have given me 
 
 the right to say to you I forgive 
 
 you. 
 
 "George Neville." 
 
 And he went straight to Italy. 
 
 Kate laid his note upon her knee, and 
 signed deeply ; and said, " Poor fellow ! 
 How noble of him 1 What can such 
 men as this see in any woman to go and 
 fall in love with her ? " 
 
 Griffith found her with a tear in her 
 eye. He took her out walking, and laid 
 all his radiant plans of wedded life be- 
 fore her. She came back flushed, and 
 beaming with complacency and beauty. 
 
 Old Peyton was brought to consent 
 to the marriage. Only he attached one 
 condition, that Bolton and Hernshaw 
 should be settted on Kate for her sepa- 
 rate use. 
 
 To this Griffith assented readily ; but 
 Kate refused plump. " What, give him 
 tnyself, and then grudge him my es- 
 tates / " said she, with a look of lofty 
 and beautiful scorn at her male ad- 
 visers. 
 
 But Father Francis, having regard to 
 the temporal interests of his Church, 
 exerted his strength and pertinacity, and 
 tired her out ; so those estates were put 
 into trustees' hands, and tied up tight 
 as wax. 
 
 This done, Griffith Gaunt and Kate 
 Peyton were married, and made the 
 finest pair that wedded in the county 
 that year. 
 
 As the bells burst into a merry peal, 
 and they walked out of church man and 
 wife, their path across the churchyard 
 was strewed thick with flowers, emblem- 
 atic, no doubt, of the path of life that 
 lay before so handsome a couple. 
 
 They spent the honeymoon in Lon- 
 don, and tasted earthly felicity. 
 
 Yet did not quarrel after it ; but sub- 
 sided into the quiet complacency of 
 wedded life. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Gaunt lived happily 
 together — as times went. 
 A fine girl and boy were born to 
 
Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 67 
 
 them ; and need I say how their hearts 
 expanded and exulted, and seemed to 
 grow twice as large. 
 
 The httle boy was taken from them 
 at three years old ; and how can I con- 
 vey to any but a parent the anguish of 
 that first bereavement ? 
 
 Well, they suffered it together, and 
 that poignant grief was one tie more 
 between them. 
 
 For many years they did not furnish 
 any exciting or even interesting matter 
 to this narrator. And all the better for 
 them : without these happy periods of 
 dulness our lives would be hell, and 
 our hearts eternally bubbling and boil- 
 ing-in a huge pot made hot with thorns. 
 
 In the absence of striking incidents, 
 it may be well to notice the progress of 
 character, and note the tiny seeds of 
 events to come. 
 
 Neither the intellectual nor the moral 
 character of any person stands stock- 
 still: a man improves, or he declines. 
 Mrs. Gaunt had a great taste for read- 
 ing ; Mr. Gaunt had not : what was 
 the consequence ? At the end of seven 
 years the lady's understanding had made 
 great strides ; the gentleman's had ap- 
 parently retrograded. 
 
 Now we all need a little excitement, 
 and we all seek it, and get it by hook 
 or by crook. The girl who satisfies 
 that natural craving with what the cant- 
 ing dunces of the day call a "sensa- 
 tional " novel, and the girl who does it 
 by waltzing till daybreak, are sisters ; 
 only one obtains the result intellectual- 
 ly, and the other obtains it like a young 
 animal, and a pain in her empty head 
 next day. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt could enjoy company, but 
 was never dull with a good book. Mr. 
 Gaunt was a pleasant companion, but 
 dull out of company. So, rather than 
 not have it, he would go to the parlor 
 of the " Red Lion,'' and chat and sing 
 with the yeomen and rollicking young 
 squires that resorted thither : and this 
 was matter of grief and astonishment 
 to Mrs. Gaunt. 
 
 It was balanced by good qualities she 
 knew how to appreciate. Morals were 
 much looser then than now ; and more 
 
 than one wife of her acquaintance had 
 a rival in the village, or even among her 
 own domestics ; but Griffith had no 
 loose inclinations of that kind, and nev- 
 er gave her a moment's uneasiness. 
 He was constancy and fidehty in per- 
 son. 
 
 Sobriety had not yet been invented. 
 But Griffith was not so intemperate as 
 most squires ; he could always mount 
 the stairs to tea, and generally without 
 staggering. 
 
 He was uxorious, and it used to come 
 out after his wine. This Mrs. Gaunt 
 permitted at first, but by and b)' says 
 she, expanding her delicate nostrils : 
 "You may be as affectionate as you 
 please, dear, and you may smell of wine, 
 if you will ; but please not to smell of 
 wine and be affectionate at the same 
 moment. I value your affection too 
 highly to let you disgust me with it." 
 
 And the model husband yielded to 
 this severe restriction ; and, as it never 
 occurred to him to give up his wine, 
 he forbore to be affectionate in his 
 cups. 
 
 One great fear Mrs. Gaunt had enter- 
 tained before marriage ceased to haunt 
 her. Now and then her quick eye saw 
 Griffith writhe at the great influence her 
 director had with her ; but he never 
 spoke out to offend her, and she, like a 
 good wife, saw, smiled, and adroitly, 
 tenderly soothed : and this was nothing 
 compared to what she had feared. 
 
 Griffith saw his wife admired by other 
 men, yet never chid nor chafed. The 
 merit of this belonged in a high degree 
 to herself The fact is, that Kate Pey- 
 ton, even before marriage, was not a 
 coquette at heart, though her conduct 
 might easily bear that construction ; 
 and she was now an experienced ma- 
 tron, and knew how to be as charming 
 as ever, yet check or parry all ap- 
 proaches to gallantry on the part of her 
 admirers. Then Griffith observed how 
 delicate and prudent his lovely wife 
 was, without ostentatious prudery ; and 
 his heart was at peace. 
 
 He was the happier of the two, for he 
 looked up to his wife, as well as loved 
 her ; whereas she was troubled at 
 
68 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy, 
 
 times with a sense of superiority to lier 
 husband. She was amiable enough, 
 and wise enough, to try and shut her 
 eyes to it ; and often succeeded, but not 
 always. 
 
 Upon the whole, they were a con- 
 tented couple ; though the lady's dreamy 
 eyes seemed still to be exploring earth 
 and sky in search of something they 
 had not yet found, even in wedded 
 life. 
 
 They lived at Hernshaw. A letter 
 had been found among Mr. Charlton's 
 papers explaining his will. He counted 
 on their marrying, and begged them to 
 live at the castle. He had left it on 
 his wife's death ; it reminded him too 
 keenly of happier days ; but, as he drew 
 near his end, and must leave all earthly 
 things, he remembered the old house 
 with tenderness, and put out his dying 
 hand to save it from falling into decay. 
 
 Unfortunately, considerable repairs 
 were needed ; and, as Kate's property 
 was tied up so tight, Griffith's two thou- 
 sand pounds went in repairing the house, 
 lawn, park palings, and walled gardens ; 
 went, every penny, and left the bridge 
 over the lake still in a battered, rotten, 
 and, in a word, picturesque condition. 
 
 This lake was by the older inhabit- 
 ants sometimes called the " mere," and 
 sometimes " the fish-pools " ; it resem- 
 bled an hour-glass in shape, only curved 
 like a crescent. 
 
 In mediaeval times it had no doubt 
 been a main defence of the place. It 
 was very deep in parts, especially at 
 the waist or narrow that was spanned 
 by the decayed bridge. There were 
 hundreds of carp and tench in it older 
 than any He in Cumberland, and also 
 enormous pike and eels ; and fish from 
 one to rfive pounds' weight by the mil- 
 lion. The water literally teemed from 
 end to end ; and this was a great com- 
 fort to so good a Catholic as Mrs. Gaunt. 
 When she was seized with a desire to 
 fast, and that was pretty often, the gar- 
 dener just went down to the lake and 
 flung a casting-net in some favorite 
 hole, and drew out half a bushel the 
 first cast ; or planted a flue-net round 
 a patch of weeds, then belabored the 
 
 weeds with a long pole, and a score 
 of fine fish were sure to run out into 
 the meshes. 
 
 The " mere " was clear as plate glass, 
 and came to the edge of the shaven 
 lawn, and reflected flowers, turf, and 
 overhanging shrubs deliciously. 
 
 Yet an ill name brooded over its se- 
 ductive waters ; for two persons had 
 been drowned in it during the last hun- 
 dred years : and the last one was the 
 parson of the parish, returning from the 
 squire's dinner in the normal condition 
 of a guest, A. D. 1740-50. But what 
 most affected the popular mind was, 
 not the jovial soul hurried into eternity, 
 but the material circumstance that the 
 greedy pike had cleared the flesh off 
 his bones in a single night, so that little 
 more than a skeleton, with here and 
 there a black rag hanging to it, had 
 been recovered next morning. 
 
 This ghastly detail being stoutly 
 maintained and constantly repeated by 
 two ancient eye-witnesses, whose one 
 melodramatic incident and treasure it 
 was, the rustic mind saw no beauty 
 whatever in those pellucid and delicious 
 waters, where flowers did glass them- 
 selves. 
 
 As for the women of the village, they 
 looked on this sheet of water as a trap 
 for their poor bodies and those of their 
 children, and spoke of it as a singular 
 hardship in their lot, that Hernshaw 
 Mere had not been filled up threescore 
 years agone. 
 
 The castle itself was no castle, nor 
 had it been for centuries. It was just 
 a house with battlements ; but attached 
 to the stable was an old square tower, 
 that really had formed part of the medi- 
 Eeval castle. 
 
 However, that unsubstantial shadow, 
 a name, is often more durable than the 
 thing, especially in rural parts ; but, in- 
 deed, what is there in a name for Time's 
 teeth to catch hold of.? 
 
 Though no castle, it was a delightful 
 abode. The drawing-room and dining- 
 room had both spacious bay-windows, 
 opening on to the lawn that sloped very 
 gradually down to the pellucid lake, and 
 there was mirrored. On this sweet 
 
Griffith Gaunt ; or, yealousy. 
 
 69 
 
 lawn the inmates and guests walked for 
 sun and mellow air, and often played 
 bowls at eventide. 
 
 Oh the other side was the drive up to 
 the house-door, and a sweep, or small 
 oval plot, of turf, surrounded by gravel ; 
 and a gate at the corner of this sweep 
 opened into a grove of the grandest 
 old spruce-firs in the island. 
 
 This grove, dismal in winter and aw- 
 ful at night, was deliciously cool and 
 sombre in the dog-days. The trees 
 were spires ; and their great stems 
 stood serried like infantry in column, 
 and flung a grand canopy of sombre 
 plumes overhead. A strange, antique, 
 and classic grove, — nulli penetrabilis 
 astro. 
 
 This retreat was enclosed on three 
 sides by a wall, and on the east side 
 came nearly to the house. A few laurel- 
 bushes separated the two. At night it 
 was shunned religiously, on account of 
 the ghosts. Even by daylight it was 
 little frequented, except by one person, 
 — and she took to it amazingly. That 
 person was IVIrs. Gaunt. There seems 
 to be, even in educated women, a sin- 
 gular, instinctive love of twilight ; and 
 here was twilight at high noon. The 
 place, too, suited her dreamy, medita- 
 tive nature. Hither, then, she often 
 retired for peace and religious contem- 
 plation, and moved slowly in and out 
 among the tall stems, or sat still, with 
 her thoughtful brow leaned on her white 
 hand, — till the cool, umbrageous re- 
 treat got to be called, among the ser- 
 vants, " The Dame's Haunt." 
 
 This, I think, is all needs be told 
 about the mere place, where the Gaunts 
 lived comfortably many years, and little 
 dreamed of the strange events in store 
 for them ; little knew the passions that 
 slumbered in their own bosoms, and, 
 like other volcanoes, bided their time. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 One day, at dinner. Father Francis 
 let them know that he was ordered to 
 another part of the county, and should 
 no longer be able to enjoy their hospi- 
 
 tality. " I am sorry for it," said Grif- 
 fith, heartily ; and Mrs. Gaunt echoed 
 him out of politeness ; but, when hus- 
 band and wife came to talk it over in 
 private, she let out all of a sudden, and 
 for the first time, that the spiritual cold- 
 ness of her governor had been a great 
 misfortune to her all these years. " His 
 mind," said she, "is set on earthly 
 things. Instead of helping the angels 
 to raise my thoughts to heaven and 
 heavenly things, he drags me down to 
 earth. O that man's soul was born 
 without wings ! " 
 
 GrifiSth ventured to suggest that Fran- 
 cis was, nevertheless, an honest man, 
 and no mischief-maker. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt soon disposed of this. 
 " O, there are plenty of honest men in 
 the world," said she ; " but in one's 
 spiritual director one needs something 
 more than that, and I have pined for it 
 like a thirsty soul in the desert all these 
 years. Poor good man, I love him 
 dearly; but, thank Heaven, he is go- 
 ing." 
 
 The next time Francis came, Mrs. 
 Gaunt took an opportunity to inquire, 
 but in the most delicate way, who was 
 to be his successor. 
 
 "Well," said he, "I fear you will 
 have no one for the present : I mean 
 no one very fit to direct you in practical 
 matters ; but in all that tends directly 
 to the welfare of the soul you will have 
 one young in years but old in good 
 works, and very much my superior in 
 piety." 
 
 " I think you do yourself injustice, 
 Father," said Mrs. Gaunt, sweetly. She 
 was always polite ; and, to be always 
 poUte, you must be sometimes insin- 
 cere. 
 
 " No, my daughter," said Father Fran- 
 cis, quietly, " thank God, I know my 
 own defects, and they teach me a little 
 humility. I discharge my religious du- 
 ties punctually, and find them whole- 
 some and composing ; but I lack that 
 holy unction, that spiritual imagination, 
 by whicli more favored Christians have 
 fitted themselves to converse with an- 
 gels. I have too much body, I suppose, 
 and too little soul. I own to you that 
 
70 
 
 Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 I cannot look forward to the hour of 
 death as a happy release from the bur- 
 den of the flesh. Life is pleasant to 
 me; immortality tempts me not; the 
 pure in heart delight me ; but in the 
 sentimental part of religion I feel my- 
 self dry and barren. I fear God, and 
 desire to do his will ; but I cannot love' 
 him as the saints have done ; my spirit 
 is too dull, too gross. I have often been 
 unable to keep pace with you in your 
 pious and lofty aspirations ; and this 
 softens my regret at quitting you ; for 
 you will be in better hands, my daugh- 
 ter." 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt was touched by her old 
 friend's humility, and gave him both 
 hands, with the tears in her eyes. But 
 she said nothing ; the subject was deh- 
 cate ; and really she could not honestly 
 contradict him. 
 
 A day or two afterwards he brought 
 his successor to the house ; a man so 
 remarkable that Mrs. Gaunt almost 
 started at first sight of him. Born of 
 an Italian mother, his skin was dark, 
 and his eyes coal-black ; yet his ample 
 but symmetrical forehead was singu- 
 larly white and delicate. Very tall and 
 spare, and both face and figure were of 
 that exalted kind which make ordinary 
 beauty seem dross. In short, he was 
 one of those ethereal priests the Roman 
 Catholic Church produces every now 
 and then by way of incredible contrast 
 to the thickset peasants in black that 
 form her staple. This Brother Leon- 
 ard looked and moved like a being 
 who had come down from some higher 
 sphere to pay the world a very little 
 visit, and be very kind and patient with 
 it all the time. 
 
 He was presented to Mrs. Gaunt, and 
 bowed calmly, coldly, and with a cer- 
 tain mixture of humility and superior- 
 ity, and gave her but one tranquil glance, 
 then turned his eyes inward as before. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt, on the contrary, was al- 
 most fluttered at being presented so 
 suddenly to one who seemed to her • 
 Religion embodied. She blushed, and 
 looked timidly at him, and was anxious 
 not to make an unfavorable impression. 
 
 She found it, however, very difiScult 
 
 to make any impression at all. Leonard 
 had no small talk, and met her advances 
 in that line with courteous monosyl- 
 lables ; and when she, upon this, turned 
 and chatted with Father Francis, he did 
 not wait for an opening to strike in, 
 but sought a shelter from her common- 
 places in his own thoughts. 
 
 Then Mrs. Gaunt yielded to her gen- 
 uine impulse, and began to talk about 
 the prospects of the Church, and what 
 might be done to reconvert the Brit- 
 ish Isles to the true faith. Her cheek 
 flushed, and her eye shone with the 
 theme ; and Francis smiled paternally ; 
 but the young priest drew back. Mrs. 
 Gaunt saw in a moment that he disap- 
 proved of a woman meddling with so 
 high a matter uninvited. If he had said 
 so, she had spirit enough to have resist- 
 ed ; but the cold, lofty look of polite 
 but grave disapproval dashed her cour- 
 age and reduced her to silence. 
 
 She soon recovered so far as to be 
 piqued. She gave her whole attention 
 to Francis, and, on parting with her 
 guests, she courtesied coldly to Leon- 
 ard, and said to Francis, "Ah, my 
 dear friend, I foresee I shall miss you 
 terribly." 
 
 I am afraid this pretty speech was 
 intended as a side cut at Leonard. 
 
 " But on the impassive ice the lightnings play." 
 
 Her new confessor retired, and left 
 her with a sense of inferiority, which 
 would have been pleasing to her wo- 
 man's nature if Leonard himself had 
 appeared less conscious of it, and had 
 shown ever so little approval of herself ; 
 but, impressed upon her too sharply, it 
 piqued and jnortified her. 
 
 However, like a gallant champion, 
 she awaited another encounter. She 
 so rarely failed to please, she could not 
 accept defeat. 
 
 Father Francis departed. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt soon found that she really 
 missed him. She had got into a habit 
 of running to her confessor twice a 
 week, and to her director nearly every 
 day that he did not come of his own 
 accord to her. 
 
 Her good sense showed her at once 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 71 
 
 she must not take up Brother Leonard's 
 time in this way. She went a long time, 
 for her, without confession ; at last she 
 sent a line to Leonard asking him when 
 it would be convenient to him to con- 
 fess her. Leonard wrote back to say 
 that he received penitents in the chapel 
 for two hours after matins every Mon- 
 day, Tuesday, and Saturday. 
 
 This implied, first come, first served ; 
 and was rather galling to Mrs. Gaunt. 
 
 However, she rode one morning, with 
 her groom behind her, and had to wait 
 until an old woman in a red cloak and 
 black bonnet was first disposed of. She 
 confessed a heap. And presently the 
 soft but chill tones of Brother Leonard 
 broke in with these freezing words : 
 " My daughter, excuse me ; but confes- 
 sion is one thing, gossip about our- 
 selves is another." 
 
 This distinction was fine, but fatal. 
 The next minute the fair penitent was 
 in her carriage, her eyes filled with tears 
 of mortification. 
 
 " The man is a spiritual machine," 
 said she ; and her pride was mortified 
 to the core. 
 
 In these happy days she used to open 
 her heart to her husband ; and she went 
 so far as to say some bitter little femi- 
 nine things of her new confessor before 
 him. 
 
 He took no notice at first ; but at last 
 he said one day: "Well, I am of your 
 mind ; he is very poor company com- 
 pared with that jovial old blade, Fran- 
 cis. But why so many words, Kate ? 
 You don't use to bite twice at a cherry ; 
 'if the milk-sop is not to your taste, give 
 him the sack and be d— d to him." 
 And with this homely advice Squire 
 Gaunt dismissed the matter and went 
 to the stable to give his mare a ball. 
 
 So you see Mrs. Gaunt was discon- 
 tented with Francis for not being an 
 enthusiast, and nettled with Leonard 
 for being one. 
 
 The very next Sunday morning she 
 went and heard Leonard preach. His 
 first sermon was an era in her life. 
 After twenty years of pulpit prosers, 
 there suddenly rose before her a sacred 
 
 orator ; an orator born ; blest with that 
 divine and thrilling eloquence that no 
 heart can really resist. He prepared 
 his great theme with art at first ; but, 
 once warm, it carried him away, and his 
 hearers went with him like so many 
 straws on the flood, and in the exer- 
 cise of this great gift the whole man 
 seemed transfigured ; abroad, he was a 
 languid, rather slouching priest, who 
 crept about, a picture of delicate humil- 
 ity, but with a shade of meanness ; for, 
 religious prejudice apart, it is ignoble 
 to sweep the wall in passing as he did, 
 and eye the ground : but, once in the 
 pulpit, his figure rose and swelled ma- 
 jestically, and seemed to fly over them 
 all like a guardian angel's ; his sallow 
 cheek burned, his great Italian eye shot 
 black lightning at the impenitent, and 
 melted ineffably when he soothed the 
 sorrowful. 
 
 Observe that great, mean, brown bird 
 in the Zoological Gardens, which sits 
 so tame on its perch, and droops and 
 slouches like a drowsy duck ! That is 
 the great and soaring eagle. Who would 
 believe it, to look at him .■' Yet all he 
 wants is to be put in his right place inr 
 stead of his wrong. He is not himself 
 in man's cages, belonging to God's sky. 
 Even so Leonard was abroad in the 
 world, but at home in the pulpit ; anS 
 so he somewhat crept and slouched 
 about the parish, but soared hke an 
 eagle in his native air. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt sat thrilled, enraptured, 
 melted. She hung upon his words ; and 
 when they ceased, she still sat motion- 
 less, spell-bound ; loath to believe that 
 accents so divine could really come to 
 an end. 
 
 Even whilst all the rest were dispers- 
 ing, she sat quite still, and closed her 
 eyes. For her soul was too high-strung 
 now to endure the chit-chat she knew 
 would attack her on the road home, — 
 chit-chat that had been welcome enough 
 coming home from other preachers. 
 
 And by this means she came hot and 
 undiluted to her husband ; she laid her 
 white hand on his shoulder, and said, 
 " O Griffith, I have heard the voice of 
 God." 
 
72 
 
 Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 Griffith looked alarmed, and rather 
 shocked than elated. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt observed that, and tacked 
 on, " Speaking by the lips of his ser- 
 vant." But she fired again the next 
 moment, and said, " The grave hath 
 given us back St. Paul in the Church's 
 need ; and I have heard him this day." 
 
 " Good heavens ! where ? " 
 
 " At St. Mary's Chapel." 
 
 Then Griffith looked very incredu- 
 lous. Then she gushed out with, " What, 
 because it is a small chapel, you think 
 a great saint cannot be in it. Why, our 
 Saviour was born in a stable, if you go 
 to that." 
 
 "Well, but my dear, consider," said 
 Griffith ; " who ever heard of comparing 
 a living man to St. Paul, for preaching .? 
 Why, he was an apostle, for one thing ; 
 and there are no apostles now-a-days. 
 He made Felix tremble on his throne, 
 and almost persuaded Whatsename, an- 
 other heathen gentleman, to be a Chris- 
 tian." 
 
 " That is true," said the lady, thought- 
 fully ; " but he sent one man that we 
 know of to sleep. Catch Broth ei- Leon- 
 ard sending any man to sleep ! And 
 then nobody will ever say of him that 
 he was long preaching." 
 
 " Why, I do say it," replied Griffith. 
 " By the same token, I have been wait- 
 ing dinner for you this half-hour, along 
 of his preaching." 
 
 "Ah, that 's because you did not hear 
 him," retorted Mrs. Gaunt ; "if you had, 
 it would have seemed too short, and 
 you would have forgotten all about your 
 dinner for once." 
 
 Griffith made no reply. He even 
 looked vexed at her enthusiastic admi- 
 ration. She saw, and said no more. 
 But after dinner she retired to the grove, 
 and thought of the sermon and the 
 preacher: thought of them all the more 
 that she was discouraged from enlarg- 
 ing on them. Andvit would have been 
 kinder, and also wiser, of Griffith, if he 
 had encouraged her to let out her heart 
 to him on this subject, although it did 
 not happen to interest him. A husband 
 should not chill an enthusiastic wife, 
 and, above all, should never separate 
 
 himself from her favorite topic, when 
 she loves him well enough to try and 
 share it with him. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt, however, though her 
 feelings were quick, was not cursed 
 with a sickly or irritable sensibility ; 
 nor, on the other hand, was she one of 
 those lovely little bores who cannot 
 keep their tongues off' their favorite 
 theme. She quietly let the subject 
 drop for a whole week ; but the next 
 Sunday morning she asked her hus- 
 band if he would do her a little favor. 
 
 " I 'm more likely to say ay than nay,'' 
 was the cheerful reply. 
 
 " It is just to go to chapel with me ; 
 and then you can judge for yourself." 
 
 Griffith looked rather sheepish at this 
 proposal ; and he said he could not very 
 well do that. 
 
 " Why not, dearest, just for once ? " 
 
 "Well, you see, parties run so high 
 in this parish ; and everything one does 
 is noted. Why, if I was to go to chap- 
 el, they 'd say directly, ' Look at Grif- 
 fith Gaunt, he is so tied to his wife's 
 apron he is going to give up the faith 
 of his ancestors.' " 
 
 " The faith of your ancestors ! That 
 is a good jest. The faith of your 
 grandfather at the outside : the faith of 
 your ancestors was the faith of mine 
 and me." 
 
 " Well, don't let us differ about a 
 word," said Griffith ; " you know what 
 I mean. Did ever I ask ybu to go to 
 church with me ? and if I were to ask 
 you, would you go ? " 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt colored ; but would not 
 give in. " That is not the same thing," 
 said she. " I do profess religion : you 
 do not. You scarce think of God on 
 week-days ; and, indeed, never mention 
 his name, except in the way of swear- 
 ing ; and on Sunday you go to church 
 — for what ? to doze before dinner, 
 you know you do. Come now, with 
 you 't is no question of religion, but 
 just of nap or no nap : for Brother 
 Leonard won't let you sleep, I warn you 
 fairly." 
 
 Griffith shook his head. " You are 
 too hard on me, wife. I know I am not 
 so good as you are, and never shall be ; 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealotisy. 
 
 73 
 
 but that is not the fault of the Protes- 
 tant faith, which hath reared so many 
 holy men : and some of 'em our ances- 
 tors burnt alive, and will burn in hell 
 themselves for the deed. But, look 
 you, sweetheart, if I 'm not a saint I 'm 
 a gentleman, and, say I wear my faith 
 loose, I won't drag it in the dirt none 
 the more for that. So you must ex- 
 cuse me." 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt was staggered ; and if 
 Griffith had said no more, I think she 
 would have withdrawn her request, and 
 so the matter ended. But persons un- 
 versed in argument can seldom let well 
 alone ; and this simple Squire must 
 needs go on to say, " Besides, Kate, it 
 would come to the parson's ears, and 
 he is a friend of mine, you know. 
 Why, I shall be sure to meet him to- 
 morrow." 
 
 "Ay," retorted the lady, "by the fov- 
 er-side. Well, when you do, tell him 
 you refused your wife your company for 
 fear of offending the religious views of 
 a fox-hunting parson." 
 
 " Nay, Kate," said Griffith, " this is 
 not to ask thy man to go with thee ; 
 't is to say go he must, willy nilly." 
 With that he rose and rang the bell. 
 " Order the chariot," said he, " I am to 
 go with our dame." 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt's face beamed with grati- 
 fied pride and affection. 
 
 The chariot came round, and Griffith 
 handed his dame in. He then gave an 
 involuntary sigh, and followed her with 
 a hang-dog look. 
 
 She heard the sigh, and saw the look, 
 and laid her hand quickly on his shoul- 
 der, and said, gently but coldly, " Stay 
 you at home, my dear. We shall meet 
 at dinner." 
 
 " As you will," said he, cheerfully : 
 and they went their several ways. He 
 congratulated himself on her clemency, 
 and his own escape. 
 
 She went along, sorrowful at having 
 to drink so great a bliss alone ; and 
 thought it unkind and stupid of Griffith 
 not to yield with a good grace if he 
 could yield at all : and, indeed, women 
 seem cleverer than men in this, that, 
 when they resign their wills, they do 
 
 it graciously and not by halves. Per- 
 haps they are more accustomed to 
 knock under ; and you know practice 
 makes perfect. 
 
 But every smaller feeling was swept 
 away by the preacher, and Mrs. Gaunt 
 came home full of pious and lofty 
 thoughts. 
 
 She found her husband seated at the 
 dinner - table, with one turnip before 
 him ; and even that was not comestible ; 
 for it was his grandfather's watch, with 
 a face about the size of a new-born 
 child's. " Forty-five minutes past one, 
 Kate," said he, ruefully. 
 
 " Well, why not bid them serve the 
 dinner ? " said she with an air of con- 
 summate indifference. 
 
 " What, dine alone o' Sunday ? Why, 
 you know I could n't eat a morsel with- 
 out you, set opposite." 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt smiled affectionately. 
 " Well then, my dear, we had better or- 
 der dinner an hour later next Sunday." 
 
 " But that will upset the servants, 
 and spoil their Sunday." 
 
 " And am I to be their slave ? " said 
 Mrs. Gaunt, getting a little warm. 
 " Dinner ! dinner ! What ? shall I 
 starve my soul, by hurrying away from 
 the oracles of God to a sirloin ? O 
 these gross appetites ! how they deaden 
 the immortal half, and wall out Heav- 
 en's music ! For my part, I wish 
 there was no such thing as eating and 
 drinking. 'T is like falling from Heav- 
 en down into the mud, to come back 
 from such divine discourse and be 
 greeted with ' Dinner ! dinner ! din- 
 ner ! ' " 
 
 The next Sunday, after waiting half 
 an hour for her, Griffith began his din- 
 ner without her. 
 
 And this time, on her arrival, in- 
 stead of remonstrating with her, he ex- 
 cused himself. "Nothing,'' said he, 
 " upsets a man's temper like waiting for 
 his dinner." 
 
 " Well, but you have not waited." 
 
 " Yes, I did, a good half-hour. Till 
 I could wait no longer." 
 
 " Well, dear, if I were you I would 
 not have waited at all, or else waited 
 till your wife came home." 
 
74 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy, 
 
 " Ah, dame, that is all very well for 
 you to say. You could live on hearing 
 of sermons and smelling to rosebuds. 
 You don't know what 't is to be a hun- 
 gry man." 
 
 The next Sunday he sat sadly down, 
 and finished his dinner without her. 
 And she came home and sat down to 
 half-empty dishes ; and ate much less 
 than she used when she had him to 
 keep her company in it. 
 
 Griffith, looking on disconsolate, told 
 her she was more like a bird pecking 
 than a Christian eating of a Sunday. 
 
 " No matter, child," said she ; " so 
 long as my soul is filled with the bread 
 of Heaven." 
 
 Leonard's eloquence suffered no dim- 
 inution, either in quantity or quality ; 
 and, after a while. Gaunt gave up his 
 rule of never dining abroad on the Sun- 
 day. If his wife was not punctual, his 
 stomach was ; and he had not the same 
 temptation to dine at home he used to 
 have. 
 
 And indeed, by degrees, instead of 
 quietly enjoying his wife's company on 
 that sweet day, he got to see less of her 
 than on the week-days. 
 
 CHAPTER XVr. 
 
 Your mechanical preacher flings his 
 words out happy-go-iucky ; but flie pul- 
 pit orator, like every other orator, 
 feels his people's pulse as he speaks, 
 and vibrates with them, and they with 
 him. 
 
 So Leonard soon discovered he had 
 a great listener in Mrs. Gaunt : she was 
 always there whenever he preached, 
 and her rapt attention never flagged. 
 Her gray eyes never left his face, and, 
 being upturned, the full orbs came oUt 
 in all their grandeur, and seemed ail 
 angel's, come down from heaven to 
 hear him ; for, indeed, to a very dark 
 man, as Leonard was, the gentle radi- 
 ance of a true Saxon beauty seems al- 
 ways more or less angelic. 
 
 By degrees this face became a help 
 to the orator. In preaching he looked 
 sometimes to it for sympathy, and lo, 
 
 It was sure to be melting with sympa- 
 thy. Was he led on to higher or deep- 
 er thoughts than most of his congrega- 
 tion could understand, he looked to this 
 face to understand him ; and lo, it had 
 quite understood him, and was beam- 
 ing with intelligence. 
 
 From a help and an encouragement 
 it became a comfort and a delight to 
 him. 
 
 On leaving the pulpit and cooling, he 
 remembered its owner was no angel, 
 but a woman of the world, and had put 
 him frivolous questions. 
 
 The illusion, however, was so beauti- 
 ful, that Leonard, being an imaginative 
 man, was unwilling to dispel it by com- 
 ing into familiar contact with Mrs. 
 Gaunt. So he used to make his assist- 
 ant visit her, and receive her when she 
 came to confess, which was very rarely ; 
 for s<ie was discouraged by her first re- 
 ception. 
 
 Brother Leonard liyed in a sort of 
 dwarf monastery, consisting of two cot- 
 tages, an oratory, and a sepulchre. The 
 two latter were old, but the cottages 
 had been built expressly for him and 
 another seminary priest who had been 
 invited from France. Inside, these cot- 
 tages were little more than cells ; only 
 the bigger had a kitchen which was a 
 glorious place compared with the par- 
 lor ; for it was illuminated with bright 
 pewter plites, copper vessels, brass 
 candlesticks, and a nice clean woman, 
 with a plain gown kilted over a quilted 
 silk petticoat ; Betty Scarf, an old ser- 
 vant of Mrs. Gaunt's, who had married, 
 and was now the Widow Gough.. 
 
 She stood at the gate one day, as 
 Mrs. Gaunt drove by ; .a.nd courtesied, 
 all beaming. 
 
 .Mrs. Gaunt stopped the carriage, and 
 made some kind and patronizing in- 
 quiries about her ; and it ended in Bet- 
 ty asking her to come in and see her 
 place. Mrs. Gaunt looked a little shy 
 at that, and did not move. " Nay, 
 they are both abroad till supper time," 
 said Betty, reading her in a moment by 
 the light of sex. Then Mrs. Gaunt 
 smiled, and got out of her carriage. 
 Betty took her in and showed her 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 75 
 
 everything in doors and out. Mrs. 
 Gaunt looked mighty demure and dig- 
 nified, but scanned everything closely, 
 only without seeming too curious. 
 
 The cold gloom of the parlor struck 
 her. She shuddered, and said, " This 
 would give me the vapors. But, doubt- 
 less, angels come and brighten it for 
 
 " Not always," said Betty. " I do 
 see hira with liis head in his hand by 
 the hour, and hear him sigh ever so 
 loud as I pass the door. Why, one 
 day he was fain to have me and my 
 spinning-wheel aside him. Says he, 
 ' Let me hear thy busy wheel, and see 
 thee ply it.' 'And welcome,' says I. 
 So I sat in his room, and span, and he 
 sat a gloating of me as if he had never 
 seen a woman spin hemp afore (he is a 
 very simple man) : and presently says 
 he — but what signifies what he said ? " 
 
 " Nay, Betty ; if you please ! I am 
 much interested in him. He preaches 
 so divinely." 
 
 "AyJ' said Betty, "that's his gift. 
 But a poor trencher-man ; and I de- 
 clare I 'm ashamed to eat all the vittels 
 that are eaten here, and me but a wo- 
 man." 
 
 "But what did he say to you that 
 time ? " asked Mrs. Gaunt, a litde im- 
 patiently. 
 
 Betty cudgelled her memory. " Well, 
 Says he, ' My daughter,' (the poor soul 
 always calls me his daughter, and me 
 old enough to be his mother mostly,) 
 says he, ' how comes it that you are 
 never wearied, nor cast down, and 
 yet you but serve a sinner like your- 
 self ; but I do often droop in my Mas- 
 ter's service, and He is the Lord of 
 heaven and earth ? ' Says I, ' 1 11 tell 
 ye, sir : because ye don't eat enough o' 
 vittels.' " 
 
 " What an answer ! " 
 
 "Why, 't is the truth, dame. And 
 says I, ' If I was to be always fasting, 
 like as you be, d' ye think I should 
 have the heart to work from morn till 
 night ? ' Now, was n't I right ? " 
 
 " I don't know till I hear what an- 
 swer he made," said Mrs. Gaunt, with 
 mean caution. 
 
 " O, he shook his head, and said he 
 ate mortal food enow, (poor simple 
 body !) but drank too little of grace di- 
 vine. That were his word." 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt was a good deal struck 
 and affected by this revelation, and as- 
 tonished at the slighting tone Betty 
 took in speaking of so remarkable a 
 man. The saying that " No man is a 
 hero to his valet " was not yet current, 
 or perhaps she would have been less 
 surprised at that. 
 
 " Alas ! poor man," said she, " and is 
 it so ? To hear him, I thought his soul 
 was borne up night and day by angels' 
 pinions — " 
 
 The widow interrupted her. " Ay, 
 you hear him preach, and it is like 
 God's trumpet mostly, and so much I 
 say for him in all companies. But I 
 see him directly after ; he totters in to 
 this very room, and sits hirn down pale 
 and panting, and one time like to swoon, 
 and another all for crying, and then he 
 is ever so dull and sad for the whole 
 afternoon." 
 
 " And nobody knows this but you ? 
 You have got my old petticoat still, I 
 see. I must look you up another." 
 
 " You are very good, dame, I am 
 sure. 'T will not come amiss ; I 've 
 only this for Sundays and all. No, my 
 lady, not a soul but me and you. I 'm 
 not one as tells tales out of doors, but 
 I don*t mind you, dame ; you are my 
 old mistress, and a discreet woman. 
 'T will go no further than your ear." 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt told her she might rely 
 on that. The widow then inquired af- 
 ter Mrs. Gaunt's little girl, and admired 
 her dres.s, and described her own ail- 
 ments, and poured out a continuous 
 stream of topics bearing no affinity to 
 each other except that they were all of 
 them not worth mentioning. And all 
 the while she thus discoursed, Mrs. 
 Gaunt's thoughtful eyes looked straight 
 over the chatterbox's white cap, and 
 explored vacancy ; and by and by she 
 broke the current of twaddle with the 
 majestic air of a camelopard marching 
 across a running gutter. 
 
 '* Betsy Gough," said she, " I am 
 thinking." 
 
76 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 Mrs. Gough was struck dumb by an 
 announcement so singular. 
 
 " I have heard, and I have read, that 
 great and pious and learned men are 
 often to seek in little simple things, 
 such as plain bodies have at their fin- 
 gers' ends. So, now, if you and I could 
 only teach him something for all he has 
 taught us ! And, to be sure, we ought 
 to be kind to him if we can ; for O Bet- 
 ty, my woman, 't is a poor vanity to go 
 and despise the great, and the learned, 
 and the sainted, because forsooth we 
 find them out in some one little weak- 
 ness, — we that are all made up of 
 weaknesses and defects. So, now, I 
 sit me down in his very chair, so. And 
 sit you there. Now let us, you and 
 me, look at his room quietly, all over, 
 and see what is wanting." 
 
 "First and foremost methinks this 
 window should be filled with geraniums 
 and jessamine and so forth. With all 
 his learning perhaps he has to be taught, 
 the color of flowers and golden green . 
 leaves, with the sun shining through, 
 how it soothes the eye and relieves the 
 spirits ; yet every woman born knows 
 that. Then do but see this bare table ! 
 a purple cloth on that, I say." 
 
 " Which he will fling it out of the 
 window, I say." 
 
 " Nay, for I '11 embroider a cross in 
 the middle with gold braid. Then a 
 rose-colored blind would not be amiss ; 
 and there must be a good mirror facing 
 the window ; but, indeed, if I had my 
 way, I 'd paint these horrid walls the 
 first thing." 
 
 " How you run on, dame ! Bless 
 your heart, you 'd turn his den into a 
 palace ; he won't suffer that. He is 
 all for self-mortification, poor simple 
 soul." 
 
 " O, not all at once, I did not mean," 
 said Mrs. Gaunt; "but by little and 
 little, you know. We must begin with 
 the flowers : God made them ; and so 
 to be sure he will not spurn them." 
 
 Betty began to enter into the plot. 
 " Ay, ay," said she : " the flowers first ; 
 and so creep on. But naught will avail 
 to make a man of him so long as he 
 
 eats but of eggs and garden-stuff, like 
 the beasts of the field, 'that to-day 
 are, and to-morrow are cast into the 
 oven.' " 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt smiled at this ambitious 
 attempt of the widow to apply Scrip- 
 ture. Then she said, rather timidly, 
 " Could you make his eggs into ome- 
 lets ? and so pound in a little meat with 
 your small herbs ; I dare say he would 
 be none the wiser, and he so bent on 
 high and heavenly things." 
 
 " You may take your oath of that." 
 
 " Well, then. And I shall send you 
 some stock from the castle, and you 
 can cook his vegetables in good strong 
 gravy, unbeknown." 
 
 The Widow Gough chuckled aloud. 
 
 " But stay," said Mrs. Gaunt ; " for 
 us to play the woman so, and delude a 
 saint for his mere bodily weal, will it 
 not be a sin, and a sacrilege to boot ? " 
 
 " Let that flea stick in the wall," said 
 Betty, contemptuously. " Find you the 
 meat, and I '11 find the deceit : for he 
 is as poor as a rat into the bargain. 
 Nay, nay, God Almighty will' never 
 have the heart to burn us two for such 
 a trifle. Why 't is no more than cheat- 
 ing a froward child into taking 's phys- 
 ic." 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt got into her carriage and 
 went home, thinking all the way. What 
 she had heard filled her with feelings 
 strangely but sweetly composed of ven- 
 eration _and pity. In that Leonard was 
 a great orator and a high-minded priest, 
 she revered him ; in that he was soli- 
 tary and sad, she pitied him ; in that 
 he wanted common sense, she felt like 
 a mother, and must take him under her 
 wing. All true women love to protect ; 
 perhaps it is a part of the great mater- 
 nal element : but to protect a man, and 
 yet look up to him, this is delicious. 
 It satisfies their double craving ; it 
 takes them by both breasts, as the say- 
 ing is. 
 
 Leonard, in truth, was one of those 
 high-strung men who pay for their pe- 
 riods of religious rapture by hours of 
 melancholy. This oscillation of the 
 spirits in extraordinary men appears 
 to be more or less a law of nature ; 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 77 
 
 and this the Widow Gough was not 
 aware of. 
 
 The very next Sunday, while he was 
 preaching, she and Mrs. Gaunt's gar- 
 dener were filling his bow-window with 
 flower-pots, the flowers in full bloom 
 and leaf. The said window was large 
 and had a broad sill outside, and inside, 
 one of the old-fashioned high window- 
 seats that follow the shape of the win- 
 dow. Mrs. Gaunt, who did nothing by 
 halves, sent up a cart-load of flower- 
 pots, and Betty and the gardener ar- 
 ranged at least eighty of them, small 
 and great, inside and outside the win- 
 dow. 
 
 When Leonard returned from preach- 
 ing, Betty was at the door to watch. 
 He came past tlie window with his 
 hands on. his breast, and his eyes on 
 the ground, and never saw the flowers 
 in his own window. Betty was dis- 
 gusted. However, she followed him 
 stealthily as he went to his room, and 
 she heard a profound " Ah ! " burst 
 from him. 
 
 She bustled in and found him stand- 
 ing in a rapture, with the blood man- 
 tling in his pale cheeks, and his dark 
 eyes glowing. 
 
 " Now blessed be the heart that hath 
 conceived this thing, and the hand that 
 hath done it," said he. " My poor room, 
 it is a bower of roses, all beauty and 
 fragrance." 
 
 And he sat down, inhaling them and 
 looking at them ; and a dreamy, ten- 
 der complacency crept over his heart, 
 and softened his noble features ex- 
 quisitely. 
 
 Widow Gough, red with gratified 
 pride, stood watching him, and admir- 
 ing him ; but, indeed, she often ad- 
 mired him, though she had got into a 
 way of decrying him. 
 
 But at last she lost" patience at his 
 want of curiosity ; that being a defect 
 she was free from herself. 
 
 "Ye don't ask me who sent -them," 
 said she, reproachfully. 
 
 "Nay, nay," said he; "prithee do 
 not tell me : let me divine." 
 
 " Divine, then," said Betty, roughly. 
 " Which I suppose you means 'guess.' " 
 
 " Nay, but let me be quiet awhile," 
 said he, imploringly ; " let me sit down 
 and fancy that I am a holy man, and 
 some angel hath turned my cave into a 
 Paradise." 
 
 " No more an angel than I am," said 
 the practical widow. " But, now I think 
 on 't, y' are not to know who 't was. 
 Them as sent them they bade me hold 
 my tongue." 
 
 This was not true ; but Betty, being 
 herself given to unwise revelations and 
 superfluous secrecy, chose suddenly to 
 assume that this business was to be 
 clandestine. 
 
 The priest turned his eye inwards 
 and meditated. 
 
 " I see who it is," said he, with an 
 air of absolute conviction. "It must 
 be the lady who comes always when 
 I preach, and her face like none other; 
 it beams with divine intelligence. I . 
 will make her all the return we poor 
 priests can make to our benefactors. 
 I will pray for her soul here among 
 the flowers God has made, and she has 
 given his servant to glorify his dwelling. 
 My daughter, you may retire." 
 
 This last with surprising, gentle dig- 
 nity ; so Betty went off rather abashed, 
 and avenged herself by adulterating the 
 holy inan's innutritious food with Mrs. 
 Gaunt's good gravy; while he prayed 
 fervently for her eternal weal among 
 the flowers she had given him. 
 
 Now Mrs. Gauntj after eight years of 
 married life, was too sensible and digni- 
 fied a woman to make a romantic mys- 
 tery out of nothing. She concealed the 
 gravy, because there secrecy was neces- 
 sary ; but she never dreamed of hiding 
 that she had sent her spiritual adviser 
 a load of flowers. She did not tell her 
 neighbors, for she was not ostentatious ; 
 but she told her husband, who grunted, 
 but did not object. 
 
 But Betty's nonsense lent an air of 
 romance and mystery that was well 
 adapted to captivate the imagination of 
 a young, ardent, and solitary spirit like 
 Leonard. 
 
 He would have called on the lady he 
 suspected, and thanked her for her kind- 
 ness. But this, he feared, would be un- 
 
78 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 welcome, since she chose to be his un- 
 known benefactress. It would be ill 
 taste in him to tell her he had found her 
 out : it might offend her sensibility, and 
 then she would draw in. 
 
 He kept his gratitude, therefore, to 
 himself, and did not cool it by utter- 
 ance. He often sat among the flowers, 
 in a sweet revery, enjoying their color 
 and fragrance ; and sometimes he would 
 shut his eyes, and call up the angelical 
 face, with great, celestial, upturned orbs, 
 and fancy it among her own flowers, 
 and tlie queen of them all. 
 
 These day-dreams did not at that 
 time interfere with his religious duties. 
 They only took the place of those oc- 
 casional hours when, partly by the re- 
 action consequent on great religious 
 fervor, partly by exhaustion of the body 
 weakened by fasts, partly by the natural 
 delicacy of his fibre and the tenderness 
 of his disposition, his soul used to be 
 sad. 
 
 By and by these languid hours, sad 
 no longer, became sweet and dear to 
 him. He had something so interest- 
 ing to think of, to dream about. He 
 had a Madonna that cared for him in 
 secret. 
 
 She was human ; but good, beautiful, 
 and wise. She came to his sermons, 
 and understood every word. 
 
 " And she knows me better than I 
 know myself," said he ; " since I had 
 these flowers from her hand, I am an- 
 other man." 
 
 One day he came into his room and 
 found two watering-pots there. One 
 was large and had a rose to it, the other 
 small and with a plain spout. 
 
 " Ah ! " said he ; and colored with 
 delight. He called Betty, and asked 
 her who had brought them. 
 
 " How should I know ? " said she, 
 roughly. " I dare say they dropped from 
 heaven. See, there is a cross painted 
 on 'em in gold letters." 
 
 " And so there is ! " said Leonard, 
 and crossed himself. 
 
 " That means nobody is to use them 
 but you, I trow," said Betty, rather 
 crossly. 
 
 The priest's cheek colored high. " I 
 
 will use tljem this instant," said he. " I 
 will revive my drooping children as they 
 have revived me." And he caught up a 
 watering-pot with ardor. 
 
 " What, with the sun hot upon 'em ? " 
 screamed Betty. "Well, saving your 
 presence, you are a simple man." 
 
 " Why, good Betty, 't is the sun that 
 makes them faint," objected the priest, 
 timidly, and with the utmost humility 
 of manner, though Betty's tone would 
 have irritated a smaller mind. 
 
 " Well, well," • said she, softening ; 
 "but ye see it never rains with a hot 
 sun, and the flowers they know that ; 
 and look to be watered after Nature, or 
 else they take it amiss. You, and all 
 your sort, sir, you think to be stronger 
 than Nature ; you (^ fast and pray all 
 day, and won't look at a woman like 
 other men ; and now you wants to water 
 the very flowers at noon ! " 
 
 " Betty," said Leonard smiling, " I 
 yield to thy superior wisdom, and I will 
 water them at morn and eve. In truth 
 we have all much to learn : let us try 
 and teach one another as kindly as we 
 can." 
 
 " I wish you 'd teach me to be as hum- 
 ble as you be," blurted out Betty, with 
 something very like a sob : " and more 
 respectful to my betters," added she, 
 angrily. 
 
 Watering the flowers she had given 
 him became a solace and a delight to 
 the solitary priest : he always watered 
 them with his own hands, and felt quite 
 paternal over them. 
 
 One evening Mrs. Gaunt rode by with 
 Grifl[ith, and saw him watering them. 
 His tall figure, graceful, though inclined 
 to stoop, bent over them with feminine 
 delicacy ; and the simple act, which 
 would have been nothing in vulgan, 
 hands, seemed to Mrs. Gaunt so ear- 
 nest, ' tender, and delicate in him, that 
 her eyes filled, and she murmured, 
 "Poor Brother Leonard!" 
 
 " Why, what 's wrong with him now ? " 
 asked Grifiith, a little peevishly. 
 
 "That was him watering the flow- 
 ers." 
 
 " O, is that all ?" said Griffith, care- 
 lessly. 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 79 
 
 Leonard said to himself, " I go too 
 little abroad among my people." He 
 made a little round, and it ended in 
 Hernshaw Castle. 
 
 Mrs.' Gaunt was out. 
 
 He looked disappointed ; so the ser- 
 vant suggested that perhaps she was in 
 the Dame's Haunt: he pointed to the 
 grove. 
 
 Leonard followed his direction, and 
 soon found himself, for the first time, in 
 that sombre, solemn retreat. 
 
 It was a hot summer day, and the 
 grove was delicious. It was also a place 
 well suited to the imaginative and relig- 
 ious mind of the Italian. 
 
 He wallced slowly to and fro, in relig- 
 ious meditation. Indeed, he had nearly 
 thought out his next sermon, when his 
 meditative eye happened to fall on a ter- 
 restrial object that startled and thrilled 
 him. Yet .it was only a lady's glove. 
 It lay at the foot of a rude wooden seat 
 beneath a gigantic pine. 
 
 He stooped and picked it up. He 
 opened the little fingers, and called up 
 in fancy the white arid tapering hand 
 that glove could fit. He laid the glove 
 softly on his own palm, and eyed it with 
 dreamy tenderness. " So this is the 
 hand that hath solaced my loneliness," ■ 
 said he : "a hand fair as that angelical 
 face, and sweet as the kind heart that 
 doeth good by stealth." 
 
 Then, forgetting for a moment, as 
 lofty spirits will, the difference between 
 meum and tuum, he put the little glove 
 in his bosom, and paced thoughtfully 
 home through the woods, that were sep- 
 arated from the grove only by one 
 meadow: and so he missed the owner 
 of the glove, for she had returned home 
 while he was meditating in her favorite 
 haunt. 
 
 Leonard, amongst his other accom- 
 plishments, could draw and paint with 
 no mean skill. In one of those hours 
 that used to be of melancholy, but now 
 were hours of dreamy complacency, he 
 took out his pencils and endeavored to 
 sketch the inspired face that he had 
 learned to preach to, and now to dwell 
 on with gratitude. 
 
 Clearly as he saw it before him, he 
 could not reproduce it to his own sat- 
 isfaction. After many failures he got 
 very near the mark : yet still something 
 was wanting. 
 
 Then, as a last resource, he actually 
 took his sketch to church with him, and 
 in preaching made certain pauses, and, 
 with a very few touches, perfected the 
 likeness ; then, on his return home, 
 threw himself on his knees and prayed 
 forgiveness of God with many sighs and 
 tears, and hid the sacrilegious drawing 
 out of his own sight. 
 
 Two days after, he was at work col- 
 oring it ; and the hours flew by like min- 
 utes, as he laid the mellow, melting 
 tints on with infinite care and delicacy. 
 Labor ipse voluptas. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt heard Leonard had called 
 on her in person. She was pleased at 
 that, and it encouraged her to carry out 
 her whole design. 
 
 Accordingly, one afternoon, when she 
 knew Leonard would be at vespers, she 
 sent on a loaded pony-cart, and followed 
 it on horseback. 
 
 Then it waS all hurry-skurry with 
 Betty and her, to get their dark deeds 
 done before their victim's return. 
 
 These good creatures set the mirror 
 opposite the flowery window, and so 
 made the room a very bower. They 
 fixed a magnificent crucifix of ivory and 
 gold over the mantel-piece, and they took 
 away his hassock of rushes and substi- 
 tuted a ^«'£-rfz«M of rich crimson velvet. 
 All that remained was to put their blue 
 cover, with its golden cross, on the ta- 
 ble. To do this, however, they had to 
 remove the priest's papers and things : 
 they were covered with a cloth. . Mrs. 
 Gaunt felt them under it. 
 
 " But perhaps he will be angry if we 
 move his papers," said she. 
 
 " Not he," said Betty. " He has no 
 secrets from God or man." 
 
 " Well, / won't take it on me," said 
 Mrs. Gaunt, merrily. "'I leave that to 
 you." And she turned her back and 
 settled the mirror, officiously, leaving all 
 the other responsibilities to Betty. 
 
 The sturdy widow laughed at her 
 
8o 
 
 Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 scruples, and whipped ofF the cloth with- 
 out ceremony. But soon her laugli 
 stopped mighty short, and she uttered 
 an exclamation. 
 
 "What is the matter.?" said Mrs. 
 Gaunt, turning her head sharply round. 
 
 " A wench's glove, as I 'm a living 
 sinner," groaned Betty. 
 
 A poor little glove lay on the table ; 
 and both women eyed it like basilisks 
 a moment. Then Betty pounced on it 
 and examined it with the fierce keen- 
 ness of her sex in such conjunctures, 
 searching for a name or a clew. 
 
 Owing to this rapidity, Mrs. Gaunt,' 
 who stood at some distance, had not 
 time to observe the button on the glove, 
 or she would have recognized her own 
 property. 
 
 " He have had a hussy with him un- 
 beknown," said Betty, "and she have 
 left her glove. 'T is easy to get in by 
 the window and out again. Only let me 
 catch her ! I '11 tear her eyes out, and 
 give him my mind. I '11 have no young 
 hussies creeping in an' out where I be." 
 
 Thus spoke the simple woman, vent- 
 ing her coarse domestic jealousy. 
 
 The gentlewoman said nothing, but 
 a strange feehng traversed her heart for 
 the first time in her life. 
 
 It was a little chill, it was a little ache, 
 it was a httle sense of sickness ; none 
 of these violent, yet all distinct. And 
 all about what ? After this curious, 
 novel spasm at the heart, she began to 
 be ashamed of herself for having had 
 such a feeling. 
 
 Betty held her out the glove : and she 
 recognized it directly, and turned as red 
 as fire. 
 
 " You know whose 't is ? " said Betty, 
 keenly. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt was on her guard in a 
 moment. " Why, Betty," said she, " for 
 shames ! 't is some penitent hath left her 
 glove after confession. Would you be- 
 lie a good man for that ? O, fie ! " 
 
 "Humph!" said Betty, doubtfully. 
 " Then why keep it under cover ? Now 
 you can read, dame ; let us see if there 
 is n't a letter or so writ by the hand as 
 owns this very glove." 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt declined, with cold dig- 
 
 nity, to pry into Brother Leonard's man- 
 uscripts. 
 
 Her eye, however, darted sidelong at 
 them, and told another tale ; and, if she 
 had been there alone, perhaps the daugh- 
 ter of Eve would have predominated. 
 
 Betty, inflamed by the glove, rum- 
 maged the papers in search of female 
 handwriting. She could tell that from 
 a man's, though she could not read 
 either. 
 
 But there is a handwriting that the 
 most ignorant can read at sight ; and so 
 Betty's researches were not in vain : 
 hidden under several sheets of paper, 
 she found a picture. She gave but one 
 glance at it, and screamed out : " There, 
 did n't I tell you ? Here she is ! the bra- 
 zen, red-haired — Lawk a daisy ! 
 
 WHY, 'T is yourself." 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 " Me ! " cried Mrs. Gaunt, in amaze- 
 ment : then she ran to the picture, and 
 at sight of it every other sentiment gave 
 way for a moment to gratified vanity. 
 " Nay," said she, beaming and blushing, 
 " I was never half so beautiful. What 
 heavenly eyes ! " 
 
 " The fellows to 'em be in your own 
 head, dame, this moment." 
 
 "Seeing is beUeving," said Mrs. 
 Gaunt, gayly, and in a moment she was 
 at the priest's mirror, and inspected her 
 eyes minutely, cocking her head this 
 way and that. She ended by shaking 
 it, and saying, " No. He has flattered 
 them prodigiously." 
 
 "Not a jot," said Betty. "If you 
 could see yourself in chapel, you^do 
 turn 'em up just so, and the white shows 
 all round." Then she tapped the pic- 
 ture with her finger : " O them eyes ! 
 they were never made for the good of 
 his soul, — poor simple man ! " 
 
 Betty said this with sudden gravity: 
 and now Mrs. Gaunt began to feel very 
 awkward. " Mr. Gaunt would give fifty 
 pounds for this," said she, to gain time : 
 and, while she uttered that sentence, 
 she whipped on her armor. 
 
 " I '11 tell you what I think," said she, 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or, yealousy. 
 
 8l 
 
 calmly, " he wished to paint a Madon- 
 na ; and he must take some woman's 
 face to aid his fancy. All the painters 
 are driven to that. So he just took the 
 best that came to hand, and that is not 
 saying much, for this is a rare ill-fa- 
 vored parish : and he has made an an- 
 gel of her, a very angel. There, hide 
 Me away again, or. I shall long for- Me 
 — to show to my husband. I must be 
 going ; I would n't be caught here now 
 for a pension." 
 
 " Well, if ye must," said Betty ; "but 
 when will ye come again ? " (She 
 hadn't got the petticoat yet.) 
 
 " Humph ! " said Mrs. Gaunt, " I have 
 done all I can for him ; and perhaps 
 more than I ought. But there 's noth- 
 ing to hinder you from coming to me. 
 I '11 be as good as my word ; and I have 
 an old Paduasoy, besides ; you can per- 
 _ haps do something with it." 
 
 " You are very good, dame," said 
 Betty, courtesying. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt then hurried away, and 
 Betty looked after her very expressive- 
 ly, and shook her head. She had a fe- 
 male instinct that some mischief or other 
 was brewing. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt went home in a rev- 
 ery. 
 
 At the gate she found her husband, 
 and asked him to take a turn in the gar- 
 den with her. 
 
 He complied ; and she intended to tell 
 him a portion, at least, of what had oc- 
 curred. She began timidly, after this 
 fashion : " My dear. Brother Leonard is 
 so gratefulfor your flowers," and then 
 hesitated. 
 
 " I 'm sure he is very welcome," said 
 Griffith. " Why does n't he sup with 
 us, and be sociable, as Father Francis 
 used? Invite him; let him know he 
 wiU be welcome." 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt blushed ; and objected. 
 " He never calls on us." 
 
 " Well, well, every man to his taste," 
 said Griffith, indifferently, and proceed- 
 ed to talk to her about his farm, and a 
 sorrel mare with a white mane and tail 
 that he had seen, and thought it would 
 suit her. 
 
 She humored him, and affected a great 
 
 6 
 
 interest in all this, and had not the cour- 
 age to force the other topic on. 
 
 Next Sunday morning, after a very 
 silent breakfast, she burst out, almost 
 violently, " Griffith, I shall go to the 
 parish church with you, and then we 
 will dine together afterwards." 
 
 " You don't mean it, Kate," said he, 
 delighted. 
 
 "Ay, but I do. Although you re- 
 fused to go to chapel with me." 
 
 They went to church together, and 
 Mrs. Gaunt's appearance there created 
 no small sensation. She was conscious 
 of that, but hid it, and conducted her- 
 self admirably. Her mind seemed en- 
 tirely given to the service, and to a dull 
 sermon that followed. 
 
 But at dinner she broke out, " Well, 
 give me your church for a sleeping 
 draught. You all slumbered, more or 
 less : those that survived the drowsy, 
 droning prayers sank under the dry, 
 dull, dreary discourse. You snored, fca- 
 one." 
 
 " Nay, I hope not, my dear." 
 
 "You did then, as loud as your bass 
 fiddle." 
 
 " And you sat there and let me ! " 
 said Griffith, reproachfully. 
 
 " To be sure I did. I was too good 
 a wife, and too good a Christian, to 
 wake you. Sleep is good for the body, 
 and twaddle is not good for the soul. 
 I 'd have slept too, if I could ; but with 
 me going to chapel, I 'm not used to 
 sleep at that time o' day. You can't 
 sleep, and Brother Leonard speaking." 
 
 In the afternoon came Mrs. Gough, 
 all in her best. Mrs. Gaunt had her 
 into her bedroom, and gave her the 
 promised petticoat, and the old Padua- 
 soy gown ; and then, as ladies will, when 
 their hand is once in, added first one 
 thing, then another, till there was quite 
 a large bundle. 
 
 " But how is it you are here so soon ? " 
 asked Mrs. Gaunt. 
 
 " O, we had next to no sermon to- 
 day. He couldn't make no hand of 
 it : dawdled on a bit ; then gave us his 
 blessing, andT5undled us out." 
 
 " Then I 've lost nothing," said Mrs. 
 Gaunt 
 
82 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 " Not you. Well, I don't know. May- 
 hap if you had been there he 'd have 
 preached his best. But la ! we warn't 
 worth it." 
 
 At this conjecture Mrs. Gaunt's face 
 burned, but she said nothing : only she 
 cut the interview short, and dismissed 
 Betty with her bundle. 
 
 As Betty crossed the landing, Mrs. 
 Gaunt's new lady's-maid, Caroline Ry- 
 der, stepped accidentally, on purpose, 
 out of an adjoining room, in which she 
 had been lurking, and lifted her black 
 brows in affected surprise. "What, 
 are you going to strip the house, my 
 woman ? " said she, quietly. 
 
 Betty put down the bundle, and set 
 her arms akimbo. " There is none on 't 
 stolen, any way," said she. 
 
 Caroline's black eyes flashed fire at 
 this, and her cheek lost color ; but she 
 parried the innuendo skilfully. "Tak- 
 ing my perquisites on the sly, — that is 
 not so very far from stealing." 
 
 " O, there 's plenty left for you, my 
 fine lady. Besides, you don't want het'; 
 you can set your cap at the master, they 
 say. I 'm too old for that, and too hon- 
 est into the bargain." 
 
 "Too ill-favored, you mean, ye old 
 harridan," said Ryder, contemptuously. 
 
 But, for reasons hereafter to be dealt 
 with, Betty's thrust went home : and 
 the pair were mortal enemies fi-om that 
 hour. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt came down from her 
 room discomposed : from that she be- 
 came restless and irritable ; so much so, 
 indeed, that at last Mr. Gaunt told her, 
 good-humoredly enough, if going to 
 church made her ill (meaning peevish), 
 she had better go to chapel. " You are 
 right," said she, " and so I will." 
 
 The next Sunday she was at her post 
 in good time. 
 
 The preacher cast an anxious glance 
 uround to see if she was there. Her 
 quick eye saw that glance, and it gave 
 her a demure pleasure. 
 
 This day he was more eloquent than 
 ever : and he delivered a beautiful pas- 
 sage concerning those who do good in 
 secret. In uttering these eloquent sen- 
 
 tences his cheek glowed, and he could 
 not deny himself the pleasure of look- 
 ing down at the lovely face that was 
 turned up to him. Probably his look 
 was more expressive than he intended : 
 the celestial eyes sank under it, and 
 were abashed, and the fair cheek burned : 
 and then so did Leonard's at that. 
 
 Thus, subtly yet effectually, did these 
 two minds communicate in a crowd that 
 never noticed nor suspected the delicate 
 interchange of sentiment that was go- 
 ing on under their very eyes. , 
 
 In a general way compliments did not 
 seduce Mrs. Gaunt : she was well used 
 to them, for one thing. But to be 
 praised in that sacred edifice, and from 
 the pulpit, and by such an orator as 
 Leonard, and to be praised in words 
 so sacred and beautiful that the ears 
 around her drank them with delight, — 
 all this made her heart beat, and filled 
 her with soft and sweet complacency. 
 
 And then to be thanked in pubhc, yet, 
 as it were, clandestinely, this gratified 
 the furtive tendency of woman. 
 
 There was no irritability this after- 
 noon ; but a gentle radiance that dif- 
 fused itself on all around, and made the 
 whole household happy, — especially 
 Griffith, whose pipe she filled, for once, 
 with her own white hand, and talked 
 dogs, horses, calves, hinds, cows, poli- 
 tics, markets, hay, to please him : and 
 seerried interested in them all. 
 
 But the next day she changed : ill at 
 ease, and outf of spirits, and could settle 
 to nothing. 
 
 It was very hot for one 4:hing : and, 
 altogether, a sort of lassitude and dis- 
 taste for everything overpowered her, 
 and she retired into the grove, and sat 
 languidly on a seat with half-closed 
 eyes. 
 
 But her meditations were no longer 
 so calm and speculative as heretofore. 
 She found her mind constantly recur- 
 ring to one person, and, above all, to 
 the discovery she had made of her por- 
 trait in his possession. She had turned 
 it off to Betty Gough ; but here, in her 
 calm solitude and umbrageous twilight, 
 her mind crept out of its cave, like wild 
 and timid things at dusk, and whispered 
 
Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 83 
 
 to her heart that Leonard perhaps ad- 
 mired her more than was safe or pru- 
 dent. 
 
 Then this alarmed her, yet caused 
 her a secret complacency : and that, 
 her furtive satisfaction, alarmed her 
 still more. 
 
 Now, while she sat thus absorbed, she 
 heard a gentle footstep coming near. 
 She looked up, and there was Leonard 
 close to her ; standing meekly, with his 
 arms crossed upon his bosom. 
 
 His being there so pat upon her 
 thoughts scared her out of her habitual 
 self-command. She started up, with a 
 faint cry, and stood panting, as if about 
 to fly, with her beautiful eyes turned 
 large upon him. • 
 
 He put forth a deprecating hand, and 
 soothed her. "Forgive me, madam," 
 said he ; "I have unawares intruded on 
 your privacy ; I will retire." 
 
 " Nay," said she, falteringly, "you are 
 welcome. But no one comes here ; so 
 I was startled." Then, recovering her- 
 self, " Excuse ray ill-manners. 'T is so 
 strange that you should come to me 
 here, of all places." 
 
 " Nay, my daughter," said the priest, 
 ■ " not so very strange : contemplative 
 minds love such places. Calling one 
 day to see you, I found this sweet and 
 solemn grove ; the like I never saw in 
 England : and to-day I returned in hopes 
 to profit by it. Do but look around at 
 these tall columns ; how calm,' how rev- 
 erend ! 'T is God's own temple, not 
 built with hands." 
 
 " Indeed it is," said Mrs. Gaunt, ear- 
 nestly. Then, like a woman as she was, 
 " So you came to see my trees, not 
 me." 
 
 Leonard blushed. " I did not design 
 to return without paying my respects to 
 her who owns this temple, and is wor- 
 thy of it ; nay, I beg you not to think 
 me ungrateful." 
 
 His humility and gentle but earnest 
 voice made Mrs. Gaunt ashamed of her 
 petulance. She smiled sweetly, and 
 looked pleased. However, erelong, she 
 attacked him again. "Father Francis 
 used to visit us often," said she. " He 
 made friends with my husband, too. 
 
 And I never lacked an adviser while 
 he was here." 
 
 Leonard looked so confused at this 
 second reproach that Mrs. Gaunt's 
 heart began to yearn. However, he 
 said humbly that Francis was a secular 
 priest, whereas he was convent-bred. 
 He added, thit by his years and expe- 
 rience Francis was better fitted to ad- 
 vise persons of her age and sex, in 
 matters secular, than he was. He con- 
 cluded timidly that he was ready, never- 
 theless, to try and advise her ; but could 
 not, in such matters, assume the author- 
 ity that belongs to age and knowledge 
 of the world. 
 
 " Nay, nay," said she, earnestly, 
 "guide and direct my soul, and I am 
 content." 
 
 He said, yes ! that was his duty and 
 his right. 
 
 Then, after a certain hesitation, which 
 at once let her know what was coming, 
 he began to thank her, with infinite 
 grace and sweetness, for her kindness 
 to him. 
 
 She looked him fuU in the face, and 
 said she was not aware of any kindness 
 she had shown him worth speaking of. 
 
 " That but shows," said he, " how 
 natural it is to you to do acts of good- 
 ness. My poor room is a very bower 
 now, and I am happy in it. I used to 
 feel very sad there at times ; but your 
 hand has cured me." 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt colored beautifully. " You 
 make me ashamed," said she. " Things 
 are come to a pass indeed, if a lady 
 may not send a few flowers and things 
 to her spiritual father without being 
 thanked for it. And, O, sir, what are 
 earthly flowers conipared with those 
 blossoms of the soul you have shed so 
 liberally over us ? Our immortal parts 
 were all asleep when you came here 
 and wakened them by the fire of your 
 words. Eloquence ! 't was a thing I had 
 read of, but never heard, nor thought to 
 hear. Methought the orators and poets 
 of the Church were all in their graves 
 this thousand years, and she must go 
 all the way to heaven that would hear 
 the soul's true music. But I know 
 better now." 
 
84 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 Leonard colored high with pleasure. 
 " Such praise from you is too sweet," 
 he muttered. " I must not court it. 
 The heart is full of vanity." And he 
 deprecated further eulogy, by a move- 
 ment of the hand extremely refined, and, 
 in fact, rather feminine. 
 
 Deferring to his wish Mrs. Gaunt 
 glided to other matters, and was natu- 
 rally led to speak of the prospects of 
 their Church, and the possibihty of re- 
 converting these islands. This had 
 been the dream of her young heart ; 
 but marriage and maternity, and the 
 universal coldness with which the sub- 
 ject had been received, had chilled her 
 so, that of late years she had almost 
 ceased to speak of it. Even Leonard, 
 on a former occasion, had listened coldly 
 to her ; but now his heart was open to 
 her. He was, in fact, quite as enthusi- 
 astic on this point as ever she had been'; 
 and then he had digested his aspirations 
 into clearer forms. Not only had he 
 resolved that Great Britain must be 
 reconverted, but had planned the way 
 to do it. His cheek glowed, his eyes 
 gleamed, and he poured out his hopes 
 and his plans before her with an elo- 
 quence that few mortals could have re- 
 sisted. 
 
 As for this, his hearer, she was quite 
 carried away by it. She joined herself 
 to his plans on the spot ; she begged, 
 with tears in her eyes, to be permitted 
 to support him in this great cause. She 
 devoted to it her substance, her influ- 
 ence, and every gift that God had given 
 her : the hours passed Hke minutes in 
 this high converse ; and when the tink- 
 ling of the little bell at a distance sum- 
 moned him to vespers, he left her with 
 a gentle regret he scarcely tried to con- 
 ceal, and she went slowly in hke one in 
 a dream, and the world seemed dead to 
 her forever. 
 
 Nevertheless, when Mrs.Ryder, comb- 
 ing out her long hair, gave one inad- 
 vertent tug, the fair enthusiast came 
 back to earth, and asked her, rather 
 sharply, who her head was running on. 
 
 Ryder, a very handsome young wo- 
 man, with fine black eyes,' made no 
 
 reply, but only drew her breath audibly 
 hard. , 
 
 I do not very much wonder at that, 
 nor at my having to answer that ques- 
 tion for Mrs. Ryder. For her head was 
 at that moment running, like any other 
 woman's, on the man she was in love 
 with. 
 
 And the man she was in love with 
 was the husband of the lady whose hair 
 she was cotabing, and who put her that 
 curious question — plump. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIIL 
 
 This Caroline Ryder was a charac- 
 tar almost impossible to present so as 
 to enable the reader to recognize her 
 should she cross his path ; so great was 
 the contradiction between what she was 
 and what she seemed, and so perfect 
 was the imitation. 
 
 She looked a respectable young spin- 
 ster, with a grace of manner beyond her 
 station, and a decency and propriety of 
 demeanor that inspired respect. 
 
 She was a married woman, separated 
 from her husband by mutual consent ; 
 and she had had many lovers, each of 
 whom she had loved ardently — for a 
 little while. She was a woman that 
 brought to bear upon foolish, culpable 
 loves a mental power that would have 
 adorned the woolsack. 
 
 The moment prudence or waning in- 
 chnation made it advisable to break 
 with the reigning favorite, she set to 
 work to cool him down by deliberate 
 coldness, suUenness, insolence ; and 
 generally succeeded. But if he was 
 incurable, she never hesitated as to her 
 course ; she smiled again on him, and 
 looked out for another place : being an 
 invaluable servant, she got one directly ; 
 and was off to fresh pastures. 
 
 A female rake ; but with the air of a 
 very prude. 
 
 A woman, however cunning and res- 
 olute, always plays this game at one 
 great disadvantage ; for instance, one 
 day, Caroline Ryder, finding herself 
 unable to shake off a certain boyish lov- 
 er, whom she had won and got terribly 
 
t 
 
 a. 
 
 I- 
 
 if 
 
 m 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or, yealousy. 
 
 85 
 
 tired of, retired from her place, and 
 went home, and left him blubbering. 
 But by and by, in a retired village, she 
 deposited an angelic babe of the female 
 sex, with fair hair and blue eyes, the 
 very image of her abandoned Cherubin. 
 Let me add, as indicating the strange 
 force of her character,* that she con- 
 cealed this episode from Cherubin and 
 all the rest of the world ; and was soon 
 lady's maid again in another county, as 
 demure as ever, and ripe for fresh ad- 
 ventures. 
 
 But her secret maternity added a 
 fresh trait to her character ; she be- 
 came mercenary. 
 
 This wise, silly, prudent, coquettish 
 demon was almost perfect in the family 
 relations : an excellent daughter, a 
 good sister, and a devoted mother. 
 And so are tigresses, and wicked Jew- 
 esses. 
 
 Item — the decency and propriety of 
 her demeanor were not all hypocrisy, 
 but half hypocrisy, and half inborn and 
 instinctive good taste and good sense. 
 
 As dangerous a creature to herself 
 and others as ever tied on a bonnet. 
 
 On her arrival at Hernshaw Castle 
 she cast her eyes round to see what 
 there was to fall in love with ; and ob- 
 served the gamekeeper, Tom Leicester. 
 She gave him a smile or two that won 
 his heart ; but there she stopped : for 
 soon the ruddy cheek, brown eyes, 
 manly proportions, and square shoul- 
 ders of her master attracted this con- 
 noisseur in male beauty. And then 
 his manner was so genial and hearty, 
 with a smile for everybody. Mrs. Ry- 
 der eyed him demurely day by day, and 
 often opened a window slyly to watch 
 him unseen. 
 
 From that she got to throwing her- 
 self in his way ; and this with such art 
 that he never discovered it, though he 
 feU in with her about the house six 
 times as often as he met his wife or 
 any other inmate. 
 
 She had already studied his charac- 
 ter, and, whether she arranged to meet 
 him full or to cross him, it was always 
 with a courtesy and a sunshiny smile ; 
 he smiled on her in his turn, and felt a 
 
 certain pleasure at sight of her : for he 
 loved to see people bright and cheerful 
 about him. 
 
 Then she did, of her own accord, 
 what no other master on earth would 
 have persuaded her to do : looked over 
 his linen ; sewed on buttons for him ; 
 and sometimes the artful jade deliber- 
 ately cut a button off a clean shirt, and 
 then came to him and sewed it on dur- 
 ing wear. This brought about a con- 
 tact none knew better than she how to 
 manage to a man's undoing. The seem- 
 ing timidity that fills the whole eloquent 
 person, and tempts a man to attack by 
 telling him he is powerful, — the droop- 
 ing lashes that hint, " Ah, do not take 
 advantage of this situation, or the con- 
 sequences may be terrible, and will cer- 
 tainly be dehcious," — the delicate and 
 shy, yet hngering touch, — the twenty 
 stitches where nine would be plenty, 
 — the one coy, but tender glance at 
 parting, — all this soft witchcraft beset 
 Griffith Gaunt, and told on him ; but 
 not as yet in the way his inamorata in- 
 tended. 
 
 " Kate," said he one day, " that girl 
 of yours is worth her weight in gold." 
 
 " Indeed ! " said Mrs. Gaunt, frigidly ; 
 " I have not discovered it." 
 
 When Caroline found that her mas- 
 ter was single-hearted, and loved his 
 wife too well to look elsewhere, instead 
 of hating him, she began to love him 
 more seriously, and to hate his wife, 
 that haughty beauty, who took such a 
 husband as a matter of course, and held 
 him tight without troubling her head. 
 
 It was a coarse age, and in that very 
 county more than one wife had suffered 
 jealous agony from her own domestic. 
 But here the parts were inverted : the 
 lady was at her ease ; the servant paid 
 a bitter penalty for her folly. She was 
 now passionately in love, and had to 
 do menial offices for her rival every 
 hour of the day : she must sit with 
 Mrs. Gaunt, and make her dresses, 
 and consult with her how to set off her 
 hateful beauty to the best advantage. 
 She had to dress her, and look dag- 
 gers at her satin skin and royal neck, 
 and to sit behind her an hour at a time« 
 
86 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 combing and brushing her long golden 
 hair. 
 
 How she longed to tear a handful of 
 it out, and then run away ! Instead of 
 that, her happy rival expected her to 
 be as tender and coaxing with it as 
 Madame de Maintenon was with the 
 Queen's of France. 
 
 Ryder called it "yellow stuff " down 
 in the kitchen ; that was one comfort, 
 but a feeble one ; the sun came in at 
 the lady's window; and Ryder's shapely 
 hand was overflowed, and her eyes of- 
 fended, by waves of burnished gold : 
 and one day Griffith came in and kissed 
 it in her very hand. His lips felt noth- 
 ing but his wife's glorious hair ; but, 
 by that exquisite sensibihty which the 
 heart can convey in a moment to the 
 very finger-nails, Caroline's hand, be- 
 neath, felt the soft touch through her 
 mistress's hair ; and the enamored hyp- 
 ocrite thrilled, and then sickened. 
 
 The other servants knew, as a matter 
 of domestic history, that Griffith and 
 Kate lived together a happy couple ; 
 but this ardent prude was compelled by 
 her position to see it, and realize it, ev- 
 ery day. She had to witness little con- 
 jugal caresses, and they turned her sick 
 with jealousy. She was Nobody. They 
 took no more account of her than of 
 the furniture. The creature never 
 flinched, but stood at her post and 
 ground her white teeth in silence, and 
 burned, and pined, and raged, and froze, 
 and was a model of propriety. 
 
 On the day in question she was think- 
 ing of Griffith, as usual, and wondering 
 whether he would always prefer yellow 
 hair to black. This actually put her 
 oflF her guard for once, and she gave 
 the rival hair a little contemptuous 
 tug : and the reader knows what fol- 
 lowed. 
 
 Staggered by her mistress's ques- 
 tion, Caroline made no reply, but only 
 panted a little, and proceeded more 
 carefully. 
 
 But O the struggle it cost her not to 
 slap both Mrs. Gaunt's fair cheeks im- 
 partially with the backs of the brushes ! 
 And what with this struggle, and the 
 ' reprimand, and the past agitations, by 
 
 and by the comb ceased, and the silence 
 was broken by faint sobs. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt turned calmly round and 
 looked full at her hysterical handmaid. 
 
 " What is to do ? " said she. " Is 
 it because I chid you, child ? Nay, 
 you need not, take that to heart ; it is 
 just my way : I can bear anything but 
 my hair pulled." With this she rose 
 and poured some drops of sal-volatile 
 into water, and put it to her secret ri- 
 val's lips : it was kindly done, but with 
 that sort of half contemptuous and thor- 
 oughly cold pity women are apt to show 
 to women, and especially when one of 
 them is Mistress and the other is Ser- 
 vant. 
 
 Still it cooled the extreme hatred 
 Caroline had nursed, and gave her a 
 little twinge, and awakened her intelli- 
 gence. Now her intelligence was truly 
 remarkable when not blinded by pas- 
 sion. She was a woman with one or 
 two other masculine traits besides her 
 roving heart. For instance, she could 
 sit and think hard and practically for 
 hours together : and on these occasions 
 her thoughts were- never dreamy and 
 vague ; it was no brown study, but 
 good hard thinking. She would knit 
 her coal-black brows, like Lord Thur- 
 low himself, and realize the situation, 
 and weigh the pros and cons with a 
 steady judicial power rarely found in 
 her sex ; and, noia bene, when once 
 her mind had gone through this pro- 
 cess, then she would act with almost 
 monstrous resolution. 
 
 She now shut herself up in her own 
 room for some hours, and weighed the 
 matter carefully. - 
 
 The conclusion she arrived at was 
 this : that, if she stayed at Hernshaw 
 Castle, there would be mischief; and 
 probably she herself would be the prin- 
 cipal sufferer to the end of the chapter, 
 as she was now. 
 
 She said to herself: " I shall go mad, 
 or else expose myself, and be turned 
 away with loss of character ; and then 
 what will become of me, and my child ? 
 Better lose life or reason than charac- 
 ter. I know what I have to go through ; 
 I have left a man ere now with my Iteart 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 87 
 
 tugging at me to stay beside him. It 
 is a terrible wrench ; and then all seems 
 dead for a long while without him. But 
 the world goes on and takes you round 
 with it ; and by and by you find there 
 are as good fish left in the sea. I '11 go, 
 while I 've sense enough left to see I 
 must." 
 
 The very next day she came to Mrs. 
 Gaunt and said she wished to leave. 
 
 " Certainly," said Mrs. Gaunt, coldly. 
 " May I ask the reason ? " 
 
 " O, I have no complaint to make, 
 ma'am, none whatever ; but I am not 
 happy here ; and I wish to go when my 
 month 's up, or sooner, ma'am, if you 
 could suit yourself. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt considered a moment : 
 then she said, " You came all the way 
 from Gloucestershire to me; had you 
 not better give the place a fair trial ? I 
 have had two or three good servants 
 that felt uncomfortable at first ; but they 
 soon found out my ways, and stayed 
 with me till they married. As for leav- 
 ing 'me before your month, that is out 
 of tli.e question." 
 
 To this Ryder said not a word, but 
 merely vented a little sigh, half dogged, 
 half submissive ; and went cat-like 
 about, arranging her mistress's things 
 with admirable precision and neatness. 
 Mrs. Gaunt watched her, without seem- 
 ing to do so, and observed that her 
 discontent did not in the least affect her 
 punctual discharge of her duties. Said 
 Mrs. Gaunt to herself, "This servant 
 is a treasure ; she shall not go." And 
 Ryder to herself, " Well, 't is but for a 
 month ; and then no power shall keep 
 me here." 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 •Not long after these events came 
 the county ball. Griffith was there, but 
 no Mrs. Gaunt. This excited surprise, 
 and, among the gentlemen, disappoint- 
 ment. They asked Griffith if she was 
 unwell ; he thanked them dryly, she 
 was very well ; and that was all they 
 could get out of him. But to the ladies 
 he let out that she had given up balls, 
 
 and, indeed, all reasonable pleasures. 
 " She does nothing but fast, and pray, 
 and visit the sick." He added, with 
 rather a weak smile, " I see next to 
 nothing of her." A minx stood by and 
 put in her word. " You should take to 
 your bed ; then, who knows ? she might 
 look in upon^oa." 
 
 Griffith laughed, but not heartily. In 
 truth, Mrs. Gaunt's religious fervor 
 knew no bounds. Absorbed in pious 
 schemes and religious duties, she had 
 little time, and much distaste, for friv- 
 olous society ; invited none but the 
 devout, and found polite excuses for 
 not dining abroad. She sent her hus- 
 band into the world alone, and laden 
 with apologies. "My wife is turned 
 saint. 'T is a sin to dance, a sin to 
 hunt, a. sin to enjoy ourselves. We 
 are here to fast, and pray, and build 
 schools, and go Aa church twice a day." 
 
 And so he went about publishing his 
 household ill ; but, to tell the truth, a 
 secret satisfaction peeped through his 
 lugubrious accents. An ugly saint is an 
 unmixed' calamity to jolly fellows ; but 
 to be lord and master, and possessor, 
 of a beautiful saint, was not without its 
 piquant charm. His jealousy was dor- 
 mant, not extinct ; and Kate's piety 
 tickled that foible, not wounded it. He 
 found himself the rival of heaven, — and 
 the successful rival ; for, let her be ever 
 so strict, ever so devout, she must give 
 her husband many delights she could 
 not give to heaven. 
 
 This soft and piquant phase of the 
 passion did not last long. All things 
 are progressive. 
 
 Brother Leonard was director now, 
 as well as confessor ; his visits became 
 frequent ; and Mrs. Gaunt often quoted 
 his authority for her acts or her senti- 
 ments. So Griffith began to suspect 
 that the change in his wife was entirely 
 due to Leonard ; and that, with all her 
 eloquence and fervor, she was but a 
 priest's echo. This galled him. To be 
 sure Leonard was only an ecclesiastic ; 
 but if he had been a woman, Griffith 
 was the man to wince. His wife to 
 lean so on another ; his wife to with- 
 
88 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy.^ 
 
 draw from the social pleasures she had 
 hitherto shared with him ; and all be- 
 cause another human creature disap- 
 proved them. He writhed in silence 
 awhile, and then remonstrated. 
 
 He was met at first with ridicule: 
 "Are you going to be jealous of my 
 confessor ? " and, on repeating the of- 
 fence, with a kind, but grave admoni- 
 tion, that silenced him for the time, 
 but did not cure him, nor even con- 
 vince him. 
 
 The facts were too strong : Kate was 
 no longer to him the genial companion 
 she had been ; gone was the ready sym- 
 pathy with which she had Ustened to 
 all his little earthly concerns ; and as 
 for his hay-making, he might as well 
 talk about it to an iceberg as to the 
 partner of his bosom. 
 
 He was genial by nature, and could 
 not live without sympathy. He sought 
 it in the parlor of the " Red Lion." 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt's high-bred nostrils told 
 her where he haunted, and it caused 
 her dismay. Woman-like, instead of 
 opening her battery at once, she wore 
 a gloomy and displeased air, which a 
 few months ago would have served her 
 turn and brought about an explana- 
 tion at once ; but Griffith took it for a 
 stronger dose of religious sentiment, 
 and trundled off to the "Red Lion" 
 all the more. 
 
 So then at last she spoke her mind, 
 and asked him how he could lower him- 
 self so, and afflict her. 
 
 " Oh ! " said he, doggedly, " this house 
 is too cold for me now. My mate is 
 priest-rid. Plague on the knave that 
 hath put coldness 'twixt thee and 
 me." 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt froze visibly, and said no 
 more at that time. 
 
 One bit of sunshine remained in the ; 
 house, and shone brighter than ever on 
 its chilled master, — shone through two 
 black, seducing eyes. 
 
 Some three months before the date 
 we have now reached, Caroline Ryder's 
 two boxes were packed and corded 
 ready to go next day. She had quiet- 
 ly persisted in her resolution to leave, 
 and Mrs. Gaunt, though secretly angry, 
 
 had been just and magnanimous enough 
 to give her a good character. 
 
 Now female domestics are like the 
 little birds ; if that great hawk, their 
 mistress, follows them about, it is a 
 deadly grievance ; but if she does not, 
 they follow her about, and pester her 
 with idle questions, and invite the beak 
 and claws of petty tyranny and need- 
 less interference. 
 
 — So, the afternoon before she was to 
 leave, CaroHne Ryder came to her mis- 
 tress's room on some imaginary busi- 
 ness. She was not there. Ryder, for- 
 getting that it did not matter a straw, 
 proceeded to hunt her everywhere ; and 
 at last ran out, with only her cap on, to 
 "the Dame's Haunt," and there she 
 was ; but not alone : she was walking 
 up and down with Brother Leonard. 
 Their backs were turned, and Ryder 
 came up behind them. Leonard was 
 pacing gravely, with his head gently 
 drooping as usual. Mrs. Gaunt was 
 walking elastically, and discoursing with 
 great fire and animation. 
 
 Ryder glided after, noiseless as a 
 serpent, more bent on wondering and 
 watching now than on overtaking ; for 
 inside the house her mistress showed' 
 none of this charming vivacity. 
 
 Presently the keen black eyes ob- 
 served a " trifle light as air " that made 
 them shine again. 
 
 She turned and wound herself 
 amongst the trees, and disappeared. 
 Soon after she was in her own room, a 
 changed woman. With glowing cheeks, 
 sparkling eyes, and nimble fingers, she 
 uncorded 'her boxes, unpacked her 
 things, and placed them neatly in the , 
 drawers. 
 
 What more had she seen than I have 
 indicated ? 
 
 Only this : Mrs. Gaunt, in the warmth 
 of discourse, laid her hand lightly for a. 
 moment on the priest's shoulder. That 
 was nothing, she had laid the same 
 hand on Ryder ; for, in fact, it was a 
 little womanly way she had, and a hand 
 that settled like down. But this time, 
 as she withdrew it again, that delicate 
 hand seemed to speak ; it did not leave 
 Leonard's shoulder all at once, it glided , 
 
Griffith Gaunt ; or, yealousy. 
 
 89 
 
 slowly away, first the palm, then the 
 fingers, and so parted lingeringly. 
 
 The other woman saw this subtile 
 touch of womanhood, coupled it with 
 Mrs. Gaunt's vivacity and the air of 
 happiness that seemed to inspire her 
 whole eloquent person, and formed an 
 extreme conclusion on the spot, though 
 she could not see the lady's face. 
 
 When Mrs. Gaunt came in she met 
 her, and addressed her thus : " If you 
 please, ma'am, have you any one com- 
 ing in my place .■■ " 
 
 Mrs.- Gaunt looked her full in the 
 face. "You know I have not," said 
 she, haughtily. * 
 
 " Then, if it is agreeable to you, 
 ma'am, I will stay. To be sure the 
 place is dull ; but I have got a good 
 mistress — and — " 
 
 " That wiU do, Ryder : a servant has 
 always her own reasons, and never tells 
 them to her mistress. You can stay 
 this time ; but the next, you go ; and 
 once for all. — I am not to be trifled 
 with." 
 
 Ryder called up a look all submis- 
 sion, and retired with an obeisance. But, 
 once out of sight, she threw off the 
 mask and expanded with insolent tri- 
 umph. "Yes, I have my own reasons," 
 said she. " Keep you the priest, and 
 I '11 take the man." 
 
 From that hour Caroline Ryder 
 watched her mistress like a lynx, and 
 hovered about her master, and poi- 
 soned him slowly with vague, insidious 
 hints. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 Brother Leonard, like many holy 
 men, was vain. Not vainer than St. 
 Paul, perhaps ; but then he had some- 
 what less to be vain of. Not but what 
 he had his gusts of humility and diffi- 
 dence ; only they blew over. 
 
 At first, as you may perhaps remem- 
 ber, he;, doubted his ability to replace 
 Father Francis as Mrs. Gaunt's direc- 
 tor; but, after a slight disclaimer, he 
 did replace him, and had no more mis- 
 givings as to his fitness. But his toler- 
 ance and good sense were by no means 
 
 equal to his devotion and his persua- 
 sive powers ; and so his advice in 
 matters spiritual and secular somehow 
 sowed the first seeds of conjugal cool- 
 ness in Hernshaw Castle. 
 
 And now Ryder slyly insinuated into 
 Griffith's ear that the mistress told the 
 priest everything, and did nothing but 
 by his advice. Thus the fire already 
 kindled was fanned by an artful wo- 
 man's breath. 
 
 Griffith began to hate Brother Leon- 
 ard, and to show it so plainly and rude- 
 ly that Leonard shrank from the en- 
 counter, and came less often, and stayed 
 but a few minutes. Then Mrs. Gaunt 
 remonstrated gently with Griffith, but 
 received short, sullen replies. Then, 
 as the servile element of her sex was 
 comparatively small in her, she turned 
 bitter and cold, and avenged Leonard 
 indirectly, but openly, with those terri- 
 ble pins and needles a' beloved woman 
 has ever at commancl. 
 
 Then Griffith became moody, and 
 downright unhappy, and went more 
 and more to the " Red Lion," seeking 
 comfort there now as well as company. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt saw, and had fits of irri- 
 tation, and fits of pity, and sore per- 
 plexity. She knew she had a good 
 husband ; and, instead of taking him to 
 heaven with her, she found that each 
 step she made with Leonard's help 
 towards the angelic life seemed some- 
 how to be bad for Griffith's soul and 
 for his earthly happiness. 
 
 She blamed herself; she blamed 
 Griffith ; she blamed the Protestant 
 heresy ; she blamed everybody and 
 everything — except Brother Leonard. 
 
 One Sunday afternoon Griffith sat 
 on his own lawn, silently smoking his 
 pipe. Mrs. Gaunt came to him, and 
 saw an air of dejection on his genial 
 face. Her heart yearned. She sat 
 idown beside him on the bench, and 
 sighed ; then he sighed too. 
 
 " My dear," said she, sweetly, " fetch 
 out your viol da gambo, and we will 
 sing a hymn or two together here this 
 fine afternoon. We can praise God 
 together, though we must pray apart ; 
 alas that it is so ! " 
 
90 
 
 Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 "With all my heart," said Griffith. 
 " Nay, I forgot ; my viol da gambo is 
 not here. 'T is at the ' Red Lion.' " 
 
 " At the ' Red Lion ' 1 " said she, bit- 
 terly. "What, do you sing there as 
 well as drink? O husband, how can 
 you so demean yourself?" 
 
 " What is a poor man to do, whose 
 wife is priest-ridden, and got to be no 
 company — except for angels ? " 
 
 " I did not come here to quarrel," 
 said she, coldly and sadly. Then they 
 were both silent a minute. Then she 
 got up and left him. 
 
 Brother Leonard, like many earnest 
 men, was rather intolerant. He urged 
 on Mrs. Gaunt that she had too many 
 Protestants in her household ; her cook 
 and her nursemaid ought, at all events, 
 to be Catholics. Mrs. Gaunt on this 
 was quite ready to turn them both off, 
 and that without 'disguise. But Leon- 
 ard dissuaded her from so violent 3. 
 measure. She had better take occa- 
 sion to part with one of them, and by 
 and by with the other. 
 
 The nursemaid was the first to go, 
 and her place was filled by a Roman 
 Catholic. Then the cook received 
 warning. But this did not pass off so 
 quietly. Jane Bannister was a buxom, 
 hearty woman, well liked by her fellow- 
 servants. Her parents lived in the vil- 
 lage, and she had been six years with 
 the Gaunts, and her honest heart clung 
 to them. She took to crying ; used to 
 burst out in the middle of her work, or 
 while conversing with fitful cheerful- 
 ness on ordinary topics. 
 
 One day Griffith found her crying, 
 and Ryder consoling her as carelessly 
 and contemptuously as possible. 
 
 " Heyday, lasses ! " said he ; " what 
 is your trouble ? " 
 
 At this Jane's tears flowed in a 
 stream, and Ryder made no reply, but 
 waited. 
 
 At last, and not till the third or fourth 
 time of asking, Jane blurted out that 
 she had got the sack ; such was her 
 homely expression, dignified, however, 
 by honest tears. 
 
 " What for ? " asked Griffith kindly. 
 
 "Nay, sir," sobbed Jane, "that is 
 what I want to know. Our dame ne'er 
 found a fault in me ; and now she does 
 pack me off like a dog. Me that have 
 been here this six years, and got to feel 
 at home. What will father say ? He '11 
 give me a hiding. For two pins I 'd 
 drown myself in the mere." 
 
 " Come, you must not blame the mis- 
 tress," said the sly Ryder. " She is a 
 good mistress as ever breathed : 't is all 
 the priest's doings. I '11 tell you the 
 truth, master, if you will pass me your 
 word I sha'n't be sent away for it." 
 
 " I pledge you my word as a gentle- 
 man," Said Griffith. 
 
 " Well then, sir, Jane's fault is yours 
 and mine. She is not a Papist ; and 
 that is why she is to go. How I come 
 to know, I listened in the next room, 
 and heard the priest tell our dame she 
 must send away two of us, and have 
 Catholics. The priest's word it is law 
 in this house. 'T was in March he 
 gave the order : Harriet, she went in 
 May, and now poor Jane is to go — for 
 walking to church behind ^(7«, sir. But 
 there, Jane, I believe he would get our 
 very master out of the house if he 
 could ; and then what would become of 
 us all ? " 
 
 Griffith turned blacky and then ashy 
 pale, under this venomous tongue, and 
 went away without a word, looking 
 dangerous. 
 
 Ryder looked after him, and her black 
 eye glittered with a kind of fiendish 
 beauty. 
 
 Jane, having told her mind, now be- 
 gan to pluck up a little spirit. " Mrs, 
 Ryder," said she, " I never thought to 
 like you so well " ; — and, with that, gave 
 her a great, hearty, smacking kiss ; 
 which Ryder, to judge by her counte- 
 nance, relished, as epicures albumen. 
 " I won't cry no more. After all, this 
 house is no place for us that be wo- 
 men ; 't is a fine roost to be sure ! 
 where the hen she crows and the cock 
 do but cluck." 
 
 Town-bred Ryder laughed at the rus- 
 tic maid's simile ; and, not to be out- 
 done in metaphor, told her there were 
 dogs that barked, and dogs that -bit. 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or. Jealousy. 
 
 91 
 
 " Our master is one of those that bite. 
 I 've done the priest's business. He is 
 as like to get the sack as you are." 
 
 Griffith found his wife seated on the 
 lawn reading. He gulped down his ire 
 as well as he could ; but nevertheless 
 his voice trembled a little with sup- 
 pressed passion. 
 
 " So Jane is turned off now," said he. 
 
 " I don't know about being turned 
 off," replied Mrs. Gaunt, calmly ; "but 
 she leaves me next month, and Cicely 
 Davis comes back." 
 
 "And Cicely Davis is a useless slut 
 that cannot boil a potato fit to eat ; but 
 then she is a Papist, and poor Jenny is 
 a Protestant, and can cook a dinner." 
 
 "My dear," said Mrs. Gaunt, "do 
 not you trouble about the servants ; 
 leave them to me." 
 
 " And welcome ; but this is not your 
 doing, it is that Leonard's : and I can- 
 not allow a Popish priest to turn off all 
 my servants that are worth their salt. 
 Come, Kate, you used to be a sensible 
 woman and a tender wife ; now I ask 
 you, is a young bachelor a fit person to 
 govern a man's family .'' " 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt laughed in his face. " A 
 young bachelor ! " said she ; " who ever 
 heard of such a terra applied to a priest, 
 — and a saint upon earth .' " 
 
 "Why, he is not married, so he must 
 he a bachelor ; and I say again it is 
 monstrous for a young bachelor to come 
 between old married folk, and hear all 
 their secrets, and have a finger in every 
 pie, and set up to be master of my 
 house, and order my wife to turn away 
 my servants for going to church behind 
 me. Why not turn me away too ? 
 Their fault is mine." 
 
 " Griffith, you are in a passion, and I 
 begin to think you want to put me in 
 one." 
 
 " Well, perhaps I am. Job's patience 
 went at last, and mine has been sore 
 tried this many a month- 'T was bad 
 enough when the man was only your 
 confessor ; you told him everything^ and 
 you don't tell me everything. He knew 
 your very heart, better than I do, and 
 that was a bitter thing for me to bear, 
 
 that love you and have no secrets from 
 you. But every man who marries a 
 Catholic must endure this ; so I put a 
 good face on it, though my heart was 
 ' often sore ; 't was the price I had to 
 pay for my pearl of womankind. But 
 since he set up your governor as well, 
 you are a changed woman ; you shun 
 company abroad, you freeze my friends 
 at home. You have made the house 
 so cold that I am fain to seek the ' Red 
 Lion ' for a smile or a kindly word : 
 and now, to please this fanatical priest, 
 you would turn away the best servants 
 I have, and put useless, dirty slatterns 
 in their place, that happen to be Pa- 
 pists. You did not use to be so unchar- 
 itable, nor so unreasonable. 'T is the 
 priest's doing. He is my secret, under- 
 hand enemy ; I feel him undermining 
 me, inch by inch, and I can bear it no 
 longer. I must make a stand some- 
 where, and I may as well make it here ; 
 for Jenny is a good girl, and her folk 
 live in the village, and she helps them. 
 Think better of it, dame, and let the 
 poor wench stay, though she does go 
 to church behind your husband." 
 
 " Griffith," said Mrs. Gaunt, " I might 
 retort and say that you are a changed 
 man ; for to be sure you did never use 
 to interfere between me and my maids. 
 Are you sure some mischief-making 
 woman is not advising _)'«>z< ? But there, 
 do not let us chafe one another, for you 
 know we are hot-tempered both of us. 
 Well, leave it for the present, my dear ; 
 prithee let me think it over till to-mor- 
 row, at all events, and try if I can sat- 
 isfy you." 
 
 The jealous husband saw through 
 this proposal directly. He turned pur- 
 ple. "That is to say, you must ask 
 your priest first for leave to show your 
 husband one grain of respect and affec- 
 tion, and not make him quite a cipher 
 in his own house. No, Kate, no man 
 who respects himself will let another 
 man come between himself and the wife 
 of his bosom. This business is be- 
 tween you and me ; I will brook no 
 interference in it ; and I tell you plainly, 
 if you turn this poor lass off to please 
 this d — d priest, I 'U turn the priest oflF 
 
92 
 
 Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 to please her and her folk. They are 
 as good as he is, any way." 
 
 The bitter contempt with which he 
 spoke of Brother Leonard, and this as- 
 tounding threat, imported a new and 
 dangerous element into the discussion : 
 it stung Mrs. Gaunt beyond bearing. 
 She turned with flashing eyes upon 
 Griffith. 
 
 " As good as he is ? The scum of 
 <ny kitchen ! You will make me hate 
 the mischief-making hussy. She shall 
 pack out of the house to-morrow morn- 
 ing." 
 
 " Then I say that priest shall never 
 darken my doors again." 
 
 " Then I say they are my doors, not 
 yours ; and that holy man shall brighten 
 them whenever he will." 
 
 If to strike an adversary dumb is the 
 tongue's triumph, Mrs. Gaunt was vic- 
 torious ; for Griffith gasped, but did 
 not reply. 
 
 They faced each other, pale with fury ; 
 but no more words. 
 
 No : an ominous silence succeeded 
 this lamentable answer, like the silence 
 that follows a thunder-clap. 
 
 Griffith stood still awhile, benumbed 
 as it were by the cruel stroke ; then cast 
 one speaking look of anguish and re- 
 proach upon her, drew himself haugh- 
 tily up, and stalked away like a wound- 
 ed lion. 
 
 Well said the ancients that anger is 
 a short madness. When we reflect in 
 cold blood on the things we have said 
 in hot, how impossible they seem ! how 
 out of character with our real selves ! 
 And this is one of the recognized symp- 
 toms of mania. 
 
 There were few persons could com- 
 pare with Mrs. Gaunt in native mag- 
 nanimity ; yet how ungenerous a stab 
 had she given. 
 
 And had he gone on, she would have 
 gone on ; but when he turned silent at 
 her bitter thrust, and stalked away from 
 her, she came to herself almost directly. 
 
 She thought, " Good God ! what have 
 I said to him ?" 
 
 And the flush of shame came to her 
 cheek, and her eyes fi.lled with tears. 
 
 He saw them not ; he had gone away,' 
 wounded to the heart. 
 
 You see it was true. The house was 
 hers ; tied up as tight as wax. The 
 very money (his own money) that had 
 been spent on the place, had become 
 hers by being expended on real prop- 
 erty ; he could not reclaim it,; he was 
 her lodger, a dependent on her bounty. 
 
 During all the years they had lived 
 together she had never once assumed 
 the proprietor. On the contrary, she 
 put him forward as the Squire, and 
 slipped quietly into the background. 
 Bene latuii. But, lo ! let a hand be 
 put out to oifend her saintly favorite, 
 and that moment she could waken her 
 husband from his dream, and put him 
 down into his true legal position with a 
 word. The matrimonial throne for him 
 till he resisted her priest ; and then, a 
 stool at her feet, and his. 
 
 He was enraged as well as hurt ; but 
 being a true lover, his fury was levelled, 
 not at the woman who had hurt him, 
 but at the man who stood out of sight 
 and set her on. 
 
 By this time the reader knows his 
 good qualities, and his defects ; supe- 
 rior to his wife in one or two things, he 
 was by no means so thorough a gentle- 
 man as she was a lady. He had begun 
 to make a party with his own servants 
 against the common enemy ; and, in his 
 wrath, he now took another step, or 
 rather a stride, in the same direction. 
 As he hurried away to the pubHc-house, 
 white with ire, he met his garnekeeper 
 coming in with a bucketful of fish fresh 
 caught. " What have ye got there ? " 
 said Griffith, roughly ; not that he was 
 angry with the man, but that his very 
 skin was full of wrath, and it must 
 exude. 
 
 Mr. Leicester did not reUsh the tone, 
 and replied, bluntly and sulkily, " Pike, 
 for our Papists." 
 
 The answer, though rude, did not al- 
 together displease Griffith ; it smacked 
 of odium tkeologicum, a sentiment he 
 was learning to understand. " Put 'em 
 down, and listen to me, Thomas Leices- 
 ter," said he. 
 
 And his manner was now so irapres- 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 93 
 
 sive that Leicester put down the bucket 
 with ludicrous expedition, and gaped at 
 him. 
 
 " Now, my man, why do I keep you 
 here ? " 
 
 "To take care of your game. Squire, 
 I do suppose." 
 
 " What ? when you are the worst 
 gamekeeper in the county. How many 
 poachers do you catch in the year ? 
 They have only to set one of their gang 
 to treat you at the public-house on a 
 moonshiny night, and the rest can have 
 all my pheasants at roost while you are 
 boosing and singing.'' 
 
 " Like my betters in the parlor," mut- 
 tered Tom. 
 
 " But that is not all," continued 
 Gaunt, pretending not to hear him. 
 " You wire my rabbits, and sell them 
 in the town. Don't go to deny it ; for 
 I 've half a dozen to prove it." Mr. 
 Leicester looked very uncomfortable. 
 His master continued : "1 have known 
 it this ten months, yet you are none the 
 worse for 't. Now, why do I keep you 
 here, that any other gentlertian in my 
 place would send to Carlisle jail on a 
 justice's warrant?" 
 
 Mr. Leicester, who had thought his 
 master bhnd, and was so suddenly un- 
 deceived, hung his head and snivelled 
 out, " 'T is because you have a good 
 heart. Squire, and would not ruin a poor 
 fellow for an odd rabbit'or two." 
 
 " Stuff and nonsense ! " cried Gaunt. 
 " Speak your mind, for once, or else be- 
 gone for a liar as well as a knave." 
 
 Thus appealed to, Leicester's gypsy 
 eyes roved to and fro as if he were 
 looking for some loophole to escape 
 by ; but at last he faced the situation. 
 He said, with a touch of genuine feel- 
 ing, " D — n the rabbits ! I wish my 
 hand had withered ere I touched one 
 on them." But after this preface he 
 sunk his voice to a whisper, and said, 
 " I see what you are driving at. Squire ; 
 and since there is nobody with us " (he 
 took off his cap,) "why, sir, 'tis this 
 here mole I am in debt to, no doubt." 
 
 Then the gentleman and his. servant 
 looked one another silently in the facte, 
 and what with their standing in the 
 
 same attitude and being both excited 
 and earnest, the truth must be owned, 
 a certain family likeness came out. 
 Certainly their eyes were quite unlike. 
 Leicester had his gypsy mother's : black, 
 keen, and restless. Gaunt' had his 
 mother's : brown, calm, and steady. 
 But the two men had the same stature, 
 the same manly mould and square shoul- 
 ders ; and, though Leicester's cheek was 
 brown as a berry, his forehead was sin- 
 gularly white for a man in his rank of 
 life, and over his left temple, close to 
 the roots of the hair, was an oblong 
 mole as black as ink, that bore a close 
 resemblance in appearance and position 
 to his master's. 
 
 " Tom Leicester ; I have been in- 
 sulted." 
 
 " That won't pass, sir. Who is the 
 man ? " 
 
 " One that I cannot call out hke a 
 gentleman, and yet I must not lay on 
 him with my cane, or I am hke to 
 get the sack, as well as my servants. 
 'T is the Popish priest, lad ; Brother 
 Leonard, own brother to Old Nick ; he 
 has got our Dame's ear, she cannot say 
 him ' nay.' She is turning away all my 
 people, and filling the house with Pa- 
 pists, to please him. And when I inter- 
 fered, she as good as told me I should 
 go next ; and so I shall, I or else that 
 priest." 
 
 This little piece of exaggeration fired 
 Tom Leicester. " Say ye so. Squire ? 
 then just you whisper a word in my ear, 
 and George and I will lay that priest 
 by the heels, and drag him through the 
 horse-pond. He won't come here to 
 trouble you after that, / know." 
 
 Gaunt's eyes flashed triumph. " A 
 friend in need is a friend indeed," said 
 he. " Ay, you are right, lad. There 
 must be no broken bones, and no blood- 
 shed ; the horse-pond is the very thing : 
 and if she discharges you for it, take 
 no heed of her. You shall never leave 
 Hernshaw Castle for that good deed ; 
 or, if you do, I 'U go with you ; for the 
 world it is wide, and I'll never live a 
 servant in the house where I have been 
 a master." 
 
94 
 
 Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 They then put their heads together 
 and concerted the means by which the 
 priest at his very next visit was to be 
 decoyed into the neighborhood of the 
 horse-pond. 
 
 And then they parted, and Griffith 
 went to the " Red Lion." And a pair 
 of black eyes that had slyly watched 
 this singular interview from an upper 
 window withdrew quietly ; and soon 
 after Tom Leicester found himself face 
 to face with their owner, the sight of 
 whom always made his heart beat a 
 little faster. 
 
 Caroline Ryder had been rather cold 
 to him of late ; it was therefore a charm- 
 ing surprise when she met him, all 
 wreathed in smiles, and, drawing him 
 apart, began to treat him like a bosom 
 friend, and tell him what had passed 
 between the master and her and Jane. 
 Confidence begets confidence ; and so 
 Tom told her in turn that the Squire 
 and the Dame had come to words over 
 it. " However," said he, " 't is all the 
 priest's fault : but bide awhile, all of 
 ye." 
 
 With this mysterious hint he meant 
 to close his revelations. But Ryder 
 intended nothing of the kind. Her 
 keen eye had read the looks and ges- 
 tures of Gaunt and Leicester, and these 
 had shown her that something very 
 strange and serious was going on. 
 She had come out expressly to learn 
 what it was, and Tom was no match for 
 her arts. She so smiled on him, and 
 agreed with him, and led him, and drew 
 him, and pumped him, that she got it 
 all out of him on a promise of secrecy. 
 She then entered into it with spirit, 
 and, being what they called a scholar, 
 undertook to write a paper for Tom and 
 his helper to pin on the priest's back. 
 No sooner said than done. She left 
 him, and speedily returned with the 
 following document, written out in large 
 and somewhat straggling letters : — 
 
 "Honest Folk, behold a 
 MiscHiEvious Priest, which 
 For causing of strife . 
 
 'twixt man and wyfe 
 Hath made acquaintance 
 With Squire's horse-pond." 
 
 And so a female conspirator was add 
 ed to the plot. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt co-operated too, but, 
 need I say ? unconsciously. 
 
 She was unhappy, and full of regret 
 at what she had said. She took her- 
 self severely to task, and drew a very 
 unfavorable comparison between her- 
 self and Brother Leonard. " How ill," 
 she thought, " am I fitted to carry out 
 that meek saint's view. See what my 
 ungoverned temper has done." So 
 then, having made so great a mistake, 
 she thought the best thing she could 
 do was to seek advice of Leonard at 
 once. She was not without hopes he 
 would tell her to postpone the projected 
 change in her household, and so soothe 
 her offended husband directly. 
 
 She wrote a line requesting Leonard 
 to call on- her as soon as possible, and 
 advise her in a great difficulty ; and 
 she gave this note to Ryder, and told 
 her to send the groom off with it at 
 once. 
 
 Ryder squeezed the letter, and peered 
 into it, and gathered its nature before 
 she gave it to the groom to take to 
 Leonard. 
 
 When he was gone, she went and 
 told Tom Leicester, and he chuckled, 
 and made his preparations accordingly. 
 
 Then she retired to her own room, 
 and went through a certain process 
 I have indicated before as one of 
 her habits : knitted her great black 
 brows, and pondered the whole situa- 
 tion with a mental power that was wor- 
 thy of a nobler sphere and higher ma- 
 terials. 
 
 Her practical revery, so to speak, 
 continued until she was rung for to 
 dress her mistress for dinner. 
 
 Griffith was so upset, so agitated and 
 restless, he could not stay long in any 
 one place, not even in the " Red Lion." 
 So he came home to dinner, though 
 
Qrifflth Gaunt; or, Jealousy, 
 
 95 
 
 he had mighty little appetite for it. 
 And this led to another little conjugal 
 scene. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt mounted the great oak 
 staircase to dress for dinner, languidly, 
 as ladies are apt to do, when reflection 
 and regret come after excitement. 
 
 Presently she heard a quiclc foot be- 
 hind her : she Icnew it directly for her 
 husband's, and her heart yearned. 
 She did not stop nor turn her head ; 
 womanly pride withheld her from direct 
 submission ; but womanly tenderness 
 and tact opened a way to reconcilia- 
 tion. She drew softly aside, almost to 
 the wall, and went slower ; and her 
 hand, her sidelong drooping head, and 
 her whole eloquent person, whispered 
 plainly enough, " If somebody would 
 like to make friends, here is the door 
 ppen." 
 
 Griffith saw, but was too deeply 
 wounded : he passed her without stop- 
 ping (the staircase was eight feet 
 broad). 
 
 But as he passed he looked at her 
 and sighed, for he saw she was sorry. 
 
 She heard, and sighed too. Poor 
 things, they had lived so happy to- 
 gether for years. 
 
 He went on. 
 
 Her pride bent : " Griffith ! " said 
 she, timidly. 
 
 He turned and stopped at that. 
 
 "Sweetheart," she murmured, " I was 
 to blame. I was ungenerous. I forgot 
 myself Let me recall my words. You 
 know they did not come from my 
 heart." 
 
 "You need not tell me that," said 
 Griffith, doggedly. " I have no quar- 
 rel ^fith you, and never will. You but 
 do what you are bidden, and say what 
 you are bidden. I take, the wound 
 from you as best I may : the man that 
 set you on, 't is him I '11 be revenged 
 on." 
 
 " Alas that you will think so ! " said 
 she. " Believe me, dearest, that holy 
 man would be the first to rebuke me 
 for rebelling against my husband and 
 flouting him. O, how could I say such 
 things? I thank you, and love you 
 dearly for being so blind to my faults ; 
 
 but I must not abuse your blindness. 
 Father Leonard will put me to pen- 
 ance for the fault you forgive. He 
 will hear no excuses. Prithee, now, 
 be more just to that good man." 
 
 Griffith listened quietly, with a cold 
 sneer upon his lip ; and this was his 
 reply : " Till that mischief-making vil- 
 lain came between you and me, you 
 never gave me a bitter word : we were 
 the happiest pair in Cumberland. But 
 now what are we ? And what shall 
 we be in another year or two ? — Re- 
 venge ! ! " 
 
 He had begun bravely enough, but 
 suddenly burst into an ungovernable 
 rage ; and as he yelled out that furious 
 word his face was convulsed and ugly 
 to look at ; very ugly. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt started : she had not 
 seen that vile expression in his face 
 for many a year ; but she knew it 
 again. 
 
 "Ay!" he cried, "he has made me 
 drink a bitter cup this many a day. 
 But I '11 force as bitter a one down 
 his throat, and you shall see it done." 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt turned pale at this vio- 
 lent threat ; but, being a high-spirited 
 woman, she stiffened and hid her appre- 
 hensions loftily. " Madman that you 
 are," said she. " I throw away excuses 
 on Jealousy, and I waste reason upon 
 frenzy. I '11 say no more things to pro- 
 voke you ; but, to be sure, 't is I that 
 am offended now, and deeply too, as 
 you will find." 
 
 " So be it," said Griffith, sullenly ; 
 then, grinding his teeth, "he shall pay 
 for that too." 
 
 Then he went to his dressing-room, 
 and she to her bedroom. Griffith hat- 
 ing Leonard, and Kate on the verge of 
 hating Griffith. 
 
 And, ere her blood could cool, she 
 was subjected to the keen, cold scru- 
 tiny of another female, and that female 
 a secret rival 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 Would you learn what men gain by 
 admitting a member of the fair sex into 
 
96 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 their conspiracies ? read the tragedy of 
 " Venice Preserved " ; and, by way of 
 afterpiece, this little chapter. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt sat pale and very silent, 
 and Caroline Ryder stood behind, do- 
 ing up her hair into a magnificent struc- 
 ture that added eight inches to the 
 lady's height : and in this operation her 
 own black hair and keen black eyes 
 came close to the golden hair and deep 
 blue eyes, now troubled, and made a 
 picture striking by contrast. 
 
 As she was putting the finishing 
 touches, she said, quietly, " If you 
 please. Dame, I have somewhat to tell 
 you." 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt sighed wearily, expect- 
 ing some very minute communication. 
 
 " Well, Dame, I dare say I am risk- 
 ing my place, but I can't help it." 
 
 " Another time, Ryder," said Mrs. 
 Gaunt. " I am in no humor to be wor- 
 ried with my servants' squabbles." 
 
 " Nay, madam, 't is not that at all : 
 'tis about Father Leonard. Sure you 
 would not like him to be drawn 
 through the horse-pond ; and that is 
 what they mean to do next time he 
 comes here." 
 
 In saying these words, the jade con- 
 trived to be adjusting Mrs. Gaunt's 
 dress. The lady's heart gave a leap, 
 and the servant's cunning finger felt it, 
 and then felt a shudder run all over 
 that stately frame. But after that Mrs. 
 Gaunt seemed to turn to steel. She 
 distrusted Ryder, she could not tell 
 why ; distrusted her, and was upon her 
 guard. 
 
 " You must be mistaken," said she. 
 " Who would dare to lay hands on a 
 priest in my house ? " 
 
 " Well, Dame, you see they egg one 
 another on : don't ask me to betray my 
 fellow-servants ; but let us balk them. 
 I don't deceive you, Dame : if the good 
 priest shows his face here, he will be 
 thrown into the horse-pond, and sent 
 home with a ticket pinned to his back. 
 Them that is to do it are on the watch 
 now, and have got their orders ; and 't 
 is a burning shame. To be sure I am 
 not a Catholic ; but religion is religion, 
 and a more heavenly face I never, saw : 
 
 and for it to be dragged through a 
 filthy horse-pond ! " 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt clutched her inspector's 
 arm and turned pale. " The villains ! 
 the fiends ! " she gasped. " Go ask 
 your master to come to me this mo- 
 ment." 
 
 Ryder took a step or two, then 
 stopped. " Alack, Dame," said she, 
 " that is not the way to do. You may 
 be sure the others would not dare, if 
 my master had not shown them his 
 mind." 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt stopped her ears. 
 " Don't tell me that he has ordered 
 this impious, cruel, cowardly act. He 
 is a lion : and this comes from the 
 heart of cowardly curs. What is to be 
 done, woman ? tell me ; for you are 
 cooler than I am." 
 
 " Well, Dame, if I were in your place, 
 I 'd just send hiin a line, and bid him 
 stay away till the storm' blows over." 
 
 " You are right. But who is to carry 
 it ? My own servants are traitors to 
 me." 
 
 " I 'U carry it myself" 
 
 " You shall. Put on your hat, and 
 run through the wood ; that is the 
 shortest way." 
 
 She wrote a few lines on a large 
 sheet of paper, for note-paper there 
 was none in those days ; sealed it, and 
 gave it to Ryder. 
 
 Ryder retired to put on her hat, 
 and pry into the letter with greedy 
 eyes. 
 
 It ran thus : — 
 
 " Dear Father and Friend, — 
 You must come hither no more at pres- 
 ent. Ask the bearer why this is, for I 
 am ashamed to put it on paper. Pray 
 for them : for you can, but I cannot. 
 Pray for me, too, bereft for a time of 
 your counsels. I shall come and con- 
 fess to you in a few days, when we are 
 all cooler ; but you shall honor his 
 house no more. Obey me in this one 
 thing, who shall obey you in all things 
 else, and am 
 
 " Your indignant and sorrowful 
 daughter, 
 "Catharine Gaunt." 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 97 
 
 " No more than that ? " said Ryder. 
 " Ay, she guessed as I should look." 
 
 She whipped on her hat and went 
 out. 
 
 Who should she meet, or, I might 
 say, run against, at the hall door, but 
 Father Leonard. 
 
 He had come at once, in compliance 
 with Mrs. Gaunt's request. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 Mrs. Ryder uttered a little scream 
 of dismay. The priest smiled, and said, 
 sweetly, " Forgive me, mistress, I fear I 
 startled you." 
 
 " Indeed you did, sir," said she. 
 She looked furtively round, and saw 
 Leicester and his underling on the 
 watch. 
 
 Leicester, unaware of her treachery, 
 made her a signal of intelligence. 
 
 She responded to it, to gain time. 
 
 It was a ticklish situation. Some 
 would have lost their heads. Ryder 
 was alarmed, but all the more able to 
 defend her plans. Her first move, as 
 usual with such women, was — a lie. 
 
 " Our Dame is in the Grove, sir," 
 said she. " I am to bring you to her." 
 
 The priest bowed his head, gravely, 
 and moved towards the Grove with 
 downcast eyes. Ryder kept close to 
 him for a few steps ; then she ran to 
 Leicester, and whispered, hastily, " Go 
 you to the stable-gate ; I '11 bring him 
 round that way : hide now ; he sus- 
 pects." 
 
 " Ay, ay," said Leicester ; and the 
 confiding pair slipped, away round a 
 corner to wait for their victim. 
 
 Ryder hurried him into the Grove, 
 and, as soon as she had got him out of 
 hearing, told him the truth. 
 
 He turned pale ; for these delicate 
 organizations do not generally excel in 
 courage. 
 
 Ryder pitied him, and something of 
 womanly feeling began to mingle with 
 her plans. " They shall not lay a fin- 
 ger on you, sir," said she. " I '11 scratch 
 and scream and bring the whole parish 
 out sooner ; but the best way is not to 
 
 7 
 
 give them a chance ; please you fol- 
 low me." And she hurried him through 
 the Grove, and then into an unfre- 
 quented path of the great wood. 
 
 When they were safe from pursuit 
 she turned and looked at him. He was 
 a good deal agitated ; but the upper- 
 most sentiment was gratitude. It soon 
 found words, and, as usual, happy ones. 
 He thanked her with dignity and ten- 
 derness for the service she had done 
 him, and asked her if she was a Cath- 
 ohc. 
 
 " No," said she. 
 
 At that his countenance fell, but only 
 for a moment. " Ah ! would you were," 
 he said, earnestly. He then added, 
 sweetly, " To be sure I have all the 
 more reason to be grateful to you." 
 
 " You are very welcome, reverend 
 sir,'' said Ryder, graciously. " Religion 
 is religion ; and 't is a barbarous thing 
 that violence should be done to men of 
 your cloth." 
 
 Having thus won his heart, the artful 
 woman began at one and the same time 
 to please and to probe him. " Sir," 
 said she, "be of good heart ; they have 
 done you no harm, and themselves no 
 good ; my mistress will hate them for 
 it, and love you all the more." 
 
 Father Leonard's pale cheek colored 
 all over at these words, though he said 
 nothing. 
 
 " Since they won't let you come to 
 her, she will come to you." 
 
 " Do you think so ? " said he, faintly. 
 
 " Nay, I am sure of it, sir. So would 
 any woman. We still follow our hearts, 
 and get our way by hook or by crook." 
 
 Again the priest colored, either with 
 pleasure or with shame, or with both ; 
 and the keen feminine eye perused him 
 with microscopic power. She waited, 
 to give him an opportunity of talking to 
 her and laying bare his feelings ; but 
 he was either too delicate, too cautious, 
 or too pure. 
 
 So then she suddenly affected to re- 
 member her mistress's letter. She pro- 
 duced it with an apology. He took it 
 with unfeigned eagerness, and read it 
 in silence ; and, having read it, he stood 
 patient, with the tears in his eyes. 
 
98 
 
 Griffith Gaunt ; or. Jealousy. 
 
 Ryder eyed him with much curiosity 
 and a little pity. " Don't you take on 
 for that," said she. " Why, she will be 
 more at her ease when she visits you 
 at your place than here ; and she won't 
 give you up, I promise." 
 
 The priest trembled, and Ryder saw 
 it. 
 
 " But, my daughter," said he, " I am 
 perplexed and grieved. It seems that 
 I make mischief in your house : that is 
 an ill office ; I fear it is my duty to re- 
 tire from this place altogether, rather 
 than cause dissension between those 
 whom the Church by holy sacrament 
 hath bound together." So saying, he 
 hung his head and sighed. 
 
 Ryder eyed him with a little pity, but 
 more contempt. " Why take other peo- 
 ple's faults on your back ? " said she. 
 " My mistress is tied to a man she does 
 not love ; but that is not your fault : 
 and he is jealous of you, that never g;3.ve 
 him cause. If I was a man he should 
 not accuse me — for nothing; nor set 
 his man on to drag me through a horse- 
 pond — for nothing. / W have the sweet 
 as well as the bitter!''' 
 
 Father Leonard turned and looked at 
 her with a face full of terror. Some 
 beautiful, honeyed fiend seemed to be 
 entering his heart and tempting it. " O, 
 hush 1 my daughter, hush ! " he said ; 
 " what words are these for a virtuous 
 woman to speak, and a priest to hear ? " 
 
 " There, I have offended you by my 
 blunt way," said the cajoling hussy, in 
 soft and timid tones. 
 
 " Nay, not so ; but O speak not so 
 lightly of tilings that peril the immortal 
 soul ! " 
 
 "Well, I have done," said Ryder. 
 " You are out of danger now ; so give 
 you good day." 
 
 He stopped her. "What, before I 
 have thanked you for your goodness. 
 Ah, Mistress Ryder, 't is on these oc- 
 casions a priest sins by longing for rich- 
 es to reward his benefactors. I have 
 naught to offer you but this ring ; it was 
 my mother's, — my dear mother's." He 
 took it off his finger to give it her. 
 
 But the little bit of goodness that 
 cleaves even to the heart of an in- 
 
 trigante revolted against her avarice. 
 " Nay, poor soul, I '11 not take it," said 
 she ; and put her hands before her eyes 
 not to see it, for she knew she could 
 not look at it long and spare it. 
 
 With this she left him ; but, ere she 
 had gone far, her cunning and curios- 
 ity gained the upper hand again, and 
 she whipped behind a grpat tree and 
 crouched, invisible all but her nose and 
 one piercing eye. 
 
 She saw the priest make a few steps 
 homewards, then look around, then 
 take Mrs. Gaunt's letter out of his 
 pocket, press it passionately to his lips, 
 and hide it tenderly in his bosom. 
 
 This done, he went home, with his 
 eyes on the ground as usual, and meas- 
 ured steps. And to all who met him he 
 seemed a creature in whom religion had 
 conquered all human frailty. 
 
 Caroline Ryder hurried home with 
 cruel exultation in her black eyes. But 
 she soon found that the first thing she 
 had to do was to defend herself. Lei- 
 cester and his man met her, and the 
 former looked gloomy, and the latter 
 reproached her bitterly, called her a 
 double-faced jade, and said he would 
 tell the Squire of the trick she had 
 played them. But Ryder had a lie 
 ready in a moment. • " 'T is you I have 
 saved, not him," said she. " He is 
 something more than mortal ; why, he 
 told me of his own accord what you 
 were there for ; but that, if you were so 
 unlucky as to lay hands on him, you 
 would rot .alive. It seems that has 
 been tried out Stanhope way ; a man 
 did but give him a blow, and his arm 
 was stiff next day, and he never used it 
 again ; and next his hair fell off his 
 head, and then his eyes they turned to 
 water and ran all out of him, and he 
 died within the twelvemonth." 
 
 Country folk were nearly, though not 
 quite, as superstitious at that time as in 
 the Middle Ages. " Murrain on him," 
 said Leicester. " Catch me laying a 
 finger on him. I 'm glad he is gone ; 
 and I hope he won't never come back 
 no more." 
 
 " Not likely, since he can read all our 
 hearts. Why he told me something 
 
Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 99 
 
 about you, Tom Leicester ; he says you 
 are in love." 
 
 " No ! did he really now ? " — and 
 Leicester opened his eyes very wide. 
 " And did he tell you who the lass 
 is ? " 
 
 " He did so ; and surprised me prop- 
 erly." This with a haughty glance. 
 
 Leicester held his tongue and turned 
 red. 
 
 " Who is it, mistress ? " asked the 
 helper. 
 
 " He did n't say I was to tell you, 
 young man." 
 
 And with these two pricks of her 
 needle she left them both more or less 
 discomfited, and went to scrutinize and 
 anatomize her mistress's heart with 
 plenty of cunning, but no mercy. She 
 related her own part in the affair very 
 briefly, but dwelt with well-feigned sym- 
 pathy on the priest's feelings. " He 
 turned as white as a sheet, ma'am, when 
 I told him, and offered me his very 
 ring oflf his finger, he was so grateful ; 
 poor man ! " 
 
 " You did not take it, I hope J " said 
 Mrs. Gaunt, quickly. 
 
 " La, no ma'am ! I had n't the 
 heart." 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt was silent awhile. When 
 she spoke again it was to inquire wheth- 
 er Ryder had given him the letter. 
 
 " That I did : and it brought the 
 tears into his poor eyes ; and such beau- 
 tiful eyes as he has, to be sure. You 
 would have pitied him if you had seen 
 him read it, and cry over it, and then 
 kiss it and put it in his bosom he did." 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt said nothing, but turned 
 her head away. 
 
 The operator shot a sly glance into 
 the looking-glass, and saw a pearly tear 
 trickling down her subject's fair cheek. 
 So she went on, all sympathy outside, 
 and remorselessness within. " To think 
 of that face, more like an angel's than a 
 man's, to be dragged through a nasty 
 horse-pond. 'T is a shame of master 
 to set his men on a clergyman." i And 
 so was proceeding, with well-acted and 
 catching warmth, to dig as dangerous a 
 pit for Mrs. Gaunt as ever was dug for 
 any lady ; for whatever Mrs. Gaunt had 
 
 been betrayed into saying, this Ryder 
 would have used without mercy, and 
 with diabolical skill. 
 
 Yes, it was a pit, and the lady's ten- 
 der heart pushed her towards it, and 
 her fiery temper drew her towards it. 
 
 Yet she escaped it this time. The 
 dignity, delicacy, and pride, that is of- 
 tener found in these old families than 
 out of them, saved her from that peril. 
 She did not see the trap; but she 
 spurned the bait by native instinct. 
 
 She thr.ew up her hand in a moment, 
 with a queenly gesture, and stoppe'd the 
 tempter. 
 
 "Not — one — word — from my ser- 
 vant against my husband in my hear- 
 ing ! " said she, superbly. 
 
 And Ryder shrank back into herself 
 directly. 
 
 " Child," said Mrs. Gaunt, " you have 
 done me a great service, and my hus- 
 band too ; for if this dastardly act had 
 been done in his name, he would soon 
 have been heartily ashamed of it, and 
 deplored it. Such services can never 
 be quite Repaid ; but you will find a 
 purse in that drawer with five guineas ; 
 it is yours ; and my lavender silk dress, 
 be pleased to wear that about me, to 
 remind me of the good office you have 
 done me. And now, all you can do for 
 me is to leave me ; for I am very, very 
 unhappy." 
 
 Ryder retired with the spoil, and Mrs. 
 Gaunt leaned her head over her chair, 
 and cried without stint. 
 
 After this, no angry words passed 
 between Mr. and Mrs. Gaunt ; but 
 something worse, a settled coolness, 
 sprung up. 
 
 As for Griffith, his cook kept her 
 place, and the priest came no more to 
 the Castle ; so, having outwardly gained 
 the day, he was ready to forget and for- 
 give ; but Kate, though she would not 
 let her servant speak ill of Griffith, was 
 deeply indignant and disgusted with 
 him. She met his advances with such 
 a stern coldness, that he turned sulky 
 and bitter in his turn. 
 
 Husband and wife saw little of each 
 other, and hardly spoke. 
 
lOO 
 
 Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 Both were unhappy ; but Kate was 
 angriest, and Griffith saddest. 
 
 In an evil hour he let out his grief 
 to Caroline Ryder. She seized the op- 
 portunity, and, by a show of affection- 
 ate sympathy and zeal, made herself 
 almost necessary to him, and contrived 
 to establish a very perilous relation be- 
 tween him and her. Matters went so 
 far as this, that the poor man's eye 
 used to brighten when he saw her com- 
 ing. 
 
 Yet this victory cost her a sore heart 
 and all the patient self-denial of her 
 sex. To be welcome to Griffith she 
 had to speak to him of her rival, and to 
 speak well of her. She tried talking 
 of herself and her attachment ; he 
 yawned in her face : she tried smooth 
 detraction and innuendo ; he fired up 
 directly, and defended her of whose 
 conduct he had been complaining the 
 very moment before. 
 
 Then she saw that there was but one 
 way to the man's heart. Sore, and 
 sick, and smiling, she took that way : 
 resolving to bide her time ;■ to worm 
 herself in any how, and wa:it patiently 
 till she could venture to thrust her mis- 
 tress out. 
 
 If any of my readers need to be told 
 why this she Machiavel threw her fel- 
 low-conspirators over, the reason was 
 simply this : on calm reflection she saw 
 it was not her interest to get Father 
 Leonard insulted. She looked on him 
 as her mistress's lover, and her own 
 best friend. " Was I mad ? " said she 
 to herself. " My business is to keep 
 him sweet upon her, till they can't live 
 without one another : and then I 'U tell 
 him ; and take your place in this house, 
 my lady." 
 
 And now it is time to visit that ex- 
 traordinary man, who was the cause of 
 all this mischief; whom Gaunt called a 
 villain, and Mrs. Gaunt a saint ; and, 
 as usual, he was neither one nor the 
 other. 
 
 Father Leonard was a pious, pure, 
 and noble-minded man, who had un- 
 dertaken to defy nature, with religion's 
 aid ; and, after years of successful war- 
 
 fare, now sustained one of those de- 
 feats to which such warriors have been 
 liable in every age. If his heart was 
 pure, it was tender ; and nature never 
 intended him to live all his days alone. 
 After years of prudent coldness to the 
 other sex, he fell in with a creature 
 that put him off his guard at first, she 
 seemed so angelic. "At Wisdom's 
 gate suspicion slept " : and, by degrees, 
 which have been already indicated in 
 this narrative, she whom the Church 
 had committed to his spiritual care be- 
 came his idol. Could he have foreseen 
 this, it would never have happened ; he 
 would have steeled himself, or left the 
 country that contained this sweet temp- 
 tation. But love stole on him, masked 
 with religious zeal, and robed in a gar- 
 ment of light that seemed celestial. 
 
 When the mask fell, it was too late : 
 the power to resist the soft and thrill- 
 ing enchantment was gone. The soli- 
 tary man was too deep in love. 
 
 Yet he clung still to that self-decep- 
 tion, without which he never could have 
 been entrapped into an earthly passion ; 
 he never breathed a word of love to 
 her. It would have alarmed her ; it 
 would have alarmed himself. Every 
 syllable that passed between these two 
 might have been published without 
 scandal. But the heart does not speak 
 by words alone : there are looks and 
 there are tones of voice that belong to 
 Love, and are his signs, his weapons ; 
 and it was in these very tones the 
 priest murmured to his gentle listener 
 about "the angelic life " between spirits 
 still lingering on earth, but purged 
 from earthly dross ; and even about 
 other topics less captivating to the re- 
 ligious imagination. He had persuad- 
 ed her to found a school in this dark 
 parish, and in it he taught the poor 
 with exemplary and touching patience. 
 Well, when he spoke to her about 
 this school, it was in words of prac- 
 tical good sense, but in tones of love ; 
 and she, being one of those feminine 
 women who catch the tone they are 
 addressed in, and instinctively answer 
 in tune, and, moreover, seeing no ill, 
 but good, in the subject of their conver- 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or. Jealousy. 
 
 lOI 
 
 sation, replied sometimes, unguardedly 
 enough, in accents almost as tender. 
 
 In truth, if Love was really a person- 
 age, as the heathens feigned, he must 
 have often perched on a tree in that 
 quiet grove, and chuckled and mocked, 
 when this man and woman sat and 
 murmured together, in the soft sedu- 
 cing twilight, about the love of God. 
 
 And now things had come to a cri- 
 sis. Husband and wife went about the 
 house silent and gloomy, the ghosts of 
 their former selves ; and the priest sat 
 solitary, benighted, bereaved of the one 
 human creature he cared for. Day 
 succeeded to day, and still she never 
 came. Every morning he said, " She 
 will come to-day," and brightened with 
 the hope. But the leaden hours crept 
 by, and still she came not. 
 
 Three sorrowful weeks went by ; and 
 he fell into deep dejection. He used 
 to wander out at night, and come and 
 stand where he could see her windows 
 with the moon shining on them : then 
 go slowly home, cold in body, and with 
 his heart aching, lonely, deserted, and 
 perhaps forgotten. O, never till now 
 had he known the utter aching sense of 
 being quite alone in this weary world ! 
 One day, as he sat drooping and 
 listless, there came a light foot along 
 the passage, a light tap at the door, and 
 the next moment she stood before him, 
 a little paler than usual, but lovelier 
 than ever, for celestial joy softened her 
 noble features. 
 
 The priest started up with a cry of 
 joy that ought to have warned her ; but 
 it only brought a faint blush of pleas- 
 ure to her cheek and the brimming 
 tears to her eyes. 
 
 " Dear father and friend," said she. 
 " What ! have you missed me ? Think, 
 then, how I have missed yoti. But 
 't was best for us both to let their vile 
 passions cool first." 
 
 Leonard could not immediately re- 
 ply. The emotion of seeing her again 
 so suddenly almost choked him. 
 
 He needed all the self-possession he 
 had been years acquiring not to throw 
 himself at her knees and declare his 
 passion to her. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt saw his agitation, but 
 did not interpret to his disadvantage. 
 
 She came eagerly and sat on a stool 
 beside him. " Dear father," she said, 
 " do not let their insolence grieve you. 
 They have smarted for it, and shall 
 smart till they make their submission 
 to you, and beg and entreat you to 
 come to us again. Meantime, since 
 you cannot visit me, I visit you. Con- 
 fess me, father, and then direct me 
 with your counsels. Ah ! if you could 
 but give me the Christian temper to 
 carry them out firmly but meekly ! 'T 
 is my ungoverned spirit hath wrought 
 all this mischief, — mea culpa / mea 
 culpa ! " 
 
 By this time Leonard had recovered 
 his self-possession, and he spent an 
 hour of strange intoxication, confessing 
 his idol, sentencing his idol to light 
 penances, directing and advising his 
 idol, and all in the soft murmurs of a 
 lover. 
 
 She left him, and the room seemed 
 to darken. 
 
 Two days only elapsed, and she came 
 again. Visit succeeded to visit : and her 
 affection, seemed boundless. 
 
 The insult he had received was to be 
 avenged in one place, and healed in an- 
 other, and, if possible, effaced with ten- 
 der hand. So she kept all her sweet- 
 ness for that little cottage, and all her 
 acidity for Hernshaw Castle. 
 
 It was an evil hour when Griffith at- 
 tacked her saint with violence. The 
 woman was too high-spirited, and too 
 sure of her own rectitude, to endure 
 that : so, instead of crushing her, it 
 drove her to retahation, — and to impru- 
 dence. 
 
 These visits to console Father Leon- 
 ard were quietly watched by Ryder, 
 for one thing. But, worse than that, 
 they placed Mrs. Gaunt in a new posi- 
 tion* with Leonard, and one that melts 
 the female heart. She was now the 
 protectress and the consoler of a man 
 she admired and revered. I say if any- 
 thing on earth can breed love in a grand 
 female bosom, this will. 
 
 She had put her foot on a sunny slope 
 clad with innocent-looking flowers ; but 
 
I02 
 
 Griffith Gaunt ; or. Jealousy. 
 
 more and more precipitous at every 
 step, and perdition at the bottom. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 Father Leonard, visited, soothed, 
 and petted by his idol, recovered his 
 spirits, and, if he pined during her ab- 
 sence, he was always so joyful in her 
 presence tliat she thought of course he 
 was permanently happy; so then, be- 
 ing by nature magnanimous and placa- 
 ble, she began to smile on her husband 
 again, and a tacit reconciliation came 
 about by natural degrees. 
 
 But this produced a startling result. 
 
 Leonard, as her confessor, could learn 
 everything that passed between them ; 
 he had only to follow established prece- 
 dents, and ask questions his Church 
 has printed for the use of confessors. 
 He was mad enough to put such inter- 
 rogatories. 
 
 The consequence was, that one day, 
 being off his guard, or literally unable 
 to contain his bursting heart any longer, 
 he uttered a cry of jealous agony, and 
 then, in a torrent of burning, melting 
 words, appealed to her pity. He paint- 
 ed her husband's happiness, and his own 
 misery, and barren desolation, with a 
 fervid, passionate eloquence that para- 
 lyzed his hearer, and left her pale and' 
 trembling, and the tears of pity trick- 
 ling down her cheek. 
 
 Those silent tears calmed him a lit- 
 tle ; and he begged her forgiveness, and 
 awaited his doom. 
 
 " I pity you," said' she, angelically. 
 " What ? you jealous of my husband ! 
 O, pray to Christ and Our Lady to cure 
 you of this folly." 
 
 She rose, fluttering inwardly, but calm 
 as a statue on the outside, gave him 
 her hand, and went home very slowly ; 
 and ' the moment she was out of his 
 sight she drooped her head hke a 
 crushed flower. 
 
 She was sad, ashamed, alarmed. 
 
 Her mind was in a whirl ; and, were 
 I to imitate those writers who under- 
 take to dissect and analyze the heart at 
 such moments, and put the exact re- 
 
 sult on paper, I should be apt to sac- 
 rifice truth to precision ; I must stick 
 to my old plan, and tell you what she 
 did : that will surely be some index to 
 her mind, especially with my female 
 readers. 
 
 She went home straight to her hus- 
 band ; he was smoking his pipe after 
 dinner. She drew her chair close to 
 him, and laid her hand tenderly on his 
 shoulder. " Griffith," she said, " will 
 you grant your wife a favor ? You 
 once promised to take me abroad : I 
 desire to go now ; I long to see foreign 
 countries ; I am tired of this place. I 
 want a change. Prithee,. prithee take 
 me hence this very day." 
 
 Griffith looked aghast. " Why, sweet- 
 heart, it takes a deal of money to go 
 abroad ; we must get in our rents 
 first." 
 
 " Nay, I have a hundred pounds laid 
 by." 
 
 " Well, but what a fancy to take all 
 of a sudden ! " f 
 
 " O Griffith, don't deny me what I 
 ask you, with my arm round your neck, 
 dearest. It is no fancy. I want to be 
 alone with you, far from this place where 
 coolness has come between us." And 
 with this she fell to crying and sobbing, 
 and straining him tight to her bosom, 
 as if she feared to lose him, or be taken 
 from him. 
 
 Griffith kissed her, and told her to 
 cheer up, he was not the man to deny 
 her anything. "Just let me get my 
 hay in," said he, " and I '11 take you to 
 Rome, if you like." 
 
 " No, no ; to-day, or to-morrow at 
 furthest, or you don't love me as I de- 
 serve to be loved by you this day." 
 
 " Now Kate, my darhng, be reason- 
 able. I must get my hay yi ; and then 
 I am your man." 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt had gradually sunk al- 
 most to her knees. She now started 
 up with nostrils expanding and her 
 blue eyes glittering. " Your hay ! " she 
 cried, with bitter contempt ; "your hay 
 before your wife ? That is how you 
 love me ! " And, the next moment, she 
 seemed to turn from a fiery woman to 
 a glacier. 
 
Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy, 
 
 103 
 
 Griffith smiled at all this, with that 
 lordly superiority the male sometimes 
 wears when he is behaving like a dull 
 ass ; and smoked his pipe, and resolved 
 to indulge her whim as soon as ever he 
 had got his hay in. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 Showery weather set in, and the hay 
 had to be turned twice, and left in cocks 
 instead of carried. 
 
 Griffith spoke now and then about 
 the foreign tour ; but Kate deigned no 
 reply whatever ; and the chilled topic 
 died out before the wet hay could be got 
 in : and so much for Procrastination. 
 
 Meantime, Betty Gough was sent for 
 to mend the house-linen. She came 
 every other day after dinner, and sat 
 working alone beside Mrs. Gaunt till 
 dark. 
 
 Caroline Ryder put her own con- 
 struction on this, and tried to make 
 friends with Mrs. Gough, intending to 
 pump her. But Mrs. Gough gave her 
 short, dry answers. Ryder then felt 
 sure that Gough was a go-between, 
 and, woman-like, turned up her nose at 
 her with marked contempt. For why ? 
 This office of go-between was one she 
 especially coveted for herself under the 
 circumstances ; and, a little while ago, 
 it had seemed within her grasp. 
 
 One fine afternoon the hay was all 
 carried, and Griffith came home in good 
 spirits to tell his wife he was ready to 
 make the grand tour with her. 
 
 He was met at the gate by Mts. 
 Gough, with a face of great concern ; 
 she begged him to come and see the 
 Dame ; she had slipped on the oak 
 stairs, poor soul, and hurt her back. 
 
 Griffith tore up the stairs, and found 
 Kate in the drawing-room, lying on a 
 sofa, and her doctor by her side. He 
 came in, trembling like a leaf, and 
 clasped her piteously in his arms. At 
 this she uttered a little patient sigh of 
 pain, and the doctor begged him to 
 moderate himself: there was no imme^ 
 diate cause of alarm ; but she must be 
 kept quiet; she had strained her back, 
 
 and her nerves were shaken by the 
 fall. 
 
 " O my poor Kate ! " cried Griffith ; 
 and would let nobody else touch hen 
 She was no longer a tall girl, but a 
 statuesque woman ; yet he carried her 
 in his herculean arms up to her bed. 
 She turned her head towards him and 
 shed a gentle tear at this proof of his 
 love ; but the next moment she was 
 cold again, and seemed weary of her life. 
 
 An invahd's bed was sent to her by 
 the doctor at her own request, and 
 placed on a small bedstead. She lay 
 on this at night, and on a sofa by day. 
 
 Griffith was' now as good as a wid- 
 ower ; and Caroline Ryder 'improved 
 the opportunity. She threw herself 
 constantly in his way, all smiles, small 
 talk, and geniality. 
 
 Like many healthy men, your sick- 
 ness wearied him if it lasted over two 
 days ; and whenever he came out, 
 chilled and discontented, from his in- 
 vahd wife, there was a fine, buoyant, 
 healthy young woman, ready to chat 
 with him, and brimming over with un- 
 disguised admiration. 
 
 True, she was only a servant, — a ser- 
 vant to the core. But she had been 
 always about ladies, and could wear 
 their surface as readily as she could 
 their gowns. Moreover, Griffith him- 
 self lacked dignity and reserve ; he 
 would talk to anybody. 
 
 The two women began to fill the rela- 
 tive situations of clouds and sunshine. 
 
 But, ere this had lasted long, the en- 
 ticing contact with the object of her 
 lawless fancy inflamed Ryder, and made 
 her so impatient that she struck her 
 long meditated blow a little prema- 
 turely. 
 
 The passage outside Mrs. Gaunt's 
 door had a large window ; and one day, 
 while Griffith was with his wife, Ryder 
 composed h^self on the window-seat 
 in a forlorn attitude, too striking and 
 unlike her usual gay demeanor to pass 
 unnoticed. 
 
 Griffith came out and saw this droop- 
 ing, disconsolate figure. " Hallo ! " said 
 he, " what is wrong with_j/(7« f " a little 
 fretfully. 
 
I04 
 
 Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 A deep sigh was the only response. 
 
 " Had words with your sweetheart ? " 
 
 " You know I have no sweetheart, 
 sir." 
 
 The good-natured Squire made an 
 attempt or two to console her and find 
 out what was the matter ; but he could 
 get nothing out of her but monosyl- 
 lables and sighs. At last the crocodile 
 contrived to cry. And having thus se- 
 cured his pity, she said : " There, never 
 heed nie. I 'm a foolish woman ; I 
 can't bear to see my dear master so 
 abused." 
 
 " What d' ye mean ? " said Griffith, 
 sternly. Her very first shaft wounded 
 his peace of mind. 
 
 " O, no matter ! why should I be your 
 friend and my own enemy? If I tell 
 you, I shall lose my place." 
 
 " Nonsense, girl, you shall never lose 
 your place while I am here." 
 
 " Well, I hope not, sir ; for I am very 
 happy here ; too happy methinks, when 
 jfou speak kindly to me. Take no no- 
 tice of what I said. 'T is best to be 
 blind at times." 
 
 The simple Squire did not see that 
 this artful woman was playing the stale 
 game of her sex ; stimulating his curi- 
 osity under pretence of putting him 
 off. He began to fret with suspicion 
 and curiosity, and insisted on her speak- 
 ing out. 
 
 " Ah ! but I am so afraid you will 
 hate me," said she ; " and that will be 
 worse than losing my place." 
 
 Griffith stamped on the ground. 
 " What is it ? " said he, fiercely. 
 
 Ryder seemed frightened. " It is 
 nothing," said she. Then she paused, 
 and added, " but my folly. I can't bear 
 to see you waste your feelings. She is 
 not so ill as you fancy." 
 
 " Do you mean to say that my wife 
 is pretending ? " 
 
 "How can I say that? I was n't 
 there : nobody saw her fall j nor heard 
 her either J and the house full of peo- 
 ple. No doubt there is something the 
 matter with her ; but I do believe her 
 heart is in more trouble than her back." 
 
 " And what troubles her heart ? Tell 
 me, and she shall not fret long," 
 
 "Well, sir; then justyou send for 
 Father Leonard ; and she -will get up, 
 and walk as she used, and smile on you 
 as she used. That man is the main of 
 her sickness, you take my word." 
 
 Griffith turned sick at heart ; and the 
 strong man literally staggered at this 
 envenomed thrust of a weak woman's 
 tongue. But he struggled with the poi- 
 son. 
 
 " What d' ye mean, woman ? " said 
 he. " The priest has n't been near her 
 these two months." 
 
 " That is it, sir," replied Ryder qui- 
 etly; ^'■he is too wise to come here 
 against your will ; and she is bitter 
 against you for frightening him away. 
 Ask yourself, sir, did n't she change to 
 you the moment that you threatened 
 that Leonard with the horse-pond ? " 
 
 " That is true ! " gasped the wretched 
 husband. 
 
 Yet he struggled again. "But she 
 made it up with me after that. Why, 
 't was but the other day she begged me 
 to go abroad with her, and take her 
 away from this place." 
 
 " Ay ? indeed ! " said Ryder, bending 
 her black brows, " did she so ? " 
 
 " That she did," said Griffith joy- 
 fully ; " so you see you are mistaken." 
 
 " You should have taken her at her 
 word, sir," was all the woman's re- 
 ply. 
 
 " Well, you see the hay was out ; so 
 I put it off; and then came the cursed 
 rain, day after day ; and so she cooled 
 upon it." 
 
 " Of course she did, sir.'' Then, with 
 a $olemnity that appalled her miserable 
 listener, " I 'd give all I 'm worth if you 
 had taken her at her word that minute. 
 But that is the way with you gentle- 
 men ; you let the occasion slip ; and 
 we that be women never forgive that : 
 she won't give you the same chance 
 again, /know. Now, if I was not afraid 
 to make you unhappy, I 'd tell you why 
 she asked you to go abroad. She felt 
 herself weak and saw her danger ; she 
 found she could not resist that Leonard 
 any longer ; and she had the sense to 
 see it was n't worth her while to ruin 
 herself for him ; so she asked you to 
 
Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 105 
 
 save her from him : that is the plain 
 English. And you did n't." 
 
 At this, Griffith's face wore an ex- 
 pression of agony so horrible that Ry- 
 der hesitated in her course. " There, 
 there," said she, " pray don't look so, 
 dear master ! after all, there 's ^othing 
 certain ; and perhaps I am too severe 
 where I see you ill-treated : and to be 
 sure no woman could be cold to you 
 unless she was bewitched out of her 
 seven senses by some other man. I 
 could n't use you as mistress does ; 
 but then there 's nobody I care a straw 
 for in these parts, except my dear mas- 
 ter." 
 
 Griffith took no notice of this over- 
 ture : the potent poison of jealousy was 
 coursing through all his veins and dis- 
 torting his ghastly face. 
 
 " O God ! " he gasped, " can this 
 thing be ? My wife ! the mother of my 
 child ! It is a lie ! I can't believe it ; 
 I won't believe it. Have pity on me, 
 woman, and think again, and unsay 
 your words ; for, if 't is so, there will 
 be murder in this house." 
 
 Ryder was alarmed. " Don't talk 
 so," said she hastily ; " no woman born 
 is worth that. Besides, as you say, 
 what do we know against her ? She is 
 a gentlewoman, and well brought up. 
 Now, dear master, you have got one 
 friend in this house, and that is me : I 
 know women better than you do. Will 
 you be ruled by me ? " 
 
 " Yes, I will : for I do believe you 
 care a little for me." 
 
 " Then don't you believe anything 
 against our Dame. Keep quiet till 
 you know more. Don't you be so sim- 
 ple as to accuse her to her face, or 
 you '11 never learn the truth. Just you 
 watch her quietly, without seeming ; 
 and I '11 help you. Be a man, and know 
 the truth." 
 
 " I will ! " said Griffith, grinding his 
 teeth. "And I believe she will come 
 out pure as snow." 
 
 " Well, I hope so too," said Ryder, 
 dryly. Then she added, "But don't 
 you be seen speaking to me too much, 
 sir, or she will suspect me, and then 
 she will be on her guard with me. 
 
 When I have anything particular to 
 tell you, I '11 cough, so ; and then I '11 
 run out into the Grove : nobody goes 
 there now." 
 
 Griffith did not see the hussy was 
 arranging her own aifair as well as his. 
 He fell into the trap bodily. 
 
 The life this man led was now in" 
 fernal. 
 
 He watched his wife night and day 
 to detect her heart ; he gave up hunt- 
 ing, he deserted the " Red Lion " ; if 
 he went out of doors, it was but a step ; 
 he hovered about the place to see if 
 messages came or went ; and he spent 
 hours in his wife's bedroom, watching 
 her, grim, silent, and sombre, to detect 
 her inmost heart. His flesh wasted 
 visibly, and his ruddy color paled. Hell 
 was in his heart. Ay, two hells : jeal- 
 ousy and suspense. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt saw directly that some- 
 thing was amiss, and erelong she di- 
 vined what it was. 
 
 But, if he was jealous, she was proud 
 as Lucifer. So she met his ever-watch- 
 ful eye with the face of a marble 
 statue. 
 
 Only in secret her heart quaked and 
 yearned, and she shed many a furtive 
 tear, and was sore, sore perplexed. 
 
 Meantime Ryder was playing with 
 her husband's anguish like a cat with a 
 mouse. 
 
 Upon the pretence of some petty 
 discovery or other, she got him out day 
 after day into the Grove, and, to make 
 him believe in her candor and impar- 
 tiality, would give him feeble reasons 
 for thinking his wife loved him still ; 
 taking care to overpower these reasons 
 with some little piece of strong good- 
 sense and subtle observation. 
 
 It is the fate of moral poisoners to 
 poison themselves as well as their 
 victims. This is a just retribution, and 
 it fell upon this female lago. Her 
 wretched master now loved his wife to 
 distraction, yet hated her to the death : 
 and Ryder loved her master passion- 
 ately, yet hated him intensely, by fits 
 and starts. 
 
 These secret meetings on which she 
 
io6 
 
 Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 had counted so, what did she gain by 
 them ? She saw that, with all her 
 beauty, intelligence, and zeal for him, 
 she was nothing to him still. He sus- 
 pected, he sometimes hated his wife, 
 but he was always full of her. There 
 was no getting any other wedge into 
 his heart. 
 
 This so embittered Ryder that one 
 day she revenged herself on him. 
 
 He had been saying that no earthly 
 torment could equal his : all his watch- 
 ing had shown him nothing for certain. 
 " O," said he, " if I could only get 
 proof of her innocence, or proof of her 
 guilt ! Anything better than the mis- 
 ery of doubt. It gnaws my heart, it 
 consumes my flesh. I can't sleep, I 
 can't eat, I can't sit down. I envy the 
 dead that lie at peace. O my heart! 
 my heart ! " 
 
 " And all for a woman that is not 
 young, nor half so handsome as your- 
 self. Well, sir, I '11 try and cure you 
 of your doubt, if that is what torments 
 you. When you threatened that Leon- 
 ard, he got his orders to come here no 
 more. But she visited him at his place 
 again and again." 
 
 " 'T is false ! How know you that ? " 
 
 " As soon as your back was turned, 
 she used to order her horse and ride to 
 him." 
 
 " How do you know she went to 
 him ? " 
 
 " I mounted the tower, and saw the 
 way she took." 
 
 Griffith's face was a piteous sight. 
 He stammered out, " Well, he is her 
 confessor. She always visited him at 
 times." 
 
 " Ay, sir ; but in those days her 
 blood was cool, and his too ; but be- 
 think you now, when you threatened 
 the man with the horse-pond, he be- 
 came your enemy. All revenge is 
 sweet ; but what revenge so sweet to 
 any man as that which came to his 
 arms of its own accord ? I do notice 
 that men can't read men, but any wo- 
 man can read a woman. Maids they 
 are reserved, because their mothers 
 have told them that is the only way to 
 get married. But what have a wife 
 
 and a priest to keep them distam / 
 Can they ever hope to come together 
 lawfully ? That is why a priest's light- 
 o'-love is always some honest man's 
 wife. What had those two to keep 
 them from folly ? Old Betty Gough ? 
 Why, die mistress had bought her, 
 body and soul, long ago. No, sir, you 
 had no friend there ; and you had three 
 enemies, — love, revenge, and oppor- 
 tunity. Why, what did the priest say 
 to me ? I met him not ten yards 
 from here. ' Ware the horse-pond ! ' 
 says I. Says he, 'Since I am to 
 have the bitter, I '// have the sweet 
 as luell.^ " 
 
 These infernal words were not spo- 
 ken in vain. Griffith's features were 
 horribly distorted, his eyes rolled fear- 
 fully, and he fell to the ground, grinding 
 his teeth, and foaming at the mouth. 
 An epileptic fit ! 
 
 An epileptic fit is a terrible sight : 
 the simple description of one in our 
 medical books is appalling. 
 
 And in this case it was all the more 
 fearful, the subject being so strong and 
 active. 
 
 Caroline Ryder shrieked with terror, 
 but no one heard her ; at all events, no 
 one came ; to be sure the place had a 
 bad name for ghosts, etc. 
 
 She tried to hold his head, but could 
 not, for his body kept bounding from 
 the earth with inconceivable elasticity 
 and fury, and his arms flew in every 
 direction ; and presently Ryder received 
 a violent blow that almost stunned her. 
 
 She lay groaning and trembling be- 
 side the victim of her poisonous tongue 
 and of his own passions. 
 
 When she recovered herself he was 
 snorting rather than breathing, but ly- 
 ing still and pale enough, with his eyes 
 Sjet and glassy. 
 
 She got up, and went with uneven 
 steps to a little rill hard by, and 
 plunged her face in it : then filled her 
 beaver hat, and came and dashed water 
 repeatedly in his face. 
 
 He came to his senses by degrees ; 
 but was weak as an infant. Then Ry- 
 der wiped the foam from his lips, and, 
 kneeling on her knees, laid a soft hand 
 
Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 107 
 
 upon his heavy head, shedding tears 
 of pity and remorse, and sick at heart 
 herself. 
 
 For what had she gained by blacken- 
 ing her rival ? The sight of his bodily 
 agony, and his ineradicable love. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt sat out of shot, cold, 
 calm, superior. 
 
 Yet, in the desperation of her pas- 
 sion, it was something to nurse his 
 weak head an instant, and shed hot 
 tears upon his brow ; it was a positive 
 joy, and soon proved a fresh and inevi- 
 table temptation. 
 
 " My poor master," said she, tender- 
 ly, " I never will say a word to you 
 again. It is better to be blind. My 
 God ! how you cling to her that feigns 
 a broken back to be rid of you, when 
 there are others as well to look at, and 
 ever so much younger, that adore every 
 hair on your dear head, and would fol- 
 low you round the world for one kind 
 look." 
 
 " Let no one love me like that," said 
 GrifBth feebly, "to love so is to be 
 miserable." 
 
 " Pity her then, at least," murmured 
 Ryder ; and, feeling she had quite com- 
 mitted herself now, her bosom panted 
 under GrifiSth's ear, and told him the 
 secret she had kept till now. 
 
 My female readers will sneer at this 
 temptation : they cannot put themselves 
 in a man's place. My male readers 
 know that scarcely one man out of a 
 dozen, sick, sore, and hating her he 
 loved, would have turned away from 
 the illicit consolation thus offered to 
 him in his hour of weakness with soft, 
 seducing tones, warm tears, and heart 
 that panted at his ear. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 How did poor, faulty Griffith re- 
 ceive it ? 
 
 He raised his head, and turned his 
 brown eye gentle but full upon her. 
 " My poor girl," said he, " I see what 
 you are driving at. But that will not 
 do. I have nothing to- give you in ex- 
 change. I hate my wife that I loved 
 
 so dear : d — n her ! d — n her ! But 
 I hate all womankind for her sake. 
 Keep you clear of me. I would ruin 
 no poor girl for heartless sport. I shall 
 have blood on my hands erelong, and 
 that is enough." 
 
 And, with these alarming words, he 
 seemed suddenly to recover all his 
 vigor ; for he rose and stalked away 
 at once, and never looked behind him. 
 
 Ryder made no further attempt. 
 She sat down and shed bitter tears of 
 sorrow and mortification. 
 
 After this cruel rebuff she must hate 
 somebody ; and, with the justice of her 
 sex, she pitched on Mrs. Gaunt, and 
 hated her like a demon, and watched to 
 do her a mischief by hook or by crook. 
 
 Griffith's appearance and manner 
 caused Mrs. Gaunt very serious anx- 
 iety. His clothes hung loose on his 
 wasting frame ; his face was of one uni- 
 form sallow tint, Hke a maniac's ; and 
 he sat silent for hours beside his wife, 
 eying her askant from time to time 
 like a surly mastiflF guarding some 
 treasure. 
 
 She divined what was passing in his 
 mind, and tried to soothe him ; but 
 almost in vain. He was sometimes 
 softened for the moment ; but hceret 
 lateri lethalis arundo; he still hovered 
 about, watching her and tormenting 
 himself ; gnawed mad by three vultures 
 of the mind, — doubt, jealousy, and 
 suspense. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt wrote letters to Father 
 Leonard : hitherto she had only sent 
 him short messages. 
 
 Betty Gough carried these letters, 
 and brought the answers. 
 
 Griffith, thanks to the hint Ryder 
 had given him, suspected this, and 
 waylaid the old woman, and roughly 
 demanded to see the letter she was 
 carrying. She stoutly protested she 
 had none. He seized her, turned her 
 pockets inside out, and found a bunch 
 of keys ; item, a printed dialogue be- 
 tween Peter and Herod, omitted in the 
 canonical books, but described by the 
 modern discoverer as an infallible 
 
io8 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 charm for the toothache ; item, a brass 
 thimble ; item, half a nutmeg. 
 
 " Curse your cunning," said he ; and 
 went off muttering. 
 
 The old woman tottered trembling to 
 Mrs. Gaunt, related this outrage with 
 an air of injured innocence, then re- 
 moved her cap, undid her hair, and took 
 out a letter from Leonard. 
 
 " This must end, and shall," said 
 Mrs. Gaunt, firmly ; " else it will drive 
 him mad and me too.'' 
 
 Bolton fair-day came. It was a great 
 fair, and had attractions for all classes. 
 There were cattle and horses of all kinds 
 for sale, and also shows, games, wres- 
 tling, and dancing till daybreak. 
 
 All the servants had a prescriptive 
 right to go to this fair; and Griffith 
 himself had never missed one. He told 
 Kate over-night he would go, if it were 
 not for leaving her alone. 
 
 The words were kinder than their 
 meaning ; but Mrs. Gaunt had the tact, 
 or the candor, to take them in their 
 best sense. " And I would go with you, 
 my dear," said she ; " but I should only 
 be a drag. Never heed me ; give your- 
 self a day's pleasure, for indeed you 
 need it. I am in care about you : you 
 are so dull of late." 
 
 "Well, I will," said Griffith. "I '11 
 not mope here when all the rest are 
 merry-making." 
 
 Accordingly, next day, about eleven 
 in the morning, he mounted his horse 
 and rode to the fair, leaving the house 
 empty ; for all the servants were gone 
 except the old housekeeper ; she was 
 tied to the fireside by rheumatics. Even 
 Ryder started, with a new bonnet and 
 red ribbons ; but that was only a blind. 
 She slipped back and got unperceived 
 into her own bedroom. |^ 
 
 Griffith ran through the fair ; but 
 could not enjoy it. Hcerebat lateri 
 arundo. He came galloping back to 
 watch his wife, and see whether Betty 
 Gough had come again or not. 
 
 As he rode into the stable-yard he 
 caught sight of Ryder's face at an upper 
 window. She looked pale and agitated, 
 and her black eyes flashed with a strange 
 
 expression. /\She made him a signal 
 which he did not understand ; but she 
 joined him directly after in the stable- 
 yard. 
 
 "Come quietly with me," said she, 
 solemnly. 
 
 He hooked his horse's rein to the 
 wall, and followed her, trembling. 
 
 She took him up the back stairs, and, 
 when she got to the landing, turned 
 and said, " Where did you leave her ? " 
 
 " In her own room." 
 
 " See if she is there now," said Ryder, 
 pointing to the door. 
 
 Griffith tore the door open ; the room 
 was enipty. 
 
 " Nor is she to be found in the 
 house," said Ryder ; " for I 've been in 
 every room." 
 
 Griffith's face turned livid, and he 
 staggered and leaned against the wall. 
 "Where is she ?" said he, hoarsely. 
 
 " Humph ! " said Ryder, fiendishly. 
 " Find him, and you '11 find her." 
 
 " I '11 find 'them if they are above 
 ground," cried Griffith, furiously ; and 
 he rushed into his bedroom, and soon 
 came out again, with a fearful purpose 
 written on his ghastly features and in 
 his bloodshot eyes, and a loaded pistol 
 in his hand. 
 
 Ryder was terrified ; but instead of 
 succumbing to terror, she flew at him 
 like a cat, and wreathed her arms round 
 him. 
 
 " What would you do ? " cried she. 
 " Madman, would you hang for them ? 
 and break my heart, — the only woman 
 in the world that loves you ? Give me 
 the pistol. Nay, I will have it." And, 
 with that extraordinary power excite- 
 ment lends her sex, she wrenched it out 
 of his hands. 
 
 He gnashed his teeth with fury, and 
 clutched her with a gripe of iron ; she 
 screamed with pain : he relaxed his 
 grasp a little at that ; she turned on 
 him and defied him. 
 
 " I won't let you get into trouble for 
 a priest and a wanton," she cried; you 
 shall kill me first. Leave me the pis- 
 tol, and pledge me your sacred word 
 to do them no harm, and then I '11 
 tell you where they are. Refuse me 
 
Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 109 
 
 this, and you shall go to your grave 
 and know nothing more than you know 
 now." 
 
 " No, no ; if you are a woman, have 
 pity on me ; let me come at them. 
 There, I '11 use no weapon. I '11 tear 
 them to atoms with these hands. Where 
 are they ? " 
 
 " May I put the pistol away then ? " 
 
 " Yes, take it out of my sight ; so best. 
 Where are they ? " 
 
 Ryder locked the pistol up in one of 
 Mrs. Gaunt's boxes. Then she said, 
 in a trembling voice, '' Follow me." 
 
 He followed her in awful silence. 
 
 She went rather slowly to the door 
 that opened on the lawn ; and then she 
 hesitated. " If you are -a man, and 
 have any feeling for a poor girl who 
 loves you,' — if you are a gentleman, 
 • and respect your word, — no violence." 
 
 " I promise," said he. " Where are 
 they ? " 
 
 " Nay, nay. I fear I shall rue the 
 day I told you. Promise me once more : 
 no bloodshed — upon your soul." 
 
 " I promise. Where are they ? " 
 
 " God forgive me ; they are in the 
 Grove." 
 
 He bounded away from her like some 
 beast of prey ; and she crouched and 
 trembled on the steps of the door : and, 
 now that she realized what she was do- 
 ing, a sickening sense of dire misgiving 
 came over her, and made her feel quite 
 faint. 
 
 And so the weak, but dangerous 
 creature sat crouching and quaking, 
 and launched the strong one. 
 
 Griffith was soon in the Grove ; and 
 the first thing he saw was Leonard and 
 his wife walldng together in earnest 
 conversation. Their backs were to- 
 wards him. Mrs. Gaunt, whom he had 
 left lying on a sofa, and who professed 
 herself scarce able to walk half a dozen 
 times across the room, was now spring- 
 ing along, elastic as a young greyhound, 
 and full of fire and animation. The 
 miserable husband saw, and his heart 
 died within him. He leaned against a 
 tree and groaned. 
 
 The deadly sickness of his heart 
 soon gave way to sombre fury. He 
 
 came softly after them, with ghastly 
 cheek, and bloodthirsty eyes, like red- 
 hot coals. 
 
 They stopped ; and he heard his wife 
 say, " 'T is a solemn promise, then : 
 this very night." The priest bowed 
 assent. Then they spoke in so low a 
 voice, he could not hear ; but his wife 
 pressed a purse ijpon Leonard, and 
 Leonard hesitated, but ended by tak- 
 ing it. 
 
 Griffith uttered a yell like a tiger, and 
 rushed between them with savage vio- 
 lence, driving the lady one way with 
 his wrists, and the priest another. She 
 screamed : he trenlbled in silence. 
 
 Griffith stood a moment between 
 these two pale faces, silent and aw- 
 ful. 
 
 Then he faced his wife. " You vile 
 wretch!" he cried: "so you buy your 
 own dishonor, and mine." He raised 
 his hand high over her head ; she never 
 winced. " O, but for my oath, I 'd lay 
 you dead at my feet ! But no ; I 'II not 
 hang for a priest and a wanton. So, 
 this is the thing you love, and pay it to 
 love you." And with all the mad in- 
 consistency of rage, which mixes small 
 things and great, he tore the purse out 
 of Leonard's hand : then seized him 
 felly by the throat. 
 
 At that the high spirit of Mrs. Gaunt 
 gave way to abject terror. " O mercy ! 
 mercy ! " she cried ; " it is all a mis- 
 take." And she clung to his knees. 
 
 He spurned her furiously away. 
 " Don't touch me, woman," he Cried, 
 " or you are dead. Look at this ! " 
 And in a moment, with gigantic 
 Strength and fury, he dashed the priest 
 down at her feet. " I know ye, ye 
 proud, wanton devil ! " he cried; "love 
 the thing you have seen me tread upon ! 
 love it — if ye can." And he literally 
 trampled upon the poor priest with 
 both feet. 
 
 Leonard shrieked for mercy. 
 
 " None, in this world or the next," 
 roared Griffith ; but the next moment 
 he took fright at himself " God ! " he 
 cried, " I must go or kill. Live and be 
 damned forever, the pair of ye." And 
 with this he fled from them, grinding 
 
no 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 his teeth and beating the air with his 
 clenched fists. 
 
 He darted to the stable-yard, sprang 
 on his horse, and galloped away from 
 Hernshaw Castle, with the face, the 
 eyes, the gestures, the incoherent mut- 
 terings of a raving Bedlamite. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 He was gone for good, this time. 
 
 At the fair the wrestling was ended, 
 and the tongues going over it all again, 
 and throwing the victors ; the greasy 
 pole, with leg of mutton attached by 
 ribbons, was being hoisted, and the 
 swings flying, and the lads and lasses 
 footing it to the fife and tabor, and the 
 people chattering in groups ; when the 
 clatter of a horse's feet was heard, and 
 a horseman burst in and rode recklessly 
 through the market-place ; indeed, if 
 his noble horse had been as rash as he 
 was, some would have been trampled 
 under foot. The rider's face was 
 ghastly: such as were not exactly in 
 his path had time to see it, and wonder 
 how this terrible countenance came into 
 that merry place. Thus, as he passed, 
 shouts of dismay arose, and a space 
 opened before him, and then closed be- 
 hind him with a great murmur that fol- 
 lowed at his heels. 
 
 Tom Leicester was listening, spell- 
 bound, on the outskirts of the throng, 
 to the songs and humorous tirades of a 
 pedler selling his wares ; and was say- 
 ing to himself, " I too will be a pedler." 
 Hearing the row, he turned round, and 
 saw his master just coming down with 
 that stricken face. 
 
 Tom could not read his own name in 
 print or manuscript ; and these are. the 
 fellows that beat us all at reading coun-. 
 tenances : he saw in a moment that 
 some great calamity had fallen on Grif- 
 fith's head ; and nature stirred in him. 
 He darted to his master's side, and 
 seized the bridle. " What is up ? " he 
 cried. 
 
 But Griffith did not answer nor no- 
 tice. His ears were almost deaf, and his 
 
 eyes, great and staring, were fixed right 
 ahead ; and, to all appearance, he did 
 not see the people. He seemed to be 
 making for the horizon. 
 
 " Master ! for the love of God, speak 
 to me," cried Leicester. " What have 
 they done to you ? Whither be you 
 going, with the face of a ghost ? " 
 
 " Away, from the hangman," shrieked 
 Griffith, still staring at the horizon. 
 " Stay me not ; my hands itch for their 
 throats ; my heart thirsts for their 
 blood ; but I '11 not hang for a priest 
 and a wanton." Then he suddenly 
 turned on Leicester, "Let thou go, 
 or — " and he lifted his heavy riding- 
 whip. 
 
 Then Leicester let go the rein, and 
 the whip descended on the horse's 
 flank. He went clattering furiously over 
 the stones, and drove the thinner groups - 
 apart like chaff, and his galloping feet 
 were soon heard, fainter and fainter till 
 they died away in the distance. Lei- 
 cester stood gaping. 
 
 Griffith's horse, a black hunter of 
 singular power and beauty, carried his 
 wretched master well that day. He 
 went on till sunset, trotting, cantering, 
 and walking, without intermission ; the 
 whip ceased to touch him, the rein never 
 checked him. He found he was the 
 master, and he went his own way. He 
 took his broken rider back into the 
 county where he had been foaled. But 
 a few miles from his native place they 
 came to the " Packhorse," a pretty lit- 
 tle roadside inn, with farm-yard and 
 buildings at the back. He had often 
 baited here in his infancy ; and now, 
 stiff and stumbling with fatigue, the 
 good horse could not pass the familiar 
 place ; he walked gravely into the stable- 
 yard, and there fairly came to an end ; 
 craned out his drooping head, crooked 
 his limbs, and seemed of wood. And 
 no wonder. He was ninety-three miles 
 firom his last corn. 
 
 Paul Carrick, a young farrier, who 
 frequented the " Packhorse," happened 
 just then to be lounging at the kitch- 
 en door, and saw him come in. He 
 turned directly, and shouted into the 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 in 
 
 house, " Ho ! Master Vint, come hither. 
 Here 's Black Dick come home, and 
 brought you a worshipful customer." 
 
 The landlord bustled out of the kitch- 
 en, crying, "They are welcome both.'-' 
 Then he came lowly louting to Griffith, 
 cap in hand, and held the horse, poor 
 immovable brute ; and his wife courte- 
 sied perseveringly at the door. 
 
 Griffith dismounted, and stood there 
 looking like one in a dream. 
 
 " Please you come in, sir," said the 
 landlady, smiling professionally. 
 
 He followed her mechanically. 
 
 " Would your worship be private ? 
 We keep a parlor for gentles." 
 
 " Ay, let me be alone," he groaned. 
 
 Mercy Vint, the daughter, happened 
 to be on the stairs and heard him : the 
 voice startled her, and she turned round 
 directly to look at the speaker ; but she 
 . only saw his back going into the room, 
 and then he flung himself like a sack 
 into the arm-chair. 
 
 The landlady invited him to order 
 supper : he declined. She pressed 
 him. He flung a piece of money on 
 the table, and told her savagely to score 
 his supper, and leave him in peace. 
 
 She flounced out with a red* face, 
 and complained to her husband in the 
 kitchen. 
 
 Harry Vint rung the crown-piece on 
 the table before he committed himself 
 to a reply. It rang like a bell. " Churl 
 or not, his coin is good," said Harry 
 Vint, philosophically. " I 'II eat his 
 supper, darae, for that matter." 
 
 " Father," whispered Mercy, " I do 
 think the gentleman is in trouble." 
 
 "And that is no business of mine, 
 neither," said Harry Vint. 
 
 Presently the guest they were dis- 
 cussing called loudly for a quart of 
 burnt wine. 
 
 When it was ready, Mercy offered to 
 take it in to him. She was curious. The 
 landlord looked up rather surprised ; for 
 his daughter attended to the farm, but 
 fought shy of the inn and its busi- 
 ness. 
 
 " Take it, lass, and welcome for me," 
 said Mrs. Vint, pettishly. 
 
 Mercy took the wine in, and found 
 
 Griffith with his head buried in his 
 hands. , 
 
 She stood awhile with the tray, not 
 knowing what to do. 
 
 Then, as he did not move, she said 
 softly, " The wine, sir, an if it please 
 you." 
 
 Griffith lifted his head, and turned 
 two eyes clouded with suffering upon 
 her. He saw a buxom, blooming young 
 woman, with remarkably dove-like eyes 
 that dwelt with timid, kindly curiosity 
 upon him. He looked at her in a half- 
 distracted way, and then put his hand 
 to the mug. " Here 's perdition to all 
 false women ! " said he, and tossed 
 half the wine down at a single draught. 
 
 " 'T is not to me you drink, sir," said 
 Mercy, with gentle dignity. Then she 
 courtesied modestly and retired, dis- 
 couraged, not offended. 
 
 The wretched Griffith took no notice, 
 — did not even see he had repulsed a 
 friendly visitor. The wine, taken on 
 an empty stomach, soon stupefied, him, 
 and he staggered to bed. ' 
 
 He awoke at daybreak:- and O the 
 agony of that waking ! 
 
 He lay sighing awhile, with his hot 
 skin quivering on his bones, and his 
 heart like lead ; then got up and flung 
 his clothes on hastily, and asked how 
 far to the nearest seaport. 
 
 Twenty miles. 
 
 He called for his horse. The poor 
 brute was dead lame. 
 
 He cursed that good servant for go- 
 ing lame. He walked round and round 
 like a wild beast, chafing and fuming 
 awhile ; then sank into a torpor of de- 
 jection, and sat with his head bowed 
 on the table all day. 
 
 He ate scarcely any food ; but drank 
 wine freely, remarking, however, that 
 it was false-hearted stuff, did him no 
 good, and had no taste as wine used 
 to have. " But nothing is what it was," 
 said he. " Even 1 was happy once. 
 But that seems years ago." 
 
 " Alas ! poor gentleman ; God com- 
 fort you," said Mercy Vint, and came, 
 with the tears in her dove-like eyes, 
 and said to her father, "To be sure 
 his worship hath been crossed in love ; 
 
112 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealausy. 
 
 and what could she be thinking of? 
 Such a handsome, well-made gentle- 
 man ! " 
 
 " Now that is a wench's first thought," 
 said Harry Vint ; " more likely lost his 
 money, gambling, or racing. But, in- 
 deed, I think 't is .his head is disor- 
 dered, not his heart. I wish the ' Pack- 
 horse ' was quit of him, maugre his 
 laced coat. We want no kill-joys 
 here." 
 
 That night he was heard groaning, 
 and talking, and did not come down 
 at all. 
 
 So at noon Mrs. Vint knocked at his 
 door. A weak voice bade her enter. 
 She found him shivering, and he asked 
 her for a fire. 
 
 She grumbled, out of hearing, but 
 lighted a fire. 
 
 Presently his voice was heard halloo- 
 ing. He wanted all the windows open, 
 he was so burning hot. 
 
 The landlady looked at him, and saw 
 his face was flushed and swollen ; and 
 he complained of pain in all his bones. 
 She opened the windows, and asked 
 him would he have a doctor sent for. 
 He shook his head contemptuously. 
 
 However, towards evening, he be- 
 came delirious, and raved and tossed, 
 and rolled his head as if it was an intol- 
 erable weight he wanted to get rid of. 
 
 The females of the family were for 
 sending at once for a doctor ; but the 
 prudent Harry demurred. 
 
 " Tell me, first, who is to pay the 
 fee," said he. " I 've seen a fine coat 
 with the pockets empty, before to-day." 
 
 The women set up their throats at 
 him with one accord, each after her 
 kind. 
 
 " Out, fie !" said Mercy ; "are we to 
 do naught for charity ? " 
 
 " Why, there 's his horse, ye foolish 
 man," said Mrs. Vint. 
 
 "Ay, ye are both wiser than me,'' 
 said Harry Vint, ironically. And soon 
 after that he went out softly. 
 
 The next minute he was in the sick 
 man's room, examining his pockets. 
 To his infinite surprise he found twenty 
 gold pieces, a quantity of silver, and 
 some trinkets. 
 
 He spread them all out on the table, 
 and gloated on them with greedy eyes. 
 They looked so inviting, that he said to 
 himself they would be safer in his cus- 
 tody than in that of a delirious person, 
 who was even now raving incoherently 
 before him, and could not see what he 
 was doing. He therefore proceeded to 
 transfer them to his own care. 
 
 On the way to his pocket, his shak- 
 ing hand was arrested by another hand, 
 soft, but firm as iron. 
 
 He shuddered, and looked round in 
 abject terror; and there was his daugh- 
 ter's face, pale as his own, but full of 
 resolution. " Nay, father," said she ; 
 "/must take charge of these : and well 
 do you know why." 
 
 These simple words cowed Harry 
 Vint, so that he instantly resigned the 
 money and jewels, and retired, mutter- 
 ing that " things were come to a pretty 
 pass," — "a man was no longer master 
 in his own house," etc., etc., etc. 
 
 While he inveighed against the de- 
 generacy of the age, the women paid 
 him no more attention than the age did, 
 but just sent for the doctor. He came, 
 and bled the patient. This gave him a 
 momgntary rehef; but when, in the 
 natural progress of the disease, sweat- 
 ing and weakness came on, the loss of 
 the precious vital fluid was fatal, and 
 the patient's pulse became scarce per- 
 ceptible. There he lay, with wet hair, 
 and gleaming eyes, and haggard face, 
 at death's door. 
 
 An experienced old crone was got to 
 nurse him, and she told Mrs. Vint he 
 would live may be three days. 
 
 Paul Carrick used to come to the 
 " Packhorse " after Mercy Vint, and, 
 finding her sad, asked her what was the 
 matter. 
 
 " What should it be," said she, " but 
 the poor gentleman a-dying overhead ; 
 away from all his friends." 
 
 " Let me see him," said Paul. 
 
 Mercy took him softly into the room. 
 
 " Ay, he is booked," said the farrier. 
 " Doctor has taken too much blood out 
 of the man's body. They kill a many 
 that way." 
 
Unjfith Uaunt ; or, Jealmsy. 
 
 113 
 
 "Alack, Paul! must he die? Can 
 naught be done ? " said Mercy, clasping 
 her hands. 
 
 " I don't say that, neither," said the 
 farrier. " He is a well-made man : he 
 is young. T might save him, perhaps, 
 if I had not so many beasts to look to. 
 I '11 tell you what you do. Make him 
 soup as strong as strong ; have him 
 watched night and day, and let 'em put 
 a spoonful of warm wine into him every 
 hour, and then of soup ; egg flip is a 
 good thing, too ; change his bed-linen, 
 and keep the doctors from him : that is 
 his only chance ; he is fairly dying of 
 weakness. But I must be off. Farmer 
 Blake's cow is down for calving ; I must 
 give her an ounce of salts before 't is 
 too late." 
 
 Mercy Vint scanned the patient close- 
 ly, and saw that Paul Carrick was right. 
 She followed his instructions to the let- 
 ter, with one exception. Instead of 
 trusting to the old woman, of whom she 
 had no very good opinion, she had the 
 great arm-chair brought into the sick- 
 room, and watched the patient herself 
 by night and day ; a gentle hand cooled 
 his temples ; a gentle hand brought con- 
 centrated nourishment to his lips ; and 
 a mellow voice coaxed him to be good 
 and swallow it. There are voices it is 
 not natural to resist ; and Griffith learned 
 by degrees to obey this one, even when 
 he was half unconscious. 
 
 At the end of three days this zealous 
 young nurse thought she discerned a 
 slight improvement, and told her moth- 
 er so. Then the old lady came and 
 examined the patient, and shook her 
 head gravely. Her judgment, like 
 her daughter's, was influenced by her 
 wishes. 
 
 The fact is, both landlord and land- 
 lady were now calculating upon Griffith's 
 decease. Harry had told her about the 
 money and jewels, and the pair had put 
 their heads together, and settled that 
 Griffith was a gentleman highwayman, 
 and his spoil would never be reclaimed 
 after his decease, but fall to those good 
 Samaritans, who were now nursing him, 
 and intended to bury him respectably. 
 The future being thus settled, this 
 
 8 
 
 worthy couple became a little impa- 
 tient ; for Griffith, like Charles the 
 Second, was "an unconscionable time 
 dying." 
 
 We order dinner to hasten a linger- 
 ing guest ; and, with equal force of 
 logic, mine host of the "Packhorse" 
 spoke to White, the village carpenter, 
 about a full-sized coffin ; and his wife 
 set the old crone to make a linen shroud, 
 unobtrusive'ly, in the bake-house. 
 
 On the third afternoon of her nursing, 
 Mercy left her patient, and called up 
 the crone to tend him. She herself, 
 worn out with fatigue, threw herself on 
 a bed in her mother's room, hard by, 
 and soon fell asleep. 
 
 She had slept about two hours when 
 she was wakened by a strange noise in 
 the sick-chamber. A man and a wo- 
 man quarreUing. 
 
 She bounded off" the bed, and was in 
 the room directly. 
 
 Lo and behold, there were the nurse 
 and the dying man abusing one another 
 like pickpockets. 
 
 The cause of this little misunderstand- 
 ing was not far to seek. The old crone 
 had brought up her work : videlicet, a 
 winding-sheet all but finished, and cer- 
 tain strips of glazed muslin about three 
 inches deep. She soon completed the 
 winding-sheet, and hung it over two 
 chairs in the patient's sight ; she then 
 proceeded to double the slips in six, 
 and nick them ; then she unrolled them, 
 and they were frills, and well adapted 
 to make the coming corpse absurd, and 
 divest it of any little dignity the King 
 of Terrors might bestow on it. 
 
 She was so intent upon her congenial 
 task that she did not observe the sick 
 man had awakened, and was viewing 
 her and her work with an intelligent 
 but sinister eye. 
 
 " What is that you are making ? " said 
 he, grimly. 
 
 The voice was rather clear, and 
 strong, and seemed so loud and strange 
 in that still chamber, that it startled the 
 woman mightily. She uttered a little 
 shriek, and then was wroth. " Plague 
 take the man ! " said she ; " how you 
 scared me. Keep quiet, do ; and mind 
 
114 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 your own business." [The business of 
 going off the hooks.] 
 
 " I aslc you what is that you are mak- 
 ing," said Griffith, louder, and raising 
 himself on his arm. 
 
 "Baby's frills," replied the woman, 
 coolly, recovering that contempt for 
 the understandings of the dying which 
 marks the veritable crone. 
 
 "Ye lie," said Griffith. "And there 
 is a shroud. Who is that fbr ? " 
 
 " Who should it be for, thou simple 
 body ? Keep quiet, do, till the change 
 comes. 'T won't be long now ; art too 
 well to last till sundown." 
 
 " So 't is for me, is it ? " screamed 
 Griffith. " I '11 disappoint ye yet. Give 
 me my clothes. I '11 not lie here to 
 be measured for my grave, ye old 
 witch." 
 
 " Here 's manners ! " cackled the in- 
 dignant crone. " Ye foul - mouthed 
 knave ! is this how you thank a decent 
 woman for making a comfortable corpse 
 of ye, you that has no right to die in 
 your shoes, let a be such dainties as 
 muslin neck-ruff, and shroud of good 
 Dutch flax." 
 
 At this Griffith discharged a volley 
 in which "vulture," "hag," "blood- 
 sucker," etc., blended with as many 
 oaths : during which Mercy came in. 
 
 She glided to him, with her dove's 
 eyes full of concern, and laid her hand 
 gently on his shoulder. " You '11 work 
 yourself a mischief," said she ; " leave 
 me to scold her. Why, my good Nelly, 
 how could ye be so hare - brained 'i 
 Prithee take all that trumpery away 
 this minute : none here needeth it, nor 
 shall not this many a year, please God." 
 
 " They want me dead," said Griffith 
 to her, piteously, finding he had got one 
 friend, and sunk back on his pillow ex- 
 hausted. 
 
 " So it seems," said Mercy, cunning- 
 ly. "But I 'd balk them finely. I 'd 
 up and order a beef-steak this minute." 
 
 " And shall," said Griffith, with fee- 
 ble spite. " Leastways, do you order it, 
 and I '11 eat it : — d— n her ! " 
 
 Sick men are like children ; and wo- 
 men soon find that out, and manage 
 them accordingly. In ten minutes Mer- 
 
 cy brought a good rump-steak to the 
 bedside, and said, " Now for 't. Marry 
 come up, with her winding-sheets ! " 
 
 Thus played upon, and encouraged, 
 the great baby ate more than half the 
 steak ; and soon after perspired gently, 
 and fell asleep. 
 
 Paul Carrick found him breathing 
 gently, with a slight tint of red in his 
 cheek, and told Mercy there was a 
 change for the better. " We have 
 brought him to a true int&rmission," 
 said he ; " so throw in the bark at 
 once." 
 
 " What, drench his honor's worship ! " 
 said Mercy, innocently. " Nay, send 
 thou the medicine, and I '11 find woman- 
 ly ways to get it down him." 
 
 Next day came the doctor, and whis- 
 pered softly to Mrs. Vint, " How are we 
 all up stairs ? " 
 
 " Why could n't you come afore ? " 
 replied Mrs. Vint, crossly. " Here 's 
 Farrier Carrick stepped in, and curing 
 him out of hand, — the meddlesome 
 body." 
 
 " A farrier rob me of my patient ! " 
 cried the doctor, in high dudgeon. 
 
 " Nay, good sir, 't is no fault of mine. 
 This Paul is a sort of a kind of a fol- 
 lower of our Mercy's : and she is mis- 
 tress here, I trow." 
 
 "And what hath his farriership pre- 
 scribed 'i Friar's balsam, belike." 
 
 " Nay, I know not ; but you may 
 soon learn, for he is above, physicking 
 the gentleman (a pretty gentleman 1) and 
 suiting to our Mercy — after a manner." 
 
 The doctor declined to make one in 
 so mixed a consultation. 
 
 " Give me my fee, dame," said he ; 
 " and as for this impertinent farrier, the 
 patient's blood be on his head ; and 
 I 'd have him beware the law." 
 
 Mrs. Vint went to the stair-foot, and 
 screamed, " Mercy, the good doctor 
 wants his fee. Who is to pay it, I won- 
 der ? " 
 
 " I '11 bring it him anon,'' said a gen- 
 tle voice ; and Mercy soon came down 
 and paid it with a willing air that half 
 disarmed professional fury. 
 
 " 'T is a good lass, dame," said the 
 doctor, when she was gone ; " and, by 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 115 
 
 the same token, I wish her better mated 
 than to a scrub of a farrier." 
 
 Griffith, still weak, but freed of fever, 
 woke one glorious afternoon, and heard 
 a bird-like voice humming a quaint old 
 ditty, and saw a field of golden wheat 
 through an open window, and seated at 
 that window the mellow songstress, 
 Mercy Vint, plying her needle, with 
 lowered lashes but beaming face, a pic- 
 ture of health and quiet womanly hap- 
 piness. Things were going to her mind 
 in that sick-room. 
 
 He looked at her, and at the golden 
 corn and summer haze beyond, and 
 the tide of life seemed to rush back 
 upon him. 
 
 " My good lass," said he, " tell me, 
 where am I ? for I know not." 
 
 Mercy started, and left off singing, 
 then rose and came slowly towards him, 
 with her work in her hand. 
 
 Innocent joy at this new symptom of 
 convalescence flushed her comely fea- 
 tures, but she spoke low. 
 
 " Good sir, at the ' Packhorse,' " said 
 she, smiling. 
 
 " The ' Packhorse ' ? and where is 
 that?" 
 
 " Hard by AUerton village." 
 
 " And where is that ? not in Cumber- 
 land?" 
 
 " Nay, in Lancashire, your worship. 
 Why, whence come you that know 
 not the ' Packhorse,' nor yet AUerton 
 township ? Come you from Cumber- 
 land ? " 
 
 " No matter whence I come. I 'm 
 going on board ship, — like my father 
 before me." 
 
 " Alas, sir, you are not fit ; you have 
 been very ill, and partly distraught." 
 
 She stopped ; for Griffith turned his 
 face to the wall, with a deep groan. 
 It had all rushed over him in a mo- 
 ment. 
 
 Mercy stood still, and worked on, 
 but the water gathered in her eyes at 
 that eloquent groan. 
 
 By and by Griffith turned round again, 
 with a face of anguish, and filmy eyes, 
 and saw her in the same place, stand- 
 in^,* working, and pitying. 
 
 " What, are you there still ? " said he, 
 roughly. 
 
 " Ay, sir ; but I '11 go, sooner than be 
 troublesome. Can I fetch you any- 
 thing ? " 
 
 " No. Ay, wine ; bring me wine to 
 drown it all." 
 
 She brought him a pint of wine. 
 
 " Pledge me," said he, with a misera- 
 ble attempt at a smile. 
 
 She put the cup to her lips, and sipped 
 a drop or two ; but her dove's eyes were 
 looking up at him over the liquor all the 
 time. Griffith soon disposed of the 
 rest, and asked for more. 
 
 " Nay," said she, " but I dare not : 
 the doctor hath forbidden excess in 
 drinking." 
 
 " The doctor ! What doctor ? " 
 
 " Doctor Paul," said she, demurely. 
 " He hath saved your life, sir, I do 
 think." 
 
 « Plague take him for that ! " 
 
 "So say not I." 
 
 Here she left him with an excuse. 
 " 'T is milking time, sir ; and you shall 
 know that I am our dairymaid. I sel- 
 dom trouble the inn." 
 
 Next day she was on the window- 
 seat, working and beaming. The pa- 
 tient called to her in peevish accents 
 to put his head higher. She laid down 
 her work with a smile, and came and 
 raised his head. 
 
 " There, now, that is too high," said 
 he ; " how awkward you are." 
 
 " I lack eiperience, sir, but not good 
 will. There, now, is that a little bet- 
 ter ? " 
 
 " Ay, a little. I 'm sick of lying here. 
 I want to get up. Dost hear what I 
 say ? I — want — to get up." 
 
 " And so you shall. As soon as ever 
 you are fit. To-morrow, perhaps. To- 
 day you must e'en be patient. Pa- 
 tience is a rare medicine." 
 
 Tic, tic, tic ! " What a noise they 
 are making down stairs. Go, lass, and 
 bid them hold their peace." 
 
 Mercy shook her head. " Good lack- 
 a-day ! we might as well bid the river 
 give over running ; but, to be sure, this 
 comes of keeping a hostelry, sir. When 
 
ii6 
 
 Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 we had only the farm, we were quiet, 
 and did no ill to no one." 
 
 " Well, sing me, to drown their eter- 
 nal buzzing : it worries me dead." 
 
 " Me sing ! alack, sir, I 'm no song- 
 ster." 
 
 " That is false. You sing like a 
 throstle. I dote on music ; and, when 
 I was dehrious, I l^eard one singing 
 about my bed ; I thought it was an an- 
 gel at that time, but 't was only you, 
 my young mistress : and now I ask you, 
 you say me nay. That is the way with 
 you all. plague take the girl, and all 
 her d — d, unreasonable, hypocritical 
 sex. I warrant me you 'd sing, if I 
 wanted to sleep, and dance the Devil to 
 a standstill." 
 
 Mercy, instead of flouncing out of 
 the room, stood looking on him with ma- 
 ternal eyes, and chuckling like a bird. 
 " That is right, sir : tax us all to your 
 heart's Content. O, but I 'm a joyful 
 woman to hear you ; for 't is a sure 
 sign of mending when the sick take to 
 rating of their nurses." 
 
 '' In sooth, I am too cross-grained," 
 said Griffith, relenting. 
 
 " Not a whit, sir, for my taste. I 've 
 been in care for you : and now you are 
 a little cross, that maketh me easy." 
 
 " Thou art a good soul. Wilt sing 
 me a stave after all ? " 
 
 " La, you now ; how you come back 
 to that. Ay, and with a good heart : 
 for, to be sure, 't is a sin to gainsay a 
 sick man. But indeed I am the home- 
 liest singer. Methinks 't is time I went 
 down and bade them cook your wor- 
 ship's supper." 
 
 " Nay, I '11 not eat nor sup till I hear 
 thee sing." 
 
 " Your will is my law, sir," said Mer- 
 cy, dryly, and retired to the window- 
 jeat ; that was the first obvious prelim- 
 inary. Then she fiddled with her apron, 
 (ind hemmed, and waited in hopes a 
 reprieve might come ; but a peevish, 
 felentless voice demanded the song at 
 intervals. 
 
 So then she turned her head care- 
 fully away from her hearer, lowered her 
 eyes, and, looking the picture of guilt 
 and shame all the time, sang an ancient 
 
 ditty. The poltroon's voice was rich, 
 mellow, clear, and sweet as honey ; and 
 she sang the notes for the sake of the 
 words, not the words for the sake of 
 the notes, as all but Nature's singers do. 
 
 The air was grave as well as sweet ; 
 for Mercy was of an old Puritan stock, 
 and even her songs were not giddy- 
 paced, but solid, quaint, and tender : all 
 the more did they reach the soul. 
 
 In vain was the blushing cheek avert- 
 ed, and the honeyed lips. The ravishing 
 tones set the birds chirping outside, 
 yet filled the room within, and the 
 glasses rang in harmony upon the shelf 
 as the sweet singer poured out from 
 her heart (so it seemed) the speaking 
 song : — 
 
 " In vain you tell your parting lover 
 You wish fair winds may waft him over. 
 Alas I what winds can happy prove 
 That bear me far from her I love ? 
 Alas I what dangers on the main 
 Can equal those that I sustain 
 From stinted love and cold disdain ? " etc 
 
 Griffith beat time with his hand 
 awhile, and his face softened and beau- 
 tified as the melody curled about his 
 heart. But soon it was too much for 
 him. He knew the song, — had sung 
 it to Kate Peyton in their days of court- 
 ship. A thousand memories gushed in 
 upon his soul and overpowered him. 
 He burst out sobbing violently, and 
 wept as if his heart must break. 
 
 " Alas ! what have I done ? " said 
 Mercy ; and the tears ran from her 
 eyes at the sight. Then, with native 
 delicacy, she hurried from the room. 
 
 What Griffith Gaunt went through 
 that night, in silence, was never known 
 but to himself But the next morning 
 he was a changed man. He was all 
 dogged resolution, — put on his clothes 
 unaided, though he could hardly stand 
 to do it, and borrowed the landlord's 
 stair, and crawled out a smart distance 
 into the sun. " It was kill or cure," 
 said he. " I am to live, it seems. Well, 
 then, the past is dead. My life begins 
 again to-day." 
 
 Hen-like, Mercy soon learned this 
 sally of her refractory duckling, and was 
 uneasy. So, for an excuse to watch him, 
 she brought him out his money %nd 
 
Griffith Gaunt ; or, jFealousy. 
 
 117 
 
 jewels, and told him she had thought it 
 safest to take charge of them. 
 
 He thanked her cavalierly, and of- 
 fered her a diamond ring. 
 
 She blushed scarlet, and dechned it ; 
 and even turned a meekly reproachful 
 glance on him with her dove's eyes. 
 
 He had a suit of russet made, and put 
 away his fine coat, and forbade any one 
 to call him " Your worship." " I am a 
 farmer, like yourselves," said he ; "and 
 my name is — Thomas Leicester." 
 
 A brain fever either kills the unhap- 
 py lover, or else benumbs the very an- 
 guish that caused it. 
 
 And so it was with GrifBth. His 
 love got benumbed, and the sense of 
 his wrongs vivid. He nursed a bitter 
 hatred of his wife ; only, as he could 
 not punish her without going near her, 
 and no punishment short of death 
 seemed enough for her, he set to work 
 to obliterate her from his very mem- 
 ory, if possible. He tried employment : 
 he pottered about the httle farm, advis- 
 ing and helping, — and that so zealously 
 that the landlord retired altogether 
 from that department, and Griffith, in- 
 stead of he, became IVIercy's ally, agri- 
 cultural and bucolical. She was a shep- 
 herdess to the core, and hated the poor 
 " Packhorse." 
 
 For all that, it was her fate to add to 
 its attractions : for Griffith bought a 
 viol da gambo, and taught her sweet 
 songs, which he accompanied with such 
 skill, sometimes, with his voice, that 
 good company often looked in on the 
 chance of a good song sweetly sung 
 and played. 
 
 The sick, in body or mind, are ego- 
 tistical. Griffith was no exception : 
 bent on curing his own deep wound, 
 he never troubled his head about the 
 wound he might inflict. 
 
 He was grateful to his sweet nurse, 
 and told her so. And his gratitude 
 charmed her all the more that it had 
 been rather long in coming. 
 
 He found this dove-like creature a 
 wonderful soother : he applied her more 
 and more to his sore heart. 
 
 As for Mercy, she had been too good 
 and kind to her patient not to take a 
 tender interest in his convalescence. 
 Our hearts warm more to those we 
 have been kind to, than to those who 
 have been kind to us : and the female 
 reader can easily imagine what deli- 
 cious feelings stole into that womanly 
 heart when sha saw her pale nursling 
 pick up health and strength under her 
 wing, and become the finest, handsom- 
 est man in the parish. 
 
 Pity and admiration, — where these 
 meet, love is not far behind. 
 
 And then this man, who had been 
 cross and rough while he was weak, 
 became gentler, kinder, and more def- 
 erential to her, the stronger he got. 
 
 Mrs. Vint saw they were both fond 
 of each other's company, and disap- 
 proved it. She told Paul Carrick if he 
 had any thought of Mercy he had bet- 
 ter give over shilly-shallying, for there 
 was another man after her. 
 
 Paul made light of it, at first. " She 
 has known me too long to take up her 
 head with a new-comer," said he. " To 
 be sure I never asked her to name 
 the day ; but she knows my mind well 
 enough, and I know hers." 
 
 "Then you know more than I do,''- 
 said the mother, ironically. 
 
 He thought over this conversation, 
 and very wisely determined not to run 
 unnecessary risks. He came up one af- 
 ternoon, and hunted about for Mercy, 
 till he found her milking a cow in the 
 adjoining paddock. 
 
 "Well, lass," said he, "I 've good 
 news for thee. My old dad says we 
 may have his house to live in. So now 
 you and I can yoke next month if ye 
 will." 
 
 " Me turn the honest man out of his 
 house ! " said Mercy, mighty innocently. 
 
 " Who asks you ? He nobbut bar- 
 gains for the chimney-corner : and you 
 are not the girl to begrudge the old 
 man that." 
 
 " O no, Paul. But what would fa- 
 ther do if I were to leave his house 'i 
 Methinks the farm would go to rack 
 and ruin ; he is so wrapped up in his 
 nasty public." 
 
ii8 
 
 Griffith^ Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 " Why, he has got a helper, by all 
 accounts ; and if you talk like that, you 
 will never wed at all." 
 
 " Never is a big word. But I 'm too 
 young to marry yet. Jenny, thou jade, 
 %tand still." 
 
 The attack and defence proceeded 
 upon these terms for some time ; and 
 the defendant had one base advantage ; 
 and used it. Her forehead was wedged 
 tight against Jenny's ribs, and Paul 
 could not see her face. This, and the 
 feminine evasiveness of her replies, ir- 
 ritated him at last. 
 
 " Take thy head out o' the coow," 
 said he, roughly, " and answer straight. 
 Is all our wooing to go for naught ?" 
 
 " Wooing ? You never said so much 
 to me in all these years as you have to- 
 day." 
 
 " O, ye knew my mind well enough. 
 There 's a many ways of showing the 
 heart." 
 
 " Speaking out is the best, I trow." 
 
 "Why, what do I come here for 
 twice a week, this two years past, if not 
 for thee ? " 
 
 " Ay, for me, and father's ale." 
 
 " And thou canst look at me, and tell 
 me that ? Ye false, hard-hearted hussy. 
 But nay, thou wast never so : 't is this 
 Thomas Leicester hath bewitched thee, 
 and set thee against thy true lover." 
 
 " Mr. Leicester pays no suit to me," 
 said Mercy, blushing. " He is a right 
 civil-spoken gentleman, and you know 
 you saved his life." 
 
 "The more fool L I wish I had 
 known he was going to rob me of my 
 lass's heart, I 'd have seen him die a 
 hundred times ere I 'd have interfered. 
 But they say if you save a man's life 
 he '11 make you rue it. Mercy, my lass, 
 you are well respected in the parish. 
 Take a thought, now : better be a farri- 
 er's wife than a gentleman's mistress." 
 
 Mercy did take her head "out of the 
 cow " at this, and, for once, her cheek 
 burned with anger; but the unwont- 
 ed sentiment died before it could find 
 words, and she said, quietly, " I need 
 not be either, against my will." 
 
 Young Carrick made many such ap- 
 
 peals to Mercy Vint ; but he could nev- 
 er bring her to confess to him that he 
 and she had fever been more than 
 friends, or were now anything less than 
 friends. Still he forced her to own to 
 herself, that, if she had never seen 
 Thomas Leicester, her quiet affection 
 and respect for Carrick would proba- 
 bly have carried her to the altar with 
 him. 
 
 His remonstrances, sometimes an- 
 gry, sometimes tearful, awoke her pity, 
 which was the grand sentiment of her 
 heart, and disturbed her peace. 
 
 Moreover, she studied the two men 
 in her quiet, thoughtful way, and saw 
 that Carrick loved her with all his hon- 
 est, though hitherto tepid heart ; but 
 Griffith had depths, and could love 
 with more passion than ever he had 
 shown for her. "He is not the man 
 to have a fever by reason of me," said 
 the poor girl to herself. But I am 
 afraid even this attracted her to Grif- 
 fith. It nettled a woman's soft ambi- 
 tion ; which is, to be as well loved as 
 ever woman was. 
 
 And so things went on, and, as gen- 
 erally happens, the man who was los- 
 ing ground went the very way to lose 
 more. He spoke ill of Griffith behind 
 his back: called him a highwayman, a 
 gentleman, an ungrateful, undermining 
 traitor. But Griffith never mentioned 
 Carrick ; and so, when he and Mercy 
 were together, her old follower was 
 pleasingly obliterated, and affectionate 
 good-humor reigned. Thus Griffith, 
 alias Thomas, became her sunbeam, 
 and Paul her cloud. 
 
 But he who had disturbed the peace 
 of others, his own turn came. 
 
 One day he found Mercy crying. He 
 sat down beside her, and said, kindly, 
 " Why, sweetheart, what is amiss ? " 
 
 " No great matter," said she ; and 
 turned her head away, but did not 
 check her tears, for it was new and 
 pleasant to be consoled by Thomas 
 Leicester. 
 
 " Nay, but tell me, child." 
 
 " Well, then, Jessie Carrick has been 
 at me ; that is all." . 
 
 " The vixen ! what did she say ? 
 
."a 
 
 is 
 
 "^ 
 
 s 
 
 
 
 i 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy, 
 
 119 
 
 " Na^r, I 'm not pleased enow with it 
 to repeat it. She did cast something 
 in my teeth." 
 
 Griffith pressed her to be more ex- 
 plicit : she declined, with so many- 
 blushes, that his curiosity was awak- 
 ened, and he told Mrs. Vint, with some 
 heat, that Jess Carrick had been making 
 Mercy cry. 
 
 " Like enow," said Mrs. Vint, coolly. 
 " She '11 eat her victuals all one for that, 
 please God." 
 
 " Else I '11 wring the cock-nosed 
 jade's neck, next time she comes here," 
 replied Griffith ; " but. Dame, I want to 
 know what she can have to say to Mer- 
 cy to make her cry. 
 
 Mrs. Vint looked him steadily in the 
 face for some time, and then and there 
 decided to come to an explanation. 
 " Ten to one 't is about her brother," 
 said she ; " you know this Paul is our 
 Mercy's sweetheart." 
 
 At these simple words Griffith winced, 
 and his countenance changed remark- 
 ably. Mrs. Vint observed it, and was 
 all the more resolved to have it out 
 with him. 
 
 " Her sweetheart ! " said ' Griffith. 
 " Why, I have seen them together a 
 dozen of times, and not a word of 
 courtship." 
 
 " O, the young men don't make many 
 speeches in these parts. They show 
 their hearts by act." 
 
 " By act ? why, I met .them coming 
 home from milking t' other evening. 
 Mercy was carrying the pail, brimful ; 
 and that oaf sauntered by her side, 
 with his hands in his pockets. Was 
 that the act of a lover ? " 
 
 " I heard of it, sir," said Mrs. Vint, 
 quietly ; " and as how you took the 
 pail from her, willy nilly, and carried it 
 home. Mercy was vexed about it. She 
 told me you panted at the door, and 
 she was 2! deal fitter to carry the pail 
 than you, that is just off a sick-bed, 
 like. But lawk, sir, ye can't go by the 
 likes of that. The bachelors here they 'd 
 see their sweethearts carry the roof in- 
 to next parish on their backs, like a 
 snail, and never put out* a hand ; 't is 
 "aot the custom hereaway. But, as I 
 
 was saying, Paul and our Mercy kept 
 company, after a manner : he never had 
 the wit to flatter her as should he, nor 
 the stomach to bid her name the day 
 and he 'd buy the ring ; but he talked 
 to her about his sick beasts more than 
 he did to any other girl in the parish, 
 and she 'd have ended by going to 
 church with him ; only you came and 
 put a coolness atween 'em." 
 
 " I ! How ? " 
 
 " Well, sir, our Mercy is a kind- 
 hearted lass, though I say it, and you 
 were sick, and she did nurse you ; and 
 that was a beginning. And, to be sure, 
 you are a fine personable man, and 
 capital company ; and you are always 
 about the girl ; and, bethink you, sir, 
 she is flesh and blood like her neigh- 
 bors ; and they say, once a body has 
 tasted venison-steak, it spoils their 
 stomach for oat-porridge. Now that is 
 Mercy's case,' I'm thinking; not that 
 she ever said as much to me, — she is 
 too reserved. But, bless your heart, 
 I 'm forced to go about with eyes in my 
 head, and watch 'em all a bit, — me 
 that keeps an inn." 
 
 . Griffith groaned. " I 'in a villain ! " 
 said he. 
 
 " Nay, nay," said Mrs. Vint. " Gen- 
 tlefolks, must be amused, cost what it 
 may ; but, hoping no offence, sir, the 
 girl was a good friend to you in time of 
 sickness ; and so was this Paul, for that 
 matter." 
 
 " She was," cried Griffith ; " God 
 bless her. How can I ever repay her ? " 
 
 "Well, sir," said Mrs. Vint, "if that 
 comes froin your heart, you might take 
 our Mercy apart, and tell her you like 
 her very well, but not enough to marry 
 a farmer's daughter, — don't say an 
 innkeeper's daughter, or you '11' be sure 
 to offend her. She is bitter against the 
 ' Packhorse.' Says you, ' This Paul is 
 an honest lad, turn your heart back to 
 him.' And, with tha-t, mount your 
 black horse and ride away, and God 
 speed you, sir ; we shall often talk of 
 you at the ' Packhorse,' and naught 
 but good." 
 
 Griffith gave the woman his hand, 
 and his breast labored visibly. 
 
I20 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 Jealousy was ingrained in the man. 
 Mrs. Vint had priclced his conscience, 
 but she had wounded his foible. He 
 was not in love with Mercy, but he es- 
 teemed her, and liked her, and saw her 
 value, and, above all, could not bear 
 another man should have her. 
 
 Now this gave the matter a new turn. 
 Mrs. Vint had overcome her dislike 
 to him long ago : still he was not her 
 favorite. But his giving her his hand 
 with a gentle pressure, and his man- 
 ifest agitation, rather won her ; and, 
 as uneducated women are your true 
 weathercocks, she went about directly. 
 " To be sure," said she, " our Mercy is 
 too good for the likes of him. She is 
 not like Harry and me. She has been 
 well brought up by her Aunt Prudence, 
 as was governess in a nobleman's 
 house. She can read and write, and 
 cast accounts ; good at her sampler, 
 and can churn and make cheeses, and 
 play of the viol, and lead the psalm in 
 church, and dance a minuet, she can, 
 with any lady in the land. As to her 
 nursing in time of sickness, that I leave 
 to you, sir." • 
 
 " She is an angel," cried Griffith, 
 " and my benefactress : no man living 
 is good enough for her." And he went 
 away, visibly discomposed. 
 
 Mrs. Vint repeated this conversation 
 to Mercy, and told her Thomas Leices- 
 ter was certainly in love with her. 
 " Shouldst have seen his face, girl, 
 when I told him Paul and you were 
 s^veethearts. 'T was as if I had run a 
 knife in his heart." 
 
 Mercy murmured a few words of 
 doubt ; but she kissed her mother 
 eloquently, and went about, rosy and 
 beaming, all that afternoon. 
 
 As for Griffith, his gratitude and his 
 jealousy were now at war, and caused 
 him a severe mental struggle. 
 
 Carrick, too, was spurred by jeal- 
 ousy, and came every day to the house, 
 and besieged Mercy ; and Griffith, who 
 saw them together, and did not hear 
 Mercy's replies, was excited, irritated, 
 alarmed. 
 
 Mrs. Vint saw his agitation, and de- 
 termined to bring matters to a climax. 
 
 She was always giving him a side 
 thrust ; and, at last, she told him plain- 
 ly that he was not behaving like a man. 
 "If the girl is not good enough for 
 you, why make a fool of her, and set 
 her against a good husband ? " And 
 when he replied she was good enough 
 for any man in England, "Then," 
 said she, " why not show ^our respect 
 for her as Paul Carrick does ? He 
 likes her well enough to go to church 
 with her." 
 
 With the horns of this dilemma she 
 so gored Kate Peyton's husband that, 
 at last, she and Paul Carrick, between ' 
 them, drove him out of his conscience. 
 
 So he watched his opportunity and 
 got Mercy alone. He took her hand 
 and told her he loved her, and that 
 she was his only comfort in the world, 
 and he found he could not live without 
 her. 
 
 At this she blushed and trembled a 
 little, and leaned her brow upon his 
 shoulder, and was a happy creature for 
 a few moments. 
 
 So far, fluently enough ; but then he 
 began to falter and stammer, and say 
 that for certain reasons he could not 
 marry at all. But if she could be con- 
 tent with anything short of that, he 
 would retire with her into a distant 
 country, and there, where nobody could 
 contradict him, would call her his M'ife, 
 and treat her as his wife, and pay his 
 debt of gratitude to her by a life of de- 
 votion. 
 
 As he spoke, her brow retired an 
 inch or two from his shoulder ; but she 
 heard him quietly out, and then drew 
 back and confronted him, pale, and, to 
 all appearance, calm. 
 
 " Call things by their right names," 
 said she. " What you offer me this 
 day, in my father's house, is, to be your 
 mistress. Then — God forgive you, 
 Thomas Leicester." 
 
 ■With this oblique and feminine reply, 
 and one look of unfathomable reproach 
 from her soft eyes, she turned her 
 back on him ; but, remembering her 
 manners, courtesied at the door; and 
 so retired ; ind unpretending Virtue 
 lent her such true dignity that he was 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 121 
 
 struck dumb, and made no attempt to 
 detain her. 
 
 I think her dignified composure did 
 not last long when she was alone ; at 
 least, the next time he saw her, her 
 eyes were red ; his heart smote him, 
 and he began to make excuses and beg 
 her forgiveness. But she interrupted 
 him. ". Don't speak to me no more, if 
 you please, sir," said she, civilly, but 
 coldly. 
 
 Mercy, though so quiet and inoifen- 
 sive, had depth and strength of charac- 
 ter. She never told her mother what 
 Thomas Leicester had proposed to her. 
 Her honest pride kept her silent, for 
 one thing. She would not have it 
 known she had been insulted. And, 
 besides that, she loved Thomas Leices- 
 ter still, and could not expose or hurt 
 him. Once there was an Israelite 
 without guile, though you and I never 
 saw him ; and once there was a Saxon 
 without bile, and her name was Mercy 
 Vint. In this heart of gold the affec- 
 tions were stronger than the passions. 
 She was deeply wounded, and showed 
 it in a patient way to him who had 
 wounded her, but to none other. Her 
 conduct to him in public and private 
 was truly singular, and would alone 
 have stamped her a remarkable charac- 
 ter. She declined all communication 
 with him in private, and avoided him 
 steadily and adroitly ; but in public she 
 spoke to him, sang with him when she 
 was asked, and treated him much the 
 same as before. He could see a subtie 
 difference, but nobody else could. 
 
 This generosity, coupled with all she 
 had done for him before, penetrated 
 his heart and filled him with admira- 
 tion and remorse. He yielded to Mrs. 
 Vint's suggestions, and told her she 
 was right ; he would tear himself away, 
 and never see the dear " Packhorse " 
 again. " But oh ! Dame," said he, " 't is 
 a sorrowful thing to be alone in the 
 world again, and naught to do. If I 
 had but a farm, and a sweet little inn 
 like this to go to, perchance my heart 
 would not be quite so heavy as 't is 
 this day at thoughts of parting from 
 thee and thine.'' 
 
 " Well, sir," said Mrs. Vint, " if that 
 is all, there is the 'Vine ' to let at this 
 moment. 'T is a better place of busi- 
 ness than this ; and some meadows 
 go with it, and land to be had in the 
 parish." 
 
 " I '11 ride and see it," said Griffith, 
 eagerly : then, dejectedly, " but, alas ! I 
 have no heart to keep an inn without 
 somebody to help me, and say a kind 
 word now and then. Ah ! Mercy Vint, 
 thou hast spoiled me for living alone." 
 
 This vacillation exhausted Mrs. Vint's 
 patience. " What are ye sighing about, 
 ye foolish man ? " said she, contemptu- 
 ously ; " you have got it all your own 
 way. If 't is a \vife ye want, ask Mer- 
 cy, and don't take a nay. If ye would 
 have a housekeeper, you need not want 
 one long. I '11 be bound there 's plenty 
 of young women where you came from 
 as would be glad to keep the ' Vine ' 
 under you. And, if you come to that, 
 our Mercy is a treasure on the farm, 
 but she is no help in the inn, no more 
 than a wax figure. She never brought 
 us a shilling, till you came and made 
 her sing to your bass-viol. Nay, what 
 you want is a smart, handsome girl, 
 with a quick eye and a ready tongue, 
 and one as can look a man in the face, 
 and not given to love nor liquor. 
 Don't you know never such a one ? " 
 
 " Not I. Humph, to be sure there 
 is Caroline Ryder. She is handsome, 
 and hath a good wit. She is a lady's 
 maid." 
 
 " That 's your woman, if she '11 come. 
 And to be sure she will ; for to be mis- 
 tress of an inn, that 's a lady's maid's 
 Paradise." 
 
 " She would have come a few months 
 ago, and gladly. I '11 write to her." 
 
 " Better talk to her, and persuade 
 her." 
 
 " I '11 do that, too ; but I must write 
 to her first." 
 
 " So do then ; but whatever you do, 
 don't shilly-shally no longer. If wrest- 
 ling was shilly - shallying, methinks 
 you 'd bear the bell, you or else Paul 
 Carrick. Why, all his trouble comes 
 on 't. He might have wed our Mercy 
 a year agone for the asking. Shilly- 
 
122 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 slially belongs to us that be women. 
 'T is despicable in a man." 
 
 Thus driven on all sides, Griffith 
 rode and inspected the " Vine " (it was 
 only seven miles off) ; and, after the 
 usual chaffering, came to terms with 
 the proprietor. 
 
 He fixed the day for his departure, 
 and told Mrs. Vint he must ride into 
 Cumberland first to get some money, 
 and also to see about a housekeeper. 
 
 He made no secret of all this ; and, 
 indeed, was not without hopes Mercy 
 would relent, or perhaps be jealous of 
 this housekeeper. But the only visible 
 effect was to make her look pale and 
 sad. She avoided him in private as be- 
 fore. 
 
 Harry Vint was loud in his regrets, 
 and Carrick openly exultant. Griffith 
 wrote to Carohne Ryder, and ad- 
 dressed the letter in a feigned hand, 
 and took it himself to the nearest post- 
 town. 
 
 The letter came to hand, and will ap- 
 pear in that sequence of events on 
 which I am now about to enter. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 If Griffith Gaunt suffered anguish, 
 he inflicted agony. Mrs. Gaunt was 
 a high-spirited, proud, and sensitive 
 woman; and he crushed her with foul 
 words. Leonard was a delicate, vain, 
 and sensitive man, accustomed to ven- 
 eration. Imagine such a man hurled 
 to the ground, and trampled upon. 
 
 Griffith should not have fled ; he 
 should have stayed and enjoyed his 
 vengeance on these two persons. It 
 might have cooled him a little had he 
 stopped and seen the immediate conse- 
 quences of his savage act. 
 
 The priest rose from the ground, pale 
 as ashes, and trembling with fear and 
 hate. 
 
 The lady was leaning, white as a 
 sheet, against a tree, and holding it 
 with her very nails for a little support. 
 
 They looked round at one another, — 
 a piteous glance of anguish and horror. 
 Then Mrs. Gaunt turned and flung her 
 
 arm round so that the palm of her 
 hand, high raised, confronted Leonard. 
 I am thus particular because it was a 
 gesture grand and terrible as the occa- 
 sion that called it forth, — a gesture that 
 spoke, and said, " Put the whole earth 
 and sea between us forever after this." 
 
 The next moment she bent her head 
 and rushed away, cowering and wring- 
 ing her hands. She made for her house 
 as naturally as a scared animal for its 
 lair ; but, ere she could reach it, she 
 tottered under the shame, the distress, 
 and the mere terror, and fell fainting, 
 with her fair forehead on the grass. 
 
 Caroline Ryder was crouched in the 
 doorway, and did not see her come out 
 of the grove, but only heard a rustle, 
 and then saw her proud mistress totter 
 forward and lie, white, senseless, help- 
 less, at her very feet. 
 
 Ryder uttered a scream, but did not 
 lose her presence of mind. She in- 
 stantly kneeled over Mrs. Gaunt, and 
 loosened her stays with quick and dex- 
 terous hand. 
 
 It was very like the hawk perched 
 over and clawing the ringdove she has 
 struck down. 
 
 But people with brains are never 
 quite inhuman : a drop of lukewarm 
 pity entered even Ryder's heart as she 
 assisted her victim. She called no one 
 to help her ; for she saw something 
 very serious had happened, and she felt 
 sure Mrs. Gaunt would say something 
 imprudent in that dangerous period 
 when the patient recovers conscious- 
 ness but has not all her wits about her. 
 Now Ryder was equally determine4 
 to know her mistress's seGrets,«and not 
 to share the knowledge with any other 
 person. 
 
 It was a long swoon ; and, when Mrs. 
 Gaunt came to, the first thing she saw 
 was Ryder leaning over her, with a face 
 of much curiosity, and some concern. 
 
 In that moment of weakness the poor 
 lady, who had been so roughly handled, 
 saw a woman close to her, and being a 
 little kind to her ; so what did she do 
 but throw her arms round Ryder's neck 
 and burst out sobbing as if her heart 
 would break. 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 123 
 
 Then that unprincipled wotnan shed 
 a tear or two with her, half crocodile, 
 half impulse. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt not only cried on her 
 servant's neck ; she justified Ryder's 
 forecast by speaking unguardedly : " I 
 've been insulted — insulted — insult- 
 ed!" 
 
 But, even while uttering these words, 
 she was recovering her pride : so the 
 first " insulted " seemed to come from 
 a broken-hearted child, the second from 
 an indignant lady, the third from a 
 wounded queen. 
 
 No more words than this ; but she 
 rose, with Ryder's assistance, and went, 
 leaning on that faithful creature's shoul- 
 der, to her own bedroom. There she 
 sank into a chair and said, in a voice 
 to melt a stone, "My child ! Bring me 
 my little Rose." 
 
 Ryder ran and fetched the little girl ; 
 and Mrs. Gaunt held out both arms to 
 her, angelically, and clasped her so pas- 
 sionately and piteously to her bosom, 
 that Rose cried for fear, and never for- 
 got the scene all her days ; and Mrs. 
 Ryder, who was secretly a mother, felt 
 a genuine twinge of pity and remorse. 
 Curiosity, however, was the dominant 
 sentiment. She was impatient to get 
 all these convulsions over, and learn 
 what had actually passed between Mr. 
 and Mrs Gaunt. 
 
 She waited till her mistress appeared 
 calmer ; and then, in soft, caressing 
 tones, asked her what had happened. 
 
 " Never ask me that question again," 
 cried Mrs. Gaunt, wildly. Then, with 
 inexpressible dignity, " My good girl, 
 you have done all you could for me ; 
 now you must leave me alone with my 
 daughter, and my God, who knows the 
 truth." 
 
 Ryder courtesied and retired, burn- 
 ing with baffled curiosity. 
 
 Towards dusk Thomas Leicester 
 came into the kitchen, and brought her 
 news with a vengeance. He told her 
 and the other maids that the Squire 
 had gone having mad, and fled the 
 country. " O lasses," said he, " if you 
 had seen the poor soul's face, a-riding 
 headlong through the fair, all one as if 
 
 it was a ploughed field ; 't was white as 
 your smocks ; and his eyes glowering 
 on 't other world. We shall ne'er see 
 that face alive again." 
 
 And this was her doing. 
 
 It surprised and overpovirered Ryder. 
 She threw her apron over her head, and 
 went off in hysterics, and betrayed her 
 lawless attachment to every woman in 
 the kitchen, — she who was so clever at 
 probing others. 
 
 This day of violent emotions was 
 followed by a sullen and sorrowful 
 gloom. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt kept her bedroom, and 
 admitted nobody ; till, at last, the ser- 
 vants consulted together, and sent little 
 Rose to knock at her door, with a basin 
 of chocolate, while they watched on the 
 stairs. 
 
 " It 's only me, mamma," said Rose. 
 
 " Come in, my precious," said a 
 trembling voice ; and so Rose got in 
 with her chocolate. 
 
 The next day she was sent for early ; 
 and at noon Mrs. Gaunt and Rose 
 came down stairs ; but their appearance 
 startled the whole household. 
 
 The mother was dressed all in black, 
 and so was her daughter, whom she 
 led by the hand. Mrs. Gaunt's face 
 was pale, and sad, and stern, — a monu- 
 ment of deep suffering and high-strung 
 resolution. 
 
 It soon transpired that Griffith had 
 left his home for good ; and friends called 
 on Mrs. Gaunt to slake their curiosity 
 under the mask of sympathy. 
 
 Not one of them was admitted. No 
 false excuses were made. " My mis- 
 tress sees no one for the present," was 
 the reply. 
 
 Curiosity, thus baffled, took up the 
 pen ; but was met with a short, unvary- 
 ing formula : " There is an unhappy 
 misunderstanding between my husband 
 and me. But I shall neither accuse 
 him behind his back, nor justify my- 
 self." 
 
 Thus the proud lady carried herself 
 before the world ; but secretiy she 
 writhed. A wife abandoned is a wo- 
 
124 
 
 Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 man insulted, and the wives — that are 
 not abandoned — duck. 
 
 Ryder was dejected for a time, and, 
 tliough not honestly penitent, suffered 
 some remorse at the miserable issue of 
 her intrigues. But her elastic nature 
 soon shook it off, and she felt a certain 
 satisfaction at having reduced Mrs. 
 Gaunt to her own level. This dis- 
 armed her hostility. She watched her 
 as keenly as ever, but out of pure curi- 
 osity. 
 
 One thing puzzled her strangely. 
 Leonard did not visit the house ; nor 
 could she even detect any communica- 
 tion between the parties. 
 
 At last, one day, her mistress told 
 her to put on her hat, and go to Father 
 Leonard. 
 
 Ryder's eyes sparkled ; and she was 
 soon equipped. Mrs. Gaunt put a par- 
 cel and a letter into her hands. Ryder 
 no sooner got out of her sight than she 
 proceeded to tamper with the letter. 
 But to her just indignation she found it 
 so ingeniously folded and sealed that 
 she could not read a word. 
 
 The parcel, however, she easily un- 
 did, and it contained forty pounds in 
 gold and small notes. " Oho ! my la- 
 dy," said Ryder. 
 
 She was received by Leonard with a 
 tender emotion he in vain tried to con- 
 ceal. 
 
 On reading the letter his features 
 contracted sharply, and he seemed to 
 suffer agony. He would not even open 
 the parcel. "You will take that back," 
 said he, bitterly. 
 
 " What, without a word ? " 
 
 " Without a word. But I will write, 
 when I am able." 
 
 " Don't be long, sir," suggested Ry- 
 der. " I am sure my mistress is wea- 
 rying for you. Consider, sir, she is all 
 alone now." 
 
 " Not so much alone as I am," said 
 the priest, " nor half so unfortunate." 
 
 And with this he leaned his head 
 despairingly on his hand, and motioned 
 to Ryder to leave him. 
 
 " Here 's a couple of fools," said she 
 to herself, as she went home. 
 
 That very evening Thomas Leicester 
 
 caught her alone, and asked her to mar- 
 ry him. 
 
 She stared at first, and then treated 
 it as a jest. " You come at the wrong 
 time, young man," said she. " Mar- 
 riage is put out of countenance. No, 
 no, I will never marry after what I have 
 seen in this house." 
 
 Leicester would not take this for an 
 answer, and pressed her hard. 
 
 " Thomas," said this plausible jade, 
 " I like you very well ; but I could n't 
 leave my mistress in her trouble. Time 
 to talk of marrying when master comes 
 here alive and well." 
 
 " Nay," said Leicester, " my only 
 chance is while he is away. You care 
 more for his little finger than for my 
 whole body ; that they all say." 
 
 « Who says ? " 
 
 " Jane, and all the lasses." 
 
 " You simple man, they want you 
 for themselves ; that is why they belie 
 me." 
 
 " Nay, nay ; I saw how you carried 
 on, when I brought word he was gone. 
 You let your heart out for once. Don't 
 take me for a fool. I see how 't is, but 
 I '11 face it, for I worship the ground 
 you walk on. Take a thought, my lass. 
 What good can come of your setting 
 your heart on Mm ? I 'm young, I 'm 
 healthy, and not ugly enough to set 
 the dogs a-barking. I 've got a good 
 place ; I love you dear ; I '11 cure you 
 of that fancy, and make you as happy 
 as the day is long. I '11 try and make 
 you as happy as you will make me, 
 my beauty." 
 
 He was so earnest, and so much in 
 love, that Mrs. Ryder pitied him, and 
 wished her husband was in heaven. 
 
 " I am very sorry, Tom," said she, 
 softly ; " dear me, I did not think you 
 cared so much for me as this. 1 must 
 just tell you the truth. I have got one 
 in my own country, and I 've promised 
 him. I don't care to break my word ; 
 and, if I did, he is such a man, I am 
 sure he would kill me for it. Indeed 
 he has told me as much, more than once 
 or twice." 
 
 " Killing is a game that two can play 
 at." 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or, yealousy. 
 
 125 
 
 " Ah ! but 't is an ugly game ; and 
 I '11 have no hand in it. And — don't 
 you be angry with me, Tom — I 've 
 known him longest, and — I love him 
 best." 
 
 By pertinacity and vanity in lying, 
 she hit the mark at last. Tom swal- 
 lowed this figment whole. 
 
 " That is but reason," said he. " I 
 take my answer, and I wish ye both 
 many happy days together, and well 
 spent." With this he retired, and 
 blubbered a good hour in an out- 
 house. 
 
 Tom avoided the castle, and fell into 
 low spirits. He told his mother all, 
 and she advised him to change the air. 
 " You have been too long in one place," 
 said she ; " I hate being too long in one 
 place myself." 
 
 This fired Xom's gypsy blood, and 
 he said he would travel to-morrow, if 
 he could but scrape together money 
 enough to -fill a pedler's pack. 
 
 He applied for a loan in several quar- 
 ters, but was denied in all. 
 
 At last the poor fellow summoned 
 courage to lay his case before Mrs. 
 Gaunt. 
 
 Ryder's influence procured him an 
 interview. She took him into the draw- 
 ing-room, and bade him wait there. By 
 and by a pale lady, all in black, glided 
 into the room. 
 
 He pulled his fi-ont hair, and began 
 to stammer something or other. 
 
 She interrupted him. " Ryder has 
 told me," said she, softly. " I am sor- 
 ry for you ; and I will do what you re- 
 quire. And, to be sure, we need no 
 gamekeeper here now." 
 
 She then gave him some money, and 
 said she would look him up a few trifles 
 besides, to put in his pack. 
 
 Tom's mother helped him to lay out 
 this money to advantage ; and, one day, 
 he called at Hernshaw, pack and all, to 
 bid farewell. 
 
 The servants all laid out something 
 with him for luck ; and Mrs. Gaunt 
 sent for him, and gave him a gold thim- 
 ble, and a pound of tea, and several 
 yai-ds of gold lace, slightly tarnished, 
 and a Queen Anne's guinea. 
 
 He thanked her heartily. " Ay, 
 Dame,'' said he, "you had always an 
 open hand, married or single. My heart 
 is heavy at leaving you. But I miss the 
 Squire's kindly face too. Hernshaw is 
 not what it used to be." 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt turned her head aside, 
 and the man could see his words had 
 made her cry. "My good Thomas," 
 said she, at last, "you are going to 
 travel the country : you might fall in 
 with him." 
 
 "I might," said Leicester, incredu- 
 lously. 
 
 " God grant you may ; and, if ever 
 you should, think of your poor mis- 
 tress and give him — this." She put 
 her finger in her bosom and drew out a 
 bullet wrapped in silver paper. "You 
 will never lose this," said she. " I 
 value it more than gold or silver. O, 
 if ever you should &e.e. him, think of me 
 and my daughter, and just put it in his 
 hand without a word." 
 
 As he went out of the room Ryder 
 intercepted him, and said, " Mayhap 
 you will fall in with our master. If ever 
 you do, tell him he is under a mistake, 
 and the sooner he comes home the bet- 
 ter." , 
 
 Tom Leicester departed ; and, for 
 days and weeks, nothing occurred to 
 break the sorrowful monotony of the 
 place. 
 
 But the mourner had written to her 
 old friend and confessor, Francis ; and, 
 after some delay, involuntary on his 
 part, he came to see her. 
 
 They were often closeted together, 
 and spoke so low that Ryder could not 
 catch a word. 
 
 Francis also paid several visits to 
 Leonard ; and the final result of these 
 visits was that the latter left England. 
 
 Francis remained at Hernshaw as 
 long as he could ; and it was Mrs. 
 Gaunt's hourly prayer that Griffith 
 might return while Francis was with 
 her. 
 
 He did, at her earnest request, stay 
 much longer than he had intended ; 
 but, at length, he was obliged to fix 
 next Monday to return to his own 
 place. 
 
126 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 It was on Thursday he made this 
 arrangement ; but the very next day 
 the postman brought a letter to the 
 Castle, thus addressed : — 
 
 " To Mistress Caroline Ryder, 
 Living Servant with Griffith Gaunt, Esq., 
 at his house, called Hernshaw Castle, 
 near Wigeonmoor, 
 
 in the county of Cumberland. 
 These with speed." 
 
 The address was in a feigned hand. 
 Ryder opened it in the kitchen, and 
 uttered a scream. 
 
 Instantly three female throats opened 
 upon her with questions. 
 
 She looked them contemptuously in 
 their faces, put the letter into her pocket, 
 and, soon after, slipped away to her 
 own room, and locked herself in while 
 she read it. It ran thus : — 
 
 "Good Mistress Ryder, — I am 
 alive yet, by the blessing j though some- 
 what battered ; being now risen from a 
 fever, wherein I lost my wits for a time. 
 And, on coming to myself, I found 
 them making of my shroud ; whereby 
 you shall learn how near I was to death. 
 And all this I owe to that false, perjured 
 woman that was my wife, and is your 
 mistress. 
 
 " Know that I have donned russet, 
 and doffed gentility ; for I find a heavy 
 heart's best cure is Occupation. I 
 have taken a wayside inn, and think of 
 renting a small farm, which two things 
 go well together. Now you are, of all 
 those I know, most fitted to manage 
 the inn, and I the farm. You were 
 always my good friend ; and, if you be 
 so still, then I charge you most sol- 
 emnly that you utter no word to any 
 living soul about this letter ; but meet 
 me privately where we can talk fully 
 of these matters ; for I will not set foot 
 in Hernshaw Castle. Moreover, she 
 told me once 't was hers ; and so be 
 it. On Friday I shall lie at Staple- 
 ton, and the next day, by an easy jour- 
 ney, to the place where I once was so 
 happy. 
 
 " So then at seven of the clock on 
 Saturday evening, be the same wet or 
 
 dry, prithee come to the gate of the 
 grove unbeknown, and speak to 
 « Your faithful friend 
 
 and most unhappy master, 
 "Griffith Gaunt. 
 
 "Be secret as the grave. Would I 
 were in it." 
 
 This letter set Caroline Ryder in a 
 tumult. Griffith alive and well, and set 
 against his wife, and coming to her for 
 assistance ! 
 
 After the first agitation, she read 
 it again, and weighed every syllable. 
 There was one book she had studied 
 more than most of us, — the Heart. 
 And she soon read Griffith's in this 
 letter. It was no love-letter ; he really 
 intended business ; but, weak in health 
 and broken in spirit, and alone in the 
 world, he naturally turned to one who 
 had confessed an affection for him, and 
 would therefore be true to. his interests, 
 and study his happiness. 
 
 The proposal was every way satisfac- 
 tory to Mrs. Ryder. To be mistress 
 of an inn, and have servants under her 
 instead of being one herself And then, 
 if Griffith and she began as allies in 
 business, she felt very sure she could 
 make herself, first necessary to him, 
 and then dear to him. 
 
 She was so elated she could hardly 
 contain herself ; and all her fellow- 
 servants remarked that Mrs. Ryder had 
 heard good news. 
 
 Saturday came, and never did hours 
 seem to creep so slowly. 
 
 But at last the sun set, and the stars 
 came out. There was no moon. Ryder 
 opened the window and looked out ; 
 it was an admirable night for an assig- 
 nation. 
 
 She washed her face again, put on 
 her gray silk gown, and purple petti- 
 coat, — Mrs. Gaunt had given them to 
 her, — and, at the last moment, went 
 and made up her mistress's fire, and 
 put out everything she thought could 
 be wanted, and, five minutes after sev- 
 en o'clock, tied a scarlet handkerchief 
 over her head, and stepped out at the 
 back door. 
 
Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 127 
 
 What with her coal-black hair, so 
 streaked with red, her black eyes, flash- 
 ing in the starlight, and her glowing 
 cheeks, she looked bewitching. 
 
 And, thas armed for conquest, wily, 
 yet impassioned, she stole out, with 
 noiseless foot and beating heart, to her 
 appointment with her imprudent master. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 The bill was paid; the black horse 
 saddled and brought round to the door. 
 Mr. aind Mrs. Vint stood bare-headed 
 to honor the parting guest ; and the 
 latter offered him the stirrup-cup. 
 
 Griffith looked round for Mercy. She 
 was nowhere to be seen. 
 
 Then he said, piteously, to Mrs. 
 Vint, " What, not even bid me good 
 by?" 
 
 Mrs. Vint replied, in a very low voice, 
 that there was no disrespect intended. 
 " The truth is, sir, she could not trust 
 herself to see you go ; but she bade 
 me give you a message. Says she, 
 ' Mother, tell him I pray God to bless 
 him, go where he will.' " 
 
 Something rose in Griffith's throat. 
 " O Dame ! " said he, " if she only knew 
 the truth, she would think better of me 
 than she does. God bless her ! " 
 
 And he rode sorrowfully away, alone 
 in the world once more. 
 
 At the first turn in the road, he 
 wheeled his horse, and took a last lin- 
 gering look. 
 
 There was nothing vulgar, nor inn- 
 like, in the " Packhorse." It stood fif- 
 ty yards from the road, on a little rural 
 green, and was picturesque itself. The 
 front was entirely clad with large-leaved 
 ivy. Shutters there were none : the 
 windows, with tlieir diamond panes, were 
 lustrous squares, set like great eyes in 
 the green ivy. It looked a pretty, peace- 
 ful retreat, and in it Griffith had found 
 peace and a dove-like friend. 
 
 He sighed, and rode away from the 
 sight ; not raging and convulsed, as 
 when lie rode from Hernshaw Castle, 
 but somewhat sick at heart, and very 
 heavy. 
 
 He paced so slowly that it took him 
 a quarter of an hour to reach the 
 " Woodman," — a wayside inn, not 
 two miles distant. As he went by, a 
 farmer hailed him from the porch, and 
 insisted on drinking with him ; for he 
 was very popular in the neighborhood. 
 Whilst they were thus employed, who 
 should come out but Paul Carrick, boot- 
 ed. and spurred, and flushed in the 
 face, and rather the worse for liquor 
 imbibed on the spot. 
 
 " So you are going, are ye ? " said he. 
 " A good job, too." Then, turning to 
 the other, " Master Gutteridge, never 
 you save a man's life, if you can any- 
 ways help it. I saved this one's ; and 
 what does he do but turn round and 
 poison my sweetheart against me ? " 
 
 " How can you say so ? " remon- 
 strated Griffith. " I never belied you. 
 Your name scarce ever passed my 
 lips." 
 
 " Don't tell me," said Carrick. " How- 
 ever, she has come to her senses, and 
 given your worship the sack. Ride 
 you into Cumberland, and I to the 
 'Packhorse,' and take my own again." 
 
 With this, he unhooked his nag from 
 the wall, and clattered off to the " Pack- 
 horse." 
 
 Griffith sat a moment stupefied, and 
 then his face was convulsed by his rul- 
 ing passion. He wheeled his horse, 
 gave him th« spur, and galloped after 
 Carrick. 
 
 He soon came up with him, and 
 yellgd in his ear, " I '11 teach you to 
 spit your wormwood in my cup of sor- 
 row." 
 
 Carrick shook his fist defiantly, and 
 spurred his horse in turn. 
 
 It was an exciting race, and a novel 
 one, but soon decided. The great black 
 hunter went ahead, and still improved 
 his advantage. Carrick, purple with 
 rage, was full a quarter of a mile be- 
 hind, when Griffith dashed furiously 
 into the stable of the " Packhorse," 
 and, leaving Black Dick panting and 
 covered with foam, ran in search of 
 Mercy. 
 
 The girl told him she was in the 
 dairy. He looked in at the window, and 
 
128 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy 
 
 there she was with her mother. With 
 instinctive sense and fortitude she had 
 fled to worl4. She was trying to churn ; 
 but it would not do : she had laid her 
 shapely arm on the churn, and her head 
 on it, and was crying. 
 
 Mrs. Vint was praising Carrick, and 
 offering homely consolation. 
 
 " Ah, mother," sighed Mercy, " I 
 could have made him happy. He does 
 not know that ; and he has turned his 
 back on content. What will become of 
 him ? " 
 
 Griffith heard no more. He went 
 round to the front door, and rushed in. 
 
 "Take your own way, Dame," said 
 he, in great agitation. " Put up the 
 banns when you like. Sweetheart, wilt 
 wed with me ? I '11 make thee the best 
 husband I can." 
 
 Mercy screamed faintly, and lifted up 
 her hands ; then she blushed and trem- 
 bled to her very finger ends ; but it 
 ended in smiles of joy and her brow 
 upon his shoulder. 
 
 In which attitude, with Mrs. Vint 
 patting him approvingly on the back, 
 they were surprised by Paul Carrick. 
 He came to the door, and there stood 
 aghast. 
 
 The young man stared ruefully at 
 the picture, and then said, very dryly, 
 " I 'm too late, methinks." 
 
 " That you be, Paul," said Mrs. Vint, 
 cheerfully. " She is meat for your mas- 
 ter." 
 
 " Don't — you — never — come to 
 me — to save your life — no more," 
 blubbered Paul, breaking down all of a 
 sudden. 
 
 He then retired, little heeded, and 
 came no more to the " Packhorse " for 
 several days. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 It is desirable that improper mar- 
 riages should never be solemnized ; 
 and the Christian Church saw this, 
 many hundred years ago, and ordained 
 that, before a marriage, the banns 
 should be cried in a church three Sun- 
 days, and any ■ person there present 
 
 might forbid the union of the parties, 
 and allege the just impediment. 
 
 This precaution was feeble, but not 
 wholly inadequate— in the Middle Ages ; 
 for we know by good evideilce that the 
 priest was often interrupted and the 
 banns forbidden. 
 
 But in modern days the banns are 
 never forbidden ; in other words, the 
 precautionary measure that has come 
 down to us from the thirteenth century 
 is out of date and useless. It rests, 
 indeed, on an estimate of publicity that 
 has become childish, and almost asi- 
 nine. If persons about to marry were 
 compelled to inscribe their names and 
 descriptions in a Matrimonial Weekly 
 Gazette, and a copy of this were placed 
 on a desk in ten thousand churches, 
 perhaps we might stop one lady per 
 annum from marrying- her husband's 
 brother, and one gentleman from wed- 
 ding his neighbor's wife. But the cry- 
 ing of banns in a single parish church 
 is a waste of the people's time and the 
 parson's breath. 
 
 And so it proved in Griffith Gaunt's 
 case. The Rev. William Wentworth 
 published, in the usual recitative, the 
 banns of marriage between Thomas 
 Leicester, of the parish of Marylebone 
 in London, and Mercy Vint, spinster, 
 of this parish ; and creation, present ex 
 hypothesi tnediavale, but absent in fact, 
 assented, by silence, to the union. 
 
 So Thomas Leicester wedded Mercy 
 Vint, and took her home to the " Pack- 
 horse." 
 
 It would be well if those who stifle 
 their consciences, and commit crimes, 
 would set up a sort of medico-moral 
 diary, and record their symptoms rhi- 
 nutely day by day. Such records might 
 help to clear away some vague conven- 
 tional notions. 
 
 To tell the truth, our hero, and now 
 malefactor, (the combination is of high 
 antiquity,) enjoyed, for several months, 
 the peace of mind that belongs of right 
 to innocence ; and his days passed in a 
 state of smooth complacency. Mercy 
 was a good, wise, and tender wife ; she 
 naturally looked up to him after mar- 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 I2g 
 
 rfage more than she did before; she 
 studied his happiness, as she had never 
 studied her own ; she mastered his 
 character, admired his good qualities, 
 discerned his weaknesses, but did not 
 view them as defects ; only as little 
 traits to be watched, lest she should 
 give pain to " her master," as she called 
 him. 
 
 Affection, in her, took a more obse- 
 quious form than it could ever assume 
 in Kate Peyton. And yet she had great 
 influence, and softly governed " her mas- 
 ter" for his good. She would come 
 into the room and take away the bottle, 
 if he was committing excess ; but she 
 had a way of doing it, so like a good, 
 but resolute mother, and so unlike a 
 termagant, that he never resisted. Up- 
 on the whole, she nursed his mind, as in 
 earlier days she had nursed his body. 
 
 And then she made him so comfort- 
 able : she observed him minutely to 
 that end. As is the eye of a maid to 
 the hand of her mistress, so Mercy Lei- 
 cester's dove-like eye was ever watch- 
 mg " her master's '' face, to learn the 
 minutest features of his mind. 
 
 One evening he came in tired, and 
 there was a black fire in the parlor. 
 His countenance fell the sixteenth of an 
 inch. You and I, sir, should never have 
 noticed it. But Mercy did, and, ever 
 after, there was a clear fire when he 
 came in. 
 
 She noted, too, that he loved to play 
 the viol da gambo, but disliked the 
 trouble of tuning it. So then she tuned 
 it for him. 
 
 When he came home at night, early 
 or late, he was sure to find a dry pair 
 of shoes on the rug, his six-stringed 
 viol tuned to a hair, a bright fire, and a 
 brighter wife, smiling and radiant at his 
 coming, and alwa} s neat ; for, said she, 
 " Shall I don my bravery for strangers, 
 and not for my Thomas, that is the best 
 of company ? " 
 
 They used to go to church, and come 
 back together, hand in hand like lovers ; 
 for the arm was rarely given in those 
 days. And Griffith said to himself 
 every Sunday, "What a comfort to 
 have a Protestant wife ! " 
 
 9 
 
 But one day he was off his guard, 
 and called her " Kate, my dear." 
 
 " Who is Kate 'i " said she softly, 
 but with a degree of trouble and intelli- 
 gence that made him tremble. 
 
 " No matter," said he, all in a flutter. 
 Then, solemnly, "Whoever she was, she 
 is dead, — dead." 
 
 " Ah ! " said Mercy, very tenderly and 
 solemnly, and under her breath. " You 
 loved her ; yet she must die." She 
 paused ; then, in a tone so exquisite I 
 can only call it an angel's whisper, 
 " Poor Kate ! " 
 
 Griffith groaned aloud. " For God's 
 sake, never mention that name to me 
 again. Let me forget she ever lived. 
 She was not the true friend to me that 
 you have been." 
 
 Mercy replied, softly, " Say not so, 
 Thomas. You loved her well. Her 
 death had all but cost me thine. Ah, 
 well ! we cannot all be the first. I am 
 not very jealous, for my part ; and I 
 thank God for 't. Thou art a dear good 
 husband to me, and that is enow." 
 
 Paul Carrick, unable to break off his 
 habits, came to the " Packhorse " now 
 and then ; but- Mercy protected her 
 husband's heart from pain. She was 
 kind, and even pitiful ; but so discreet 
 and resolute, and contrived to draw 
 the line so clearly between her husband 
 and her old sweetheart, that Griffith's 
 foible could not burn him, for want of 
 fuel. 
 
 And so passed several months, and 
 the man's heart was at peace. He 
 could not love Mercy passionately as 
 he had loved Kate ; but he was full of 
 real regard and esteem for her. It was 
 one of those gentle, clinging attach- 
 ments that outlast grand passions, and 
 survive till death ; a tender, pui;e affec- 
 tion, though built upon a crime. 
 
 They had been married, and hved in 
 sweet content, about three quarters of 
 a year — when trouble came ; but in a 
 vulgar form. A murrain carried off 
 several of Harry Vint's cattle ; and it 
 then came out that he had purchased 
 six of them on credit, and had been in- 
 
1 2,0 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 duced to set his hand to bills of ex- 
 change for them. His rent was also 
 behind, and, in fact, his affairs were in 
 a desperate condition. 
 
 He hid it as long as he could from 
 them all ; but at last, being served 
 with a process for debt, and threatened 
 with a distress and an execution, he 
 called a family council and exposed the 
 real state of things. 
 
 Mrs. Vint rated him soundly for keep- 
 ing all this secret so long. 
 
 He whom they called Thomas Lei- 
 cester remonstrated with him. " Had 
 you told me in time," said he, " I had 
 not paid forfeit for ' The Vine,' but set- 
 tled there, and given you a home." 
 
 Mercy said never a word but " Poor 
 father ! " 
 
 As the peril drew nearer, the conver- 
 sations became more animated and agi- 
 tated, and soon the old people took to 
 complaining of Thomas Leicester to 
 his wife. 
 
 " Thou hast married a gentleman ; 
 and he hath not the heart to lift a hand 
 to save thy folk from ruin." 
 
 " Say not so," pleaded Mercy : " to 
 be sure he hath the heart, but not the 
 means. 'T was but yestreen he bade 
 me sell his jewels for you. But, mother, 
 I think they belonged to some one he 
 loved, — and she died. So, poor thing, 
 how could I ? Then, if you love me, 
 blame me, and not him." 
 
 " Jewels, quotha ! will they stop such 
 a gap as ours ? " was the contfemptuous 
 reply. 
 
 From complaining of him behind 
 his back, the old people soon came 
 to launching innuendoes obliquely at 
 him. Here is one specimen out of a 
 dozen. 
 
 " Wife, if our Mercy had wedded one 
 of her own sort, mayhap he 'd have 
 helped us a bit." 
 
 " Ay, poor soul ; and she so near her 
 time : if the bailiffs come down on us 
 next month, 't is my belief we shall lose 
 her, as well as house and home." 
 
 The false Thomas Leicester let them 
 run on, in dogged silence ; but every 
 word was a stab. 
 
 And one day, when he had been 
 
 baited sore with hints, he turned round 
 on them fiercely, and said ; " Did I get 
 you into this mess ? It 's all your own 
 doing. Learn to see your own faults, 
 and not be so hard on one that has 
 been the best servant you ever had, 
 gentleman or not." 
 
 Men can resist the remonstrances 
 that wound them, and so irritate them, 
 better than they can those gentle ap- 
 peals that rouse no anger, but soften 
 the whole heart. The old people stung 
 him ; but Mercy, without design, took 
 a surer way. She never said a word ; 
 but sometimes, when the discussions 
 were at their height, she turned her 
 dove-like eyes on him, with a look so 
 loving, so humbly inquiring, so timidly 
 imploring, that his heart melted within 
 him. 
 
 Ah, that is a true touch of nature and 
 genuine observation of the sexes, in the 
 old song, — 
 
 ** My feyther urged ftie sair; 
 My mither didna speak ; 
 But she looked me in the face, 
 Till my hairt was like to break." 
 
 These silent, womanly, imploring 
 looks of patient Mercy were mightier 
 than argument or invective. 
 
 The man knew all along where to 
 get money, and how to get it. He had 
 only to go to Hernshaw Castle. But 
 his very soul shuddered at the idea. 
 However, for Mercy's sake, he took 
 the first step ; he compelled himself 
 to look the thing in the face, and dis- 
 cuss it with himself. A few months 
 ago he could not have done even this, 
 — he loved his lawful wife too much ; 
 hated her too much. But now, Mercy 
 and Time had blunted both those pas- 
 sions ; and he could ask himself wheth- 
 er he could not encounter Kate and 
 her priest without any very violent emo- 
 tion. 
 
 When they first set up house to- 
 gether, he had spent his whole fortune, 
 a sum of two thousand pounds, on re- 
 pairing and embellishing Hernshaw 
 Castle and grounds. Since she had 
 driven him out of the house, he had a 
 clear right to have back the money ; 
 and he now resolved he would have it ; 
 
Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 131 
 
 but what he wanted was to get it with- 
 out going to the place in person. 
 
 And now Mercy's figure, as well as 
 her imploring looks, moved him greatly. 
 She was in that condition which ap- 
 peals to a man's humanity and mascu- 
 line pity, as well as to his affection. 
 To use the homely words of Scripture, 
 she was great with child, and in that 
 condition moved slowly about him, 
 filling his pipe, and laying his slippers, 
 and ministering to all his little com- 
 forts ; she would make no difference : 
 and when he saw the poor dove move 
 about him so heavily, and' rather lan- 
 guidly, yet so zealously and tenderly, 
 the man's very bowels yearned over 
 her, and he felt as if he could die to do 
 her a service. 
 
 So, one day, when she was standing 
 by him, bending over his little round 
 table, and filling his pipe with her neat 
 hand, he took her by the other hand 
 and drew her gently on his knee, her 
 burden and all. " Child ! " said he, "do 
 not thou fret. I know . how to get 
 money ; and I '11 do 't, for thy sake." 
 
 " I know that," said she, softly ; "can 
 I not read thy face by this time ? " and 
 so laid her cheek to his. " But, Thomas, 
 for my sake, get it honestly, — or not at 
 all," said she, still filling his pipe, with 
 her cheek to his. 
 
 " I 'II but take back my own," said 
 he ; " fear naught." 
 
 But, after thus positively pledging 
 himself to Mercy, he became thoughtful 
 and rather fretful ; for he was still most 
 averse to go to Hernshaw, and yet 
 could hit upon no other way ; since to 
 employ an agent would be to let out 
 that he had committed bigamy, and so 
 risk his own neck, and break Mercy's 
 heart. 
 
 After al^ his scale was turned by his 
 foible. 
 
 Mrs. Vint had been weak enough to 
 confide her trouble to a friend : it was 
 all over the parish in three days. 
 
 Well, one day, in the kitchen of the 
 inn, Paul Carrick, having drunk two 
 pints of good ale, said to Vint, " Land- 
 lord, you ought to have married her to 
 me. I 've got two hundred pounds laid 
 
 by. I 'd have pulled you out of the 
 mire, and welcome." 
 
 " Would you, though, Paul ? " said 
 Harry Vint ; " then, by G— , I wish I 
 had." 
 
 Now Carrick bawled that out, and 
 Griffith, who was at the door, heard it. 
 
 He walked into the kitchen, ghastly 
 pale, and spoke to Harry Vint first. 
 
 " I take your inn, your farm, and 
 your debts on me," said he ; " not one 
 without t' other." 
 
 " Spoke like a man ! " cried the land- 
 lord, joyfully; "and so be it — before 
 these witnesses." 
 
 Griffith tui-ned on Carrick: "This 
 house is mine. Get out on 't, ye _;>«/- 
 ous, mischief-making cur." And he 
 took him by the collar and dragged 
 him furiously out of the place, and sent 
 him whirhng into the middle of the 
 road ; then ran back for his hat and 
 flung it out after him. 
 
 This done, he sat down boiling, and 
 his eyes roved fiercely round the room 
 in search of some other antagonist. 
 But his strength was so great, and his 
 face so altered with this sudden spasm 
 of reviving jealousy, that nobody cared 
 to provoke him further. 
 
 After a while, however, Harry Vint 
 muttered dryly, " There goes one good 
 customer." 
 
 Griffith took him up sternly ; " If 
 your debts are to be mine, your trade 
 shall be mine too, that you had not the 
 head to conduct." 
 
 " So be it, son-in-law," said the old 
 man ; " only you go so fast ; you do 
 take possession afore you pays the 
 fee." 
 
 GriflSth winced. " That shall be the 
 last of your taunts, old man." He 
 turned to the ostler: "Bill, give Black 
 Dick his oats at sunrise ; and in ten 
 days at furthest I '11 pay every shilling 
 this house and farm do owe. Now, 
 Master White, you '11 put in hand a 
 new -sign-board for this inn ; a fresh 
 ' Packhorse,' and paint him jet black, 
 with one white hoof (instead of choco- 
 late), in honor of ray nag Dick ; and in 
 place of Harry Vint you '11 put in 
 Thomas Leicester See that is done 
 
132 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 against I come back, or come you here 
 no more." 
 
 Soon after this scene he retired to 
 tell Mercy ; and, on his departure, the 
 suppressed tongues went like mill- 
 clacks. 
 
 Dick came round saddled at peep of 
 day ; but Mercy had been up more 
 than an hour, and prepared her man's 
 breakfast. She clung to him at part- 
 ing, and cried a little ; and whis- 
 pered something in his ear, for nobody 
 else to hear : it was an ent?eaty that 
 he would not be long gone, lest he 
 should be far from her in the hour of 
 her peril. 
 
 Thereupon he promised her, and 
 kissed her tenderly, and bade her be 
 of good heart ; and so rode away north- 
 wards with dogged resolution. 
 
 As soon as he was gone, Mercy's 
 tears flowed without restraint. 
 
 Her father set himself to console her. 
 " Thy good man," he said, " is but gone 
 back to the high road for a night or 
 two, to follow his trade of ' stand and 
 deliver.' Fear naught, child ; his pis- 
 tols are well primed : I saw to that 
 myself; and his horse is the fleetest in 
 the county. You '11 have him back in 
 three days, and money in both pockets. 
 I warrant you his is a better trade than 
 mine ; and he is a fool to change it." 
 
 Griffith was two days upon the road, 
 and all that time he was turning over 
 and discussing in his mind how he 
 should conduct the disagreeable but 
 necessary business he had undertaken. 
 
 He determined, at last, to make the 
 visit one of business only : no heat, no 
 reproaches. That lovely, hateful wo- 
 man might continue to dishonor his 
 name, for he had himself abandoned it. 
 He would not deign to receive any 
 money that was hers ; but his own two 
 thousand pounds he would have ; and 
 two or three hundred on the spot by 
 way of instalment. And, with these 
 hard views, he drew near to Hernshaw ; 
 but the nearer he got, the slower he 
 went ; for what^ at a distance had 
 seemed tolerably easy began to get 
 more and more difficult and repulsive. 
 
 Moreover, his heart, which he thought 
 he had steeled, began now to flutter a 
 little, and somehow to shudder at the 
 approaching interview. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 Caroline Ryder went to the gate 
 of the Grove, and stayed there two 
 hours ; but, of course, no Griffith came. 
 
 She returned the next night, and the 
 next ; and then she gave it up, and 
 awaited an explanation. None came, 
 and she was bitterly disappointed, and 
 indignant. 
 
 She began .to hate Griffith, and to 
 conceive a certain respect, and even a 
 tepid friendship, for the other woman 
 he had insulted. 
 
 Another clew to this change of feel- 
 ing is to be found in a word she let 
 drop in talking to another servant. 
 "My mistress," said she, "bears it 
 like a man.'" 
 
 In fact, Mrs. Gaunt's conduct at this 
 period was truly noble. 
 
 She suffered months of torture, 
 months of grief ; but the high-spirited 
 creature hid it from the world, and 
 maintained a sad but high composure. 
 
 She wore her black, for she said, 
 " How do I know he is alive .'•"- She 
 retrenched her establishment, reduced 
 her expenses two thirds, and busied 
 herself in works of charity and religion. 
 
 Her desolate condition attracted a 
 gentleman who had once loved her, and 
 now esteemed and pitied her profound- 
 ly, — Sir George Neville. 
 
 He was still unmarried, and she was 
 the cause ; so far at least as this : she 
 had put him out of conceit with the 
 other ladies at that period when he had 
 serious thoughts of marriage : and the 
 inchnation to marry at all had not since 
 returned. 
 
 If the Gaunts had settled at Boulton, 
 Sir George would have been their near 
 neighbor ; but Neville's Court was nine 
 miles from Hernshaw Castle : and 
 when they met, which was not very 
 often, Mrs. Gaunt was on her guard to 
 give Griffith no shadow of uneasiness. 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 133 
 
 She was therefore rather more dignified 
 and distant with Sir George than her 
 ,own inclination and his merits would 
 have prompted ; for he was a superior 
 and very agreeable man. 
 
 When it became quite certain that 
 her husband had left her, Sir George 
 rode up to Hernshaw Castle, and called 
 upon her. 
 
 She begged to be excused from see- 
 ing him. 
 
 Now Sir George was universally 
 courted, and this rather nettled him ; 
 however, he soon learned that she re- 
 ceived nobody except a few religious 
 friends of her own sex. 
 
 Sir George then wrote her a letter 
 that did him credit : it was full of wor- 
 thy sentiment and good sense. For 
 instance, he said he desired to intrude 
 Tiis friendly offices and his sympathy 
 upon her, but nothing more. Time 
 had cured him of those warmer feel- 
 ings which had once ruffled his peace ; 
 but Time could not efface his tender 
 esteem for the lady he had loved in his 
 youth, nor his profound respect for her 
 character. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt wept over his gentle let- 
 ter, and was on the verge of asking 
 herself why she had chosen Griffith 
 instead of this chevalier. She sent him 
 a sweet, yet prudent reply ; she did not 
 encourage him to visit her ; but said, 
 that, if ever she should bring herself to 
 receive visits from the gentlemen of 
 the county during her husband's ab- 
 sence, he should be the first to know it. 
 She signed herself his unhappy, but 
 deeply grateful, servant and friend. 
 
 One day, as she came out of a poor 
 woman's cottage, with a little basket on 
 her arm, which she had emptied in th^ 
 cottage, she met Sir George Neville 
 full. 
 
 He took his hat off, and made her 
 a profound bow. He was then about 
 to ride on, but altered his mind, and 
 dismounted to speak to her. 
 
 The interview was constrained at 
 first; but erelong he ventured to tell 
 her she really ought to consult with 
 some old friend and practical man hke 
 himself. He would undertake to scour 
 
 the country, and find her husband, if he 
 was above ground. 
 
 " Me go a-hunting the man," cried 
 she, turning red ; " not if he was my 
 king as well as my husband. He knows 
 where to find me; and that is enough." 
 
 " Well, but madam, would you not 
 like to learn where he is, and what he 
 is doing ? " 
 
 " Why, yes, my good, kind friend, I 
 should like to know that." And, hav- 
 ing pronounced these words with ap- 
 parent calmness, she burst out crying, 
 and almost ran away from him. 
 
 Sir George looked sadly after her, 
 and formed a worthy resolution. He 
 saw there was but one road to her re- 
 gard. He resolved to hunt her husband '' 
 for her, without intruding on her, or 
 giving her a voice in the matter. Sir 
 George was a magistrate, and accus- 
 tomed to organize inquiries ; spite of 
 the length of time that had elapsed, he 
 traced Griffith for a considerable dis- 
 tance. Pending further inquiries, he 
 sent Mrs. Gaunt word that the truant 
 had not made for the sea, but had gone 
 due south. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt returned him her warm 
 thanks for this scrap of information. 
 So long as Griffith reniained in the 
 island there was always a hope he might 
 return to her. The money he had tak- 
 en would soon be exhausted ; and pov- 
 erty might drive him to her ; and she 
 was so far humbled by grief, that she 
 could welcome him even on those 
 terms. 
 
 Affliction tempers the proud. Mrs. 
 Gaunt was deeply injured as well as in- 
 sulted ; but, for all that, in her many 
 days and weeks of solitude and sorrow, 
 she took herself to task, and saw her 
 fault. She became more gentle, more 
 considerate of her servants' feelings, 
 more womanly. 
 
 For many months she could not en- 
 ter "the Grove." The spirited wo- 
 man's very fiesh revolted at the sight 
 of the place where she had been in- 
 sulted and abandoned. But, as she 
 went deeper in religion, she forced 
 herself to go to the gate and look in, 
 and say out loud, " I gave the first 
 
134 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or. Jealousy. 
 
 offence," and then she would go in-doors 
 again, quivering with the internal con- 
 flict. 
 
 Finally, being a Catholic, and there- 
 fore attaching more value to self-torture 
 than we do, the poor soul made this 
 very grove her place of penance. Once 
 a week she had the fortitude to drag 
 herself to the very spot where Griffith 
 had denounced her; and there, she 
 would kneel and pray for him and for 
 herself. And certainly, if humiUty and 
 self-abasement were qualities of the 
 body, here was to be seen their picture ; 
 for her way was to set her crucifix up 
 at the foot of a tree ; then to bow her- 
 self all down, between kneehng and 
 lying, and put her lips meekly to the 
 foot of the crucifix, and so pray long 
 and earnestly. 
 
 Now, one day, while she was thus 
 crouching in prayer, a gentleman, boot- 
 ed and spurred and splashed, drew 
 near, with hesitating steps. She was 
 so absorbed, she did not hear those 
 steps at all till they were very near ; 
 but then she trembled all over ; for her 
 delicate ear recognized a manly tread 
 she had not heard for many a day. She 
 dared not move nor look, for she thought 
 it was a mere sound, sent to her by 
 Heaven to comfort her. 
 
 But the next moment a well-known 
 mellow voice came like a thunder-clap, 
 it shook her so. 
 
 " Forgive me, my good dame, but 
 I desire to know — " 
 
 The question went no further, for 
 Kate Gaunt sprang to her feet, with a 
 loud scream, and stood glaring at Grif- 
 fith Gaunt, and he at her. 
 
 And thus husband and wife met 
 again, — met, by some strange caprice 
 of Destiny, on the very spot where they 
 had parted so horribly. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 The gaze these two persons bent on 
 one another may be half imagined : it 
 can never be described. 
 
 Griffith spoke first. « In black ! " 
 said he, in a whisper. 
 
 His voice was low ; his face, though 
 pale and grim, had not the terrible as- 
 pect he wore at parting. 
 
 So she thought he had come back in 
 an amicable spirit ; and she flew to 
 him, with a cry of love, and threw her 
 arm round his neck, and panted on his 
 shoulder. 
 
 At this reception, and the tremulous 
 contact of one he had loved so dear- 
 ly, a strange shudder ran through his 
 frame, — a shudder that marked his 
 present repugnance, yet indicated her 
 latent power. 
 
 He himself felt he had betrayed some 
 weakness ; and it was all the worse for 
 her. He caught her wrist and put her 
 from him, not roughly, but with a look 
 of horror. " The day is gone by for 
 that, madam," he gasped. Then, stern- 
 ly : " Think you I came here to play 
 the credulous husband ? " 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt drew back in her turn, 
 and faltered out, " What ! come back 
 here, and not sorry for what you have 
 done ? not the least sorry .'' O ray 
 heart ! you have almost broken it." 
 
 "Prithee, no more of this," said Grif- 
 fith, sternly. "You and I are naught 
 to one another now, and forever. But 
 there, you are but a woman, and I did 
 not come to quarrel with you." And 
 he fixed his eyes on the ground. 
 
 " Thank Gbd for that," faltered Mrs. 
 Gaunt. " O sir, the sight of you — 
 the thought of what you were to me 
 once — till jealousy blinded you. Lend 
 me your arm, if you are a man ; my 
 limbs do fail me." 
 
 The shock had been too much ; a pal- 
 lor overspread her lovely features, her 
 knees knocked together, and she was 
 tottering like some tender tree cut down, 
 when Griffith, who, with all his faults, 
 was a man, put out his strong arm, and 
 she clung to it, quivering all over, and 
 weeping hysterically. 
 
 That little hand, with its little femi- 
 nine clutch, trembhng on his arm, raised 
 a certain male compassion for her pit- 
 eous coivJition ; and he bestowed a few 
 cold, sad words of encouragement on 
 her. " Come, come," said he, gently ; 
 " I shall not trouble you long; I 'm 
 
Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 135 
 
 cured ot my jealousy. 'T is gone, along 
 with my love. You and your saintly 
 sinner are safe from me. I am come 
 hither for my own, my two thousand 
 pounds, and for nothing more." 
 
 " Ah'! you are come back for money, 
 not for me ? " she murmured, with forced 
 calmness. 
 
 "For money, and not for you, of 
 course," said he, coldly. 
 
 The words were hardly out of his 
 mouth, when the proud lady flung, his 
 arm from her. " Then money shall 
 you have, and not me ; nor aught of 
 me but my contempt." 
 
 But. she could not carry it off as here- 
 tofore. She turned her baclc haughtily 
 on him ; but, at the first step, she burst 
 out crying, " Come, and I '11 give you 
 what you are come for," she sobbed. 
 " Ungrateful ! heartless ! O, how little 
 I knew this man ! " 
 
 She crept away before him, drooping 
 her head, and crying bitterly ; and he 
 followed her, hanging his. head, and ill 
 at ease ; for there was such true pas- 
 sion in her voice, her streaming eyes, 
 and indeed in her whole body, that he 
 was moved, and the part he was play- 
 ing revolted him. He felt confused and 
 troubled, and asked himself how on 
 earth it was that she, the guilty one, 
 contrived to appear the injured one, 
 and made him, the wronged one, feel 
 almost remorseful. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt took no more notice of 
 him now than if he had been a dog fol- 
 lowing at her heels. She went into 
 the drawing-room, and sank helplessly 
 on the nearest couch, threw her head 
 wearily back, and shut her eyes. Yet 
 the tears trickled through the closed lids. 
 
 Griffith caught up a hand-bell, and 
 rang it vigorously. 
 
 Quick, light steps were soon heard 
 pattering ; and in darted Caroline Ry- 
 der, with an anxious face ; for of late 
 she had conceived a certain sober re- 
 gard for her mistress, who had ceased 
 to be her successful rival, and who bore 
 her grief like a man. 
 
 At sight of Grifiith, Ryder screamed 
 aloud, and stood panting. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt opened her eyes. " Ay, 
 child, he has come home," said she, 
 bitterly ; " his body, but not his heart.'' 
 
 She stretched her hand out feebly^ 
 and pointed to a bottle of salts that 
 stood on the table. Ryder ran and put 
 them to her nostrils. Mrs. Gaunt whis- 
 pered in her ear, " Send a swift horse 
 for Father Francis ; tell him, life or 
 death ! " 
 
 Ryder gave her a very intelligent 
 look, and presently slipped out, and ran 
 into the stable-yard. 
 
 At the gate she caught sight of Grif- 
 fith's horse. What does this quick- 
 witted creature do but send the groom 
 off on that horse, and not on Mrs. 
 Gaunt's. 
 
 " Now, Dame," said Griffith, dog- 
 gedly, " are you better ? " 
 
 " Ay, I thank you." 
 
 "Then listen to me. When you and 
 I set up house together, I had two 
 thousand pounds. I spent it on this . 
 house. The house is yours. You told 
 me so, one day, you know." 
 
 " Ah, you can remember my faults." 
 
 " I remember all, Kate." 
 
 " Thank you, at least, for calling me 
 Kate. Well, Griffith, since you aban- 
 doned us, I thought, and thought, and 
 thought, of all that might befall you ; 
 and I said, ' What will he do for mon- 
 ey ? ' My jewels, that you did me the 
 honor to take, would not last you long, 
 I feared. So I reduced my expenses 
 three fourths at least, and I put by some 
 money for your need." 
 
 Griffith looked amazed. "For my 
 need ? " said he. 
 
 " For whose else ? I '11 send for it, 
 and place it in your hands — to-mor- 
 row." 
 
 " To-morrow ? Why not to-day ? " 
 
 " I have a favor to ask of you first." 
 
 « What is that ? " 
 
 " Justice. If you are fond of money, 
 I too have something I prize : my hon- 
 or. You have behed and insulted me, 
 sir ; but I know you were under a de- 
 lusion. I mean to remove that delu- 
 sion, and make you see how little I am 
 to blame ; for, alas ! I own I was im- 
 
136 
 
 Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 prudent. But, Griffith, as I hope to 
 be saved, it was the imprudence of in- 
 nocence and over-confidence." 
 
 " Mistress," said Griffith, in a stern, 
 yet agitated voice, "be advised, and 
 leave all this : rouse not a man's sleep- 
 ing wrath. Let bygones be bygones." 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt rose, and said, faintly, 
 " So be it. I must go, sir, and give 
 some orders for your entertainment." 
 
 " O, don't put yourself about for me," 
 said Griffith : " I am not the master of 
 this house." 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt's lip trembled, but she 
 was a match for him. " Then are you 
 my guest," said she ; " and my credit 
 is concerned in your comfort." 
 
 She made him a courtesy, as if he 
 were a stranger, and marched to the 
 door, concealing, with great pride and 
 art, a certain trembling of her knees. 
 
 At the door she found Ryder, and 
 bade her follow, much to that lady's 
 disappointment ; for she desired a tHe- 
 d,-Ute with Griffith, and an explanation. 
 
 As soon as the two women were out 
 of Griffith's hearing, the mistress laid 
 her hand on the servant's arm, and, giv- 
 ing way to her feelings, said, all in a 
 flutter : " Child, if I have been a good 
 mistress to thee, show it now. Help 
 me keep him in the house till Father 
 Francis comes." 
 
 " I undertake to do so much," said 
 Ryder, firmly. " Leave it to me, mis- 
 tress." 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt threw her arms round 
 Ryder's neck and kissed her. 
 
 It was done so ardently, and by a 
 woman hitherto so dignified and proud, 
 that Ryder was taken by surprise, and 
 almost affected. 
 
 As for the service Mrs. Gaunt had 
 asked of her, it suited her own designs. 
 
 " Mistress," said she, " be ruled by 
 me ; keep out of his way a bit, while 
 I get Miss Rose ready. You under- 
 stand." 
 
 " Ah ! I have one true friend in the 
 house,'' said poor Mrs. Gaunt. She 
 then confided in Ryder, and went away 
 to give her own orders for Griffith's re- 
 ception. 
 
 Ryder found little Rose, dressed her 
 
 to perfection, and told her her dear papa 
 was come home. She then worked upon 
 the child's mind in that subtle way 
 known to women, so that Rose went 
 down stairs loaded and primed, though 
 no distinct instructions had been given 
 her. 
 
 As for Griffith, he walked up and 
 down, uneasy ; and wished he had 
 stayed at the " Packhorse." He had 
 not bargained for all these emotions ; 
 the peace of mind he had enjoyed for 
 some months seemed trickUng away. 
 
 " Mercy, my dear," said he to him- 
 self, " 't will be a dear penny to m^ I 
 doubt." 
 
 Then he went to the window, and 
 looked at the lawn, and sighed. Then 
 he sat down, and thought of the past. 
 
 Whilst he sat thus moody, the door 
 opened very softly, and a little cheru- 
 bic face, with blue eyes and gold- 
 en hair, peeped in. Griffith started. 
 " Ah ! " cried Rose, with a joyful 
 scream ; and out flew her little arms, 
 and away she came, half running, half 
 dancing, and was on his knee in a mo- 
 ment, with her arms round his neck. 
 
 " Papa ! papa ! " she cried. " O my 
 dear, dear, dear, darling papa ! " And 
 she kissed and patted his cheek again 
 and again. 
 
 Her innocent endearments moved 
 him to tears. " My pretty angel ! " he 
 sighed : " my lamb ! " 
 
 " How your heart beats ! Don't cry, 
 dear papa. Nobody is dead : only we 
 thought you were. I 'm so glad you 
 are come home alive. Now we cao 
 take off this nasty black : •! hate it." 
 
 " What, 't is for me you wear it, 
 pretty one ? " 
 
 " Ay. Mamma made us. Poor mam- 
 ma has been so unhappy. And that 
 reminds me : you are a wicked man, 
 papa. But I love you all one for that. 
 It tis so dull when everybody is good 
 like mamma ; and she makes me dread- 
 fully good too ; but now you are come 
 back, there will be a little, little wicked- 
 ness again, it is to be hoped. Are n't 
 you glad you are not dead, and are come 
 home instead ? I am." 
 
 " I am glad I have seen thee. Come,. 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 137 
 
 take my hand, and let us go look at the 
 old place." 
 
 " Ay. But you must wait till I get 
 on my new hat and feather." 
 
 " Nay, nay ; art pretty enough bare- 
 headed." 
 
 "O papa! but I must, for decency. 
 You are company now ; you know." 
 
 " Dull company, sweetiieart, thou 'It 
 find me." 
 
 " I don't mean that : I mean, when 
 you were here always, you were only 
 papa ; but now you come once in an 
 age, you 're company. I won't budge 
 without ""era ; so there, now." 
 
 " Well, little one, I do submit to thy 
 hat and feather; only be quick, or I 
 shall go forth without thee." 
 
 "If you dare," said Rose impetus 
 ously ; " for I won't be half a moment." 
 
 She ran and extorted from Ryder 
 the new hat and feather, which by 
 rights she was not to have worn until 
 next month. 
 
 Grififith and his little girl went all 
 over the well-known premises, he sad 
 and moody, she excited and chattering, 
 and nodding her head down, and cock- 
 ing her eye up every now and then, to 
 get a glimpse of her feather, 
 
 " And don't you go away again, dear 
 papa. It /z> so dull without you. Nobody 
 comes here. Mamma won't let 'em." 
 
 "Nobody except Father Leonard," 
 said Griffith, bitterly. 
 
 " Father Leonard .' Why, he never 
 comes here. Leonard ! That is the 
 beautiful priest that used to pat me on 
 the head, and bid me love and honor 
 my parents. And so I do. Only mam- 
 ma is always crying, and you keep 
 away ; so how can I love and honor 
 you, when I never see you, and they 
 keep telling me you are good for noth- 
 ing, and dead." 
 
 " My young mistress, when did you 
 see Father Leonard last ? " said Griffith, 
 gnawing his lip. 
 
 " How can I tell ? Why, it was miles 
 ago ; when I was a mere girl. You 
 know he went away before you did." 
 
 " I know nothing of the kind. Tell 
 me the truth now. He has visited here 
 since I went away." 
 
 " Nay, papa." 
 
 " That is strange. She visits him, 
 then ? " 
 
 " What, mamma ? She seldom stirs 
 out ; and never beyond the village. 
 We keep no carriage now. Mamma is 
 turned such a miser. She is afraid you 
 will be poor ; so she puts it all by for 
 you. But now you are come, we shall 
 have carriages and things again. O, 
 by the by. Father Leonard ! I heard 
 them say he had left England, so I 
 did." 
 
 "When was that?" 
 
 "Well, I think that was a little bit 
 after you went away." 
 
 "That is strange,'' said Griffith, 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 He led his little girl by the hand, but 
 Scarcely listened to her prattle ; he was 
 so surprised and puzzled by the infor- 
 mation he had elicited from her. 
 
 Upon the whole, however, he con- 
 cluded that his wife and the priest had 
 perhaps been smitten with remorse, 
 and had parted — when it was too late. 
 
 This, and the peace of mind he had 
 found elsewhere, somewhat softened 
 his feelings towards them. " So," 
 thought he, "they were not hardened 
 creatures after all. Poor Kate ! " 
 
 As these milder feelings gained on 
 him. Rose suddenly uttered a joyful 
 cry ; and, looking up, he saw Mrs. 
 Gaunt coming towards him, and Ryder 
 behind her. Both were in gay colors, 
 which, in fact, was what had so de- 
 lighted Rose. 
 
 They came up, and Mrs. Gaunt seemed 
 a changed woman. She looked young 
 and beautiful, and bent a look of angelic 
 affection on her daughter ; and said to 
 Griffith, " Is she not grown ? Is she 
 not lovely ? Sure you will never desert 
 her again." 
 
 " 'T was not her I deserted, but her 
 mother ; and she had played me false 
 with her d — d priest," was Griffith's 
 reply. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt drew back with horror. 
 " This, before my girl ? " she cried. 
 " Griffith Gaunt, you lie ! " 
 
 And this time it was the woman who 
 menaced the man. She rose to six feet 
 
138 
 
 Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 high, and advanced on him with her 
 great gray eyes flashing flames at him. 
 " O that I were a man ! " she cried ; 
 "this insult should be the last. I 'd 
 lay you dead at her feet and mine.'' 
 
 Griffith actually drew back a step; 
 for the wrath of such a woman was ter- 
 rible, — more terrible perhaps to a brave 
 man than to a coward. 
 
 Then he put his hands in his pockets 
 with a dogged air, and said, grinding 
 his teeth, " But — as you are not a 
 man, and I 'm not a woman, we can't 
 settle it that way. So I give you the 
 last word, and good day. I 'm sore in 
 want of money ; but I find I can't pay 
 the price it is like to cost me. Fare- 
 well." 
 
 " Begone ! " said Mrs. Gaunt : " and, 
 this time, forever. Ruffian, and fool, I 
 loathe the sight of you." 
 
 Rose ran weeping to her. " O mam- 
 ma, don't quarrel with papa '' : then 
 back to Griffith, " O papa, don't quar- 
 rel with mamma, — for my sake." 
 
 Griffith hung his head, and said, in a 
 broken voice : " No, my lamb, we twain 
 must not quarrel before thee. We will 
 part in silence, as becomes those that 
 once were dear, and have thee to show 
 for 't. Madam, I wish you all health 
 and happiness. Adieu." 
 
 He turned on his heel ; and Mrs. 
 Gaunt took Rose to her knees, and 
 bent and wept over her. Niobe over 
 her last was not more graceful, nor 
 more sad. 
 
 As for Ryder, she stole quietly after 
 her retiring master. She found him 
 peering about, and asked him demurely 
 what he was looking for. 
 
 " My good black horse,, girl, to take 
 me from this cursed place. Did I not 
 tie him to yon gate ? " 
 
 " The black horse ? Why I sent him 
 for Father Francis. Nay, listen to me, 
 master ; you know I was always your 
 friend, and hard upon her. Well, since 
 you went, things have come to pass 
 that make me doubt. I do begin to 
 fear you were too hasty." 
 
 "Do you tell me this now, woKian?" 
 cried Griffith,, furiously. 
 
 " How could I tell you before ? Why 
 
 did you break your tryst with me-? 
 If you had come according to your let- 
 ter, I 'd have told you months ago what 
 I tell you now; but, as I was saying, 
 the priest never came near her after 
 you left ; and she never stirred abroad 
 to meet him. More than that, he has 
 left England." 
 
 " Remorse ! Too late." 
 
 " Perhaps it may, sir. I could n't 
 say ; but there is one coming that knows 
 the very truth." 
 
 "Who is that.?" 
 
 "Father Francis. The moment you 
 came, sir, I took it on me to send for 
 him. You know the man : he won't 
 tell a lie to please our dame. And he 
 knows all ; for Leonard has confessed 
 to him. I listened, and heard him say 
 as much. Then, master, be advised, 
 and get the truth from Father Fran- 
 cis." 
 
 Griffith trembled. "Francis is an 
 honest man," said he ; "I '11 wait till 
 he comes. But O, my lass, I find 
 money may be bought too dear." 
 
 " Your chamber is ready, sir, and 
 your clothes put out. Supper is or- 
 dered. Let me show you your room. 
 We are all so happy now." 
 
 " Well," said he, listlessly, " since 
 my horse is gone, and Francis coming, 
 and I 'm wearied and sick of the world, 
 do what you will with me for this one 
 day." 
 
 He followed her mechanically to a 
 bedroom, where was a bright fire, and a 
 fine shirt, and his silver-laced suit of 
 clothes airing. 
 
 A sense of luxurious comfort struck 
 him at the sight. 
 
 " Ay," said he, " I '11 dress, and so 
 to supper ; I 'm main hungry. It seems 
 a man must eat, let his heart be ever 
 so sore." 
 
 Before she left him, Ryder asked him 
 coldly why he had broken his appoint- 
 ment with her. 
 
 " That is too long a story to tell you 
 how," said he, coolly. 
 
 " Another time then," said she ; 
 and went out smiling, but bitter at 
 heart. 
 
 Griffith had a good wash, and enjoyed 
 
Griffith Gaunt ; or, jfealousy. 
 
 139 
 
 certain little conveniences which he 
 had not at the " Packhorse." He doffed 
 his riding suit, and donned the mag- 
 nificent dress Ryder had selected for 
 him ; and with his fine clothes he some- 
 how put on more ceremonious manners. 
 
 He came down to the dining-room. 
 To his surprise he found it illuminated 
 with wax candles, and the table and 
 sideboard gorgeous with plate. 
 
 Supper soon smoked upon the board ; 
 but, though it was set for three, nobody 
 else appeared. 
 
 Grifiith inquired of Ryder whether 
 he was to sup alone. 
 
 She replied : " My mistress desires 
 you not to wait for her. She has no 
 stomach." 
 
 "Well, then, I have," said Grifl5th, 
 and fell to with a will. 
 
 Ryder, who waited on this occasion, 
 stood and eyed him with curiosity : 
 his conduct was so unhke a woman's. 
 
 Just as he concluded, the door open- 
 ed, and a burly form entered. Griffith 
 rose, and embraced him with his arms 
 and lips, after the fashion of the day. 
 " Welcome, thou one honest priest ! " 
 said he. . 
 
 " Welcome, thrice welcome, my long 
 lost son ! " said the cordial Francis. 
 
 " Sit down, man, and eat with me. 
 I '11 begin again, for you." 
 
 " Presently, Squire ; I 've work to do 
 first. Go thou and bid thy mistress 
 come hither to me." 
 
 Ryder, to whom this was addressed, 
 went out, and left the gentlemen to- 
 gether. 
 
 Father Francis drew out of his pock- 
 et two packets, carefully tied and 
 sealed. He took a knife from the 
 table and cut the strings, and broke 
 the seals. Griffith eyed him with cu- 
 riosity. 
 
 Father Francis looked at him. 
 « These," said he, very gravely, " are 
 the letters that Brother Leonard hath 
 written, at sundry times, to Catharine 
 Gaunt, and these are the letters Cath- 
 arine Gaunt hath written to Brother 
 Leonard." 
 
 Griffith trembled, and his face was 
 convulsed. 
 
 " Let me read them at once," said 
 . he : and stretched out his hand, with 
 eyes like a dog's in the dark. 
 
 Francis withdrew them, quietly. 
 " Not till she is also present," said 
 he. 
 
 At that Griffith's good-nature, multi- 
 plied by a good supper, took the alarm. 
 " Come, come, sir," said he, " have a 
 little mercy. I know you are a just 
 man, and, though a boon companion, 
 most severe in all matters of morality. 
 But, I tell you plainly, if you are going 
 to drag this poor woman in the dirt, I 
 shall go out of the room. What is the 
 use tormenting her ? I 've told her my 
 mind before her own child : and now I 
 wish I had not. When I caught them 
 in the grove I lifted my hand to strike 
 her, and she never winced ; I had bet- 
 ter have left that alone too, methinks. 
 D — n the women : you are always in 
 the wrong if you treat 'em like men. 
 They are not wicked : they are weak. 
 And this one hath lain in my bosom, 
 and borne me two children, and one he 
 lieth in the churchyard, and t' other 
 hath her hair and my very eyes : and 
 the truth is, I can't bear any man on 
 earth to miscall her, but myself God 
 help me ; I doubt I love her still too 
 well to sit by and see her tortured. 
 She was all in black for her fault, poor 
 penitent wretch. Give me the letters ; 
 but let her be." 
 
 Francis was moved by this ap- 
 peal, but shook his head solemnly ; 
 and, ere Griffith could renew his ar- 
 gument, the door was flung open by 
 Ryder, and a stately figure sailed in, 
 that took both the gentlemen by sur- 
 prise. 
 
 It was Mrs. Gaunt, in full dress. 
 Rich brocade that swept the ground ; 
 magnificent bust, like Parian marble 
 varnished ; and on her brow a diadem 
 of emeralds and diamonds that gave 
 her beauty an imperial stamp. 
 
 She swept into the room as only fine 
 women can sweep, • made Griffith a 
 haughty courtesy, and suddenly low- 
 ered her head, and received Father 
 Francis's blessing : then seated herself, 
 and quietly awaited events. 
 
140 
 
 Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 " The brazen jade ! " thought Grif- 
 fith. " But how divinely beautiful ! '.' 
 And he became as agitated as she was 
 calm — in appearance. For need I say 
 her calmness was put on ? Defensive 
 armor made for her by her pride and 
 her sex. 
 
 The voice of Father Francis now 
 rose, solid, grave, and too impressive 
 to be interrupted. 
 
 " My daughter, and you who are her 
 husband and my friend, I am here to 
 do justice between you both, with God's 
 help ; and to show you both your 
 faults. Catharine Gaunt, you began 
 the mischief, by encouraging another 
 man to interfere between you and your 
 husband in things secular." 
 
 " But, father, he was my director, my 
 priest." 
 
 " My daughter, do you believe, with 
 the Protestants, that marriage is a 
 mere civil contract ; or do you hold, 
 with us, that it is one of the holy sacra- 
 ments ? " 
 
 " Can you ask me ? " murmured Kate, 
 reproachfully. 
 
 " Well, then, those whom God and 
 the whole Church have in holy sacra- 
 ment united, what right hath a single 
 priest to disunite in heart, and make 
 the wife false to any part whatever of 
 that most holy vow ? I hear, and not 
 from you, that Leonard did set you 
 against your husband's friends, with- 
 drew you from society, and sent him 
 abroad alone. In one word, he robbed 
 your husband of his companion and his 
 friend. The sin was Leonard's ; but 
 the fault was yours. You were five 
 years older than Leonard, and a wo- 
 man of sense and experience ; he but a 
 boy by comparison. What right had 
 you to surrender your understanding, 
 in a matter of this kind, to a poor silly 
 priest, fresh from his seminary, and as 
 manifestly without a grain of common 
 sense as he was full of piety ? " 
 
 This remonstrance produced rather 
 a striking effect' on both those who 
 heard it. Mrs. Gaunt seemed much 
 struck with it. She leaned back in her 
 chair, and put her hand to her brow 
 with a sort of despairing gesture that 
 
 Griffith could not very well understand, 
 it seemed to him so disproportionate. 
 
 It softened him, however, and he fal- 
 tered out, " Ay, father, that is how it all 
 began. Would to heaven it had stopped 
 there." 
 
 Francis resumed. " This false step 
 led to consequences you never dreamed 
 of; for one of your romantic notions 
 is, that a priest is an angel. I have 
 known you, in former times, try to take 
 me for an angel : then would I throw 
 cold water on your folly by calling 
 lustily for chines of beef and mugs of 
 ale. But I suppose Leonard thought 
 himself an angel too ; and the upshot 
 was, he fell in love with his neighbor's 
 wife." 
 
 " And she with him," groaned Grif- 
 fith. 
 
 " Not so," said Francis ; " but per- 
 haps she was nearer it than she 
 thinks." 
 
 " Prove that,'*-said Mrs. Gaunt, " and 
 I '11 fall on my knees to him before 
 you." 
 
 Francis smiled, and proceeded. "To 
 be sure, from the moment you discov- 
 ered Leonard was in love with you, 
 you drew back, and conducted yourself 
 with prudence and propriety. Read 
 these letters, sir, and tell me what you 
 think of them." 
 
 He handed them to Griffith. Grif- 
 fith's hand trembled visibly as he took 
 them. 
 
 " Stay," said Father Francis ; " your 
 better way will be to read the whole 
 correspondence according to the dates. 
 Begin with this of Mrs. Gaunt's." 
 
 Griffith read the letter in an audible 
 whisper. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt listened with all her 
 
 " Dear Father and Friend, — 
 The words you spoke to me to-day ad- 
 mit but one meaning ; you are jealous 
 of my husband. 
 
 " Then you must be — how can I 
 write it ? — almost in love with me. 
 
 " So then my poor husband was 
 wiser than I. He saw a rival in you : 
 and he has one. 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 141 
 
 "I am deeply, deeply shocked. I 
 ought to be very angry too ; but, think- 
 ing of your solitary condition, and all 
 the good you have done to my soul, my 
 heart has no place for aught but pity. 
 Only, as I am in my senses, and you 
 are not, you must now obey me, as 
 heretofore I have obeyed you. You 
 must seek another sphere of duty, with- 
 out delay. 
 
 " These seem harsh words from me 
 to you. You will live to see they are 
 kind ones. 
 
 " Write me one line, and no more, 
 to say you will be ruled by me in this. 
 
 " God and the saints have you in 
 their holy keeping. So prays your af- 
 fectionate and 
 " Sorrowful daughter and true friend, 
 " Catharine Gaunt." 
 
 " Poor soul ! " said Griffith. " Said 
 
 1 not that women are ^ot wicked, but 
 
 weak ? Who would think that after 
 
 this he could get the better of her good 
 
 .resolves, — the villain ! " 
 
 " Now read his reply," said Father 
 Francis. 
 
 " Ay," said Griffith. " So this is 
 his one word of reply, is it ? three 
 pages closely writ, — the villain, O 
 the villain!" 
 
 " Read the villain's letter," said 
 Francis, calmly. 
 
 The letter was very humble and pa- 
 thetic, — the reply of a good, though 
 erring man, who owned that in a mo- 
 ment of weakness he had been be- 
 trayed into a feeling inconsistent with 
 his holy profession. He begged his 
 correspondent, however, not to judge 
 him quite so hardly. He reminded her 
 of his solitary life, his natural melan- 
 choly, and assured her that all men in 
 his condition had moments when they 
 envied those whose bosoms had part- 
 ners. " Such a cry of anguish," said 
 he, " was once wrung from a maiden 
 queen, maugre all her pride. The 
 Queen of Scots hath a son ; and I am 
 but a barren stock." He went on to 
 say that prayer and vigilance united do 
 much. " Do not despair so soon of 
 me. Flight is not cure : let me rather 
 
 stay, and, with God's help and the 
 saints', overcome this unhappy weak- 
 ness. If I fail, it will indeed be time 
 for me to go, and never again see the 
 angelic face of my daughter and m^ 
 benefactress." 
 
 Griffith laid down the letter. He 
 was somewhat softened by it, and said, 
 gently, " I cannot understand it. This 
 is not the letter of a thorough bad man 
 neither." 
 
 " No," said Father Francis, coldly, 
 " 't is the letter of a self-deceiver ; and 
 there is no more dangerous man to 
 himself and others than your self-de- 
 ceiver. But now let us see whether he 
 can throw dust in her eyes, as well as 
 his own." And he handed him Kate's 
 reply. 
 
 The first word of it was, " You de- 
 ceive yourself." The writer then in- 
 sisted, quietly, that he owed it to him- 
 self, to her, and to her husband, whose 
 happiness he was destroying, to leave 
 the place at her request. 
 
 " Either you must go, or I," said 
 she : " and pray let it be you. Also, 
 this place is unworthy of your high 
 gifts : and I love you, in my way, the 
 way I mean to love you when we meet 
 again — in heaven ; and I labor your 
 advancement to a sphere more worthy 
 of you." 
 
 I wish space permitted me to lay the 
 whole correspondence before the read- 
 er ; but I must confine myself to its 
 general purport. 
 
 It proceeded in this way : the priest, 
 humble, eloquent, pathetic ; but gently, 
 yet pertinaciously, clinging to the place : 
 the lady, gentle, wise, and firm, detach- 
 ing with her soft fingers, first one hand, 
 then another, of the poor priest's, till at 
 last he was driven to the sorry excuse 
 that he had no money to travel with, 
 nor place to go to. 
 
 " I can't understand . it," said Grif- 
 fith. " Are these letters all forged, or 
 are there two Kate Gaunts ? the one 
 that wrote these prudent letters, and 
 the one I caught upon this very priest's 
 arm. Perdition ! " 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt started to her feet 
 
142 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 " Metliinks 't is time for me to leave 
 the room," said she, scarlet. 
 
 " Gently, my good friends ; one thing 
 at a time," said Francis. " Sit thou 
 down, impetuous. The letters, sir, 
 — what thinli you of them .? " 
 
 " I see no harm in them," said Grif- 
 fith. 
 
 " No harm ! Is that all ? But I say 
 these are very remarkable letters, sir : 
 and they show us that a woman may 
 be innocent and unsuspicious, and so 
 seem foolish, yet may be wise for all 
 that. In her early communication with 
 Leonard, 
 
 * At Wisdom's gate Suspicion slept ; 
 And tliought no ill where no ill seemed.' 
 
 But, you see, suspicion being once 
 aroused, wisdom was not to be lulled 
 nor blinded. But that is not all : these 
 letters breathe a spirit of Christian 
 charity ; of true, and rare, and exalted 
 piety. Tender are they, without pas- 
 sion ; wise, yet not cold ; full of con- 
 jugal love, and of filial pity for an err- 
 ing father, whom she leads, for his 
 good, with firm yet dutiful hand. Trust 
 to my great experience : doubt the 
 chastity of snow rather than hers who 
 could write these pure and exquisite 
 lines. My good friend, you heard me 
 rebuke and sneer at this poor lady for 
 being too innocent and unsuspicious of 
 man's frailty : now hear me own to you 
 that I could no more have written these 
 angelic letters than a barn-door fowl 
 could soar to the mansions of the saints 
 in heaven." 
 
 This unexpected tribute took Mrs. 
 Gaunt's heart by storm ; she threw her 
 arms round Father Francis's neck, and 
 wept upon his shoulder. 
 
 " Ah ! " she sobbed, " you are the on- 
 ly one left that loves me." 
 
 She could not understand justice 
 praising her : it must be love. 
 
 " Ay," said Griffith, in a broken 
 voice, " she writes like an angel ; she 
 speaks like an angel : she looks like an 
 angel. My heart says she is an angel. 
 But my eyes have shown me she is 
 naught. I left her, unable to walk, by 
 her way of it ; I came back and found 
 
 her on that priest's arm, springing 
 along like a greyhound." He buried 
 his head in his hands, and groaned 
 aloud. 
 
 Francis turned to Mrs. Gaunt, and 
 said, a little severely, " How do you ac- 
 count for that ? " 
 
 " I '11 tell you. Father," said Kate, 
 " because you love me. I do not 
 speak to you, sir : for you never loved 
 me." 
 
 " I could give thee the lie," said 
 Griffith, in a trembling voice ; " but 't is 
 not worth while. Know, sir, that with- 
 in twenty-four hours after I caught 
 her with that villain, I lay a-dying for 
 her sake ; and lost my wits ; and, when 
 I came to, they were a-making my 
 shroud in the very room where I lay. 
 No matter ; no matter ; I never loved 
 her." 
 
 " Alas ! poor soul ! " sighed Kate. 
 " Would I had died ere I brought thee 
 to that ! " And, with this, they both 
 began to cry at the same moment. 
 
 " Ay, poor fools,'' said Father Fran- 
 cis, softly ; " neither of ye loved t' 
 other ; that is plain. So now sit you 
 there, and let us have your explana- 
 tion ; for you must own appearances 
 are strong against you." 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt drew her stool to Fran- 
 cis's knee ; and addressing herself to 
 him alone, explained as follows : — 
 
 " I saw Father Leonard was giving 
 way, and only wanted one good push, 
 after a manner. Well, you know T 
 had got him, by my friends, a good 
 place in Ireland ; and I had money by 
 me for his journey ; so, when my hus- 
 band talked of going to the fair, I 
 thought, ' O, if I could but get this 
 settled to his mind before he comes 
 back ! ' So I wrote a line to Leonard. 
 You can read it if you like. 'T is dated 
 the 30th of September, I suppose." 
 
 " I will," said Francis, and read this 
 out: — 
 
 " Dear Father and Friend, — 
 You have fought the good fight, and 
 conquered. Now, therefore, I will see 
 you once more, and thank you for my 
 husband (he is so unhappy), and put 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or. Jealousy. 
 
 143 
 
 the money for your journey into your 
 hand myself, — your journey to Ireland. 
 You are the Duke of Leinster's chap- 
 lain ; for I have accepted that place for 
 you. Let me see you to-morrow in the 
 Grove, for a few minutes, at high noon. 
 God bless you. 
 
 " Catharine Gaunt." 
 
 " Well, father," said Mrs. Gaunt, " 't 
 is true that I could only walk two or 
 three times across the room. But, 
 alack, you know what women are : ex- 
 citement gives us strength. With 
 thinking that our unhappiness was at 
 an end, — that, when he should come 
 back from the fair, I should fling my 
 arm round his neck, and tell him I had 
 removed the cause of his misery, and 
 so of mine, — I seemed to have wings ; 
 and I did walk with Leonard, and 
 talked with rapture of the good he was 
 to do in Ireland, and how he was to be 
 a mitred abbot one day (for he is a 
 great man), and poor little me be proud 
 of him ; and how we were all to be hap- 
 py together in heaven, where is no 
 marrying nor giving in marriage. This 
 was our discourse ; and I was just 
 putting the purse into his hands, and 
 bidding him God-speed, when he — for 
 whom I fought against my woman's 
 nature, and took this trying task upon 
 me — broke in upon us, with the face 
 of a fiend ; trampled on the poor, good 
 priest, that deserved veneration and 
 consolation from him, of all men ; and 
 raised his hand to me ; and was not 
 man enough to kill me after all ; but 
 called me — ask him what he ca:lled 
 me — see if he dares to say it again 
 before you ; and then ran away, like 
 a coward as he is, from the lady he 
 had defiled with his rude tongue, and 
 the heart he had broken. Forgive 
 him ? that I never will, — never, — 
 never." 
 
 " Who asked you to forgive him ? " 
 said the shrewd priest. "Your own 
 heart. Come, look at him." 
 
 '•Not I," said she, irresolutely. 
 Then, still more feebly : " He is 
 naught to me." And so stole a look 
 at him. 
 
 Griffith, pale as ashes, had his hand 
 on his brow, and his eyes were fixed 
 with horror and remorse. 
 
 " Something tells me she has spoken 
 the truth," he said, in a quavering 
 voice. Then, with concentrated hor- 
 ror, " But if so — O God, what have I 
 done ? — What shall I do ? " 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt extended her arms to- 
 wards him across the priest. 
 
 " Why, fall at thy wife's knees and 
 ask her to forgive thee." 
 
 Griffith obeyed : he fell on his 
 knees, and Mrs. Gaunt leaned her head 
 on Francis's shoulder, and gave her 
 hand across him to her remorse-strick- 
 en husband. 
 
 Neither spoke, nor desired to speak ; 
 and even Father Francis sat silent, and 
 enjoyed that sweet glow which some- 
 times blesses the peacemaker, even in 
 this world of wrangles and jars. 
 
 But the good soul had ridden hard, 
 and the neglected meats emitted sa- 
 vory odors ; and by and by he said dry- 
 ly, " I wonder whether that fat pullet 
 tastes as well as it smells : can you tell 
 me. Squire ? " 
 
 " O, inhospitable wretch that I am ! " 
 said Mrs. Gaunt : " I thought but of 
 my own heart." 
 
 "And forgot the stomach of your un- 
 spiritual father. But, my dear, you are 
 pale, you tremble." 
 
 " 'T is nothing, sir : I shall soon be 
 better. Sit 3'ou down and sup : I wijl 
 return anon." 
 
 She retired, not to make a fuss ; but 
 her heart palpitated violently, and she 
 had to sit down on the stairs. 
 
 Ryder, who was prowhng about, 
 found her there, and fetched her harts- 
 horn. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt got better; but felt so 
 languid, and also hysterical, that she 
 retired to her own room for the night, 
 attended by the faithful Ryder, to 
 whom she confided that a reconciliation 
 had taken place, and, to celebrate it, 
 gave her a dress she had only worn a 
 year. This does not sound queenly to 
 you ladies ; but know that a week's 
 wear tells far more on the flimsy trash 
 you wear now-a-days, than a year did 
 
144 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 on the glorious silks of Lyons Mrs. 
 Gaunt put on ; thick as broadcloth, 
 and embroidered so cunningly by the 
 loom, that it would pass for rarest 
 needle-work. Besides, in those days, 
 silk was silk. 
 
 As Ryder left her, she asked, " Where 
 is master to lie to-night ? " 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt was not pleased at this 
 question being put to her. She would 
 have preferred to leave that to Grif- 
 fith. And, as she was a singular 
 mixture of frankness and finesse, I be- 
 lieve she had retired to her own room 
 partly to test Griffith's heart. If he 
 was as sincere as she was, he would 
 not be content with a public reconcilia- 
 tion. 
 
 But the question being put to her 
 plump, and by one of her own sex, she 
 colored faintly, and said, " Why, is 
 there not a bed in his room ? " 
 '" O yes, madam." 
 
 " Then see it be well aired. Put 
 
 down all the things before the fire ; and 
 
 then tell me : I '11 come and see. The 
 
 'feather-bed, mind, as well as the sheets 
 
 and blankets." 
 
 Ryder executed all this with zeal. 
 She did more ; though Griffith and 
 Francis sat up very late, she sat up 
 too ; and, on the gentlemen leaving the 
 supper-room, she met them both, with 
 bed-candles, in a delightful cap, and 
 undertook, with cordial smiles, to show 
 them both their chambers. 
 
 " Tread softly on the landing, an if it 
 please you, gentlemen. My mistress 
 hath been unwell ; but she is in a fine 
 sleep now, by the blessing, and I would 
 not have her disturbed." 
 
 Good, faithful, single-hearted Ryder ! 
 
 Father Francis went to bed thought- 
 ful. There was something about Grif- 
 fith he did not like : the man every 
 now and then broke out into boisterous 
 * * raptures, and presently relapsed into 
 moody thoughtfulness. Francis almost 
 feared that his cure was only temporary. 
 
 In the morning, before he left, he 
 drew Mrs. Gaunt aside, and told her 
 his misgivings. She replied that she 
 thought she knew what was amiss, and 
 would soon set that right. 
 
 Griffith tossed and turned in his bed, 
 and spent a stormy night. His mind, 
 was in a confused whirl, and his heart 
 distracted. The wife he had loved so 
 tenderly proved to be the very reverse 
 of all he had lately thought her ! She 
 was pure as snow, and had always loved 
 him ; loved him now, and only wanted 
 a good excuse to take him to her arms 
 again. But Mercy Vint ! — his wife, 
 his benefactress ! a woman as chaste 
 as Kate, as strict in life and morals, — 
 what was to become of her ? How 
 could he tell her she was not his wife ? 
 how reveal to her her own calamity, 
 and his treason ? And, on the other 
 hand, desert her without a word ! and 
 leave her hoping, fearing, pining, all 
 her life ! Affection, humanity, grati- 
 tude, alike forbade it. 
 
 He came down in the morning, pale 
 for him, and worn with the inward 
 struggle. 
 
 Naturally there was a restraint be- 
 tween him and ^Irs. Gaunt ; and only 
 short sentences passed between them. 
 
 He saw the peacemaker off, and 
 then wandered all over the premises, 
 and the past came nearer, and the pres- 
 ent seemed to retire into the back- 
 ground. 
 
 He wandered about like one in a 
 dream ; and was so self-absorbed, that 
 he did not see Mrs. Gaunt coming to- 
 wards him, with observant eyes. 
 
 She met him full ; he started like a 
 guilty thing. 
 
 "Are you afraid of me ?" said she, 
 sweetly. 
 
 " No, my dear, not exactly ; and yet 
 I am : afraid, or ashamed, or both." 
 
 " You need not. I said I forgive you ; 
 and you know I am not one that does 
 things by halves." 
 
 " You are an angel ! " said he, warm- 
 ly ; " but " (suddenly relapsing into de- 
 spondency) " we shall never be happy 
 together again." 
 
 She sighed. " Say not so. Time 
 and sweet recollections may heal even 
 this wound by degrees." 
 
 " God grant it," said he, despair- 
 ingly. 
 
 "And, though we can't be lovers 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 145 
 
 again all at once, we may be friends. 
 To begin, tell me, what have you on 
 your mind ? Come, make a friend of 
 me." 
 
 He looked at her in alarm. 
 
 She smiled. " Shall I guess ? " said 
 she. 
 
 "You will never guess,'' said he; 
 " and I shall never have the heart to 
 tell you." 
 
 " Let me try. Well, I think you 
 have run in debt, and are afraid to ask 
 me for the money." 
 
 GrifiSth Was greatly relieved by this 
 conjecture ; he drew a long breath ; 
 and, after a pause, said cunningly, 
 "What made you think that?" 
 
 '- Because you came here for money, 
 and not for happiness. You told me 
 so in the Grove." 
 
 " That is true. What a sordid wretch 
 you must think me ! " 
 
 " No, because you were under a de- 
 lusion. But I do believe you are just 
 the man to turn reckless, when you 
 thought me false, and go drinking and 
 dicing." She added eagerly, " I do not 
 suspect you of anything worse." 
 
 He assured her that was not the way 
 of it. 
 
 " Thert tell me the way of it. You 
 must not think, because I pester you 
 not with questions, I have no curiosity. 
 O, how often I have longed to be a 
 bird, and watch you day and night un- 
 seen ! How would you have Hked that ? 
 I wish you had been one, to watch me. 
 Ah, you don't answer. Could you have 
 borne so close an inspection, sir ? " 
 
 Griffith shuddered at the idea ; and 
 his eyes fell before the full gray orbs of 
 his wife. 
 
 " Well, never mind," said she. " Tell 
 me your story." 
 
 " Well, then, when I left you, I was 
 raving mad." 
 
 " That is true, I 'II be sworn." 
 
 " I let my horse go ; and he took me 
 near a hundred miles from here, and 
 stopped at — at — a farm-house. The 
 good people took me in.'' 
 
 " God bless them for it. I '11 ride 
 and thank them." 
 
 " Nay, nay ; 't is too far. There I 
 10 
 
 fell sick of a fever, a brain-fever : the 
 doctor blooded me." 
 
 " Alas ! would he had taken mine in- 
 stead." 
 
 " And I lost my wits for several days ; 
 and when I came back, I was weak as 
 water, and given up by the doctor ; and 
 the first thing I saw was an old hag set 
 a-making of my shroud." 
 
 Here the narrative was interrupted a 
 moment by Mrs. Gaunt seizing him 
 convulsively ; and then holding him 
 tenderly, as if he was even now about 
 to be taken from her. 
 
 " The good people nursed me, and so 
 did their daughter, and I came back 
 from the grave. I took an inn ; but I 
 gave up that, and had to pay forfeit ; 
 and so my money all went ; but they 
 Icept me on. To be sure I helped on 
 the farm : they kept a hostelry as well. 
 By and by came that murrain among 
 the cattle. Did you have it in these 
 parts, too ? " 
 
 " I know not ; nor care. Prithee, 
 leave cattle, and talk of thyself" 
 
 " Well, in a word, they were ruined, 
 and going to be sold up. I could not 
 bear that : I became bondsman for the 
 old man. It was the least I could do. 
 Kate, they had saved thy husband's 
 life." 
 
 "Not a word more, GrifiSth. How 
 much stand you pledged for ? " 
 
 " A large sum." 
 
 "Would five hundred pounds be of 
 any avail ? " 
 
 " Five hundred pounds ! Ay, that it 
 would, and to spare ; but where can I 
 get so much money ? And the time so 
 short." 
 
 " Give me thy hand, and come with 
 me," said Mrs. Gaunt, ardently. 
 
 She took his hand, and made a swift 
 rush across the lawn. It was not ex- 
 actly running, nor walking, but some 
 grand motion she had when excited. 
 She put him to his stride to keep up 
 with her at all ; and in two minutes she 
 Ivad him into her boudoir. She un- 
 locked a bureau, all in a hurry, and took 
 out a bag of gold. " There ! " she cried, 
 thrusting it into his hand, and blooming 
 all over with joy and eagerness : " I 
 
146 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 thought you would want money ; so I 
 saved it up. You shall not be in debt 
 a day longer. Now mount thy horse, 
 and carry it to those good souls ; only, 
 for my sake, take the gardener with thee, 
 — I have no groom now but he, — and 
 both well armed." 
 
 " What ! go this very day ? " 
 
 " Ay, this very hour. I can bear thy 
 absence for a day or two more, — I have 
 borne it so long ; but I cannot bear thy 
 plighted word to stand in doubt a day, 
 no, not an hour. I am your wife, sir, 
 your true and loving wife : your honor 
 is mine, and is as dear to me now as 
 it was when you saw me with Father 
 Leonard in the Grove, and read me all 
 awry. Don't wait a moment. Begone 
 at once." 
 
 " Nay, nay, if I go to-morrow, I shall 
 be in time." 
 
 "Ay, but," said Mrs. Gaunt, very 
 softly, " I am afraid if I keep you anoth- 
 er hour I shall not have the heart to 
 let you go at all ; and the sooner gone, 
 the sooner back for good, please God. 
 There, give me one kiss, to live on, and 
 begone this instant." 
 
 He covered her hands with kisses 
 and tears. " I 'm not worthy to kiss 
 any higher than thy hand," he said, 
 and so ran sobbing from her. 
 
 He went straight to the stable, and 
 saddled Black Dick. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 He went straight to the stable, and 
 saddled Black Dick. 
 
 But, in the very act, his nature re- 
 volted. What, turn his back on her 
 the moment he had got hold of her 
 money, to take to the other. He could 
 not do it. 
 
 He went back to her room, and came 
 so suddenly that he caught her cry- 
 ing. He asked her what was the matter. 
 
 " Nothing," said she, with a sigh : 
 " only a woman's foolish misgivings. I 
 was afraid perhaps you would not come 
 back. Forgive me." 
 
 " No fear of that," said he. " How- 
 ever, I have taken a resolve not to go 
 
 to-day. If I go to-morrow, I shall be 
 just in time ; and Dick wants a good 
 day's rest." 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt said nothing; but her 
 expressive face was triumphant. 
 
 Griffith and she took a walk together ; 
 and he, who used to be the more genial 
 of the two, was dull, and she full of ani- 
 mation. 
 
 This whole day she laid herself out 
 to bewitch her husband, and put him in 
 high spirits. 
 
 It was up-hill work ; but when such 
 a woman sets herself in earnest to de- 
 light a man, she reads our sex a lesson 
 in the art, that shows us we are all ba- 
 bies at it. 
 
 However, it was at supper she finally 
 conquered. 
 
 Here the lights, her beauty set off 
 with art, her deepening eyes, her satin 
 skin, her happy excitement, her wit and 
 tenderness, and joyous sprightliness, 
 enveloped Griffith in an atmosphere of 
 delight, and drove everything out of his 
 head but herself; and with thi.s, if the 
 truth must be told, the sparkling wines 
 co-operated. 
 
 Griffith plied the bottle a little too 
 freely. But Mrs. Gaunt, on this one 
 occasion, had not the heart to check 
 him. The more he toasted her, the 
 more uxorious he became, and she 
 could not deny herself even this joy ; 
 but, besides, she had less of the pru- 
 dent wife in her just then than of the 
 weak, indulgent mother. Anything 
 rather than check his love : she was 
 greedy of it. 
 
 At last, however, she said to him, 
 " Sweetheart, I shall go to bed ; for, I 
 see, if I stay longer, I shall lead thee 
 into'a debauch. Be good now ; drink 
 no more when I am gone. Else I '11 
 say thou lovest thy bottle more than 
 thy wife." 
 
 He promised faithfully. But, when 
 she was gone, modified his pledge by 
 drinking just one bumper to her health, 
 which bumper let in another ; and, 
 when at last he retired to rest, he was 
 in that state of mental confusion where- 
 in the limbs appear to have a memory 
 independent of the mind. 
 
Griffith Gaunt ; or, yealonsy. 
 
 H7 
 
 In this condition do some men's 
 hands wind up their watches, the mind 
 taking no appreciable part in the cere- 
 mony. 
 
 By some such act of what physicians 
 call ." organic memory," Griffith's feet 
 carried him to the chamber he had slept 
 in a thousand times, and not into the 
 one Mrs. Rider had taken him to the 
 night before. 
 
 The next morning he came down 
 " rather late for him, and found himself 
 treated with a great access of respect 
 by the servants. 
 
 His position was no longer doubtful ; 
 he was the master of the house. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt followed in due covirse, 
 and sat at breakfast with him, looking 
 young and blooming as Hebe, and her 
 eye never off him long. 
 
 She had lived temperately, and had 
 not yet passed the age when happiness 
 can restore a woman's beauty and bright- 
 ness in a single day. 
 
 As for him, he was like a man in a 
 heavenly dream : he floated in the past 
 and the present : the recent and the 
 future seemed obscure and distant, and 
 comparatively in a mist. 
 
 But that same afternoon, after a most 
 affectionate farewell, and many promises 
 to return as soon as ever he had dis- 
 charged his obligations, Griffith Gaunt 
 started for the " Packhorse," to carry 
 to Mercy Leicester, alias Vint, the 
 money Catharine Gaunt had saved by 
 self-denial and economy. 
 
 And he went south a worse man than 
 he came. 
 
 When he left Mercy Leicester, he 
 was a bigamist in law, but not at heart. 
 Kate was dead to him : he had given 
 her up forever, and- was constant and 
 true to his new wife. 
 
 But now he was false to Mercy, 
 yet not true to Kate ; and, curiously 
 enough, it was a day or two passed 
 with his lawful wife that had demoral- 
 ized him. His unlawful wife had hith- 
 erto done nothing but improve his char- 
 acter. 
 
 A great fault once committed is often 
 the first link in a chain of acts that 
 
 look like crimes, but are, strictly speak- 
 ing, consequences. 
 
 This man, blinded at first by his own 
 foible, and after that the sport of cir- 
 cumstances, was single-hearted by na- 
 ture ; and his conscience was not hard- 
 ened. He desired earnestly to free 
 himself and both his wives from the 
 cruel situation ; but to do this, one of 
 them, he saw, must be abandoned en- 
 tirely ; and his heart, bled for her. 
 
 A villain or a fool would have rel- 
 ished the situation ; matiy men would 
 have daUied with it ; but, to do this err- 
 ing man justice, he writhed and sor- 
 rowed under it, and sincerely desired 
 to end it. 
 
 And this was why he prized Kate's 
 money so. It enabled him to render a 
 great service to her he had injured worse 
 than he had the other, to her he saw he 
 must abandon. 
 
 But this was feeble comfort, after all. 
 He rode along a miserable man ; none 
 the less wretched and remorseful, that, 
 ere he got into Lancashire, he saw his 
 way clear. This was his resolve : to 
 pay old Vint's debts with Kate's mon- 
 ey ; take the " Packhorse," get it made 
 over to Mercy, give her the odd two 
 hundred pounds and his jewels, and fly. 
 He would never see her again ; but 
 would return home, and get the rest of 
 the two thousand pounds from Kate, 
 and send it Mercy by a friend, who 
 should tell her he was dead, and had 
 left word with his relations to send her 
 all his substance. 
 
 At last the " Packhorse " came ia 
 sight. He drew rein, and had half a 
 mind to turn back ; but, instead of 
 that, he crawled on, and very sick and 
 cold he felt. 
 
 Many a man has marched to the 
 scaffold with a less quaking heart than 
 he to the " Packhorse." 
 
 His dejection contrasted strangely 
 with the warm reception he met from 
 everybody there. And the house was 
 full of women ; and they seemed, some- 
 how, all cock-a-hoop, and filled with 
 admiration of ktm. 
 " Where is she ? " said he, faintly. 
 " Hark, to the poor soul ! " said a 
 
148 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 gossip. '-Dame Vint, where 's thy 
 daughter ? gone out a- walking be- 
 like ? " 
 
 At this, the other women present 
 chuckled and clucked. 
 
 " I '11 bring you to her,'' said Mrs. 
 Vint; "but prithee be quiet and rea- 
 sonable ; for to be sure she is none too 
 strong." 
 
 There was some little preparation, 
 and then Griffith was ushered into 
 Mercy's room, and found her in bed, 
 looking a little pale, but sweeter and 
 comelier than ever. She had the bed- 
 clothes up to her chin. 
 
 " You look wan, my poor lass," said 
 he ; " what ails ye ? " 
 
 " Naught ails me now thou art 
 come," said she, lovingly. 
 
 Griffith put the bag on the table. 
 " There," said he, " there 's five hun- 
 dred pounds in gold. I come not to 
 thee empty-handed." 
 
 " Nor I to thee," said Mercy, with a 
 heavenly smile. " See ! " 
 
 And she drew down the bedclothes 
 a little, and showed the face of a 
 babe scarcely three days old, — a little 
 boy. 
 
 She turned in the bed, and tried to 
 hold him up to his father, and said, 
 " Here 's my treasure for thee ! " And 
 the effort, the flush on her cheek, and 
 the deep light in her dove-Hke eyes, 
 told plainly that the poor soul thought 
 she had contributed to their domestic 
 wealth something far richer than Grif- 
 fith had with his bag of gold. 
 
 The father uttered an ejaculation, 
 and came to her side, and, for a mo- 
 ment. Nature overpowered everything 
 else. He kissed the child ; he kissed 
 Mercy again and again. 
 
 " Now God be praised for both," 
 said he, passionately ; " but most for 
 thee, the best wife, the truest friend — " 
 Here, thinking of her virtues, and the 
 blow he had come to strike her, he 
 broke down, and was almost choked 
 with emotion ; whereupon Mrs. Vint 
 exerted female authority, and bundled 
 him out of the room. " Is that the way 
 to carry on at such an a time ? '! said she. 
 
 " 'T was enow to upset her altogether. 
 O, but you men have little sense in 
 women's matters. I looked to you to 
 give her courage, not to set her off into 
 hysterics after a manner. Nay, keep 
 up her heart, or keep your distance, 
 say I, that am her mother." 
 
 Griffith took this hint, and ever after 
 took pity on Mercy's weak condition ; 
 and, suspending the fatal blow, did all 
 he could to restore her to health and 
 spirits. 
 
 Of course, to do that, he must de- 
 ceive her; and so his life became a 
 lie. 
 
 For, hitherto, she had never looked 
 forward much ; but now her eyes were 
 always diving into futurity ; and she 
 lay smiling and discussing the pros- 
 pects of her boy ; and Griffith had to 
 sit by her gide, and see her gnaw the 
 boy's hand, and kiss his feet, and an- 
 ticipate his brilliant career. He had to 
 look and listen with an aching heart, 
 and assent with feigned warmth, and 
 an inward chill of horror and remprse. 
 
 One Drummond, a travelling artist, 
 called ; and Mercy, who had often re- 
 fused to sit to him, consented now ; 
 " for," she said, " when he grows up, he 
 shall know how his parents looked in 
 their youth, the very year their darling 
 was born." So Griffith had to sit with 
 her, and excellent likenesses the man 
 produced ; but a horrible one of the 
 child. And Griffith thought, "Poor 
 soul ! a little while and this picture 
 will be all that shall be left to thee of 
 me." 
 
 For all this time he was actually 
 transacting the preliminaries of sepa- 
 ration. He got a man of law>to make 
 all sure. The farm, the stock, the fur- 
 niture and good-will of the " Pack- 
 horse," all these he got assigned to 
 Mercy Leicester for her own use, in 
 consideration of three hundred and 
 fifty pounds, whereof three hundred 
 were devoted to clearing the concern 
 of its debts, the odd fifty was to 
 sweeten the pill to Harry Vint. 
 
 When the deed came to be executed, 
 Mercy was surprised, and uttered a 
 gentle remonstrance. "What have I 
 
Griffith Gatmt ; or. Jealousy. 
 
 149 
 
 to do with it?" said she. '"Tis thy 
 money, not mine." 
 
 "No matter," said GrifBth; "I 
 choose to have it so." 
 
 " Your will is my law," said Mercy. 
 
 "Besides," said Griffith, "the' old 
 folk will not feel so sore, nor be afraid 
 of being turned out, if it is in thy 
 name." 
 
 " And that is true," said Mercy. 
 « Now who had thought of that, but my 
 good man ? " And she threw her arras 
 lovingly round his neck, and gazed on 
 him adoringly. 
 
 But his lion-like eyes avoided her 
 dove-like eyes ; and an involuntary 
 shudder ran through him. 
 
 The habit of deceiving Mercy led to 
 a consequence he had not anticipated. 
 It tightened the chain that held him. 
 She opened his eyes more and more to 
 her deep affection, and he began to 
 fear she would die if he abandoned 
 her. 
 
 And then her present situation was 
 so touching. She had borne him a 
 lovely boy ;' that must be abandoned 
 too, if he left her ; and somehow the 
 birth of this child had embellished the 
 mother ; a delicious pink had taken 
 the place of her rustic bloom ; and her 
 beauty was more refined and delicate. 
 So pure, so loving, so fair, so mater- 
 nal, to wound her heart now, it seemed 
 like stabbing an angel. 
 
 One day succeeded to another, and 
 still Griffith had not the heart to carry 
 out his resolve. He temporized ; he 
 wrote to Kate that he was detained by 
 the business ; and he stayed on and 
 on, strengthening his gratitjude and his 
 affection, and weakening his love for 
 the absent, and his resolution ; till, at 
 last, he became so distracted and di- 
 vided in heart, and so demoralized, that 
 he began to give up the idea of aban- 
 doning Mercy, and babbled to himself 
 about fate and destiny, and decided 
 that the most merciful course would be 
 to deceive both women. Mercy was 
 patient. Mercy was unsuspicious. She 
 would content herself with occasional 
 visits, if he could only feign some plau- 
 sible tale to account for long absences. 
 
 Before he got into this mess, he was 
 a singularly truthful person ; but now 
 a lie was nothing to him. But, for that 
 matter, many a man has been first made 
 a liar by his connection with two wo- 
 men ; and by degrees has carried his 
 mendacity into other things. 
 
 However, though now blessed with 
 mendacity, he was cursed with a lack 
 of invention ; and sorely puzzled how 
 to live at Hernshaw, yet visit the 
 " Packhorse." 
 
 The best thing he could hit upon was 
 to pretend to turn bagman ; and so 
 Mercy would believe he was travelling 
 all over England, when all the time he 
 was quietly living at Hernshaw. 
 
 And perhaps these long separations 
 might prepare her heart for a final part- 
 ing, and so let in his original plan a few 
 years hence. 
 
 He prepared this manoeuvre with 
 some art ; he told her, one day, he had 
 been to Lancaster, and there fallen in 
 with a friend, who had as good as prom- 
 ised him the place of a commercial 
 traveller for a mercantile house there. 
 
 " A traveller ! " said Mercy. " Heaven 
 forbid ! If you knew how I wearied for 
 you when you went to Cumberland ! " 
 
 " To Cumberland ! How know you I 
 went thither ? " 
 
 "0, I but guessed that; but now I 
 know it, by your face. But go where 
 thou wilt, the house is dull directly. 
 Thou art our sunshine. Is n't he, my 
 poppet ? " 
 
 " Well, well ; if it kept me too long 
 from thee, I could give it up. But, 
 child, we must think of young master. 
 You could manage the inn, and your 
 mother the farm, without me ; and I 
 should be earning money on my side. 
 I want to make a gentleman of him." 
 
 "Anything for him," said Mercy; 
 "anything in the world." But the tears 
 stood in her eyes. 
 
 In -furtherance of this deceit, Griffith 
 did one day actually ride to Lancaster, 
 and slept there. He wrote to Kate 
 from that town, to say he was detained 
 by a slight illness, but hoped to be home 
 in a week : and the next day brought 
 Mercy home some ribbons, and told her 
 
I50 
 
 Griffith Gaunt ; or, yealou^y. 
 
 he had seen the merchant, and his 
 brother, and they had made him a very 
 fair oiTer. " But I 've a week to think 
 of it," said he ; " so there 's no hurry." 
 
 Mercy fixed her eyes on him in a very 
 pecuhar way, and made no reply. You 
 must know that something very curious 
 had happened whilst Griffith was gone 
 to Lancaster. 
 
 A travelling pedler, passing by, was 
 struck with the name on the sign-board. 
 " Hallo ! " said he, " why here 's a name- 
 sake of mine ; I '11 have a glass of his 
 ale any way." 
 
 So he came into the pubhc room, and 
 cnlled for a glass ; taking care to open 
 his pack, and display his inviting wares. 
 Harry Vint served him. " Here 's your 
 health," said the pedler. " You must 
 drink with me, you must." 
 
 "And welcome," said the old man. 
 
 "Well," said the pedler, " I do travel 
 five counties ; but for all that, you are 
 the first namesake I have found. I am 
 Thomas Leicester, too, as sure as you 
 are a living sinner." 
 
 The old man laughed, and said, 
 " Then no namesake of mine are you ; 
 for they call me Harry Vint. Thomas 
 Leicester, he that keeps this inn now, 
 is my son-in-law ; he is gone to Lan- 
 caster this morning." 
 
 The pedler said that was a pity, he 
 should have liked to see his namesake, 
 afid drink a glass with him. 
 
 " Come again to-morrow," said Harry 
 Vint, ironically. " Dame," he cried, 
 " come hither. Here 's another Thomas 
 Leicester for ye, wants to see our 
 one." 
 
 Mrs. Vint turned her head, and in- 
 spected the pedler from afar, as if he 
 was some natural curiosity. 
 
 " Where do you come from, youh^ 
 man ? " said she. 
 
 " Well, I came from Kendal last ; but 
 I am Cumberland born." 
 
 " Why, that is where t' other comes 
 from," suggested Paul Carrick, who was 
 once more a frequenter of the house. 
 
 " Like enow," said Mrs. Vint. 
 
 With that she dropped the matter as 
 one of no consequence, and retired. 
 But she went straight to Mercy, in the 
 
 parlor, and told her there was a man in 
 the kitchen that called himself Thomas 
 Leicester. 
 
 "Well, mother?" said Mercy, with 
 high indifference, for she was trying 
 new socks on King Baby. 
 
 " He comes from Cumberland." 
 
 " Well, to be sure, names do run in 
 counties." 
 
 " That is true ; but, seems to me, he 
 favors your man : much of a height, 
 and — There, do just step into the 
 kitchen a moment." 
 
 " La, mother," said Mercy, " I don't 
 desire to see any more Thomas Leices- 
 ters than my own : 't is the man, not the 
 name. Isn't it, my lamb? " 
 
 Mrs. Vint went back to the kitchen 
 discomfited ; but, with quiet pertinaci- 
 ty, she brought Thomas Leicester into 
 the parlor, pack and all. 
 
 "There, Mercy," said she, "layout 
 a penny with thy husband's namesake." 
 
 Mercy did not repl)', for at that mo- 
 ment Thomas Leicester caught sight 
 of Griffith's portrait, and gave a sudden 
 start, and a most extraordinary look 
 besides. 
 
 Both the women's eyes happened to 
 be upon him, and they saw at once that 
 he knew the original. 
 
 " You know my husband ? " said 
 Mercy Vint, after a while. 
 
 " Not I," said Leicester, looking 
 askant at the picture. 
 
 " Don't tell no lies," said Mrs. Vint. 
 "You do know him well." And she 
 pointed her assertion by looking at the 
 portrait. 
 
 " O, I know him whose picture hangs 
 there, of course," said Leicester. 
 
 " Well, and that is her husband." 
 
 " O, that is her husband, is it ? " And 
 he was unaffectedly puzzled. 
 ■' Mercy turned pale. " Yes, he is my 
 husband," said she, " and this is our 
 child. Can you tell me anything about 
 him ? for he came a stranger to these 
 parts. Belike you are a kinsman of 
 his ? " 
 
 " So they say." 
 
 This reply puzzled both women. 
 
 " Any way," said the pedler, " you 
 see we are marked alike." And he 
 
Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy, 
 
 151 
 
 showed a long black mole on his fore- 
 head. 
 
 Mercy was now as curious as she 
 had been indifferent. "Tell me all 
 about him," said she: "how. comes it 
 that he is a gentleman and thou a ped- 
 ler ? " 
 
 ".Well, because my mother was a 
 gypsy, and his a gentlewoman." 
 
 " What brought him to these parts ? " 
 
 " Trouble, they say." 
 
 " What trouble .? " 
 
 "Nay, I know not." This after a 
 slight but visible hesitation. 
 
 " But you have heard say." 
 
 " Well, I am always on the foot, and 
 don't bide long enough in one 'place 
 to learn all the gossip. But I do re- 
 member hearing he was gone to sea : 
 and that was a lie, for he had settled 
 here and married you. I'fackins, he 
 might have done worse. He has got a 
 bonny buxom wife, and a rare fine boy, 
 to be sure." 
 
 And now the pedler was on his 
 guard, and determined he would not be 
 the one to break up the household he 
 saw before him, and afflict the dove- 
 eyed wife and mother. He was a 
 good - natured fellow, and averse to 
 make mischief with his own hands. 
 Besides, he took for granted Griffith 
 loved his new wife better than the old 
 one ; and, above all, the punishment of 
 bigamy was severe, and was it for him 
 to get the Squire indicted, and branded 
 in the hand for a felon 1 
 
 So the women could get nothing 
 more out of him ; he lied, evaded, 
 shuffled, and feigned utter ignorance ; 
 pleading, adroitly enough, his vagrant 
 life. 
 
 All this, however, aroused vague sus- 
 picions in Mrs. Vint's mind, and she 
 went and whispered them to her favor- 
 ite, Paul Carrick. "And, Paul," said 
 she, " call for what you like, and score 
 it to me ; only treat this pedler till he 
 leaks out sumraut : to be sure he '11 tell 
 a man more than he will us." 
 
 Paul entered with zeal into this 
 commission : treated the pedler to a 
 chop, and plied hira well with the best 
 ale. 
 
 All this failed to loose the pedler's 
 tongue at the time, but it muddled his 
 judgment : on resuming his journey, he 
 gave his entertainer a wink. Carrick 
 rose and followed him out. 
 
 " You seem a decent lad," said the 
 pedler, " and a good-hearted one. Wilt 
 do me a favor ? " 
 
 Carrick said he would, if it lay in his 
 power. 
 
 " O, it is easy enow," said the ped- 
 ler. " 'T is just to give young Thomas 
 Leicester, into his own hand, this here 
 trifle as soon as ever he comes home." 
 And lie handed Carrick a hard sub- 
 stance wrapped up in paper. Carrick 
 promised. 
 
 " Ay, ay, lad," said the pedler, " but 
 see you play fair, and give it him un- 
 beknown. Now don't you be so sim- 
 ple as. show it to any of the women- 
 folk. D' ye understand ? " 
 
 " All right," said Carrick, knowingly. 
 And so the boon companions for a day 
 shook hands and parted. 
 
 And Carrick took the little parcel 
 straight to Mrs. Vint, and told her 
 every word the pedler had said. 
 
 And Mrs. Vint took the little parcel 
 straight to Mercy, and told her what 
 Carrick said the pedler had said. 
 
 And the pedler went off flushed with 
 beer and self- complacency ; for he 
 thought he had drawn the line precise- 
 ly ; had faithfully discharged his prom- 
 ise to his lady and benefactress, but 
 not so as to make mischief in another 
 household. 
 
 Such was the power of Ale — in the 
 last century. 
 
 Mercy undid the paper and found the 
 bullet, on which was engraved 
 
 "I LOVE KATE." 
 
 As she read these words a knife 
 seemed to enter her heart, the pang 
 was so keen. 
 
 But she soon took herself to task. 
 "Thou naughty woman," said she. 
 " What ! jealous of the dead ? " 
 
 She wrapped the bullet up ; put it 
 carefully away ; had a good cry ; and 
 was herself again. 
 
 But all this set her watching Grif- 
 
152 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 fith, and reading his face. She had 
 subtle, vague misgivings, and forbade 
 her mother to mention the pedler's 
 visit to GrifBth yet awhile. Woman- 
 like sJie preferred to worm out the 
 truth. 
 
 On the evening of his return from 
 Lancaster, as he was smoking his pipe, 
 she quietly tested him. She fixed her 
 eyes on him, and said, " One was here 
 to-day that knows thee, and brought 
 thee this." She then handed him the 
 bullet, and watched his face. 
 
 Griffith undid the paper carelessly 
 enough ; but, at sight of the bullet, ut- 
 tered a loud cry, and his eyes seemed 
 ready to start out of his head. 
 
 He turned as pale as ashes, and 
 stammered piteously, " What ? what ? 
 what d'ye mean ? In Heaven's name, 
 what is this ? How ? Who ? " 
 
 Mercy was surprised, but also much 
 concerned at his distress ; and tried to 
 soothe him. She also asked him pit- 
 eously, whether she had done wrong to 
 give it him. " God knows," said she, 
 " 't is no business of mine to go and re- 
 mind thee of her thou hast loved better 
 mayhap than thou lovest me. But to 
 keep it from thee, and she in her grave, 
 — O, I had not the heart." 
 
 But Griffith's agitation increased in- 
 stead of diminishing ; and, even while 
 she was trying to soothe him, he rushed 
 wildly out of the room, and into the 
 open air. 
 
 Mercy went, in perplexity and dis- 
 tress, and told her mother. 
 
 Mrs. Vint, not being blinded by af- 
 fection, thought the whole thing had a 
 very ugly look, and said as much. She 
 gave it as her opinion that this Kate 
 was alive, and had sent the token her- 
 self, to make mischief between man and 
 wife." 
 
 " That shall she never," said Mercy, 
 stoutly ; but now her suspicions were 
 thoroughly excited, and her happiness 
 disturbed. 
 
 The next day, Griffith found her in 
 tears. He asked her what was the mat- 
 ter. She would not tell him. 
 
 " You have your secrets," said she ; 
 " and so now I have mine." 
 
 Griffith became very uneasy. 
 
 For now Mercy was often in tears, 
 and Mrs. Vint looked daggers at him. 
 
 All this was mysterious and unintel- 
 ligible, and, to a gwlty man, very alarm- 
 ing. 
 
 At last he implored Mercy to speak 
 out. He wanted to know the worst. 
 
 Then Mercy did speak out. "You 
 have deceived me," said she. " Kate 
 is ahve. This very morning, between 
 sleeping and waking, you whispered 
 her name ; ay, false man, whispered it 
 like a lover. You told me she was 
 dead. But she is alive, and has sent 
 you a reminder, and the bare sight of 
 it hath turned your heart her way again. 
 What shall I do ? Why did you mar- 
 ry me, if you could not forget her ? I 
 did not want you to desert any woman 
 for me. The desire of my heart was 
 always for your happiness. But O 
 Thomas, deceit and falsehood will not 
 bring you happiness, no more than they 
 will me. What shall I do ? what shall 
 I do ? " 
 
 Her tears flowed freely, and Griffith 
 sat down, and groaned with horror and 
 remorse, beside her. 
 
 He had not the courage to tell her 
 the horrible truth, — that Kate was his 
 wife, and she was not. 
 
 " Do not thou afflict thyself," he mut- 
 tered. " Of course, with you putting 
 that bullet in my hand so sudden, it set 
 my fancy a wandering back to other 
 days." 
 
 " Ah ! " said Mercy, " if it be no 
 worse than that, there 's little harm. 
 But why did thy namesake start so at 
 sight of thy picture ? " 
 
 " My namesake ! " cried Griffith, all 
 aghast. 
 
 " Ay, he that brought thee that love- 
 token, — Thomas Leicester. Nay, for 
 very shame, feign not ignorance of him. 
 Why, he hath thy very mole on his 
 temple, and knew thy picture in a mo- 
 ment. He is thy half-brother, is he 
 not?" 
 
 " I am a ruined man," cried Griffith, 
 and sank into a chair without power of 
 motion. 
 
 " God help me, what is all this ? " 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 153 
 
 cried Mercy. " O Thomas, Thomas, I 
 could forgive thee aught but deceit : for 
 both our sakes speak out, and tell me 
 the worst. No harm shall come near 
 thee while I live." * 
 
 " How can I tell thee ? I am an un- 
 fortunate man. The world will call me 
 a villain ; yet I am not a villain at heart. 
 But who will believe me ? I have 
 broken the law. Thee I could trust, 
 but not thy folk ; they never loved me. 
 Mercy, for pity's sake, when was that 
 Thomas Leicester here ? " 
 
 " Four days ago." 
 
 " Which way went he ? " 
 
 " I hear he told Paul he was going to 
 Cumberland." 
 
 " If he gets there before me, I shall 
 rot in gaol." 
 
 " Now God forbid ! O Thomas, then 
 mount and ride after him." 
 
 " I will, and this very moment." 
 
 He saddled Black Dick, and loaded 
 his pistols for the journey ; but, ere he 
 went, a pale face looked out into the 
 yard, and a finger beckoned. It was 
 Mercy.. She bade him follow her. She 
 took him to her room, where their child 
 was sleeping ; and then she closed and 
 even locked the door. 
 
 "No soul can hear us," said she; 
 " now look me in the face, and tell me 
 God's truth. Who and what are you ? " 
 
 Griffith shuddered at this exordium ; 
 he made no reply. 
 
 Mercy went to a box and took out 
 an old shirt of his, — the one he wore 
 when he first came to the " Packhorse." 
 She brought it to him and showed him 
 " G. G." embroidered on it with a wo- 
 man's hair. (Ryder's.) 
 
 " Here are your initials," said she ; 
 " now leave useless falsehoods ; be a 
 man, and tell me your real name." 
 
 "My name is Griffith Gaunt." 
 
 Mercy, sick at heart, tiirned her head 
 away; but she had the resolution toi 
 urge him on. " Go on," said she, in an 
 agonized whisper: "if you believe in 
 God and a judgment to come, deceive 
 me no more. The truth, I say !, the 
 truth ! " 
 
 " So be it," said Griffith, desperately : 
 " when I have told thee what a villain 
 
 I am, I can die at thy feet, and then 
 thou wilt forgive me. 
 
 " Who is Kate ? " was all she re- 
 plied, 
 
 " Kate is my wife." 
 
 " I thought her false ; who could 
 think any other ? appearances were so 
 strong against her : others thought so 
 beside me. I raised my hand to kill 
 her ; but she never winced. I tram- 
 pled on him I believed her paramour :, 
 I fled, and soon I lay a-dying in this 
 house for her sake. I told thee she 
 was dead. Alas I I thought her dead 
 to me. I went back to our house (it is 
 her house) sore against the grain, to 
 get money for thee and thine. Then 
 she cleared herself, bright as the sun, 
 and pure as snow. She was all in 
 black for me ; she had put by money, 
 against I should come to my senses 
 and need it. I told her I owed a debt 
 in Lancashire, a debt of gratitude as 
 well as money: and so I did. How 
 have I repaid it ? The poor soul Forced 
 five hundred pounds on me. I had 
 much ado to keep her from bringing it 
 hither with her own hands. O, villain I 
 villain ! Then I thought to leave thee, 
 and send thee word I was dead, and 
 heap money on thee. Money ! But 
 how could I ? thou wast my benefac- 
 tress, my more than wife. All the 
 riches of the world can make no return 
 to thee. What, what shall I do .? 
 Shall I fly with thee and thy child 
 across the seas ? Shall I go back to 
 her .' No ; the best thing I can do is 
 to take this good pistol, and let the life 
 out of my dishonorable carcass, and 
 free two honest women from me by one 
 resolute act." 
 
 In his despair he cocked the pistol ; 
 and, at a word from Mercy, this tale 
 had ended. 
 
 But the poor woman, pale and trem- 
 bling, tottered across the room, and 
 took it out of his hand. " I would not 
 harm thy body, nor thy soul," she 
 gasped. " Let me draw my breath and 
 think." 
 
 She rocked herself to and fro in si- 
 lence. 
 
154 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealous^. 
 
 Grifiith stood trembling like a crimi- 
 nal before his judge. 
 
 It was long ere she could speak, for 
 anguish. Yet when she did speak, it 
 was with a sort of deadly. calm. 
 
 "Go tell the truth to ker, as you have 
 done' to me ; and, if she can forgive 
 you, all the better for you. I can nev- 
 er forgive you, nor yet can harm you. 
 My child ! my child ! Thy father is 
 our ruin. O, begone, man, or the sight 
 of you will kill us both." 
 
 Then he fell at her knees ; kissed, 
 and wept over her cold hand ; and, in 
 his pity and despair, offered to cross 
 the seas with her and her child, and so 
 repair the wrong he had done her. 
 
 " Tempt me not," she sobbed. " Go, 
 leave me I None here shall ever know 
 thy crime, but she whose heart thou hast 
 broken, and ruined her good name." 
 
 He took her in his arms, in spite 
 of her resistance, and kissed her pas- 
 sionately ; but, for the first time, she 
 shuddered at his embrace ; and that 
 gave him the power to leave her. 
 
 He rushed from her, all but distract- 
 ed, and rode away to Cumberland ; but 
 not to tell the truth to Kate, if he could 
 possibly help it. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 At this particular time, no man's pres- 
 ence was more desired in that county 
 than GrifiSth Gaunt's. 
 
 And this I need not now be telling 
 the reader, if I had related this story on 
 the plan of a miscellaneous chronicle. 
 But the affairs of the heart are so ab- 
 sorbing, that, even in a narrative, they 
 thrust aside^important circumstances of- 
 a less moving kind. 
 
 I must therefore go back a step, be-' 
 fore I advance further. You must knoW" 
 that forty years before our Griffith 
 Gaunt saw the light, another Griffith 
 Gaunt was born in Cumberland : a 
 younger son, and the family estate en- 
 tailed ; but a shrewd lad, who chose 
 rather to hunt fortune elsewhere than 
 to live in miserable dependence on his 
 elder brother. His godfather, a city- 
 
 merchant, encouraged him, and he left 
 Cumberiand. He went into commerce, 
 and in twenty years became a wealthy 
 man, — so wealthy that he lived to look 
 down on his brother's estate, which he 
 had once thought opulence. His life 
 was all prosperity, with a single excep- 
 tion ; but that a bitter one. He laid 
 out some of his funds in a fashionable 
 and beautiful wife. He loved her be- 
 fore marriage ; and, as she was always 
 cold to him, he loved her more and 
 more. 
 
 In the second year of their marriage 
 she ran away from him ; and no beggar 
 in the streets of London was so miser- 
 able as the wealthy merchant. 
 
 It blighted the man, and left him a 
 sore heart all his days. He never mar- 
 ried again ; and railed on all woman- 
 kind for this one. He led a solitary 
 life in London till he was sixty-nine ; 
 and then, all of a sudden. Nature, or 
 accident, or both, changed his whole 
 habits. Word came to him that the 
 family estate, already deeply mortgaged, 
 was for sale, and a farmer who had 
 rented a principal farm on it, and held a 
 heavy mortgage, had made the highest 
 offer. 
 
 Old Griffith sent down Mr. Atkins, 
 his solicitor, post haste, and snapped 
 the estate out of that purchaser's 
 hands. 
 
 When the lands and house had been 
 duly conveyed to him, he came down, 
 and his heart seemed to bud again, in 
 the scenes of his childhood. 
 
 Finding the house small, and built in 
 a valley instead of on rising ground, he' 
 got an army of bricklayers, and began 
 t-o build a mansion with a rapidity un- 
 heard of in those parts ; and he looked' 
 abouffor some one to inherit it. 
 
 The name of Gaunt had dwindled 
 down to three, since he left tumber- 
 land ; but a rich man never lacks re- 
 lations. Featherstonhaughs, and Un- 
 derbills, and even Smiths, poured in, 
 with parish registers in their laps, and 
 proved themselves Gauntesses, and 
 flattered and carneyed the new head of 
 tlie family. 
 
 Thdri the perverse old gentleman felt 
 
Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 155 
 
 inclined to look elsewhere. He knew 
 he had a namesake at the other side of 
 the county, but this namesake did not 
 come near him. 
 
 This independent Gaunt excited his 
 curiosity and interest. He made in- 
 quiries, and heard that young Griffith 
 had just quarrelled with his wife, and 
 gone away in despair. 
 
 Griffith senior took for granted tha:t 
 the fault lay with Mrs. Gaunt, and wast- 
 ed some good sympathy on Griffith 
 junior. 
 
 On further inquiry he learned that 
 the truant was dependent on his wife. 
 Then, argued the moneyed man, he 
 would not run away from her but that 
 his wound was deep. 
 ■ The consequence of all this was, that 
 he made a will very favorable to his ab- 
 sent and injured (?) namesake. He 
 left numerous bequests ; but made 
 Griffith his residuary legatee ; and, 
 having settled this matter, urged on, 
 and superintended his workmen. 
 
 Alas ! just as the roof was going on, 
 a narrower house claimed him, and he 
 made good the saying of the wise 
 bard, — 
 
 " Tu secanda marrriora 
 Locas sub ipsum funus et sepulchri 
 Immemor struts domos." 
 
 The heir of his own choosing could 
 not be found to attend his funeral ; and 
 Mr. Atkins, his solicitor, a very worthy 
 man, was really hurt at this. With the 
 quiet bitterness of a displeased attor- 
 ney, he merely sent Mrs. Gaunt word 
 her husband inherited something under 
 the will, and she would do well to pro- 
 duce him, or else furnish' him (Atkins) 
 with proof of his decease. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt was offended by this cavr 
 alier note, and replied very like" a wo- 
 man, and very unlike Business. 
 
 " I do not know where he is," said 
 she, " nor whether he is alive or dead. 
 Nor do I feel disposed to raise the 
 •hue and cry after him. But favor me 
 with your address, and I shall let you 
 know should I hear anything about 
 him." ' 
 
 Mr. Atkins was half annoyed, half 
 amused, at this piece of indifference. 
 
 It never occurred to him that it might 
 be all put on. 
 
 He wrote back to say that the estate 
 was large, and, owing to the terms of 
 the will, could not be administered with- 
 out Mr. Griffith Gaunt ; and, in the in- 
 terest of the said Griffith Gaunt, and 
 also of the other legatees, he really 
 must advertise for him. 
 
 La Gaunt replied, that he was very 
 welcome to advertise for whomsoever 
 he pleased. 
 
 Mr. Atkins was a very worthy man ; 
 but human. To tell the truth, he was 
 himself one of the other legatees. He 
 inherited (and, to be just, had well de- 
 served) four thousand guineas, under 
 the will, and could not legally touch 
 it without Griffith Gaunt. This httle 
 circumstance spurred his professional 
 zeal. 
 
 Mr. Atkins advertised for Griffith 
 Gaunt, in the London and Cumberland 
 papers, and in the usual enticing form. 
 He was to apply to Mr. Atkins, Solici- 
 tor, of Gray's Inn, and he would hear 
 of something greatly to his advantage. 
 
 These advertisements had not been 
 out a fortnight, when Griffith Gaunt 
 came home, as I have related. 
 
 But Mr. Atkins had punished Mrs. 
 Gaunt for her insoticiance, by not in- 
 forming her of the extent of her good 
 fortune ; so she merely told Griffith, 
 casually, that old Griffith Gaunt had 
 •left him some money, and the solicitor, 
 -Mr. Atkins, could not get on without 
 him. Even this information she did 
 not vouchsafe until she had given him 
 her £ 500, for she grudged Atkins tlie 
 pleasure of supplying her husband willi 
 money. 
 
 However, as soon as Griffith left her, 
 she wrote to Mr. Atkins to say that her 
 "husband had come home in perfect 
 health, thank God ; had only stayed 
 two days, but was to return in a 
 week. 
 
 When ten days had elapsed, Atkins 
 wrote to inquire. 
 
 She replied he had not yet returned ; 
 and this went on till Mr. Atkins showed 
 considerable impatience. 
 
 As for Mrs. Gaunt, she made I'g! 
 
156 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, yeatousy. 
 
 of the matter to Mr. Atkins ; but, in 
 truth, this new mystery irritated her 
 and pained her deeply. 
 
 In one respect she was more unhappy 
 than she had been before he came back 
 at all. Then she was alone ; her door 
 was closed to commentators. But now, 
 on the strength of so happy a recon- 
 ciliation, she had re-entered the world, 
 and received visits from Sir George 
 Neville, and others ; and, above all, had 
 announced that Griffith would be back 
 for good in a few days. So now his 
 continued absence exposed her to sly 
 questions from her own sex, to the 
 interchange of glances between female 
 visitors, as well as to the internal tor- 
 ture of doubt and suspense. 
 
 But what distracted her most was 
 the view Mrs. Ryder took of the mat- 
 ter. 
 
 That experienced lady had begun to 
 suspect some other woman was at the 
 bottom of Griffith's conduct ; and her 
 own love for Griffith was now soured. 
 Repeated disappointments and affronts, 
 spreteeque injuria forma, had not quite 
 extinguished it, but had mixed so much 
 spite with it that she was equally ready 
 to kiss or to stab him. 
 
 So she took every opportunity to 
 instil into her mistress, whose con- 
 fidence she had won at last, that Grif- 
 fith was false to her. 
 
 " That is the way with these men 
 that are so ready to suspect others. 
 Take my word for it. Dame, he has car- 
 ried your money to his leman. 'T is 
 still the honest woman that must bleed 
 for some nasty trollop or other." 
 
 She enforced this theory by examples 
 drawn from her own observations in 
 families, and gave the very names ; and 
 drove Mrs. Gaunt almost mad with 
 fear, anger, jealousy, and cruel sus- 
 pense. She could not sleep, she could 
 not eat ; she was in a constant fever. 
 
 Yet before the world she battled it 
 out bravely, and indeed none but Ryder 
 knew the anguish of her spirit, and her 
 passionate wrath. 
 
 At last there came a most eventful 
 day. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt had summoned all her 
 
 pride and fortitude, and invited certain 
 ladies and gentlemen to dine and sup. 
 
 She was one of the true Spartan 
 breed, and played the hostess as well 
 as if her heart had been at ease. It 
 was an age in which the host struggled 
 fiercely to entertain the guests; and 
 Mrs. Gaunt was taxing all her powers 
 of pleasing in the dining-room, when 
 an unexpected guest strolled into the 
 kitchen : the pedler, Thomas Leices- 
 ter. 
 
 Jane welcomed him cordially, and he 
 was soon seated at a table eating his 
 share of the feast. 
 
 Presently Mrs. Ryder came down, 
 dressed in her best, and looking hand- 
 somer than ever. 
 
 At sight of her, Tom Leicester's af- 
 fection revived ; and he soon took oc- 
 casion to whisper an inquiry whether 
 she was still single. 
 
 " Ay," said she, " and like to be." 
 
 " Waiting for the master still ? May- 
 hap 1 could cure you of that com- 
 plaint. But least said is soonest mend- 
 ed." 
 
 This mysterious hint showed Ryder 
 he had a secret burning his bosom. 
 The sly hussy said nothing just then, 
 but plied him with ale and flattery; 
 and, when he whispered a request for 
 a private meeting out of doors, she 
 cast her e3res down, and assented. 
 
 And in that meeting she carried her- 
 self so adroitly, that he renewed his 
 offer of marriage, and told her not to 
 waste her fancy on a man who cared 
 neither for her nor any other she in 
 Cumberland. 
 
 " Prove that to me,'' said Ryder, cun- 
 ningly, " and may be I '11 take you at 
 your word." 
 
 The bribe was not to be resisted. 
 Tom revealed to her, under a solemn 
 promise of secrecy, that the Squire had 
 got a wife and child in Lancashire ; 
 and had a farm and an inn, which lat- 
 ter he kept under the name of — Thomas 
 Leicester. 
 
 In short, he told her, in his way, all 
 the particulars I have told in mine. 
 
 Which told it the best will never be 
 known in this world. 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 157 
 
 She led him on ■with a voice of very 
 velvet. He did not see how her cheek 
 paled and her eyes flashed jealous fury. 
 
 When she had sucked him dry, she 
 suddenly turned on him, with a cold 
 voice, and said, " I can't stay any lon- 
 ger with you just now. She will want 
 me." 
 
 " You will meet me here again, lass ? " 
 said Tom, ruefully. 
 
 " Yes, for a minute, after supper." 
 
 She then left him, and went to Mrs. 
 Gaunt's room, and sat crouching before 
 the fire, all hate and bitterness. 
 
 What ? he had left the wife he loved, 
 and yet had not turned to her ! 
 
 She sat there, waiting for Mrs. Gaunt, 
 and nursing her vindictive fury, two 
 mortal hours. 
 
 At last, just before supper, Mrs. 
 Gaunt came up to her room, to cool 
 her fevered hands and brow, and found 
 this creature crouched by her fire, all 
 in a heap, with pale cheek, and black 
 eyes that glittered like basilisk's. 
 
 " What is the matter, child ? " said 
 Mrs. Gaunt. " Good heavens ! what 
 hath happened ? " 
 
 " Dame ! " said Ryder, sternly, " I 
 have got news of him." 
 
 "News of him?" faltered Mrs. 
 Gaunt. " Bad news ? " 
 
 " I don't know whether to tell you 
 or not," said Ryder, sulkily, but with 
 a touch of human feeling. 
 
 " What cannot I bear ? What have 
 I not borne ? . Tell me the truth." 
 
 The words were stout, but she trem- 
 bled all over in uttering them. 
 
 " Well, it is as I said, only worse. 
 Dame, he has got a wife and child in 
 another county ; and no doubt been 
 deceiving her, as he has «j." 
 
 " A wife ! " gasped Mrs. Gaunt, and 
 one white hand clutched her bosom, 
 and the other the mantel-piece. 
 
 "Ay, Thomas Leicester, that is in 
 the kitchen now, saw her, and saw his 
 picture hanging aside hers on the wall. 
 And he goes by the name of Thomas 
 Leicester. That was what made Tom 
 go into the inn, seeing his own name 
 on the signboard. Nay, Dame, never 
 give way Hke that. Lean on me, — so. 
 
 He is a villain, — a false, jealous, dou- 
 ble-faced villain." 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt's head fell back on Ry- 
 der's shoulder, and she said no word ; 
 but only moaned and moaned, and her 
 white teeth clicked convulsively to- 
 gether. 
 
 Ryder wept over her sad state : the 
 tears were half impulse, half croco- 
 dile. 
 
 She applied hartshorn to the suffer- 
 er's nostrils, and tried to rouse her 
 mind by exciting her anger. But all 
 was in vain. There hung the betrayed 
 wife, pale, crushed, and quivering un- 
 der the cruel blow. 
 
 Ryder asked her if she should go 
 down and excuse her to her guests. 
 
 She nodded a feeble assent. 
 
 Ryder then laid her down on the 
 bed with her head low, and was just 
 about to leave her on that errand, 
 when hurried steps were heard out- 
 side the door ; and one of the female 
 servants knocked ; and, not waiting to 
 be invited, put her head in, and cried, 
 " O, Dame, the Master is come home. 
 He is in the kitchen." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 Mrs. Ryder made an agitated mo- 
 tion with her hand, and gave the girl 
 such a look withal, that she retired 
 precipitately. 
 
 But Mrs. Gaunt had caught the 
 words, and they literally transformed 
 her. She sprang off the bed, and 
 stood erect, and looked a Saxon Py- 
 thoness : golden hair streaming down 
 her back, and gray eyes gleaming with 
 fury. 
 
 She caught up a little ivory-handled 
 knife, and held it above her head. 
 
 " I '11 drive this into his heart before 
 them all," she cried, "and tell them 
 the reason aflerwards." 
 
 Ryder looked at her for a moment 
 in utter terror. She saw a woman 
 with grander passions than herself; a 
 woman that looked quite capable of 
 executing her sanguinary threat. Ry- 
 der made no more ado, but slipped 
 
158 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy, 
 
 ont directly to prevent a meeting that 
 might be attended with terrible conse- 
 quences. 
 
 She found her master in the kitchen, 
 splashed with mud, drinking a horn of 
 ale after his ride, and looking rather 
 troubled and anxious ; and, by the 
 keen eye of her sex, she saw that the 
 female servants were also in consider- 
 able anxiety. The fact is, they had 
 just extemporized a lie. 
 
 Tom Leicester, being near the kitch- 
 en window, had seen Griffith ride into 
 the court-yard. 
 
 At sight of that well-known figure, 
 he drew back, and his heart quaked 
 at his own imprudence, in confiding 
 Griffith's secret to Caroline Ryder. 
 
 " Lasses," said he, hastily, "do me a 
 kindness for old acquaintance. Here 's 
 the Squire. For Heaven's sake, don't 
 let him know I am in the house, or 
 there will be bloodshed between us. 
 He ,is a hasty man, and I 'm another. 
 I '11 tell ye more by and by." 
 
 The next moment Griffith's tread 
 was heard approaching the very door, 
 and Leicester darted into the house- 
 keeper's room, and hid in a cupboard 
 there. 
 
 Griffith opened the kitchen door, 
 and stood upon the threshold. 
 
 The women courtesied to him, and 
 were loud in welcome. 
 
 He returned their civilities briefly ; 
 and then his first word was, " Hath 
 Thomas Leicester been here ? " 
 
 You know how servants stick to- 
 gether against their master ! The girls 
 looked him in the face, like candid 
 doves, and told him Leicester had not 
 been that way for six months or more. 
 
 " Why, I have tracked him to within 
 two miles," said Griffith, doubtfully. 
 
 " Then he is sure to come here,'' 
 said Jane, adroitly. " He would n't 
 ever think to go by us." 
 
 "The moment he enters the house, 
 you let me know. He is a mischief- 
 making loon." 
 
 He then asked for a horn of ale ; 
 and, as he finished it, Ryder came in, 
 and he turned to her, and asked her 
 after her mistress. 
 
 " She was well, just now," said Ry- 
 der; "but she has been took with a 
 spasm: and it would be well, sir, if 
 you could dress, and entertain the 
 company in her place awhile. For I 
 must tell you, your being so long away 
 hath set their tongues going, and al- 
 most broken my lady's heart." 
 
 Griffith sighed, and said he could 
 not help it, and now he was here, he 
 would do all in his power to please 
 her. " I '11 go to her at once," said he. 
 
 " No, sir ! " said Ryder, firmly. 
 " Come with me. I want to speak to 
 you." 
 
 She took him to his bachelor's room, 
 and stayed a few minutes to talk to 
 him. 
 
 " Master," said she, solemnly, 
 "things are very serious here. Why 
 did you stay so long away ? Our 
 dame says some woman is at the bot- 
 tom of it, and she '11 put a knife into 
 you if you come a-nigh her." 
 
 This threat did not appall Griffith, as 
 Ryder expected. Indeed, he seemed 
 rather flattered. 
 
 " Poor Kate ! " said he ; " she is just 
 the woman to do it. But I am afraid 
 she does not love me enough for that. 
 But indeed how should she ? " 
 
 "Well, sir," replied Ryder, "oblige 
 me by keeping clear of her for a little 
 while. I have got orders to make your 
 bed here. Now, dress, hke a good soul, 
 and then go down and show respect to 
 the company that is in your house ; for 
 they know you are here." 
 
 " Why, that is the least I can do," 
 said Griffith. " Put you out what I am 
 to wear, and then run and say I '11 be 
 with them anon." 
 
 Griffith walked into the dining-room, 
 and, somewhat to his surprise, after 
 what .Ryder had said, found Mrs. Gaunt 
 seated at the head of her own table, 
 and presiding like a radiant queen over 
 a brilliant assembly. 
 
 He walked in, and made a low bow 
 to his guests first : then he approached 
 to greet his wife more freely ; but she 
 drew back decidedly, and made him 
 a courtesy, the dignity and distance of 
 which struck the whole company. 
 
Griffith Qaunf; or, Jealousy. 
 
 159 
 
 Sir George Neville, who was at the 
 bottom of the table, proposed, with his 
 usual courtesy, to resign his place to 
 GriiBth. But Mrs. Gaunt forbade the 
 arrangement. 
 
 "No, Sir George," said she; "this is 
 but an occasional visitor ; you are my 
 constant friend." 
 
 If this had been said pleasantly, 
 well and good ; but the guests looked 
 in vain into their hostess's face for 
 the smile that ought to have accom- 
 panied so strange a speech and dis- 
 armed it. 
 
 "Rarities are the more welcome," 
 said a lady, coming to the rescue ; and 
 edged aside to make room for him. 
 
 "Madam," said Griffith, "I am in 
 your debt for that explanation ; but I 
 hope you will be no rarity here, for all 
 that." 
 
 Supper proceeded ; but the mirth lan- 
 guished. Somehow or other, the chill 
 fact that there was a grave quarrel be- 
 tween two at the table, and those two 
 man and wife, insinuated itself into the 
 spirits of the guests. There began to 
 be lulls, — fatal lulls. And in one of 
 these, some unlucky voice was heard 
 to murmur, " Such a meeting of man 
 and wife I never saw." 
 
 The hearers felt miserable at this 
 personality, that fell upon the ear of 
 silence like a thunderbolt. 
 
 Griffith was ill-advised enough to no- 
 tice the remark,' though clearly not in- 
 tended for his ears. For one thing, his 
 jealousy had actually revived at the cpol 
 preference Kate had shown his old ri- 
 val, Neville. 
 
 "Oh!" said he, bitterly, "a man is 
 not always his wife's favorite." 
 
 " He does not always deserve to be," 
 said Mrs. Gaunt, sternly. 
 
 When matters had gone that length, 
 one idea seemed to occur pretty simul- 
 taneously to all the well-bred guests ; 
 and that idea was, Sauve qui pent. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt took leave of them, one 
 by one, and husband and wife were left 
 alone. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt by this time was alarmed 
 at the violence of her own passions, 
 and wished to avoid Griffith for that 
 
 night at all events. So she cast one 
 terribly stern look upon him, and was 
 about to retire in grim silence. But he, 
 indignant at the public affront she had 
 put on him, and not aware of the true 
 cause, unfortunately detained her. He 
 said, sulkily, " What sort of a reception 
 was that you gave me ? " 
 
 This was too much. She turned on 
 him furiously. "Too good for thee, 
 thou heartless creature ! Thomas Lei- 
 cester is here, and I know thee for a 
 .villain." 
 
 "You know nothing," cried Griffith. 
 " Would you believe that mischief-mak- 
 ing knave .' What has he told you ? " 
 
 " Go back to her! " cried Mrs. Gaunt 
 furiously. " Me you can deceive and 
 pillage no more. So, this was your 
 jealousy ! False and forsworn yourself, 
 you dared to suspect and insult me. 
 Ah ! and you think I am the-woraan to 
 endure this ? I '11 have your life for it ! 
 I '11 have your life." 
 
 Griffith endeavored to soften her, — 
 protested that, notwithstanding appear- 
 ances, he had never loved but her. 
 
 " I '11 soon be rid of you, and your 
 love," said the raging woman. "The 
 constables shall come for you to-mor- 
 row. You have seen how I can love, 
 you shall know how I can hate." 
 
 She then, in her fury, poured out a 
 torrent of reproaches and threats that 
 made his blood run cold. He could 
 not answer her : he had suspected her 
 wrongfully, and been false to her him- 
 self. He had abused her generosity, 
 and taken her money for Mercy Vint. 
 
 After one or two vain effiDrts to check 
 the torrent, he sank into a chair, and 
 hid his face in his hands. 
 
 But this did not disarm her, at the 
 time. Her raging voice and raging 
 words were heard by the very ser- 
 vants, long after he had ceased to de- 
 fend himself. 
 
 At last she came out, pale with 
 fury, and, finding Ryder near the door, 
 shrieked out, " Take that reptile to his 
 den, if he is mean enough to lie in this 
 house," — then, lowering her voice, 
 "and bring Thomas Leicester to me." 
 
 Ryder went to Leicester, and told 
 
i6o 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, y^alousy. 
 
 him. But he objected to come. ^' You 
 iave betrayed me," said he. " Curse 
 my weak heart and my loose tongue. 
 I have done the poor Squire an ill 
 turn. I can never look him in the face 
 again. But 't is all thy fault, double- 
 face. I hate the sight of thee." 
 
 At this Ryder shed some crocodile 
 tears ; and very soon, by her blandish- 
 ments, obtained forgiveness. 
 
 And Leicester, since the mischief 
 was done, was persuaded to see the 
 dame, who was his recent benefactor, 
 you know. He bargained, however, 
 that the Squire should be got to bed. 
 first ; for he had a great dread of meet- 
 ing him. " He '11 break every bone in 
 my skin," said Tom ; " or else I shall 
 do him a mischief in my defence." 
 
 Ryder herself saw the wisdom of 
 this. She bade him stay quiet, and she 
 went to look after Griffith. 
 
 She found him in the drawing-room, 
 with his head on the table, in deep de- 
 jection. 
 
 She assumed authority, and said he 
 must go to bed. 
 
 He rose humbly, and followed her 
 like a submissive dog. 
 
 She took him to his room. There 
 was no fire. 
 
 " That is where you are to sleep," 
 said she, spitefully. 
 
 " It is better than I deserve," said 
 he, humbly. 
 
 The absurd rule about not hitting 
 a man when he is down has never ob- 
 tained a place in the great female soul ; 
 so Ryder lashed him without mercy. 
 
 "Well, sir," said she, "methinks you 
 have gained little by breaking faith with 
 me. Y' had better have set up your inn 
 with me, than gone and sinned against 
 the law." 
 
 " Much better : would to Heaven I 
 had ! " 
 
 " What d' ye mean to do now ? 
 You know the saying. Between two 
 stools — " 
 
 " Child," sard Griffith, faintly, " me- 
 thinks I shall trouble neither long. I 
 am not so ill a man as I seem ; but 
 who will believe that ? I shall not 
 live : Ibng. And I shall leave an ill 
 
 name behind me. She told me so just 
 now. And oh ! her eye was so cruel ; 
 I saw my death in it." 
 
 " Come, come," said Ryder, relent- 
 ing a little ; " you must n't believe every 
 word an angry woman says. There, 
 take my advice ; go to bed ; and in the 
 morning don't speak to her. Keep out 
 of he,r way a day or two." 
 
 And with this piece of friendly advice 
 she left him ; and waited about till she 
 thought he was in bed and asleep. 
 
 Then she brought Thomas Leicester 
 up to her mistress. 
 
 But Griffith was not in bed ; and he 
 heard Leicester's heavy tread cross the 
 landing. He waited and waited behind 
 his door for more than half an hour, 
 and then he heard the same heavy 
 tread go away again. 
 
 By this time nearly all the inmates of 
 the house were asleep. 
 
 About twenty-five minutes after Lei- 
 cester left Mrs. Gaunt, Caroline Ryder 
 stole quietly up stairs from the kitchen, 
 and sat down to think it all over. 
 
 She then proceeded to undress ; but 
 had only taken off her gown, when she 
 started and listened ; for a cry of dis- 
 tress reached her from outside the 
 house. 
 
 She darted to the window and threw 
 it open. 
 
 Then she heard a cry more distinct, 
 " Help ! help ! " 
 
 It was a clear starlight night, but no 
 moon. 
 
 The mere shone before her, and the 
 cries were on the bank. 
 
 Now came sbmething more alarming 
 still. A flash, — a pistol shot, — and an 
 agonized voice cried loudly, " Murder ! 
 Help ! Murder ! " 
 
 That voice she knew directly. It 
 was Griffith Gaunt's. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 Ryder ran screaming, and alarmed 
 the other servants. 
 
 All the windows that looked on the 
 mere were flung open. 
 
 But no more sounds were heard. A 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 i6i 
 
 terrible silence brooded now over those 
 clear waters. 
 
 The female servants huddled togeth- 
 er, and quaked;. for who could doubt 
 that a bloody deed had been done ? 
 
 It was some time before they mus- 
 tered the presence of mind to go and 
 tell Mrs. Gaunt. At last they opened 
 her door. She was not in her room. 
 
 Ryder ran to Griffith's. It was 
 locked. She called to him. He made 
 no reply. 
 
 They burst the door open. He was 
 not there ; and the window was open. 
 
 While their tongues were all going, 
 ■in consternation, Mrs. Gaunt was sud- 
 denly among them, very pale. 
 
 They turned, and looked at her 
 aghast. 
 
 " What means all this ? " said she. 
 '*' Did not I hear cries outside ? " 
 
 "Ay," said Ryder. "Murder! and 
 a pistol fired. O, my poor master ! " 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt was white as death ; 
 but self- possessed. " Light torches 
 this moment, and search the place," 
 said she. 
 
 There was only one man in the 
 house ; and he declined to go out 
 alone. So Ryder and Mrs. Gaunt 
 went with him, all three bearing 
 lighted links. 
 
 They searched the place where Ry- 
 der had heard the cries. They went 
 up and down the whole bank of the 
 mere, and cast their torches' red light 
 over the placid waters themselves. 
 But there was nothing to be seen, 
 alive or dead, — no trace either of 
 calamity or crime. 
 
 They roused the neighbors, and 
 came back to the house with their 
 clothes all draggled and dirty. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt took Ryder apart, and 
 asked her if she could guess at what 
 time of the night Griffith had made his 
 escape. "He is a villain," said she, 
 "yet I would not have him come to 
 harm, God knows. There are thieves 
 at)road. But I hope he ran away as 
 soon as your back was turned, and so 
 fell not in with them." 
 
 " Humph ! " said Ryder. Then, look- 
 ing Mrs. Gaunt in the face, she said, 
 
 II 
 
 quietly, "Where were you when you 
 heard the cries ? " 
 
 " I -was on the other side of the 
 house." 
 
 " What, out o' doors, at that time of 
 night!" 
 
 " Ay ; I was in the grove, — praying." 
 
 " Did you hear any voice you knew .' " 
 
 " No : all was too indistinct. I 
 heard a pistol, but no words. Did 
 you ? " 
 
 " I heard no more than you, madam,'' 
 said Ryder, trembling. 
 
 No one went to bed any more that 
 night in Hernshaw Castle. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 This mysterious circumstance made 
 a great talk in the village and in the 
 kitchen of Hernshaw Castle ; but not 
 in the drawing-room ; for Mrs. Gaunt 
 instantly closed her door to visitors, 
 and let it be known that it was her 
 intention to retire to a convent ; and, 
 in the mean time, she desired not to be 
 disturbed. 
 
 Ryder made one or two attempts to 
 draw her out upon the subject, but was 
 sternly checked. 
 
 Pale, gloomy, and silent, the mistress 
 of Hernshaw Castle moved about the 
 place, like the ghost of her former self. 
 SlTe never mentioned Griffith ; forbade 
 his name to be uttered in her hearing ; 
 and, strange to say, gave Ryder strict 
 orders not to tell any one what she had 
 heard from Thomas Leicester. 
 
 " This last insult is known but to 
 you and me. If it ever gets abroad, 
 you leave my service that very hour." 
 
 This injunction set Ryder thinking. 
 However, she obeyed it to the letter. 
 Her place was getting better and bet- 
 ter ; and she was a woman accustomed 
 to keep secrets. 
 
 A pressing letter came from Mr. At- 
 kins. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt replied that her husband 
 had come to Hernshaw, but had left 
 again ; and the period of his ultimate 
 return was now more uncertain than 
 ever. 
 
if€2 
 
 GrijfitM' Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 On this Mr. Atkina ' cafl^iejijown to 
 Hernshaw Castle. B.ilt l$Ii^-' Gaunt 
 would not see him. He re£?red very 
 angry, and renewed his advertisenaents, 
 but in a more explicit form. He now 
 published that Griffith Gaunt, of Hern- 
 shaw and Bolton, was executor and 
 residuary legatee to the late Griffith 
 Gaunt of Coggleswade ; and requested 
 him to apply directly to James Atkins, 
 Solicitor, of Gray's Inn, London. 
 
 In due course this advertisement was 
 read by the servants at Hernshaw, and 
 shown by Ryder to Mrs. Gaunt. 
 
 She made no comment whatever ; and 
 contrived to render her pale face impen- 
 etrable. 
 
 Ryder became as silent and thought- 
 ful as herself, and often sat bending her 
 black judicial brows. 
 
 By and by dark mysterious words be- ' 
 gan to be thrown out in Hernshaw 
 village. 
 
 " He will never come back at all." 
 
 "He will never come into that for- 
 tune." 
 
 "'Tis no use advertising for a man 
 that is past reading." 
 
 These, and the like equivocal say- 
 ings, were followed by a vague buzz, 
 which was traceable to no individual 
 author, but seemed to rise on all sides, 
 like a dark mist, and envelop that un- 
 happy house. / 
 
 And that dark mist of Rumor soon 
 condensed itself into a palpable and 
 terrible whisper, — " Griffith Gaunt 
 hath met with foul play." 
 
 No one of the servants told Mrs. 
 Gaunt this horrid rumor. 
 
 But the women used to look at her, 
 and after her, with strange eyes. 
 
 She noticed this, and felt, somehow, 
 that her people were falling away from 
 her. It added one drop to her bitter 
 cup. She began to droop into a sort of 
 calm, despondent lethargy. 
 
 Then came fresh trouble to rouse her. 
 
 Two of the county magistrates called 
 on her in their official capacity, and, 
 with perfect politeness, but a very grave 
 air, requested her to inform them of 
 
 all the circumstances attending herhus- 
 band's disaiDpearance. 
 
 She replied, coldly and curtly, that 
 she knew very little about it. Her hus- 
 band had left in the middle of the night. 
 
 " He came to stay ? " 
 
 " I believe so." 
 
 " Came on horseback ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Did he go away on horseback ? " 
 
 " No ; for the horse is now in my 
 stable." 
 
 "Is it true there was a quarrel be- 
 tween you and him that evening ? " 
 
 " Gentlemen," said Mrs. Gaunt, draw- 
 ing herself back, haughtily, "did you 
 come here to gratify your curiosity ? " 
 
 " No, madam," said the elder of the 
 two ; " but to discharge a very serious 
 and painful duty, in which I earnestly 
 request you, and even advise you, to 
 aid us. Was there a quarrel ? " 
 
 " There was — a mortal quarrel." 
 
 The gentlemen exchanged glances, 
 and the elder made a note. 
 
 " May we ask the subject of that 
 quarrel ? " 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt declined, positively, to 
 enter into a matter so delicate. 
 
 A note was taken of this refusal. 
 
 "Are you aware, madam, that your 
 husband's voice was heard calling for 
 help, and that a pistol-shot was fired .'' " 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt trembled visibly. 
 
 " I heard the pistol-shot," said she ; 
 "but not the voice distinctly. O, I 
 hope it was not his voice Ryder heard ! " 
 
 " Ryder, who is he 1 " 
 
 " Ryder is my lady's maid : her bed- 
 room is on that side the house." 
 
 " Can we see Mrs. Ryder ? " 
 
 " Certainly," said Mrs. Gaunt, and 
 rose and rang the bell. 
 
 Mrs. Ryder answered the bell, in 
 person, very promptly ; for she was 
 listening at the door. 
 
 Being questioned, she told the mag-, 
 istrates what she had heard down by 
 " the mere " ; and said she was sure 
 it was her master's voice that cried 
 " Help ! " and " Murder ! " And with 
 this she began to cry. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt trembled and turned 
 pale. 
 
Griffith Gaunt ; or. Jealousy. 
 
 The magistrates confined their ques- 
 tions to- Ryder. 
 
 They- ejicited, however, very little 
 more from her. She saw the drift of 
 their questions, and had an impulse to 
 defend her mistress there present. Be- 
 hind her back it would have been other- 
 wise. 
 
 That resolution once taken, two chil- 
 dren might as well have tried to extract 
 evidence from her as two justices of 
 the peace. 
 
 And then Mrs. Gaunt's pale face and 
 noble features touched them. The case 
 was mysterious, but no more ; and they 
 departed little the wiser, and with some 
 apologies for the trouble they had given 
 her. 
 
 The next week down came Mr. At- 
 kins, out of all patience, and determined 
 to find Griffith Gaunt, or else obtain 
 some proof of his decease. 
 
 He obtained two interviews with Ry- 
 der, and bribed her to tell him all she 
 knew. He prosecuted other inquiries 
 with more method than had hitherto 
 been used, and elicited an important fact, 
 namely, that Griffith Gaunt had been 
 seen walking in a certain direction at 
 one o'clock in the morning, followed at 
 a short distance by a tall man with a 
 knapsack, or the like, on his back. 
 
 The person who gave this tardy infor- 
 mation was the wife of a certain farm- 
 er's man, who wired hares upon the 
 sly. The man himself, being assured 
 that, in a case so serious as this, no 
 particular inquiries should be made how 
 he came to be out so late, confirlned 
 what his wife had let out, and added, 
 that both men had taken the way that 
 would lead them to the bridge, meaning 
 the bridge over the mere. More than 
 that he could not say, for he had met 
 them, and was full half a mile from the 
 mere before those men could have 
 reached it. 
 
 Following up this clew, Mr. Atkins 
 learned so many ugly things, that he 
 went to the Bench on justicing day, and 
 demanded a full and searching inquiry 
 on the premises. 
 
 Sir George Neville, after in vain op- 
 posing this, rode off straight from the 
 
 Bench to Hernshaw, and^ in feeling 
 terms conveyed the bad news to Mrs. 
 Gaunt ; and then, with the utmost del- 
 icacy, let her know that some suspicion 
 rested upon herself, which she would 
 do well to meet with the bold front of 
 innocence. 
 
 " What suspicion, pray ? " said Mrs. 
 Gaunt, haughtily. 
 
 Sir George shrugged his shoulders, 
 and replied, "That you have done 
 Gaunt the honor to put him out of the 
 way." 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt took this very differently 
 from what Sir George expected. 
 
 " What ! " she cried, " are they so 
 sure he is dead, — murdered ? " 
 
 And with this she went into a passion 
 of grief and remorse. ^ 
 
 Even Sir George was puzzled, as well 
 as affected, by her convulsive agitation. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 Though it was known the proposed 
 inquiry might result in the committal 
 of Mrs. Gaunt on a charge of murder, 
 yet the respect in which she had hith- 
 erto been held, and the influence of Sir 
 George Neville, who, having been her 
 lover, stoutly maintained her innocence, 
 prevailed so far that even this inquiry 
 was private, and at her own house. 
 Only she was present in the character 
 of a suspected person, and the wit- 
 nesses were examined before her. 
 
 First, the poacher gave his evidence. 
 
 Then Jane, the cook, proved that a 
 pedler called Thomas Leicester had 
 been in the kitchen, and secreted about 
 the premises till a late hour ; and this 
 Thomas Leicester corresponded exactly 
 to the description given by the poacher. 
 
 This threw suspicion on Thomas 
 Leicester, but did not connect Mrs. 
 Gaunt with the deed in any way. 
 
 But Ryder's evidence filled this gap. 
 She revealed three serious facts : — 
 
 First, that, by her mistress's orders, 
 she had introduced this very Leicester 
 into her mistress's room about mid- 
 night, where he had remained , nearly 
 half an hour, and had then left the house. 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 Secondly, that Mrs. Gaunt herself 
 had been out of doors after midnight. 
 
 And, thirdly, that she had listened at 
 the door, and heard her threaten Grif- 
 fith Gaunt's life. 
 
 This is a mextpr&is of the evidence, 
 and altogether it looked so suspicious, 
 that the magistrates, after telling Mrs. 
 Gaunt she could ask the witnesses any 
 question she chose, a suggestion she 
 treated with marked contempt, put their 
 heads together a moment and whis- 
 pered. Then the eldest of them, Mr. 
 Underhill, who lived at' a considerable 
 distance, told her gravely he must com- 
 mit her to take her trial at the next as- 
 sizes. 
 
 " Do what you conceive to be your 
 duty, gentlemen," said Mrs. Gaunt, with 
 marvellous dignity. " If I do not assert 
 my innocence, it is because I disdain 
 the accusation too much." 
 
 " I shall take no part in the committal 
 of this innocent lady," said Sir George 
 Neville, and was about to leave the 
 room. 
 
 But Mrs. Gaunt begged him to stay. 
 " To be guilty is one thing," said she, 
 ^'to be accused is another. I shall go 
 to prison as easy as to my dinner; and 
 to the gallows as to my bed." 
 
 The presiding magistrate was stag- 
 gered a moment by these words ; and it 
 was not without considerable hesitation 
 lie took the warrant and prepared to fill 
 it up. 
 
 Then Mr. Houseman, who had 
 watched the proceedings very keenly, 
 put in his word. " I am here for the 
 accused person, sir, and, with your 
 good leave, object to her committal — 
 on grounds of law." 
 
 "What may they be, Mr. House- 
 man ? " said the magistrate, civilly ; and 
 laid his pen down to hear them. 
 
 " Briefly, sir, these. Where a murder 
 is proven, you can commit a subject of 
 this realm upon suspicion. But you 
 cannot suspect the murder as well as 
 the culprit, and so commit. The murder 
 must be proved to the senses. Now in 
 this case, the death of Mr. Gaunt by 
 violence is not proved. Indeed, his 
 very death rests but upon suspicion. I 
 
 admit that the law of England in this 
 respect has once or twice been tam- 
 pered with, and persons have even been 
 executed where no corpus delicti was 
 found ; but what was the consequence ? 
 In each case the murdered man turned 
 •out to be alive, and justice was the only 
 murderer. After Harrison's case, and 
 
 's, no Cumberland jury will ever 
 
 commit for murder, unless the corpus 
 delicti has been found, and with signs 
 of violence upon it. Come, come, Mr. 
 Atkins, you are too good a lawyer, and 
 too humane a man, to send my client to 
 prison on the suspicion of a suspicion, 
 which you know the very breath of the 
 judge will blow away, even if the grand 
 jury let it go into court. I offer bail, 
 ten thousand pounds in two sureties ; 
 Sir George Neville here present, and 
 myself." 
 The magistrate looked to Mr. Atkins. 
 " I am not employed by the crown," 
 said that gentleman, "but acting on 
 mere civil grounds, and have no right 
 nor wish to be severe. Bail by all 
 means ; but is the lady so sure of her 
 innocence as to lend me her assistance 
 to find the corpus delicti? " 
 
 The question was so shrewdly put, 
 that any hesitation would have ruined 
 Mrs. Gaunt. 
 
 Houseman, therefore, replied eagerly 
 and promptly, " I answer for her, she 
 will." 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt bowed her head in as- 
 sent. 
 
 " Then," said Atkins, " I ask leave to 
 drag, and, if need be, to drain that piece 
 of water there, called ' the mere.' " 
 
 " Drag it or drain it, which you will," 
 said Houseman. 
 
 Said Atkins, very impressively, 
 " And, mark my words, at the bottom 
 of that very sheet of water there, I shall 
 find the remains of the late Griffith 
 Gaunt." 
 
 At these solemn words, coming as 
 they did, not from a loose unprofession- 
 al speaker, but from a lawyer, a man 
 who measured all his words, a very keen 
 observer might have seen a sort of tre- 
 mor run all through Mr. Houseman's 
 

 1. ^ '*. 
 
 [.cjri?^^«^ 
 
 >- ^"i {'■■/ 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousyi 
 
 165 
 
 frame. The more admirable, I think, 
 was the perfect coolness and seem-" 
 ing indifference with which he replied, 
 "Find him, and I '11 admit suicide; find 
 him, with signs of violence, and I '11 
 admit homicide — by some person or 
 persons unknown." 
 
 All further remarks were interrupted 
 by bustle and confusion. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt had fainted dead away. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 Of course pity was the first feeling ; 
 but, by the time Mrs. Gaunt revived, 
 tier fainting, so soon after Mr. Atkins's 
 proposa,l, had produced a sinister effect 
 oh the minds of all present ; and every 
 face showed it, except the wary House- 
 man's. 
 
 On her retiring, it broke out first in 
 murmurs, then in plain words. 
 
 As for Mr. Atkins, he now showed 
 th« moderation of an able man who feels' 
 Ke has a strong cause. 
 
 He merely said, " I think there should 
 be constables about, in case of an es- 
 cape being attempted ; but I agree with- 
 Mr. Houseman that your worships will 
 be quite justified in taking bail, provided' 
 the corpits delicti should not be found. 
 Gentlemen, you were most of you neigh- 
 bors and friends of the deceased, and ■ 
 are, I am sure,' lovers of justice ; I do 
 entreat you to aid me in searching that ■ 
 piece of water, by the side of which the 
 deceased gentleman was heard to cry' 
 for help ; and, much I fear, he cried in 
 vain." 
 
 The persons thus appealed to entered 
 into the matter with all the ardor of just 
 men, whose curiosity as well as justice 
 is inflamed. 
 
 A set of old, rusty drags was found on 
 the premises ; and men went punting up 
 and down the mere, and dragged it. 
 
 Rude hooks were made by the village 
 blacksmith, and fitted to cart-ropes ; 
 another "boat was brought to Hernshaw 
 in a wagon ; and all that afternoon the 
 bottom of the mere was raked, and 
 some curious things fished up. But 
 no dead man. 
 
 The next day a score of amateur 
 dragsraen were out ; some throwing 
 their drags from the bridge ; some cir- 
 culating in boats, and even in large 
 tubs. 
 
 And, meantime, Mr. Atkins and his 
 crew went steadily up and down, drag- 
 ging every foot of those placid waters. 
 
 They worked till dinner-time, and 
 bi-ought up a good copper pot with two 
 handles, a horse's head, and several de- 
 cayed trunks of trees, which had be- 
 come saturated, and sunk to the bot- 
 tom. 
 
 At about three in the afternoon, two' 
 boys, who, for want of a boat, were 
 dragging from the bridge, found some- 
 thing heavy but elastic at the end of 
 their drag : they pulled up eagerly, and 
 a thing like a huge turnip, half gnawed,- 
 oame up, with a great bob, and blasted 
 their sight. 
 
 They let go, -drags and all, and stood 
 shrieking, and shrieking. 
 
 Those who were nearest them called- 
 out, and asked what was the matter ; 
 but the boys did not reply, and their 
 faces showed so white, that a woman,' 
 who saw them, hailed Mr. Atkins, and 
 said she was sure those boys had seen 
 something out of the common. 
 
 Mr. Atkins came up, and found the 
 boys blubbering. He encouraged them, 
 and they told him a fearful thing had 
 come up ; it was like a man's head and 
 shoulders all scooped out and gnawed 
 by the fishes, and had torn the drags 
 out of their hands. 
 
 Mr. Atkins made them tell him the 
 exact place ; and he was soon upon it 
 with his boat. 
 
 The water here was very deep ; and 
 though the boys kept pointing to the 
 very spot, the drags found nothing for 
 some time. 
 
 But at last they showed, by their re- 
 sistance, that they had clawed hold of- 
 something. 
 
 " Draw slowly,'' said Mr. Atkins : • 
 "and, if a is, be men, and hold fast." ■ 
 
 The men drew slowly, slowly, and 
 presently there rose to the surface a- 
 Thing to strike terror and loathing into > 
 the stoutest heart. . . 
 
i66 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 The mutilated remains of a human 
 face and body. 
 
 The greedy pike had cleared, not 
 the features only, but the entire flesh 
 off the face ; but had left the hair, and 
 the tight skin of the forehead, though 
 their teeth had raked this last. The 
 remnants they had left made what they 
 had mutilated doubly horrible ; since 
 now it was not a skuU, not a skeleton ; 
 but a face and a man gnawed down to 
 the bones and hair and feet. These 
 last were in stout shoes, that resisted 
 even those voracious teeth ; and a leath- 
 ern stock had offered some little protec- 
 tion to the throat. 
 
 The men groaned, and hid their faces 
 with one hand, and pulled softly to the 
 shore with the other ; and then, with 
 half-averted faces, they drew the ghast- 
 ly remains and fluttering rags gently 
 and reverently to land. 
 
 Mr. Atkins yielded to nature, and 
 was violently sick at the sight he had 
 searched for so eagerly. 
 
 As soon as he recovered his powers, 
 he bade the constables guard the body 
 (it was a body, in law), and see that no 
 one laid so much as a finger on it until 
 some magistrate had taken a deposi- 
 tion. He also sent a messenger to Mr. 
 Houseman, telling him the corpus de- 
 licti was found. He did this, partly to 
 show that gentleman he was right in 
 his judgment, and partly out of common 
 humanity ; since, after this discovery, 
 Mr. Houseman's client was sure to be 
 tried for her life. 
 
 A magistrate soon came, and viewed 
 the remains, and took careful notes of 
 the state in which they were found. 
 
 Houseman came, and was much af- 
 fected both by the sight of his dead 
 friend, so mutilated, and by the probable 
 consequences to Mrs. Gaunt. How- 
 ever, as lawyers fight very hard, he re- 
 covered himself enough to remark that 
 there were no marks of violence before 
 death, and insisted on this being insert- 
 ed in the magistrate's notes. 
 
 An inquest was ordered next day, 
 and, meantime, Mrs. Gaunt was told she 
 oould not quit the upper apartments of 
 her own house. Two constables were 
 
 placed on the ground-floor night and 
 day. \ 
 
 Next day the remains were removed 
 to the little inn where Griffith had spent 
 so many jovial hours ; laid on a tablCj 
 and covered with a white sheet. 
 
 The coroner's jury sat in the same 
 room, and the evidence I have already 
 noticed was gone into, and the finding 
 of the body deposed to. The jury, 
 without hesitation, returned a verdict 
 of wilful murder. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt was then brought in. She 
 came, white as a ghost, leaning upon 
 Houseman's shoulder. 
 
 Upon her entering, a juryman, by a 
 humane impulse, drew the sheet over 
 the remains again. 
 
 The coroner, according to the cus- 
 tom of the day, put a question to Mrs- 
 Gaunt, with the view of eliciting her 
 guilt. If I remember right, he asked 
 her how she came to be out of doors so. 
 late on the night of the murder. Mrs. 
 Gaunt, however, was in no condition to 
 answer queries. I doubt if she even 
 heard this one. Her lovely eyes, di- 
 lated with horror, were fixed on that 
 terrible sheet, with a stony glance. 
 " Show me," she gasped, " and let me 
 die too." 
 
 The jurymen looked, with doubtful 
 faces, at the coroner. He bowed a grave 
 assent. ' 
 
 The nearest juryman withdrew the 
 sheet. The belief was not yet extinct 
 that the dead body shows some signs 
 of its murderer's approach. So every 
 eye glanced on her and on It by turns ; 
 as she, with dilated, horror-strickea 
 eyes, looked on that awful Thing. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 She recoiled with a violent shudder 
 at first; and hid her face with one 
 hand. Then she gradually stole a hor- 
 ror-stricken side-glance. 
 
 She had not looked at it a moment, 
 when she uttered a loud cry, and point- 
 ed at its feet with quivering hand. 
 
 " The shoes ! the shoes ! — It is 
 NOT MY Griffith." 
 
Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jecdousy. 
 
 167 
 
 r With this she fell into violent hyster- 
 ics, and was carried out of the room at 
 Houseman's earnest entreaty. 
 
 As soon as she was gone, Mr. House- 
 man, being freed from his fear that his 
 client would commit herself irretrieva- 
 bly, recovered a show of composure, 
 and his wits went keenly to work. 
 
 " On behalf of the accused," said 
 he, " I admit the suicide of some -per- 
 son unknown, wearing heavy hobnailed 
 shoes ; probably one of the lower or- 
 der of people." 
 
 This adroit remark produced some 
 little effect, notwithstanding the strong 
 feeling against the accused. 
 
 The coroner inquired if there were 
 any bodily marks by which the remains 
 could be identified. 
 
 " My master had a long black mole 
 on his forehead," suggested Caroline 
 Ryder. 
 
 " 'T is here ! " cried a juryman, bend- 
 ing over the remains. 
 
 And now 'they all gathered in great 
 excitement round the corpus delictij 
 and there, sure enough, was a long black 
 mole. 
 
 Then was there a buzz of pity for 
 Griffith Gaunt, followed by a stern mur- 
 mur of execration. 
 
 " Gentlemen," said the coroner sol- 
 emnly, "behold in this the finger of 
 Heaven. The poor gentleman may well 
 have put off his boots, since, it seems, 
 he left his horse ; but he could not take 
 from his forehead his natal sign ; and 
 that, by God's will, hath strangely es- 
 caped mutilation, and revealed a most 
 foul deed. We must now doour duty, 
 gentlemen, without respect of persons." 
 
 A warrant was then issued for the ap- 
 prehension of Thomas Leicester. And, 
 that same night, Mrs. Gaunt left Hern- 
 shaw in her own chariot between two 
 constables, and escorted by armed yeo- 
 men. 
 
 Her proud head was bowed almost to 
 her knees, and her streaming eyes hid- 
 den in her lovely hands. For why ? A 
 mob accompanied her for miles, shout- 
 ing, « Murderess ! —Bloody Papist ! — 
 Hast done to death the kindliest gentle- 
 man in Cumberland. We'll all come 
 
 to see thee hanged. — Fair face but foul 
 heart ! " — and groaning, hissing, and 
 cursing, and indeed only kept from 
 violence by the escort. 
 
 And so they took that poor proud 
 lady and lodged her in Carlisle jail. 
 
 She was enceinte into the bargain. 
 By the man she was to be hanged for 
 murdering. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 The county was against her, with 
 some few exceptions. Sir George Nev- 
 ille and Mr. Houseman stood stoutly by 
 her. 
 
 Sir George's influence and money ob- 
 tained her certain comforts in jail ; and, 
 in that day, the law of England was so 
 far respected in a jail that untried pris- 
 oners were not thrown into cells, nor 
 impeded, as they now are, in preparing 
 their defence. 
 
 Her two stanch friends visited her 
 every day, and tried to keep her heart 
 up. 
 
 But they could not do it. She was 
 in a state of dejection bordering upon 
 lethargy. 
 
 "If he is dead," said she, "what 
 matters it ? If, by God's mercy, he is 
 alive still, he will not let me die for 
 want of a word from him. Impatience 
 hath been my bane. Now, I say, 
 God's will be done. I am weary of 
 the world." 
 
 Houseman tried every argument to 
 rouse her out of this desperate frame 
 of mind ; but in vain. 
 
 It ran its course, and then, behold, it 
 passed away like a" cloud, and there 
 came a keen desire to live and defeat 
 h«r accusers. 
 
 She made Houseman write out all the 
 evidence against her ; and she studied 
 it by day, and thought of it by night, 
 and often surprised both her friends by 
 the acuteness of her remarks. 
 
 Mr. Atkins discontinued his adver- 
 tisements. It was Houseman, who now 
 filled every paper with notices inform- 
 ing Griffith Gaunt of his accession to 
 
i68 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 fortune, and entreating him for that, 
 and other weighty reasons, to com- 
 municate in confidence with liis old 
 friend, John Houseman, attorney at law. 
 
 Houseman was too wary to invite 
 him to appear and save his wife ; for, 
 in that case, he feared the Crown 
 would use his advertisements as evi- 
 dence at the trial, should Griffith not 
 appear. 
 
 The fact is. Houseman relied more 
 upon certain lacuna in the evidence, 
 and the absence of all marks of vio- 
 lence, than upon any hope that Grif- 
 fith might be alive. 
 
 The assizes drew near, and no fresh 
 light broke in upon this mysterious 
 case. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt lay in her bed at night, 
 and thought and thought. 
 
 Now the female understanding has 
 sometimes remarkable power under 
 such circumstances. By degrees Truth 
 flashes across it, like lightning in the 
 dark. 
 
 After many, such nightly meditations, 
 Mrs. Gaunt sent one day for Sir George 
 Neville and Mr. Houseman, and ad- 
 dressed them as follows : — "I believe 
 he is alive, and that I can guess where 
 he is at this moment." 
 
 Both the gentlemen started, and 
 looked amazed. 
 
 " Yes, sirs ; so sure as we sit here, 
 he is now at a little inn in Lancashire, 
 called the 'Packhorse,' with a woman 
 he calls his wife." And, with this, her 
 face was scarlet, and her eyes flashed 
 their old fire. 
 
 She exacted a solemn promise of 
 secrecy from them, and then she told 
 them all she had learned from Thomas 
 Leicester. 
 
 " And so now," said she, " I believe 
 you can save my life, if you think it is 
 worth saving." And with this, she be- 
 gan to cry bitterly. 
 
 But Houseman, the practical, had no 
 patience with the pangs of love be- 
 trayed, and jealousy, and such small 
 deer, in a cHent whose life was at 
 stake. " Great Heaven ! madam," said 
 he, roughly : "why did you not tell me 
 this before ? " 
 
 " Because I am not a man — to go 
 and tell everything, all at once," 
 sobbed Mrs. Gaunt. Besides, I wanted 
 to shield his good name, whose dear 
 life they pretend I have taken." 
 
 As soon as she recovered her com- 
 posure, she begged Sir George Neville 
 to ride to the " Packhorse " for her. 
 Sir George assented eagerly, but asked 
 how'he was to find it. " I have thought 
 of that, too," said she. " His black 
 horse has been to and fro. Ride that 
 horse into Lancashire, and give him 
 his head : ten to one but he takes you 
 to the place, or where you may hear of 
 it. If not, go to Lancaster, and ask 
 about the ' Packhorse.' He wrote to 
 me from Lancaster ; see." And she 
 showed him the letter. 
 
 Sir George embraced with ardor this 
 opportunity of serving her. " I '11 be at 
 Hernshaw in one hour," said he, " and 
 ride the black horse south at once.'' 
 
 " Excuse me," said Houseman ; " but 
 would it not be better for me to go ? 
 As a lawyer, I may be more able to 
 cope with her." 
 
 " Nay," said Mrs. Gaunt, " Sir George 
 is young and handsome. If he manages 
 well, she will tell him more than she will 
 you. All I beg of him is to drop the 
 chevalier for this once, and see women 
 with a woman's eyes and not a man's, — 
 see them as they are. Do not go telling 
 a creature of this kind that she has had 
 my money, as well as my husband, and 
 ought to pity me lying here in prison. 
 Keep me out of her sight as much as you 
 can. Whether Griffith hath deceived 
 her or not, you will never raise in her 
 any feeling but love for him, and hatred 
 for his lawful wife. Dress like a yeo- 
 man ; go quietly, and lodge in the house 
 a day or two ; begin by flattering her; 
 and then get from her when she saw him 
 last, or heard from him. But indeed I 
 fear you will surprise him with her." 
 
 " Fear ? " exclaimed Sir George. 
 
 " Well, hope, then," said the lady ; 
 and a tear trickled down her face in a 
 moment. " But if you do, promise me, 
 on your honor as a gentleman, not to 
 affront him. For I know you think 
 him a villain." 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 169 
 
 "A d — d villain, saving your pres- 
 ence." 
 
 "Well, sir, you have saidjt to me. 
 Now promise me to say naught to him, 
 but just this : ' Rose Gaunt's mother, 
 she lies in Carlisle jail, to be tried for 
 her life for murdering you. She begs 
 of you not to let her die publicly upon 
 the scaffold ; but quietly at home, of 
 her broken heart.' " 
 
 " Write it," said Sir George, with the 
 tears in his eyes, " that I may just put 
 it in his hand ; for I can never utter 
 your sweet words to such a monster as 
 Jie is." 
 
 Armed with this appeal, and several 
 minute instructions, which it is need- 
 less to particularize here, that stanch 
 friend rode into Lancashire. 
 
 And next day the black horse justified 
 his mistress's sagacity, and his own. 
 
 He seemed all along to know where 
 he was going, and late in the afternoon 
 he turned off the road on to a piece of 
 green : and Sir George, with beating 
 heart, saw right before him the sign 
 of the " Packhorse," and, on coming 
 nearer, the words 
 
 THOMAS LEICESTER. 
 
 He dismounted at the door, and 
 asked if he could have a bed. 
 
 Mrs. Vint said yes ; and supper into 
 the bargain, if he liked. 
 
 He ordered a substantial supper di- 
 rectly. 
 
 Mrs. Vint saw at once it was a good 
 customer, and showed him into the par- 
 lor. 
 
 He sat down by the fire. But the 
 moment she retired, he »got up and 
 made a circuit of the house, looking 
 quietly into every window, to see if he 
 could catch a glance of Griffith Gaunt. 
 
 There were no sighs of him ; and Sir 
 George returned to his parlor heavy- 
 hearted. One hope, the greatest of all, 
 had been defeated directly. Still, it 
 was just possible that Griffith might 
 be away on temporary business. 
 
 In this faint hope Sir George strolled 
 about till his supper was ready for him. 
 
 When he had eaten his supper, lie 
 rang the bell, and, taking advantage of 
 
 a common custom, iiisisted on the land- 
 lord, Thomas Leicester, taking a glass 
 with him. 
 
 " Thomas Leicester ! " said the girl. 
 " He is not at home. But I '11 send 
 Master. Vint." 
 
 Old Vint came in, and readily accept- 
 ed an invitation to drink his guest's 
 health. 
 
 Sir George found him loquacious, and 
 soon extracted from him that his daugh- 
 ter Mercy was Leicester's wife, that Lei- 
 cester was gone on a journey, and that 
 Mercy was in care for him. " Least- 
 ways," said he, " she is very dull, and 
 cries at times when her mother speaks 
 of him ; but she is too close to say 
 much." 
 
 All this puzzled Sir George Neville 
 sorely. 
 
 But greater surprises were in store. 
 
 The next morning, after breakfast, 
 the servant came and told him Dame 
 Leicester desired to see him. 
 
 He started at that, but put on non- 
 chalance, and said he was at her ser- 
 vice. 
 
 He was ushered into another parlor, 
 and there he found a grave, comely 
 young woman, seated working, with a 
 child on the floor beside her. She 
 rose quietly ; he bowed low and re- 
 spectfully ; she blushed faintly ; but, 
 with every appearance of self-posses- 
 sion, courtesied to him ; then eyed him 
 point-blank a single moment, and re- 
 quested him to be seated. 
 
 " I hear, sir," said she, " you did ask 
 my father many questions last - night. 
 May I ask you one.'" 
 
 Sir George colored, but bowed as- 
 sent. 
 
 " From whom had you the black 
 horse you ride ? " 
 
 Now, if Sir George had not been a 
 veracious man, he would have been 
 caught directly. But, although he saw 
 at once the oversight he had commit- 
 ted, he replied, " I had him of a lady 
 in Cumberland, one Mistress Gaunt." 
 
 Mercy Vint trembled. " No doubt," 
 said she, softly. " Excuse my ques- 
 tion: you shall understand that the 
 horse is well known here." 
 
lyo 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or. Jealousy. 
 
 " Madam," said Sir George, " if you 
 admire the horse, he is at your service 
 for twenty pounds, though indeed he is 
 worth more." 
 
 " I thank you, sir,'' said Mercy ; " I 
 have no desire for the horse whatever. 
 And be pleased to excuse my curiosity : 
 you must think me impertinent." 
 
 " Nay, madam," said Sir George, " I 
 consider nothing impertinent that hath 
 procured me the pleasure of an inter- 
 view with you." 
 
 He then, as directed by Mrs. Gaunt, 
 proceeded to flatter the mother and the 
 child, and exerted those powers of pleas- 
 ing which had made him irresistible in 
 society. 
 
 Here, however, he found they went 
 a very little way. Mercy did not even 
 smile. She cast out of her dove-like 
 eyes a gentle, humble, reproachful 
 glance, as much as to say, " What ! 
 do I seem so vain a creature as to 
 believe all this ? " 
 
 Sir George himself had tact and sen- 
 sibility ; and by and by became discon- 
 tented with the part he was playing, un- 
 der those meek, honest eyes. 
 
 There was a pause ; and, as her sex 
 have a wonderful art of reading the face, 
 Mercy looked at him steadily, and said, 
 " Ves, sir, 'tis best to be straightfor- 
 ward, especially with women-folk." 
 
 Before he could recover this little 
 facer, she said, quietly, " What is your 
 name ? " 
 
 " George Neville." 
 
 " Well, George Neville," said Mercy, 
 very slowly and softly, " when you have 
 a mind to tell me what you came here 
 for, and who sent you, you will find me 
 in this little room. I seldom leave it 
 now. I beg you to speak your errand to 
 none but me." And she sighed deeply. 
 
 Sir George bowed low, and retired 
 to collect his wits. He had come here 
 strongly prepossessed against Mercy. 
 But, instead of a vulgar, shallow wo- 
 man, whom he was to surprise into 
 confession, he encountered a soft-eyed 
 Puritan, all unpretending dignity, grace, 
 propriety, and sagacity. 
 
 " Flatter her ! " said he, to himself. 
 " I might as well flatter an iceberg. 
 
 Outwit her! I feel like a child beside 
 her." 
 
 He strolled about in a brown study, 
 not knowing what to do. 
 
 She had given him a fair opening. 
 She had invited him to tell the truth. 
 But he was afraid to take her at her 
 word ; and yet what was the use to 
 persist in what his own eyes told him 
 was the wrong course ? 
 
 Whilst he hesitated, and debated 
 within himself, a trifling incident turned 
 the scale. 
 
 A poor woman came begging, with 
 her child, and was received rather 
 roughly by Harry Vint, " Pass on, 
 good woman," said he, "we want no 
 tramps here." 
 
 Then a window was opened on th« 
 ground-floor, and Mercy beckoned the 
 woman. Sir George flattened himself 
 against the wall, and listened to the 
 two talking. 
 
 Mercy examined the woman gently, 
 but shrewdly, and elicited a tale of 
 genuine distress. Sir George then 
 saw her hand out to the woman some 
 warm flannel for herself, a piece of 
 stuff for the child, a large piece of 
 bread, and a sixpence. 
 
 He also caught sight of Mercy's 
 dove-like eyes as she bestowed her 
 alms, and they were lit with an in- 
 ward lustre. 
 
 " She cannot be an ill woman," said 
 Sir George. " I '11 e'en go by" my own 
 eyes and judgment. After all, Mrs. 
 Gaunt has never seen her, and I 
 have." 
 
 He went and knocked at Mercy's 
 door. 
 
 " Come in," said a mild voice. 
 
 Neville entered, and said, abruptly, 
 and with great emotion, " Madam, I 
 see you can feel for the unhappy ; so 
 I take my own way now, and appeal 
 to your pity. I Aave come to speak to 
 you on the saddest business." 
 
 " You come from Aim," said Mercy, 
 closing her lips tight ; but her bosom 
 heaved. Her heart and her judgment 
 grappled like wrestlers that moment. 
 
 " Nay, madam," said Sir George, " I 
 come from her." 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 171 
 
 Mercy knew in a moment who " her " 
 must be. 
 
 She looked scared, and drew back 
 with manifest signs of repulsion. 
 
 The movement did not escape Sir 
 George : it alarmed him. He remem- 
 bered what Mrs. Gaunt had said, — 
 that this woman would be sure to 
 hate Gaunt's lawful wife. But it was 
 too late to go back. He did thq next 
 best thing, he rushed on. 
 
 He threw himself on his knees before 
 Mercy Vint. 
 
 "O madam," he cried, piteously, "do 
 not set your heart against the most un- 
 happy lady in England. If you did but 
 know her, her nobleness, her misery ! 
 Before you steel yourself against me, 
 her friend, let me ask you one ques- 
 tion. Do you know where Mrs. Gaunt 
 is at this moment ? " 
 
 Mercy answered coldly, " How should 
 I know where she is ? " 
 
 " Well, then, she lies in Carlisle 
 jail." 
 
 " She — lies — in Carlisle jail ? " re- 
 peated Mercy, looking all confused. 
 
 " They accuse her of murdering her 
 husband." 
 
 Mercy uttered a scream, and, catch- 
 ing her child up off the floor, began to 
 rock herself and moan over it. 
 
 " No, no, no," cried Sir George, " she 
 is innocent, she is innocent." 
 
 " What is that to me ? " cried Mercy, 
 wildly. " He is murdered, he is dead, 
 and my child an orphan." And so she 
 went on moaning and rocking herself 
 
 " But I tell you he is not dead at all," 
 cried Sir George. " 'T is all a mistake. 
 When did you see him last ? " 
 
 " More than six weeks ago." 
 
 " I mean, when did you hear from 
 him last?" 
 
 " Never, since that day." 
 
 Sir George groaned aloud at this in- 
 telligence. 
 
 And Mercy, who heard him groan, 
 was heart-broken. She accused her- 
 self of Griffith's death. " 'T was I 
 who drove him from me," she said. 
 "'Twas I who bade him go back to 
 his lawful wife ; and the wretch hated 
 him. I sent him to his death." Her 
 
 grief was wild, and deep. She could 
 not hear Sir George's arguments. 
 
 But presently she said, sternly, "What 
 does that woman say for herself ? " 
 
 " Madam," said Sir George, dejected- 
 ly, " Heaven knows you are in no con- 
 dition to fathom a mystery that hath 
 puzzled wiser heads than yours or 
 mine ; and I am little able to lay the 
 tale before you fairly ; for your grief, 
 it moves me deeply, and I could curse 
 myself for putting the matter to you so 
 bluntly and so uncouthly. Permit me 
 to retire awhile and compose my own 
 spirits for the task I have undertaken 
 too rashly." 
 
 " Nay, George Neville," said Mercy, 
 " stay you there. Only give me a mo- 
 ment to draw my breath." 
 
 She struggled hard for a little com- 
 posure, and, after a shower of tears, 
 she hung her head over the chair like 
 a crushed thing, but made him a sign 
 of attention. 
 
 Sir George told the story as fairly as 
 he could ; only of course his bias was 
 in favor of Mrs. Gaunt ; but as Mercy's 
 bias was against her, this brought the 
 thing nearly square. 
 
 When he came to the finding of the 
 body, Mercy was seized with a deadly 
 faintness ; and though she did not be- 
 come insensible, yet she was in no con- 
 dition to judge, or even to comprehend. 
 
 Sir George was moved with pity, and 
 would have called for help ; but she 
 shook her head. So then he sprin- 
 kled water on her face, and slapped 
 her hand ; and a beautifully moulded 
 hand it was. 
 
 When she got a little better she 
 sobbed faintly, and sobbing thanked 
 him, and begged him to go on. 
 
 "My mind is stronger than my heart," 
 she said. " I 'II hear it all, though it 
 kill me where I sit." * 
 
 Sir George went on, and, to avoid 
 repetition, I must ask the reader to un- 
 derstand that he left out nothing what- 
 ever which has been hitherto related in 
 these pages ; and, in fact, told her one 
 or two little things that I have omitted.^ 
 
 When he had done, she sat quite still 
 a minute or two, pale as a statue. 
 
172 
 
 Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 Then she turned to Neville, and said, 
 solemnly, " You wish to know the truth 
 in this dark matter : for dark it is in 
 very sooth." 
 
 Neville was much impressed by her 
 manner, and answered, respectfully, 
 Yes, he desired to know, — by all 
 means. 
 
 " Then take my hand," said Mercy, 
 "and kneel down with me." 
 
 Sir George looked surprised, but 
 obeyed, and kneeled down beside her, 
 with his hand in hers. 
 
 There was a long pause, and then 
 took place a transformation. 
 
 The dove-like eyes were lifted to 
 heaven and gleamed like opals with 
 an inward and celestial light ; the 
 comely face shone with a higher beau- 
 ty, and the rich voice rose in! ardent 
 supplication. 
 
 " Thou God, to whom all hearts be 
 known, and no secrets hid from thine 
 eye, look down now on thy servant in 
 sore trouble, that putteth her trust in 
 thee. Give wisdom to the simple this 
 day, and understanding to the lowly. 
 Thou that didst reveal to babes and 
 suckhngs the great things that were 
 hidden from the wise, O show us the 
 truth in this dark matter: enlighten 
 us by thy spirit, for His dear sake 
 who suffered more sorrows than I suf- 
 fer now. Amen. Amen." 
 
 Then she looked at Neville ; and he 
 said "Amen," with all his heart, and 
 the tears in his eyes. 
 
 He had never heard real live prayer 
 before. Here the little hand gripped 
 his hard, as she wrestled ; and the heart 
 seemed to rise out of the bosom and fly 
 to Heaven on the sublime and thrilling 
 voice. 
 
 They rose, and she sat down ; but it 
 seemed as if her eyes once raised to 
 Heaven in prayer could not come down 
 again : they remained fixed and angelic, 
 and her lips still moved in supplication. 
 
 Sir George Neville, though a loose 
 liver, was no scoffer. He was smitten 
 with reverence for this inspired counte- 
 nance, and retired, bowing low and ob- 
 sequiously. 
 
 He took a long walk, and thought it 
 
 all over. One thing was clear, and con- 
 soling. He felt sure he had done wise- 
 ly to disobey Mrs. Gaunt's instructions, 
 and make a friend of Mercy, instead of 
 trying to set his wits against hers. 
 Ere he returned to the " Packhorse " 
 he had determined to take another 
 step in the right direction. He did 
 not like to agitate her with another 
 interview, so soon. But he wrote her 
 a little letter. 
 
 "Madam, — When I came here, I 
 did not know you ; and therefore I 
 feared to trust you too far. But, now 
 I do know you for the best woman in 
 England, I take the open way with you. 
 
 " Know that Mrs. Gaunt said the 
 man would be here with you ; and she 
 charged me with a few written lines to 
 him. She would be angry if she knew 
 that I had shown them to any other. 
 Yet I take on me to show them to 
 you ; for I believe you are wiser than 
 any of us, if the truth were known. I 
 do therefore entreat you to read these 
 lines, and tell me whether you think 
 the hand that wrote them can have 
 shed the blood of him to whom they 
 are writ. 
 
 " I am, madam, with profound respect, 
 " Your grateful and very humble 
 servant, 
 
 "George Neville." 
 
 He very soon received a line in reply, 
 written in a clear and beautiful hand- 
 writing. 
 
 " Mercy Vint sends you her duty ; and 
 she will speak to you at nine of the clock 
 to-morrow morning. Pray for light." 
 
 At the appointed time, Sir George 
 found her working with her needle. 
 His letter lay on a table before her. 
 
 She rose and courtesied to him, and 
 called the servant to take away the 
 child for a while. .She went with her 
 to the door and kissed the bairn several 
 times at parting, as if he was going 
 away for good. " I 'm loath to let him 
 go," said she to Neville ; " but it 
 weakens a mother's mind to have her 
 babe in the room, — takes her attention 
 
Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 173 
 
 off each moment. Pray you be seated. 
 Well, sir, I have read these lines of 
 Mistress Gaunt, and wept over them. 
 Methinks I had not done so, were they 
 cunningly devised. Also I lay all night, 
 and thought." 
 
 "That is just what she does.'' 
 
 " No doubt, sir ; and the upshot is, I 
 don 't feel as if he was dead. Thank 
 God." 
 
 " That is something," said Neville. 
 But he could not help thinking it was 
 very little ; especially to produce in a 
 court of justice. 
 
 " And now," said she, thoughtfully, 
 " you say that the real Thomas Leices- 
 ter was seen thereabouts as. well as my 
 Thomas Leicester. Then answer me 
 one little question. What had the 
 real Thomas Leicester on his feet that 
 night?" 
 
 " Nay, I know not," was the half- 
 careless reply. 
 
 " Bethink you. 'T is a question that 
 must have been often put in your hear- 
 ing." 
 
 " Begging your pardon, it was never 
 put at all ; nor do I see — " 
 
 " What, not at the inquest ? " 
 
 « No." 
 
 "That is very strange. What, so 
 many wise heads have bent over this 
 riddle, and not one to ask how was yon 
 pedler shod ! " 
 
 "Madam," said Sir George, "our 
 minds were fixed upon the fate of 
 Gaunt. Many did ask how was the 
 pedler armed, but none how was he 
 shod." 
 
 " Hath he been seen since ? " 
 
 " l^ot he ; and that hath an ugly 
 look ; for the constables are out after 
 him with hue and cry ; but he is not to 
 be found." 
 
 " Then," said Mercy, " I must e'en 
 answer my own question. I do know 
 how that pedler was shod. With hob- 
 nailed SHOES." 
 
 Sir George bounded from his chair. 
 One great ray of daylight broke in 
 upon him. 
 
 "Ay," said Mercy, "she was right. 
 Women do see clearer in some things' 
 than men. The pair went from my 
 
 house to hers. He you call Griffith 
 Gaunt had on a new pair of boots ; 
 and by the same token 't was I did pay 
 for them, and there is the receipt in 
 that cupboard : he you call Thomas 
 Leicester went hence in hobnailed 
 shoes. I think the body they found 
 was the body of Thomas Leicester, the 
 pedler. May God have mercy on his 
 poor unprepared soul." 
 
 Sir George uttered a joyful exclama- 
 tion. But the next moment he had a 
 doubt. " Ay, but," said he, " you forget 
 the mole ! 'T was on that they built." 
 
 " I forget naught," said Mercy, calmly. 
 " The pedler had a black mole over his 
 left temple. He showed it me in this 
 very room. You have found the body 
 of Thomas Leicester, and Griffith Gaunt 
 is hiding from the law that he hath 
 broken. He is afeared of her and her 
 friends, if he shows his face in Cumber- 
 land ; he is afeared of my folk, if he be 
 seen in Lancashire. Ah, Thomas, as 
 if I would let them harm thee." 
 
 Sir George Neville walked to and fro 
 in grand excitement. " O blessed day 
 that I came hither ! Madam, you are 
 an angel. You will save an innocent, 
 broken-hearted lady from death and 
 dishonor. Your good heart and rare 
 wit have read in a moment the dark 
 riddle that hath puzzled a county." 
 
 "George," said Mercy, gravely, "you 
 have gotten the wrong end of the stick. 
 The wise in their own conceit are blind- 
 ed. In Cumberland, where all this be- 
 fell, they went not to God for light, as 
 you and I did, George." 
 
 In saying this, she gave him her 
 hand to celebrate their success. 
 
 He kissed it devoutly, and owned 
 afterward that it was the proudest mo- 
 ment of his life, when that sweet Puri- 
 tan gave him her neat hand so cor- 
 dially, with a pressure so gentle yet 
 frank. 
 
 And now came the question how they 
 were to make a Cumberland jury see 
 this matter as they saw it. 
 
 He asked her would she come to 
 the trial as a witness ? 
 
 At that she drew back with manifest 
 repugnance. 
 
174 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, yeahusy. 
 
 *' My shame would be public. I must 
 tell who I am ; aad what. A ruined 
 woman." 
 
 " Say rather an injured saint. You 
 have nothing to be ashamed of. All 
 good men would feel for you." 
 
 Mercy shook her head. "Ay, but 
 the women. Shame is shame with us. 
 Right or wrong goes for little. Nay, I 
 hope to do better for you than that. I 
 must find him, and send him to deliver 
 her. 'Tis his only chance of happi- 
 ness." 
 
 She then asked him if he would draw 
 up an advertisement of quite a differ- 
 ent kind from those he had described 
 to her. 
 
 He assented, and between them they 
 concocted the following : — 
 
 " If Thomas Leicester, who went from 
 the ' Packhorse ' two months ago, will 
 come thither at once, Mercy will be 
 much beholden to him, and tell him 
 strange things that have befallen." 
 
 Sir George then, at her request, rode 
 over to Lancaster, and inserted the above: 
 in the county paper, and also in a small 
 sheet that was issued in the city three 
 times a week. He had also handbills 
 to the same effect printed, and sent 
 into Cumberland and Westmoreland. 
 Finally, he sent a copy to his man of 
 business in London, with orders to in- 
 sert it in all the journals. 
 
 Then he returned to the " Pack- 
 horse," and told Mercy what he had 
 done. 
 
 The next day he bade her farewell, 
 and away for Carlisle. It was a two 
 days' journey. He reached Carlisle in 
 the evening, alid went all glowing to 
 Mrs. Gaunt. " Madam," said he, " be 
 of good cheer. I bless the day I went 
 to see her ; she is an angel of wit and 
 goodness." 
 
 He then related to her, in glowing 
 terms, most that had passed between 
 Mercy and him. But, to his surprise, 
 Mrs. Gaunt wore a cold, forbidding air. 
 
 " This is all very well," said she. 
 " But 't will avail me little unless he 
 comes before the judge and clears me ; 
 and she will never let him do that." 
 
 " Ay, that she will, — if she can find 
 him." 
 
 " If she can find him ? How simple 
 you are ! " 
 
 " Nay, madam, not so simple but I 
 can tell a good woman from a bad one, 
 and a true from a false." 
 
 " What ! when you are in love with 
 her ? Not if you were the wisest of 
 your sex." 
 
 " In love with her ? " cried Sir 
 George ; and colored high. 
 
 " Ay," said the lady. " Think you I 
 cannot tell ? Don't deceive yourself. 
 You have gone and fallen in love with 
 her. At your years ! Not that 't is any 
 business of mine." 
 
 "Well, madam," said Sir George, 
 stiffly, "say what you please on that 
 score ; but at least welcome' my good 
 news." 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt begged him to excuse 
 her petulance, and thanked hinj kindly 
 for all he had just done. But the next 
 moment she rose from her chair in 
 great agitation, and burst out, " I 'd as 
 lief die as owe anything to that woman." 
 
 Sir George remonstrated. " Why 
 hate her ? She does not hate you." 
 
 " O, yes, she does. 'T is not in na- 
 ture she should do any other." 
 
 " Her acts prove the contrary." 
 
 " Her acts ! She has done nothing, 
 but make fair promises ; and that has 
 blinded you. Women of this sort are 
 very cunning, and never show their 
 real characters to a man. No more ; 
 prithee mention not her name to me. 
 It makes me ill. I knovf he is with 
 her at this moment. Ah, let me die, 
 and be forgotten, since I am no more 
 beloved." 
 
 The voice was sad and weary now, 
 and the tears ran fast. 
 
 Poor Sir George was moved and 
 melted, and set himself to flatter and 
 console this impracticable lady, who 
 hated her best friend in this sore strait, 
 for being what she was herself, a wo- 
 man ; and was much less annoyed at 
 being hanged than at not being loved. 
 
 When she was a little calmer, he left 
 her, and rode off to Houseman. That 
 wprthy was delighted. 
 
Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jmlausy. 
 
 175 
 
 " Get her to swear to those hobnailed 
 Shoes," said he, " and we shall shake 
 them." He then let Sir George know 
 that he had obtained private informa- 
 tion which he would use in cross-ex- 
 amining a principal witness for the 
 crown. "However," he added, "do 
 not deceive yourself; nothing can make 
 the prisoner really safe but the appear- 
 ance of Griffith, Gaunt. He has such 
 strong motives for coming to light. He 
 is heir to a fortune, and his wife is ac- 
 cused of murdering him. The jury will 
 never believe he is alive till they see 
 him. That man's prolonged disappear- 
 ance is hideous. It turns my blood 
 cold when I think of it." 
 
 " Do not despair on that score," said 
 Neville. " I believe our good angel will 
 produce him." 
 
 Three days only before the assizes, 
 came the long-expected letter from 
 Mercy Vint. Sir George tore it open, 
 but bitter was his disappointment. The 
 letter merely said that Griffith had not 
 appeared in answer to her advertise- 
 ments, and she was sore grieved and 
 perplexed. 
 
 There were two postscripts, each on 
 a little piece of paper. 
 
 First postscript, in a tremulous hand, 
 « Pray." 
 
 Second postscript, in a firm hand, 
 " Drain the water." 
 
 Houseman shrugged his shoulders 
 impatiently. " Drain the water 1 Let 
 the crown do that. We should but 
 fish up more trouble. And prayers 
 quo' she ! 'T is not prayers we want, 
 but evidence." 
 
 He sent his clerk off to travel post 
 night and day, and subpcena Mercy, 
 and bring her back with him to the 
 trial. She was to have every comfort 
 on the road, and be treated like a 
 duchess. 
 
 The evening before the assizes, 
 Mrs. Gaunt's apartments were Mr. 
 Houseman's head-quarters, and messa- 
 ges were coming and going all day, on 
 matters connected with the defence. 
 . Just at sunset, up ■ rattled a post- 
 chaise, and the clerk got out and came 
 haggard and bloodshot before his em- 
 
 ployer. "The witness has disappeared, 
 sir. Left home last Tuesday, with her 
 child, and has never been seen nor 
 heard of since." 
 
 Here was a terrible blow. They all 
 paled under it : it seriously diminished 
 the chances of an acquittal. 
 
 But Mrs. Gaunt bore it nobly. She 
 seemed to rise under it. 
 
 She turned to Sir George Neville, 
 with a sweet smile. " The noble heart 
 sees base things noble. No wonder 
 then an artful woman deluded you. 
 He has left England with her, and 
 condemned me to the gallows, in cold 
 blood. So be it. I shall defend myself." 
 
 She then sat down with Mr. House- 
 man, and went through the written 
 case he had prepared for her, and 
 showed him notes she had taken of 
 full a hundred criminal trials great 
 and small. 
 
 While they were putting their heads 
 together. Sir George sat in a brown 
 study, and uttered not a word. Pres- 
 ently he got up a little brusquely, and 
 said, " I 'm going to Hernshaw." 
 
 " What, at this time of night ? What 
 to do ? " 
 
 " To obey my orders. To drain the 
 mere. " 
 
 " And who could have ordered you to 
 drain my mere ? " 
 
 " Mercy Vint." 
 
 Sir George uttered this in a very 
 curious way, half ashamed, half reso- 
 lute, and retired before Mrs. Gaunt 
 could vent in speech the surprise and 
 indignation that fired her eye. 
 
 Houseman implored her not to heed 
 Sir George and his vagaries, but to 
 bend her whole mind on those ap- 
 proved modes of defence with which 
 he had supplied her. 
 
 Being now alone with her, he no 
 longer concealed his great anxiety. 
 
 " We have lost an invaluable witness 
 in that woman," said he. " I was mad 
 to think she would come." 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt shivered with repug- 
 nance. "'I would not have her come, 
 for all the world, ' said she. " For 
 Heaven's sake never mention her 
 name to me. I want help from none 
 
176 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 but friends. Send Mrs. Houseman to 
 me in the morning ; and do not dis- 
 tress yourself so. I shall defend myself 
 far better than you think. I have not 
 studied a hundred trials for naught." 
 
 Thus the prisoner cheered up her 
 attorney, and soon after insisted on 
 his going home to bed ; for she saw 
 he was worn out by his exertions. 
 
 And now she was alone. 
 
 All was silent. 
 
 A few short hours, and she was to be 
 tried for her life : tried, not by the All- 
 wise Judge, but by fallible men, and 
 under a system most unfavorable to 
 the accused. 
 
 Worse than all this, she was a Pa- 
 pist ; and, as ill-luck would have it, 
 since her imprisonment an alarm had 
 been raised that the Pretender medi- 
 tated another invasion. This report 
 had set jurists very much against all 
 the Romanists in the country, and had 
 already perverted justice in one or two 
 cases, espeeially in the North. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt knew all this, and trem- 
 bled at the peril to come. 
 
 She spent the early part of tlie night 
 in studying her defence. Then she 
 laid it quite aside, and prayed long 
 and fervently. Towards morning she 
 fell asleep from exhaustion. 
 
 When she awoke, Mrs. Houseman 
 was sitting by her bedside, looking at 
 her, and crying. 
 
 They were soon clasped in each oth- 
 er's arms, condoling. 
 
 But presently Houseman came, and 
 took his wife away rather angrily. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt was prevailed on to eat 
 a little toast and drink a glass of wine, 
 and then she sat waiting her dreadful 
 summons. 
 
 She waited and waited, until she be- 
 came impatient to face her danger. 
 
 But there were two petty larcenies on 
 before her. She had to wait. 
 
 At last, about noon, came a message 
 to say that the grand jury had found a 
 true bill against her. 
 
 " Then may God forgive them ! " said 
 she. 
 
 Soon afterwards she was informed 
 her time drew very near. 
 
 She made her toilet carefully, and 
 passed with her attendant into a small 
 room under the court. 
 
 Here she had to endure another chill- 
 ing wait, and in a sombre room. 
 
 Presently she heard a voice above 
 her cry out, " The King versus Catha- 
 rine Gaunt." 
 
 Then she was beckoned to. 
 
 She mounted some steps, badly light- 
 ed, and found herself in the glare of 
 day, and greedy eyes, in the felon's 
 dock; 
 
 In a matter entirely strange, we sel- 
 dom know beforehand what we can do, 
 and how we shall carry ourselves. Mrs. 
 Gaunt no sooner set her foot in that 
 dock, and saw the awful front of Jus- 
 tice face to face, than her tremors 
 abated, and all her powers awoke, and 
 she thrilled with love of life, and bris- 
 tled with all those fine arts of defence 
 that Nature lends to superior women. 
 
 She entered on that defence before 
 she spoke a word ; for she attacked the 
 prejudices of the court, by deportment. 
 
 She courtesied reverently to the 
 Judge, and contrived to make her rev- 
 erence seem a willing homage, unmixed 
 with fear. 
 
 She cast her eyes round and saw the 
 court thronged with ladies and gentle- 
 men she knew. In a moment she read 
 in their eyes that only two or three 
 were on her side. She bowed to 
 those only ; and they returned her 
 courtesy. This gave an impression 
 (a false one) that the gentry sympa- 
 thized with her. 
 
 After a little murmur of functiona- 
 ries, the Clerk of Arraigns turned to 
 the prisoner, and said, in a loud voice, 
 " Catharine Gaunt, hold up thy hand." 
 
 She held up her hand, and he recited 
 the indictment, which charged that, not 
 having the fear of God before her eyes, 
 but being moved by the instigation of 
 the Devil, she had on the fifteenth of 
 October, in the tenth year of the reign 
 of his present Majesty, aided and abet- 
 ted one Thomas Leicester in an assault 
 upon one Griffith Gaunt, Esq., and him, 
 the said Grifl5th Gaunt, did with force 
 and arms assassinate and do to death, 
 
Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 177 
 
 against the peace of our said Lord the 
 King, his crown and dignity. 
 
 After reading the indictment, the 
 Clerk of Arraigns turned to the pris- 
 oner : " How sayest thou, Catharine 
 Gaunt ; art thou guilty of the felony 
 and murder whereof thou standest in- 
 dicted, — or not guilty?" 
 
 "I am not guilty." . 
 
 " Culprit, how wilt thou be tried ? " 
 
 " Culprit I am none, but only ac- 
 cused. I will be tried by God and my 
 country." 
 
 " God send thee a good deliver- 
 ance." 
 
 Mr. Whitworth, the junior counsel 
 for the crown, then rose to open the 
 case ; but the prisoner, with a pale 
 face, but most courteous demeanor, 
 begged his leave to make a previous 
 motion to the court. Mr. Whitworth 
 bowed, and sat down. "My Lord," 
 said she, " I have first a favor to ask ; 
 and that favor, methinks, you will grant, 
 since it is but justice, impartial justice. 
 My accuser, I hear, has two counsel ; 
 both learned and able. I am but' a 
 woman, and no match for their skill. 
 Therefore I beg your Lordship to al- 
 low me counsel on my defence, to mat- 
 ter of fact as well as of law. I know 
 this is not usual ; but it is just, and I 
 am informed it has sometimes been 
 granted in trials of life and death, and 
 that your Lordship hath the power, if 
 you have the will, to do me so much 
 justice." 
 
 The Judge looked towards Mr. Ser- 
 jeant Wiltshire, who was the leader on 
 the other side. He rose instantly and 
 replied to this purpose : " The prisoner 
 is misinformed. The truth is, that from 
 time immemorial, and down to the other 
 day, a person indicted for a capital of- 
 fence was never allowed counsel at all, 
 except to matters of law, and these 
 must be started by himself By re- 
 cent practice -the rule hath been so far 
 relaxed that counsel have sometimes 
 been permitted to examine and cross- 
 examine witnesses for a prisoner ; but 
 never to make observations on the evi- 
 dence, nor to draw inferences from it to 
 the point in issue." 
 
 12 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt. So, then, if I be sued 
 for a small sum of money, I may have 
 skilled orators to defend me against 
 their like. But if I be sued for my 
 life and honor, I may not oppose skill 
 to skill, but must stand here a child 
 against you that are masters. 'T is a 
 monstrous iniquity, and you yourself, 
 sir, will not deny it. 
 
 Serjeant Wiltshire. Madam, permit 
 me. Whether it be a hardship to deny 
 full counsel to prisoners in criminal 
 cases, I shall not pretend to say; but 
 if it be, 't is a hardship of the law's 
 making, and not of mine nor of .my 
 lord's ; and none have suffered by it 
 (at least in our day) but those who 
 had broken the law. 
 
 The Serjeant then stopped a minute, 
 and whispered with his junior. After 
 which he turned to the Judge. " My 
 Lord, we that are of counsel for the 
 crown desire to do nothing that is 
 hard where a person's life is at stake. 
 We yield to the prisoner any indul- 
 gence for which your Lordship can 
 find a precedent in your reading ; but 
 no more : and so we leave the matter 
 to you." 
 
 T.he Clerk of Arraigns. Crier, pro- 
 claim silence. 
 
 The Crier. Oyez ! Oyez ! Oyez ! 
 His Majesty's Justices do strictly 
 charge all manner of persons to keep 
 silence, on pain of imprisonment. 
 
 The Judge. Prisoner, what my 
 Brother Wiltshire says, the law is 
 clear in. There is no precedent for 
 what you ask, and the contrary prac- 
 tice stares us in the face for centuries. 
 What seems to you a partial practice, 
 and, to be frank, some learned persons 
 are of your mind, must be set against 
 this, — that in capital cases the burden 
 of proof lies on the crown, and not on 
 the accused. Also it is my duty to 
 give you all the assistance I can, and 
 that I shall do. Thus then it is : you 
 can be allowed counsel to examine your 
 own witnesses, and cross-examine the 
 witnesses for the crown, and speak to 
 points of law, to be started by yourself, 
 — but no further. 
 
 He then asked her what gentleman 
 
178 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 there present he should assign to her 
 for counsel. 
 
 Her reply to this inquiry toolc the 
 whole court by surprise, and made 
 her solicitor, Houseman, very misera- 
 ble. " None, my Lord," said she. 
 " Half-justice is injustice ; and I will 
 lend it no color. I will not set able 
 men to fight for me with their hands 
 tied, against men as able whose hands 
 be free. Counsel, on terms so partial, 
 I will have none. My counsel shall 
 be three, and no more, — Yourself, my 
 Lord, my Innocence, and the Lord God 
 Omniscient." 
 
 These words, grandly uttered, caused 
 a dead silence in the court, but only 
 for a few moments. It was broken by 
 the loud mechanical voice of the crier, 
 who proclaimed silence, and then called 
 the names of the jury that were to try 
 this cause. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt listened keenly to the 
 names, — familiar and bourgeois names, 
 that now seemed regal ; for they who 
 owned them held her life in their 
 hands. 
 
 Each juryman was sworn in the 
 grand old form, now slightly curtailed. 
 
 "Joseph King, look upon the pris- 
 oner. — You shall well and truly try, 
 and true deliverance make, between 
 our Sovereign Lord the King and the 
 prisoner at the bar, whom you shall 
 have in charge, and a true verdict 
 give, according to the evidence. So 
 help you God." 
 
 Mr Whitworth, for the crown, then 
 opened the case, but did little more 
 than translate the indictment into more 
 rational language. 
 
 He sat down, and Serjeant Wiltshire 
 addressed the court somewhat after this 
 fashion : — 
 
 " May it please your Lordship, and 
 you, gentlemen of the jury, this is a 
 case of great expectation and impor- 
 tance. The prisoner at the bar, a gen- 
 tlewoman by birth and education, and, 
 as you must have already perceived, by 
 breeding also, stands indicted for no 
 less a crime than murder. 
 
 " I need not paint to you the hei- 
 nousness of this crime : you hava but 
 
 to consult yout own breasts. Who 
 ever saw the ghastly corpse of the 
 victim weltering in its blood, and did 
 not feel his own blood run cold 
 through his veins ? Has the mur- 
 derer fled ? With what eagerness do 
 we pursue ! with what zeal apprehend ! 
 with what joy do we bring him to jus- 
 tice ! Even the dreadful sentence of 
 death does not shock us, when pro- 
 nounced upon him. We hear it with 
 solemn satisfaction j and acknowledge 
 the justice of the Divine sentence, 
 ' Whoso sheddeth man's blood, by 
 man shall his blood be shed.' 
 
 " But if this be the case in every 
 common murder, what shall be thought 
 of her who has murdered her husband, 
 — the man in whose arms she has lain, 
 and whom she has sworn at God's al- 
 tar to love and cherish ? Such a mur- 
 derer is a robber as well as an assas- 
 sin ; for she robs her own children' of 
 their father, that tender parent, who 
 can never be replaced in this world. 
 
 " Gentlemen, it will, I fear, be proved 
 that the prisoner at the bar hath been 
 guilty of murder in this high degree ; 
 and, though I will endeavor rather to 
 extenuate than to aggravate, yet I trust 
 \_sic\ I have such a history to open as 
 will shock the ears of all who hear 
 me. 
 
 " Mr. Griffith Gaunt, the unfortunate 
 deceased, was a man of descent and 
 worship. As to his character, it was 
 inoffensive. He was known as a wor- 
 thy, kindly gentleman, deeply attached 
 to her who now stands accused of his 
 murder. They lived happily together 
 for some years ; but, unfortunately, 
 there was a thorn in the rose of their 
 wedded life : he was of the Church of 
 England ; she was, and is, a Roman 
 Catholic. This led to disputes ; and no 
 wonder, since this same unhappy dif- 
 ference hath more than once embroiled 
 a nation, let alone a single family. 
 
 " Well, gentlemen, about a year ago 
 there was a more violent quarrel than, 
 usual between the deceased and the 
 prisoner at the bar ; and the deceased 
 left his home for several months. 
 
 " He returned upon a certain day in 
 
Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy, 
 
 179 
 
 this year, and a Reconciliation, real or 
 apparent, took ^lace. He left home 
 again soon afterwards, but only for a 
 short period. On the ijth of last Oc- 
 tober he suddenly returned for good, 
 as he intended ; and here begins the 
 tragedy, to which what I have hither- 
 to related was but the prologue. 
 
 " Scarce an hour before he came, one 
 Thomas Leicester entered the house. 
 Now this Thomas Leicester was a crea- 
 ture of the prisoner's. He had been 
 her gamekeeper, and was now a ped- 
 ler. It was the prisoner who set him 
 up as a pedler, and purchased the 
 wares to start him in his trade. 
 
 " Gentlemen, this pedler, as I shall 
 prove, was concealed in the house when 
 tiie deceased arrived. One Caroline 
 Ryder, who is the prisoner's gentlewo- 
 man, was the person who first informed 
 her of Leicester's arrival, and it seems 
 she was much moved : Mrs. Ryder will 
 tell you she fell into hysterics. But, 
 soon after, her husband's arrival was 
 announced, and then the passion was 
 of a very different kind. So violent 
 was her rage against this unhappy man 
 that, for once, she forgot all prudence, 
 and threatened his life before a witness. 
 Yes, gentlemen, we shall prove that this 
 gentlewoman, who in appearance and 
 manners might grace a court, was so 
 transported out of her usual self that 
 she held up a knife, ^ a knife, gentle- 
 men, — and vowed to put it into her 
 husband's heart. And this was no 
 mere temporary ebulHtion of wrath. We 
 shall see presently that, long after she 
 had had time to cool, she repeated this 
 menace to the unfortunate man's face. 
 The first threat, however, was uttered in 
 her own bedroom, before her confiden- 
 tial servant, Caroline Ryder aforesaid. 
 But now the scene shifts. She has, to 
 all appearance, recovered herself, and 
 sits smiling at the head of her table ; 
 for, you must know, she entertained 
 company that night, — persons of the 
 highest standing in the county. 
 
 « Presently her husbatrd, all uncon- 
 scious of the terrible sentiments she 
 entertained towards him, and the fear- 
 ful purpose she had announced, enters 
 
 the room, makes obeisance to his guests, 
 and goes to take his wife's hand. 
 
 " What does she ? She draws back 
 with so strange a look, and such for- 
 bidding words, that the company were 
 disconcerted. Consternation fell on all 
 present; and erelong they made their 
 excuses, and left the house. Thus the 
 prisoner was left alone with her hus- 
 band ; but, meantime, curiosity had 
 been excited by her strange conduct, 
 and some of the servants, with forebod- 
 ing hearts, listened at the door of the 
 dining-room. What did they hear, gen- 
 tlemen ? A furious quarrel, in which, 
 however, the deceased was compara- 
 tively passive, and the prisoner again 
 threatened his life, with vehemence. 
 Her passion, it is clear, had not cooled. 
 
 " Now it may fairly be alleged, on be- 
 half of the prisoner, that the witnesses 
 for the crown were on one side of the 
 door, the prisoner and the deceased on 
 the other, and that such evidence should 
 be received with caution. I grant this 
 — where it is not sustained by other 
 circumstances, or by direct proofs. Let 
 us then give the prisoner the benefit of 
 this doubt, and let us inquire how the 
 deceased himself understood her, — he, 
 who not only heard the words, and the 
 accents, but saw the looks, whatever 
 they were, that accompanied them. 
 
 " Gentlemen, he was a man of known 
 courage and resolution ; yet he was 
 found, after this terrible interview, much 
 cowed and dejected. He spoke to Mrs. 
 Ryder of his death as an event not far 
 distant, and so went to his bedroom 
 in a melancholy and foreboding state. 
 And where was that bedroom ? He was 
 thrust, by his wife's orders, into a small 
 chamber, and not allowed to enter hers, 
 — he, the master of the house, her hus- 
 band, and her lord. 
 
 "But his interpretation of the pris- 
 oner's words did not end there. He 
 lefti us a further comment by his ac- 
 tiotis next ensuing. He dared not — 
 (I beg pardon, this is my inference : 
 receive it as such) — he did not, re- 
 main in that house a single night. 
 He at all events bolted his chamber 
 door inside ; and in the very dead of 
 
i8o 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 night, notwithstanding the fatigues of 
 the day's journey, (for he had ridden 
 some distance,) he let himself out by 
 the window, and reached the ground 
 safely, though it was a height of four- 
 teen feet, — a leap, gentlemen, that 
 few of us would venture to take. But 
 what will not men risk when destruc- 
 tion is at their heels ? He did not wait 
 even to saddle his horse, but fled on 
 foot. Unhappy man, he fled from dan- 
 ger, and met his death. 
 
 " From the hour when he went up to 
 bed, none of the inmates of the house 
 ever saw Griffith Gaunt alive ; but one 
 Thomas Hayes, a laborer, saw him 
 walking in a certain direction at one 
 o'clock that morning ; and behind him, 
 gentlemen, there walked another man. 
 " Who was that other man .' 
 " When I have toW you (and this is 
 an essential feature of the case) how 
 the prisoner was employed during the 
 time that her husband lay quaking in 
 his little room, waiting an opportunity 
 to escape, — when I have told you this, 
 I fear you will divine who it was that 
 followed the deceased, and for what 
 purpose. 
 
 "Gentlemen, when the prisoner had 
 threatened her husband in person, as I 
 have described, she retired to her own 
 room, but not to sleep. She ordered 
 her maid, iVIrs. Ryder, to bring Thomas 
 Leicester to her chamber. Yes, gentle- 
 men, she received this pedler, at mid- 
 night, in her bedchamber. 
 
 " Now, an act so strange as this ad- 
 mits, I think, but of two interpretations. 
 Either she had a guilty amour with this 
 fellow, or she had some extraordinary 
 need of his services. Her whole char- 
 acter, by consent of the witnesses, ren- 
 ders it very improbable that she would 
 descend to a low amour. Moreover, 
 slie acted too publicly in the matter. 
 The man, as we know, was her tool, 
 her creature : she had bought his wares 
 for him, and set him up as a pedler. 
 She openly summoned him to her pres- 
 ence, and kept him there about half an 
 hour. 
 
 " He went from her, and very soon 
 after is seen, by Thomas Hayes, follow- 
 
 ing Griffith Gaunt, at one o'clock in 
 the morning, — that Grifiith Gaunt who 
 after that hour was never seen alive. 
 
 " Gentlemen, up to this point, the ev- 
 idence is clear, connected, and cogent ; 
 but it rarely happens in cases of mur- 
 der that any human eye sees the very 
 blow struck. The penalty is too se- 
 vere for such an act to be done in the 
 presence of an eyewitness ; and not one 
 murderer in ten could be convicted 
 without the help of circumstantial evi- 
 dence. 
 
 " The next link, however, is taken up 
 by an ear-witness ; and, in some cases, 
 the ear is even better evidence than 
 the eye, — for instance, as to the dis- 
 charge of firearms, — for, by the eye 
 alone, we could not positively tell wheth- 
 er a pistol had gone off or had but 
 flashed in the pan. Well, then, gentle- 
 men, a few minutes after Mr. Gaunt 
 was last seen alive, — which was by 
 Thomas Hayes, — Mrs. Ryder, who had 
 retired to her bedroom, heard the said 
 Gaunt distinctly cry for help ; she also 
 heard a pistol-shot discharged. This 
 took place by the side of a lake or large 
 pond near the house, called the mere. 
 Mrs. Ryder alarmed the house, and 
 she and the other servants proceeded 
 to her master's room. They found it 
 bolted from the inside. They broke it 
 open. Mr. Gaunt had escaped by the 
 window, as I have already told you. 
 
 " Presently in comes the prisoner 
 from out of doors. This was at one 
 o'clock in the morning. Now she ap- 
 pears to have seen at once that she 
 must explain her being abroad at that 
 time, so she told Mrs. Ryder she had 
 been out — praying." 
 
 (Here some people laughed harshly, 
 but were threatened severely, and si- 
 lenced.) 
 
 " Is that credible ? Do people go 
 out of doors at one o'clock in the morn- 
 ing, to pray ? Nay, but I fear it was to 
 do an act that years of prayer and peni- 
 tence cannot efface. 
 
 " From that moment Mr. Gaunt was 
 seen no more among living men. And 
 what made his disappearance the more 
 mysterious was that he had actually at 
 
Crriffith Uauni ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 i8i 
 
 this time just inherited largely from his 
 namesake, Mr. Gaunt of Biggleswade ; 
 and his own interest, and that of the 
 other legatees, required his immediate 
 presence. Mr. Atliins, the testator's 
 solicitor, advertised for this unfortunate 
 gentleman ; but he did not appear, to 
 claim his fortune. Then plain men be- 
 gan to put this and that together, and 
 cried out, ' Foul play ! ' 
 
 "Justice was set in motion at last, 
 but was embarrassed by the circum- 
 stance that the body of the deceased 
 could not be found. 
 
 "At last, Mr. Atkins, the solicitor, 
 being unable to get the estate I have 
 mentioned administered, for want of 
 proof of Griffith Gaunt's decease, en- 
 tered heartily in this affair, on mere 
 civil grounds. He asked the prisoner, 
 before several witnesses, if she would 
 permit him to drag that piece of water 
 by the side of which Mr. Gaunt was 
 heard to cry for help and, after that 
 seen no more. 
 
 " The prisoner did not reply, but Mr. 
 Houseman, her solicitor, a very worthy 
 man, who has, I believe, or had, up to 
 that moment, a sincere conviction of 
 her innocence, answered for her, and 
 told Mr. Atkins he was welcome to 
 drag it or drain it. Then the prisoner 
 said nothing. She fainted away. 
 
 "After this, you may imagine with 
 what expectation the water was dragged. 
 Gentlemen, after hours of fruitless la- 
 bor, a body was found. 
 
 " But here an unforeseen circum- 
 stance befriended the prisoner. It 
 seems that piece of water swarms with 
 enormous pike and other ravenous fish. 
 These had so horribly mutilated the 
 deceased, that neither form nor feature 
 remained to swear by ; and, as the law 
 wisely and humanely demands that in 
 these cases a body shall be identified 
 beyond doubt, justice bade fair to be 
 baffled again. But lo ! as often hap- 
 pens in cases of murder. Providence 
 interposed and pointed with unerring 
 finger 'to a slight, but infallible mark. 
 The deceased gentleman was known to 
 have a large mole over his left temple. 
 It had been noticed by his servants and 
 
 his neighbors. Well, gentlemen, the 
 greedy fish had spared this mole, — 
 spared it, perhaps, by His command, 
 who bade the whale swallow Jonah, yet 
 not destroy him. There it was, clear 
 and infallible. It was examined by sev- 
 eral witnesses ; it was recognized. It 
 completed that chain of evidence, some 
 of it direct, some of it circumstantial, 
 which I have laid before you very brief- 
 ly, and every part of which I shall now 
 support by credible witnesses." 
 
 He called thirteen witnesses, includ- 
 ing Mr. Atkins, Thomas Hayes, Jane 
 Banister, Caroline Ryder, and others ; 
 and their evidence in chief bore out 
 every positive statement the counsel 
 had made. 
 
 In cross-examining these witnesses, 
 Mrs. Gaunt took a line that agreeably 
 surprised the court. It was not for 
 nothing she had studied a hundred 
 trials, with a woman's observation and 
 patient docility. She had found out 
 how badly people plead their own caus- 
 es, and ha,d noticed the reasons : one 
 of which is that they say too much, and 
 stray from the point. The line she 
 took, with one exception, was keen 
 brevity. 
 
 She cross-examined Thomas Hayes 
 as follows. 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 You say the pedler was a hundred 
 yards behind my husband. Which 
 of the two men was walking fast- 
 est?" 
 
 Thomas Hayes considered a mo- 
 ment. " Well, dame, I think the 
 Squire was walking rather the smart- 
 est of the two." 
 
 " Did the pedler seem likely to over- 
 take him ? " 
 
 "Nay. Ye see, dame, Squire he 
 walked straight on ; but the pedler he 
 took both sides of the road at onst, as 
 the saying is." 
 
 Prisoner. Forgive me, Thomas, but 
 I don't know what you mean. 
 
 Hayes (compassionately). How should 
 
l82 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 ye ? You are never the worse for 
 liquor, the likes of you. 
 
 Prisoner (very keenly). O, he was 
 in liquor, was he ? 
 
 Hayes. Come, dame, you do brew 
 good ale at Hernshaw Castle. Ye 
 need n't go to deny that ; for, Lord 
 knows, 't is no sin ; and a poor fellow 
 may be jolly, yet not to say drunk. 
 
 Judge (sternly). Witness, attend, 
 and answer directly. 
 
 Prisoner. Nay, my lord, 't is a 
 plain country body, and means no ill. 
 Good Thomas, be so much my friend 
 as to answer plainly. Was the man 
 drunk or sober ? 
 
 Hayes. All I know is he went from 
 one side o' the road to t' other. 
 
 Prisoner. Thomas Hayes, as you 
 hope to be saved eternally, was the 
 pedler drunk or sober? 
 
 Hayes. Well, if I must tell on my 
 neighbor or else be damned, then that 
 there pedler was as drunk as a lord. 
 
 Here, notwithstanding the nature of 
 the trial, the laughter was irrepressi- 
 ble, and Mrs. Gaunt sat quietly down 
 (for she was allowed a s§at), and said 
 no more. 
 
 To the surgeon who had examined 
 the body officially, she put this ques- 
 tion ; " Did you find any signs of vio- 
 lence?" 
 
 Surgeon. None whatever ; but then 
 there was nothing to go by, except 
 the head and the bones. 
 
 Prisoner. Have you experience in 
 this kind ? I mean, have you inspected 
 murdered bodies ? 
 
 Surgeon. Yes. 
 
 Prisoner. How many ? 
 
 Surgeon. Two before this. 
 
 Prisoner. O, pray, pray, do not say 
 "before this"! I have great hopes 
 no murder at all hath been committed 
 here. Let us keep to plain cases. 
 Please you describe the injuries in 
 those two undoubted cases. 
 
 Surgeon. In Wellyn's the skull was 
 fractured in two places. In Sher- 
 rett's the right arm was broken, and 
 there were some contusions on the 
 head ; but the cause of death was a 
 stab that penetrated the lungs. 
 
 Prisoner.. Suppose Wellyn's mur- 
 derers had thrown his body into the 
 water, and the fishes had so muti- 
 lated it as they have this one, could 
 you by your art have detected the 
 signs of violence ? 
 
 Surgeon. Certainly. The man's skull 
 was fractured. Wellyn's, I mean. 
 
 Prisoner. I put the same question 
 with regard to Sherrett's. 
 
 Surgeon. I cannot answer it ; 
 here the lungs were devoured by the 
 fishes ; no signs of lesion can be de- 
 tected in an organ that has ceased to 
 exist. 
 
 Prisoner. This is too partial. Why 
 select one injury out of several ? 
 What I ask is this : could you have 
 detected violence in Sherrett's case, al- 
 though the fishes had eaten the flesh 
 off his body. 
 
 Surgeon. I answer that the minor 
 injuries of Sherrett would have been 
 equally perceptible ; to wit, the bruises 
 on the head, and the broken arm ; but 
 not the perforation of the lungs ; and 
 that it was killed the man. 
 
 Prisoner. Then, so far as you know, 
 and can swear, about murder, more 
 blows have always been struc-k than 
 one, and some of the blows struck in 
 Sherrett's case, and Wellyn's, would 
 have left traces that fishes' teeth could 
 not efface ? 
 
 Surgeon. That is so, if I am to be 
 peevishly confined to my small and nar- 
 row experience of murdered bodies. 
 But my general knowledge of the many 
 ways in which life may be taken by 
 violence — 
 
 The judge stopped him, and said 
 that could hardly be admitted as evi- 
 dence against his actual experience. 
 
 The prisoner put a drawing of the 
 castle, the mere, and the bridge, into 
 the witnesses' hands, and elicited that 
 it was correct, and also the distances 
 marked on it. They had, in fact, been 
 measured exactly for her. 
 
 The hobnailed shoes were produced, 
 and she made some use of them, par- 
 ticularly in cross-examining Jane Ban- 
 ister. 
 
 Prisoner. Look at those shoes. Saw 
 
Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 183 
 
 you ever the like on Mr. Gaunt's 
 feet? 
 
 Jane. That I never did, dame. 
 
 Prisoner. What, not when he came 
 into the kitchen on the isth of Octo- 
 ber ? 
 
 Jane. Nay, he was booted. By the 
 same token I saw the boy a cleaning 
 of them for supper. 
 
 Prisoner. Those boots, when you 
 broke into his room, did yoii find 
 them ? 
 
 Jane. Nay, when the man went his 
 boots went ; as reason was. We found 
 naught of his but a soiled glove. 
 
 Prisoner. Had the pedler boots on ? 
 
 Jane. Alas ! who ever seed a booted 
 pedler ? 
 
 Prisoner. Had he these very shoes 
 on ? Look at them. 
 
 Jane. I could n't say for that. He 
 had shoon, for they did properly clatter 
 on my bricks. 
 
 Judge. Clatter on her bricks ! What 
 in the world does she mean ? 
 
 Prisoner. I think she means on the 
 floor of her kitchen. 'T is a brick floor, 
 if I remember right. 
 
 Judge. Good woman, say, is that 
 ■what you mean ? 
 
 Jane. Ay, an 't please you, my lord. 
 
 Prisoner. Had the pedler a mole on 
 his forehead ? 
 
 Jane. Not that I know on. I never 
 took so much notice of the man. But, 
 la, dame, now I look at you, I don't be- 
 lieve you was ever the one to murder 
 our master. 
 
 Wiltshire. We don't want your opin- 
 ion. Confine yourself to facts. 
 
 Prisoner. You heard me rating my 
 husband on that night : -what was it I 
 said about the constables, — do you re- 
 member ? 
 
 Jane. La, dame, I would n't ask that 
 if I was in your place. 
 
 Prisoner. I am much obliged to you 
 for your advice ; but answer me — 
 truly. 
 
 Jane. Well, if you will have it, I 
 think you said they should be here in 
 the morning. But, indeed, good gen- 
 tlemen, her bark was always worse than 
 her bite, poor soul. 
 
 Judge. Here. That meant at Hern- 
 shaw pastle, I presume. 
 
 Jane. Ay, my lord, an' if it please 
 your lordship's honor's worship. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt, husbanding the patience 
 of the court, put no questions at all to 
 'several witnesses ; but she cross-ex- 
 amined Mrs. Ryder very closely. This 
 was necessary ; for Ryder was a fatal 
 witness. Her memory had stored ev- 
 ery rash and hasty word the poor lady 
 had uttered ; and, influenced either by 
 animosity or prejudice, she put the 
 worst color on every suspicious circum- 
 stance. She gave her damnatory evi- 
 dence neatly, and clearly, and with a 
 seeming candor and regret, that dis- 
 armed suspicion. 
 
 When her examination in chief con- 
 cluded, there was but one opinion 
 amongst the bar, and the auditors in 
 general, namely, that the maid had hung 
 the mistress. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt herself felt she had a ter- 
 rible antagonist to deal with, and, when 
 she rose to cross - examine her, she 
 looked paler than she had done all 
 through the trial. 
 
 She rose, but seemed to ask herself 
 how to begin ; and her pallor and her 
 hesitation, while they excited some lit- 
 tle sympathy, confirmed the unfavorable 
 impression. She fixed her eyes upon 
 the witness, as if to discover where she 
 was most vulnerable. Mrs. Ryder re- 
 turned her gaze calmly. The court was 
 hushed ; for it was evident a duel was 
 coming between two women of no com- 
 mon ability. 
 
 The opening rather disappointed ex- 
 pectation. Mrs. Gaunt seemed, by her 
 manner, desirous to propitiate the wit- 
 ness. 
 
 Prisoner (very civilly). You say you 
 brought Thomas Leicester to my bed- 
 room on that terrible night 1 
 
 Ryder (civilly). Yes, madam. 
 
 Prisoner. And you say he stayed 
 there half an hour .? 
 
 Ryder. Yes, madam ; he did. 
 
 Prisoner. May I inquire how you 
 know he stayed just half an hour ? 
 
 Ryder. My watch told me that, mad- 
 
1 84 
 
 ■Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 am. I brought him to you at a quarter 
 past eleven ; and you did not ring for 
 me till a quarter to twelve. 
 
 Prisoner. And when I did ring for 
 you, what then ? 
 
 Ryder. I came and took the man 
 away, by your orders. 
 
 Prisoner. At a quarter to twelve ? 
 
 Ryder. At a quarter to twelve. 
 
 Prisoner. This Leicester was a lover 
 of yours ? 
 
 Ryder. Not he. 
 
 Prisoner. O, fie ! Why, he offered 
 ydu marriage ; it went so far as 
 that. 
 
 Ryder. O, that was before you set 
 him up pedler. 
 
 Prisoner. 'T 'was so ; but he was sin- 
 gle for your sake, and he renewed his 
 offer that very night. Come, do not 
 forswear yourself about a trifle. 
 
 Ryder. Trifle, indeed ! Why, if he 
 did, what has that to do with the mur- 
 der ? You '11 do yourself no good, 
 madam, by going about so. 
 
 Wiltshire. Really, madam, this is be- 
 side the mark. 
 
 Prisoner. If so, it can do your case 
 no harm. My lord, you did twice inter- 
 rupt the learned counsel, and forbade 
 him to lead his witnesses ; I not once, 
 for I am for stopping no mouths, but 
 sifting all to the bottom. Now, I im- 
 plore you to let me have fair play in my 
 turn, and an answer from this slippery 
 witness. 
 
 Judge. Prisoner, I do not quite 
 see your drift ; but God forbid you 
 should be hampered in your defence. 
 Witness, by virtue of your oath, reply 
 directly. Did this pedler offer you 
 marriage that night after he left the 
 prisoner ? 
 
 Ryder. My lord, he did. 
 
 Prisoner. And confided to you he 
 had orders to kill Mr. Gaunt ? 
 
 Ryder. Not he, madam : that was 
 not the way to win me. He knew 
 that. 
 
 Prisoner. What ! did not his terrible 
 purpose peep out all the time he was 
 making love to you ? 
 
 No reply. 
 
 Prisoner. YOu had the kitchen to 
 
 youi" two selves ? Come, don't hesi- 
 tate. 
 
 Ryder. The other servants were gone 
 to bed. You kept the man so late. 
 
 Prisoner. O, I mean no reflection 
 on your prudence. You went out of 
 doors with your wooer ; just to see him 
 off? 
 
 Ryder. Not I. What for ? / had 
 nobody to make away with. I just 
 opened the door for him, bolted it af- 
 ter him, and went straight to my bed- 
 room. 
 
 Prisoner. How long had you been 
 there when you heard the cry for help ? 
 
 Ryder. Scarce ten minutes. I had 
 not taken my stays off. 
 
 Prisoner. If you and Thomas Hayes 
 speak true, that gives half an hour you 
 were making love with the murderer 
 after he left me. Am I correct ? 
 
 The witness now saw whither she 
 had been led, and changed her man- 
 ner : she became sullen, and watched 
 an opportunity to stab. 
 
 Prisoner. Had he a mole on his 
 brow ? 
 
 Ryder. Not that I know of. 
 
 Prisoner. Why, where were your eyes 
 then, when the murderer saluted you at 
 parting ? 
 
 Ryder's eyes flashed ; but she felt 
 her temper tried, and governed it all 
 the more severely. She treated the 
 question with silent contempt. 
 
 Prisoner. But you pass for a discreet 
 woman ; perhaps you looked modest- 
 ly down when the assassin saluted 
 you? 
 
 Ryder. If he saluted me, perhaps I 
 did. 
 
 Prisoner. In that case you could not 
 see his mole ; but you must have no- 
 ticed his shoes. Were these the shoes 
 he wore ? Look at them well. 
 
 Ryder (after inspecting them). I do 
 not recognize them. 
 
 Prisoner. Will you swear these were 
 not the shoes he had on ? 
 
 Ryder. How can I swear that ? I 
 know nothing about the man's shoes. 
 If you please, my lord, am I to be kept 
 here all day with her foolish, trifling 
 questions ? 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 185 
 
 Judge. All day, and all night too, 
 if Justice requires it. The law i? not 
 swift to shed blood. 
 
 Prisoner. My lord and the gentlemen 
 of the jury were here before you, and 
 will be kept here after you. Prithee, 
 attend. Look at that drawing of Hern- 
 shaw Castle and Hernshaw Mere. Now 
 take this pencil, and mark your bed- 
 room on the drawing. 
 
 The pencil was taken from the pris- 
 oner, and handed to Ryder. She 
 waited, Uke a cat, till it came close to 
 her ; then recoiled with an admirable 
 scream. " Me handle a thing hot from 
 the hand of a murderess ! It makes 
 me tremble all over ! " 
 
 This cruel stab affected the prisoner 
 visibly. She put her hand to her bo- 
 som, and, with tears in her eyes, faltered 
 out a request to the judge that she 
 might sit down a minute. 
 
 Judge. To be sure you may. And 
 you, my good woman, must not run 
 before the court. By law a prisoner 
 is innocent till found guilty by his 
 peers. How do you know what evi- 
 dence she may have in store ? At 
 present we have only heard one side. 
 Be more moderate. 
 
 The prisoner rose promptly to her 
 feet. " My lord, I welcome the insult 
 that has disgusted your lordship and 
 the gentlemen of the jury, and won 
 me those good words of comfort." 
 To Ryder : " What sort of a night 
 was it?" 
 
 Ryder. Very little moon, but a clear, 
 starry night. 
 
 Prisoner. Could you see the Mere, 
 and the banks ? 
 
 Ryder. Nay, but so much of it as 
 faced my window. 
 
 Prisoner. Have you marked your 
 window ? 
 
 Ryder. I have. 
 
 Prisoner. Now mark the place where 
 you heard Mr. Gaunt cry for help. 
 
 Ryder. 'T was about here, — under 
 these trees. And that is why I could 
 not see him : along of the shadow. 
 
 Prisoner. Possibly. Did you see me 
 on that side the Mere ? . 
 
 Ryder. No. 
 
 Prisoner. What colored dress had I 
 on at that time .'' 
 
 Ryder. White satin. 
 
 Prisoner. Then you could have seen 
 me, even among the trees, had I been 
 on that side the Mere ? 
 
 Ryder. I can't say. However, I nev- 
 er said you were on the very spot where 
 the deed was done ; but you were out 
 of doors. 
 
 Prisoner. How do you know that ? 
 
 Ryder. Why, you told me so your- 
 self. 
 
 Prisoner. Then, that is my evidence, 
 not yours. Swear to no more than 
 you know. Had my husband, to your 
 knowledge, a reason for absconding ♦ 
 suddenly ? 
 
 Ryder. Yes, he had. 
 
 Prisoner. What was it ? 
 
 Ryder. Fear of you. 
 
 Prisoner. Nay, I mean, had he not 
 something to fear, something quite dif- 
 ferent from that I am charged with ? 
 
 Ryder. You know best, madam. I 
 would gladly serve you, but I cannot 
 guess what you are driving at. 
 
 The prisoner was taken aback by this 
 impudent reply. She hesitated to force 
 her servant to expose a husband, whom 
 she beheved to be living : and her hesi- 
 tation looked like discomfiture ; and 
 Ryder was victorious in that en- 
 counter. 
 
 By this time they were_both thcrr- 
 oughly embittered, and it was war to 
 the knife. 
 
 Prisoner. You listened to our unhap- 
 py quarrel that night ? 
 
 Ryder. Quarrel ! madam, 't was all 
 on one side. 
 
 Prisoner. How did you understand 
 what I said to him about the consta- 
 bles ? 
 
 Ryder. Constables ! I never heard 
 you say the word. 
 
 Prisoner. Oh ! 
 
 Ryder. Neither when you threatened 
 him with your knife to me, nor when 
 you threatened him to his face. 
 
 Prisoner. Take care : you forget that 
 Jane Banister heard me. Was her ear 
 nearer the keyhole than yours ? 
 
 Ryder. Jane ! she is a simpleton. 
 
i86 
 
 Griffith Gaufit ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 You could make her think she heard 
 anything. I noticed you put the words 
 in her mouth. 
 
 Prisoner. God forgive you, you 
 naughty woman. You had better 
 have spoken the truth. 
 
 Ryder. My lord, if you please, am I 
 to be miscalled — by a murderess ? 
 
 Judge. Come, come, this is no place 
 for recrimination. 
 
 The prisoner now stooped and ex- 
 amined her papers, and took a distinct 
 line of cross-examination. 
 
 Prisoner (with apparent carelessness). 
 At all events, you are a virtuous wo- 
 man, Mrs. Ryder? 
 
 Ryder. Yes, madam, as virtuous as 
 yourself, to say the least. 
 
 Prisoner (still more carelessly). Mar- 
 ried or single ? 
 
 Ryder. Single, and like to be. 
 
 Prisoner. Yes, if I remember right, I 
 made a point of that before I engaged 
 you as my maid. 
 
 Ryder. I believe the question was 
 put. 
 
 Prisoner. Here is the answer in your 
 handwriting. Is not that your hand- 
 writing ? 
 
 Ryder (after inspecting it). It is. 
 
 Prisoner. You came highly recom- 
 mended by your last mistress, a certain 
 Mrs. Hamilton. Here is her letter, de- 
 scribing you as a model. 
 
 Ryder. Well, madam, hitherto, I have 
 given satisfaction to all my mistresses, 
 Mrs. Hamilton among the rest. My 
 character does not rest on her word 
 only, I hope. 
 
 Prisoner. Excuse me ; I engaged you 
 on her word alone. Now, who is this 
 Mrs. Hamilton ? 
 
 Ryder. A worshipful lady I served 
 for eight months before I came to you. 
 She went abroad, or I should be with 
 her now. 
 
 Prisoner. Now cast your eye over 
 this paper. 
 
 It was the copy of a marriage certifi- 
 cate between Thomas Edwards and 
 Caroline Plunke,tt. 
 
 " Who is this Caroline Plunkett ? " 
 
 Ryder turned very pale, and made no 
 reply. 
 
 " I ask you who is this Caroline 
 Plunkett ? " 
 
 Ryder (faintly). Myself 
 
 Judge. Why, you gaid you were sin- 
 gle! 
 
 Ryder. So I am ; as good as single. 
 My husband and me we parted eight 
 years ago, and I have never seen him 
 since. 
 
 Prisoner. Was it quite eight years 
 ago? 
 
 Ryder. Nearly, 'twas in May, 1739. 
 
 Prisoner. But you have lived with 
 him since. 
 
 Ryder. Never, upon my soul. 
 
 Prisoner. When was your child 
 born ? 
 
 Ryder. My child ! I have none. 
 
 Prisoner. In January, 1743, you left 
 a baby at Biggleswade, with a woman 
 called Church, — did you not ? 
 
 Ryder {^z-nXm^. Of course I did. It 
 was my sister's. 
 
 Prisoner. Do you mean to call God 
 to witness that child was not your's ? 
 
 Ryder hesitated. 
 
 Prisoner. Will you swear Mrs. 
 Church did not see you suckle that 
 child in secret, and weep over it ? 
 
 At this question the perspiration 
 stood visible on Ryder's brow, her 
 cheeks were ghastly, and her black eyes 
 roved like some wild animal's round 
 the court. She saw her own danger, 
 and had no means of measuring her 
 inquisitor's information. 
 
 " My lord, have pity on me. I was 
 betrayed, abandoned. Why am I so 
 tormented ? / have not committed 
 murder." So, catlike, she squealed 
 and scratched at once. 
 
 Prisoner. What ! to swear away an 
 innocent life, is not that murder ? 
 
 Judge. Prisoner, we make allow- 
 ances for your sex, and your peril, but 
 you must not remark on the evidence 
 at present. Examine as severely as 
 you will, but abstain from comment till 
 you address the jury on your defence. 
 
 Sergeant Wiltshire. My lord, I sub- 
 mit that this line of examination is bar^ 
 barous, and travels out of the case en- 
 tirely. 
 
 Prisoner. Not so, Mr. Sergeant. 'T 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy, 
 
 187 
 
 Is done by advice of an able lawyer. 
 My life is in peril, unless I shake this 
 witness's credit. To that end I show 
 you she is incontinent, and practised in 
 falsehood. Unchastity has been held 
 in these courts to disqualify a female 
 witness, hath it not, my lord ? 
 
 Judge. Hardly. But to disparage 
 her evidence it has. And wisely ; for 
 she who loses her virtue enters on a 
 life of deceit ; and lying is a habit that 
 spreads from one thing to many. Much 
 wisdom there is in ancient words. Our 
 forefathers taught us to call a virtuous 
 woman an honest woman, and the law 
 does but follow in that track ; still, 
 however, leaving much to the discre- 
 tion of the jury. 
 
 Prisoner. I would show her more 
 mercy than she has shown to me. 
 Therefore I leave that matter. Wit- 
 ness, be so good as to examine Mrs. 
 Hamilton's letter, and compare it with 
 your own. The " y's " and the "s's" 
 are peculiar in both, and yet the same. 
 Come, confess, Mrs. Hamilton's is a 
 forgery. You wrote it. Be pleased to 
 hand both letters up to my lord to com- 
 pare ; the disguise is but thin. 
 
 Ryder. Forgery there was none. 
 There is no Mrs. Hamilton. (She 
 burst into tears.) I had my child to 
 provide for, and no man to help me ! 
 What was I to do ? A servant must 
 live. 
 
 Prisoner. Then why not let her mis- 
 tress live, whose bread she has eaten ? 
 My lord, shall not this false witness be 
 sent hence to prison for perjury ? 
 
 Wiltshire. Certainly not. What wo- 
 man on earth is expected to reveal her 
 own shame upon oath ? 'T was not fair 
 nor human to put such questions. 
 Come, madam, leave torturing this 
 poor creature. Show some mercy ; 
 you may need it yourself 
 
 Prisoner. Sir, 'tis not mercy I ask, 
 but justice according to law. But since 
 you do me the honor to make me a re- 
 quest, I will comply, and ask her but 
 one question more. Describe my apart- 
 ment into which you showed Thomas 
 Leicester that night. Begin at the out- 
 er door. 
 
 Ryder. First there is the anteroom ; 
 then the boudoir ; then there 's your 
 bedchamber. 
 
 Prisoner. Into which of those three 
 did you show Thomas Leicester .'' 
 
 Ryder. Into the anteroom. 
 
 Prisoner. Then why did you say it 
 was in my chamber I entertained him .' 
 
 Ryder. Madam, I meant no more 
 than that it was your private apartment 
 up stairs. 
 
 Prisoner. You contrived to make the 
 gendemen think otherwise. 
 
 Judge. That you did. 'T is down in 
 my notes that fehe received the pedler 
 in her bedchamber. 
 
 Ryder (sobbing). God is my wit- 
 ness I did not mean to mislead your 
 lordship : and I ask my lady's pardon 
 for not being more exact in that par- 
 ticular. 
 
 At this the prisoner bowed to the 
 judge, and sat down with one victorious 
 flash of her gray eye at the witness, 
 who was in an abject condition of fear, 
 and hung all about the witness-box 
 limp as a wet towel. 
 
 Sergeant Wiltshire saw she was so 
 thoroughly cowed she would be apt to 
 truckle, and soften her evidence to pro- 
 pitiate the prisoner; so he asked her 
 but one question. 
 
 " Were you and the prisoner on good 
 terms ? " 
 
 Ryder. On the best of terms. She 
 was always a good and liberal mistress 
 to me. 
 
 Wiltshire. I will not prolong your 
 suiferings. You may go down. 
 
 Judge. But you will not leave the 
 court till this trial is ended. I have 
 grave doubts whether I ought not to 
 commit you. 
 
 Unfortunately for the prisoner, Ryder 
 was not the last witness for the crown. 
 The others that followed were so mani- 
 festly honest that it would have been 
 impolitic to handle them severely. The 
 prisoner, therefore, put very few ques- 
 tions to them ; and, when the last wit- 
 ness went down, the case looked very 
 formidable. 
 
 The evidence for the crown being 
 now complete, the judge retired for 
 
1 88 
 
 Griffith Gaunt ; or, yealousy. 
 
 some refreshment ; and the court buzzed 
 like a hum of bees. Mrs. Gaunt's lips 
 and throat were parched and her heart 
 quaked. 
 
 A woman of quite the lower order 
 thrust forth a great arm, and gave her 
 an orange. Mrs. Gaunt thanked her 
 sweetly; and the juice relieved her 
 throat. 
 
 Also this bit of sympathy was of good 
 omen, and did her heart good. 
 
 She buried her face in her hands, 
 and collected all her powers for the 
 undertaking before her. She had noted 
 down the exact order of her topics, but 
 no more. 
 
 The judge returned ; the crier de- 
 manded silence ; and the prisoner rose, 
 and turned her eyes modestly but stead- 
 ily upon those who held her life in their 
 hands : and, true to the wisdom of her 
 sex, the first thing she aimed at was — 
 to please. 
 
 " My lord, and you gentlemen of the 
 jury, I am now to reply to a charge of 
 murder, founded on a little testimony, 
 and a good deal of false, but, I must 
 reeds say, reasonable conjecture. 
 
 " I am innocent ; but, unhke other 
 innocent persons who have stood here 
 before me, I have no man to com- 
 plain of. 
 
 " The magistrates who committed me 
 proceeded with due caution and human- 
 ity ; they weighed my hitherto unspot- 
 ted reputation, and were in no hurry to 
 prejudge me ; here, in this court, I have 
 met with much forbearance ; the learned 
 counsel for the crown has made me 
 groan under his abilities ; that was his 
 duty ; but he said from the first he 
 would do nothing hard, and he has 
 kept his word ; often he might have 
 stopped me ; I saw it in his face. But, 
 being a gentleman and a Christian, as 
 well as a learned lawyer, methinks he 
 said to himself, ' This is a poor gentle- 
 woman pleading for her life ; let her 
 have some little advantage.' As for my 
 lord, he has promised to be my counsel, 
 so far as his high station, and duty to 
 the crown, admit ; and he has support- 
 e:l and consoled me more than once 
 will) words of justice, that would not, I 
 
 think, have encouraged a guilty person, 
 but have comforted and sustained me 
 beyond expression. So then I stand 
 here, the victim, not of man's injustice, 
 but of deceitful appearances, and of 
 honest, but hasty and loose conjec- 
 tures. 
 
 " These conjectures I shall now sift, 
 and hope to show you how hollow they 
 are. 
 
 " Gentlemen, in every disputed mat- 
 ter the best way, I am told, is to begin 
 by settling what both parties are agreed 
 in, and so to narrow the matter. To 
 use that method, then, I do heartily 
 agree with the learned counsel that 
 murder is a heinous crime, and that, 
 black as it is at the best, yet it is still 
 more detestable when 't is a wife that 
 murders her husband, and robs her 
 child of a parent who can never be re- 
 placed. 
 
 " I also agree with him that circum- 
 stantial evidence is often sufficient to 
 convict a murderer ; and, indeed, were 
 it not so, that most monstrous of crimes 
 would go oftenest unpunished ; since, 
 of all culprits, murderers do most shun 
 the eyes of men in their dark deeds, 
 and so provide beforehand that direct 
 testimony to their execrable crime there 
 shall be none. Only herein I am ad- 
 vised to take a distinction that escaped 
 the learned sergeant. I say that first of 
 all it ought to be proved directly, and 
 to the naked eye, that a man has been 
 murdered ; and then, if none saw the 
 crime done, let circumstances point out 
 the murderer. 
 
 " But here, they put the cart before 
 the horse ; they find a dead body, with 
 no marks of violence whatever ; and 
 labor to prove by circumstantial evi- 
 dence alone that this mere dead body 
 is a murdered body. This, I am ad- 
 vised, is bad in law, and contrary to 
 general precedents ; and the particular 
 precedents for it are not examples, but 
 warnings ; since both the prisoners so 
 rashly convicted were proved innocent, 
 after their execution." 
 
 (The judge took a note of this dis- 
 tinction.) 
 
 " Then, to go from principles to the 
 
Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 189 
 
 facts, I agree and admit that, in a mo- 
 ment of anger, I was so transported out 
 of myself as to threaten my husband's 
 life before Caroline Ryder. But after- 
 wards, when I saw him face to face, 
 then, that I threatened him with vio- 
 lence, that I deny. The fact is, I had 
 just learned that he had committed a 
 capital offence ; and what I threatened 
 him with was the law. This was proved 
 by Jane Banister. She says she heard 
 me say the constables should come for 
 him next morning. For what ? to mur- 
 der him ? " 
 
 Judge. Give me leave, madam. 
 Shall you prove Mr. Gaunt had com- 
 mitted a capital offence ? 
 
 Prisoner. I could, my lord ; but I 
 am loath, to do it. For, if I did, I should 
 cast him into worse trouble than I am 
 in myself 
 
 Judge (shaking his head gravely). 
 Let me advise you to advance nothing 
 you are not able and willing to prove. 
 
 Prisoner. " Then I confine myself 
 to this: it was proved by a witness 
 for the crown that in the dining-room I 
 threatened my husband to his face with 
 the law. Now this threat, and not that 
 other extravagant threat, which he 
 never heard, you know, was clearly the 
 threat which caused him to abscond 
 that night. 
 
 " In the next place, I agree with the 
 learned counsel that I was out of doors 
 at one o'clock that morning. But if he 
 will use me as his witness In that mat- 
 ter, then he must not pick and choose 
 and mutilate my testimony. Nay, let 
 him take the whole truth, and not just 
 so much as he can square with the in- 
 dictment. Either believe me, that I 
 was out of doors praying, or do not be- 
 lieve me that I was out of doors at all. 
 
 "Gentlemen, hear the simple truth. 
 You may see in the map, on the south 
 side of Hernshaw Castle, a grove of 
 large fir-trees. 'T is a reverend place, 
 most fit for prayer and meditation. 
 Here I have prayed a thousand times 
 and more before the isth of Octo- 
 ber. Hence 'tis called 'The Dame's 
 Haunt,' as I shall prove, that am the 
 dame 't is called after. 
 
 "Let it not seem incredible to you 
 that I should pray out of doors in my 
 grove, on a fine, clear, starry night. For 
 aught I know, Protestants may pray 
 only by the fireside. But, remember, 
 I am a Catholic. We are not so con- 
 tracted in our praying. We do not 
 confine it to little comfortable places. 
 Nay, but for seventeen hundred years 
 and more we have prayed out of doors 
 as much as in doors. And this our 
 custom is no fit subject for a shallow 
 sneer. How does the learned sergeant 
 know that, beneath the vault of heaven 
 at night, studded with those angelic 
 eyes, the stars, is an unfit place to bend 
 the knee, and raise the soul in prayer ? 
 Has he ever tried it 1 " 
 
 This sudden appeal to a learned and 
 eminent, but by no means devotional 
 sergeant, so tickled the gentlemen of 
 the bar, that they burst out laughing 
 with singular unanimity. 
 
 This dashed the prisoner, who had 
 not intended to be funny ; and she 
 hesitated, and looked distressed. 
 
 Judge. Proceed, madam ; these re- 
 marks of yours are singular, but quite 
 pertinent, and no fit subject for ridicule. 
 Gentlemen, remember the public looks 
 to you for an example. 
 
 Prisoner. " My lord, 't was my fault 
 for making that personal which should 
 be general. But women they are so. 
 'T is our foible. I pray the good ser- 
 geant to excuse me. 
 
 " I say, then, generally, that when 
 the sun retires, then earth fades, but 
 heaven comes out in tenfold glory ; 
 and I say the starry firmament at night 
 is a temple not built with hands, and 
 the bare sight of it subdues the pas- 
 sions, chastens the heart, and aids the 
 soul in prayer surprisingly. My lord, 
 as I am a Christian woman, 'tis true 
 that my husband had wronged me 
 cruelly and broken the law. 'T is true 
 that I raged against him, and he an- 
 swered me not again. 'Tis true, as 
 that witness said, that my bark is worse 
 than my bite. I cooled, and then felt 
 I had forgotten the wife and the Chris- 
 tian in my wi^th. I repented, and, to 
 be more earnest in my penitence, I did 
 
I go 
 
 Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 go and pray out o' doors beneath those 
 holy eyes of heaven that seemed to 
 look down with chaste reproach on my 
 ungoverned heat. I left my fireside, 
 my velvet cushions, and all the little 
 comforts made by human hands, that 
 adorn our earthly dwellings, but dis- 
 tract our eyes from God." 
 
 Some applause followed this piece of 
 eloquence, exquisitely uttered. It was 
 checked, and the prisoner resumed, 
 with an entire change of manner. 
 
 "Gentlemen, the case against me is 
 like a piece of rotten wood varnished 
 all over. It looks fair to the eye ; but 
 will not bear handling. 
 
 "As example of what I say, take 
 three charges on which the learned 
 sergeant greatly relied in opening his 
 case : — 
 
 "ist. That I received Thomas Lei- 
 cester in my bedroom. 
 
 " 2d. That he went hot from me 
 after Mr. Gaunt. 
 
 "3d. That he was seen following 
 Mr. Gaunt with a bloody intent. 
 
 " How ugly these three proofs looked 
 at first sight! Well, but when we 
 squeezed the witnesses ever so little, 
 what did those three dwindle down 
 to? 
 
 " 1st. That I received Thomas Lei- 
 cester in an anteroom, which leads to a 
 boudoir, and that boudoir leads to my 
 bedroom. 
 
 " 2d. That Thomas Leicester went 
 from me to the kitchen, and there, for 
 a good half-hour, drank my ale (as it 
 appears), and made love to his old 
 sweetheart, Caroline Ryder, the false 
 witness for the crown ; and went 
 abroad fresh from her, and not from 
 me. 
 
 " 3d. That he was not (to speak 
 strictly) seen following Mr. Gaunt, but 
 just walking on the same road, drunk, 
 and staggering, and going at such a 
 rate that, as the crown's own witness 
 swore, he could not in the nature of 
 things overtake Mr. Gaunt, who walked 
 quicker, and straighter too, than he. 
 
 " So, then, even if a murder has 
 been done, they have failed to connect 
 Thomas Leicester with it, or me with 
 
 Thomas Leicester. Two broken links 
 in a chain of but three. 
 
 " And now I come to the more agree- 
 able part of my defence. I do think 
 there has been no murder at all. 
 
 "There is no evidence of a mur- 
 der. 
 
 "A body is found with the flesh 
 eaten by fishes, but the bones and the 
 head uninjured. They swear a sur- 
 geon, who has examined the body, and 
 certainly he had the presumption to 
 guess it looks like a murdered body. 
 But, being sifted, he was forced to ad- 
 mit, that so far as his experience of 
 murdered bodies goes, it is not like a 
 murdered body ; for there is no bone 
 broken, nor bruise on the head. 
 
 " Where is the body found ? In the 
 water. But water by itself is a suffi- 
 cient cause of death, and a common 
 cause too ; and kills without breaking 
 bones, or bruising the head. O per- 
 versity of the wise ! For every one 
 creature murdered in England, ten are 
 accidentally drowned ; and they find a 
 dead man in the water, which is as 
 much as to say they find the slain in 
 the arms of the slayer ; yet they do not 
 once suspect the water, but go about 
 in search of a strange and monstrous 
 crime. 
 
 " Mr. Gaunt's cry for help was heard 
 here, if it was heard at all (which I 
 greatly doubt), here by this clump of 
 trees ; the body was found here, hard 
 by the bridge ; which is, by meas- 
 urement, one furlong and sixty paces 
 from that clump of trees, as I shall 
 prove. There is no current in the 
 mere lively enough to move a body, 
 and what there is runs the wrong way. 
 So this disconnects the cry for help, 
 and the dead body. Another broken 
 link! 
 
 "And now I come to my third de- 
 fence. 
 
 " I say the body is not the body of 
 Griffith Gaunt. 
 
 " The body, mutilated as it was, had 
 two distinguishing marks ; a mole on 
 the brow, and a pair of hobnailed shoes 
 on the feet. 
 
 " Now the advisers of the crown fix 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 191 
 
 their eyes on that mole ; but they turn 
 their heads away from the hobnailed 
 shoes. But why ? Articles of raiment 
 found on a body are legal evidence of 
 identity. How often, my lord, in cases 
 of murder, hath the crown relied on 
 such particulars, especially in cases 
 where corruption had obscured the 
 features ! 
 
 " I shall not imitate this partiality, 
 this obstinate prejudice ; I shall not 
 ask you to shut your eyes on the mole, 
 as they do on the shoes, but shall meet 
 the whole truth fairly. 
 
 " Mr. Gaunt went from my house 
 that morning with boots on his feet, 
 and with a mole on his brow. 
 
 " Thomas Leicester went the same 
 road, with shoes on his feet, and, as I 
 shall prove, with a mole on his brow. 
 
 " To be sure, the crown witnessed 
 did not distinctly admit this mole on 
 him ; but you will remember, they 
 dared not deny it on their oaths, and 
 so run their heads into an indictment 
 for perjury. 
 
 "But, gentlemen, I shall put seven 
 witnesses into the box, who will all 
 swear that they have known Thomas 
 Leicester for years, and that he had a 
 mole upon his left temple. 
 
 "One of these witnesses is — the 
 mother that bore him. 
 
 " I shall then call witnesses to prove 
 that, on the 15th of October, the bridge 
 over the mere was in bad repair, and 
 a portion of the side rail gone ; and 
 that the body was found within a few 
 yards of that defective bridge ; and 
 then, as Thomas Leicester went that 
 way, drunk, and staggering from side 
 to side, you may reasonably infer that 
 he fell into the water in passing the 
 bridge. To show you this is possible, 
 I shall prove the same thing has ac- 
 tually occurred. I shall swear the old- 
 est man in the parish, who will depose 
 to a similar event that happened in 
 his boyhood. He hath said it a thou- 
 sand times before to-day, and now will 
 swear it. He will tell you that on a 
 certain day, sixty-nine years ago, the 
 parson of Hernshaw, the Rev. Augus- 
 tus Murthwaite, wentto cross this bridge 
 
 at night, after carousing at Hernshaw 
 Castle with our great-grandfather, my 
 husband's and mine, the then proprie- 
 tor of Hernshaw, and tumbled into the 
 water ; and his body was found gnawed 
 out of the very form of humanity by the 
 fishes, within a yard or two of the spot 
 where poor Tom Leicester was found, 
 that hath cost us all this trouble. So 
 do the same causes bring round the 
 same events in a cycle of years. The 
 only difference is that the parson drank 
 his death in our dining-room, and the 
 pedler in our kitchen. 
 
 " No doubt, my lord, you have ob- 
 served that sometimes a hasty and in- 
 voluntary inaccuracy gives quite a 
 wrong color to a thing. I assure you I 
 have suffered by this. It is said that 
 the moment Mr. Atkins proposed to 
 drag my mere, I fainted away. In this 
 account there is an omission. I shall 
 prove that Mr. Atkins used these 
 words ; ' And underneath that water 
 r undertake to find the remains of 
 Griffith Gaunt.' Now, gentlemen, you 
 shall understand that at this time, and 
 indeed until the moment when I saw 
 the shoes upon that poor corpse's feet, I 
 was in great terror for my husband's 
 life. How could it be otherwise ? Car- 
 ohne Ryder had told me she heard his 
 cry for help. He had disappeared. 
 What was I to think ? I feared he 
 had fallen in with robbers. I feared 
 all manner of things. So when the 
 lawyer said so positively he would find 
 his body, I was overpowered. Ah, gen- 
 tlemen, wedded love survives many 
 wrongs, many angry words ; I love my 
 husband still ; and when the man told 
 me so brutally that he was certainly 
 dead, I fainted away. I confess it. 
 Shall I be hanged for that ? 
 
 " But now, thank God, I am full of 
 hope that he is alive ; and that good 
 hope has given me the courage to make 
 this great effort to save my own life. 
 
 " Hitherto I have been able to con- 
 tradict my accusers positively ; but now 
 I come to a mysterious circumstance 
 that I own puzzles me. Most person.<i 
 accused of murder could, if they chose, 
 make a clean breast, and tell you the 
 
192 
 
 Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 whole matter. But this is not my case. 
 I know shoes from boots, and I know 
 Kate Gaunt from a liar and a murder- 
 ess. But, when all is said, this is still 
 a dark, mysterious business, and there 
 are things in it I can only deal with as 
 you do, gentlemen, by bringing my wits 
 to bear upon them in reasonable con- 
 jecture. 
 
 " Caroline Ryder swears she heard 
 Mr. Gaunt cry for help. And Mr. 
 Gaunt has certainly disappeared. 
 
 " My accusers have somewhat weak- 
 ened this by trying to palm off the body 
 of Thomas Leicester on you for the 
 body of Mr. Gaunt. But the original 
 mystery remains, and puzzles me. I 
 might fairly appeal to you to disbelieve 
 the witness. She is proved inconti- 
 nent, and a practised liar, and she for- 
 swore herself in this court, and my lord 
 is in two minds about committing her. 
 But a liar does not always lie, and, to 
 be honest, I think she really believes 
 she heard Mr. Gaunt cry for help, for 
 she went straight to his bedroom ; and 
 that looks as if she really thought she 
 heard his voice. But a liar may be 
 mistaken. Do not forget that. Dis- 
 ■ tance affects the voice ; and I think the 
 voice she heard was Thomas Leices- 
 ter's, and the place it came from higher 
 up the mere. 
 
 " This, my notion, will surprise you 
 less when I prove to you that Leices- 
 ter's voice bore a family likeness to 
 Mr. Gaunt's. I shall call two witness- 
 es who have been out shooting with 
 Mr. Gaunt and Tom Leicester, and. 
 have heard Leicester halloo in the 
 wood, and taken it for Mr. Gaunt. 
 
 " Must I tell you the whole truth ? 
 This Leicester has always passed for 
 an illegitimate son of Mr. Gaunt's fa- 
 ther. He resembled my husband in 
 form, stature, and voice : he had the 
 Gaunt mole, and has often spoken of it 
 by that name. My husband forgave 
 him many faults for no other reason 
 — and I bought wares and filled his 
 pack for no other reason — than this ; 
 that he was my husband's brother by 
 nature, though not in law. ' HONI 
 
 SOIT QUI MAL Y PENSE.' 
 
 " Ah, that is a royal device ; yet how 
 often in this business have the advisers 
 of the crown forgotten it ? 
 
 " My lord, and gentlemen of the jury, 
 I return from these conjectures to the 
 indisputable facts of my defence.' 
 
 " Mr. Gaunt may be alive, or he may 
 be dead. He was certainly alive on 
 the 15th of October, and it lies on the 
 crown to prove him dead, and not on 
 me to prove him alive. But as for the 
 body that forms the subject of this in- 
 dictment, it is the body of Thomas Lei- 
 cester, who was seen on the i6th of Oc- 
 tober, at one in the morning, drunk and 
 staggering, and making for Hernsbaw 
 Bridge, which leads to his mother's 
 house ; and on all his former visits to 
 Hernshaw Castle he went on to his 
 mother's, as I shall prove. This time, 
 lie never reached her, as I shall prove ; 
 but on his way to her did meet his 
 death, by the will of God, and no fault 
 of man or woman, in Hernshaw Mere. 
 
 " Call Sarah Leicester." 
 
 Judge. I think you say you have 
 several witnesses. 
 
 Prisoner. More than twenty, my 
 lord. 
 
 Judge. We cannot possibly dis- 
 pose of them this evening. We will 
 hear your evidence to-morrow. Pris- 
 oner, this will enable you to consult 
 with your legal advisers, and let me 
 urge upon you to prove, if you can, 
 that Mr. Gaunt has a sufficient motive 
 for hiding and not answering Mr. At- 
 kins's invitation to inherit a large es- 
 tate. Some such proof as this is ne- 
 cessary to complete your defence ; and 
 I am sorry to see you have made no 
 mention of it in your address, which 
 was otherwise able. 
 
 Prisoner. My lord, I think I can 
 prove my own innocence without cast- 
 ing a slur upon my husband. 
 
 Judge. You think? when your life 
 is at stake. Be not so mad as to 
 leave so large a hole in your defence, 
 if you can mend it. Take advice. 
 
 He said this very solemnly ; then rose 
 and left the court. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt was conveyed back to 
 prison, and there was soon prostrated 
 
Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 193 
 
 by the depression that follows an un- 
 natural excitement. 
 
 Mr. Houseman found her on a sofa, 
 pale and dejected, and clasping the 
 jailer's wife convulsively, who applied 
 hartshorn to her nostrils. 
 
 He proved but a Job's comforter. 
 Her defence, creditable as it was to a 
 novice, seemed wordy and weak to him, 
 a lawyer ; and he was horrified at the 
 admissions she had made. In her place 
 he would have admitted nothing he 
 could not thoroughly explain. 
 
 He came to insist on a change of 
 tactics. 
 
 When he saw her sad condition, he 
 tried to begin by consoling and encour- 
 aging her. But his own serious mis- 
 givings unfitted him for this task, and 
 very ' soon, notwithstanding the state 
 she was in, he was almost scolding her 
 for being so mad as to withstand the 
 judge, and set herself against his ad- 
 vice. "There," said he, "my lord 
 kept his word, and became counsel for 
 you. ' Close that gap in your defence,' 
 says he, ' and you will very likely be 
 acquitted.' ^Nay,' says you, 'I prefer 
 to chance it.' What madness ! what 
 injustice ! " 
 
 " Injustice ! to whom ? " 
 
 " To whom ? why, to yourself." 
 
 "What, may I not be unjust to my- 
 self?" 
 
 " Certainly not ; you have no right to 
 be unjust to anybody. Don't deceive 
 yourself; there is no virtue in this; it 
 is mere miserable weakness. What 
 right have you to peril an innocent life 
 merely to screen a malefactor from just 
 obloquy ? " 
 
 " Alas ! " said Mrs. Gaunt, " 't is 
 more than obloquy. They will kill 
 him ; they will brand him with a hot 
 iron." 
 
 " Not unless he is indicted ; and who 
 will indict him ? Sir George Neville 
 must be got to muzzle the attorney- 
 general, and the Lancashire jade will 
 not move against him, for you say they 
 are living together." 
 
 " Of course they are ; and, as you 
 say, why should I screen him? But 
 't will not serve ; who can combat prej- 
 
 13 
 
 udice ? If what I have said does not 
 convince them, an angel's voice would 
 not. Sir, I am a Catholic, and they 
 will hang me. I shall die miserably, 
 having exposed my husband, who loved 
 me once, O so dearly ! I trifled with 
 his love. I deserve it all." 
 
 " You will not die at all, if you will 
 only be good and obedient, and listen 
 to wiser heads. I have subpoenaed Car- 
 oline Ryder as your witness, and given 
 her a hint how to escape an indictment 
 for perjury. You will find her supple 
 as a glove." 
 
 " Call a rattlesnake for my witness ? " 
 
 " I have drawn her fangs. You will 
 also call Sir George Neville, to prove 
 he saw Gaunt's picture at the ' Pack- 
 horse,' and heard the other wife.'s tale. 
 Wiltshire will object to this as evi- 
 dence, and say why don't you produce 
 Mercy Vint herself. Then you will call 
 me to prove I sent the subpoena to 
 Mercy Vint. Come now ; I cannot eat 
 or sleep till you promise me." 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt sighed deeply. " Spare 
 me," said she ; " I am worn out. O 
 that I could die before the trial begins 
 again ! " 
 
 Houseman saw the signs of yield- 
 ing, and persisted. " Come, promise 
 now," said he. " Then you will feel 
 better." 
 
 " I will do whatever you bid me," 
 said she. " Only, if -they let me off, I 
 will go into a convent. No power shall 
 hinder me." 
 
 " You shall go where you like, except 
 to the gallows. Enough, 't is a promise, 
 and I never knew you break one. Now 
 I can eat my supper. You are a good, 
 obedient child, and I am a happy at- 
 torney." 
 
 " And I am the most miserable wo- 
 man in all England." 
 
 " Child," said the worthy lawyer, 
 ''your spirits have given way, because 
 they were strung so high. You need 
 repose. Go to bed now, and sleep 
 twelve hours. Believe me, you will 
 wake another woman." 
 
 " Ah ! would I could ! " cried Mrs. 
 Gaunt, with all the eloquence of de- 
 spair. 
 
194- 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 Houseman murmured a few more 
 consoling words, and then left her, after 
 once more exacting a promise that she 
 would receive no more visits, but go to 
 bed directly. She was to send all in- 
 truders to him at the " Angel." 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt proceeded to obey his 
 orders, and though it was but eight 
 o'clock, she made preparations for bed, 
 and then went to her nightly devotions. 
 
 She was in sore trouble, and earthly 
 trouble turns the heart heavenwards. 
 Yet it was not so with her. The deep 
 languor that oppressed her seemed to 
 have reached her inmost soul. Her 
 beads, falling one by one from her hand, 
 denoted the number of her supplica- 
 cations ; but, for once, they were preces 
 sine mente dicta. Her faith was cold, 
 her behef in Divine justice was shaken 
 for a time. She began to doubt and to 
 despond. That bitter hour, which Da- 
 vid has sung so well, and Bunyan, from 
 experience, has described in his biog- 
 raphy as well as in his novel, sat heavy 
 upon her, as it had on many a true be- 
 liever before her. So deep was the 
 gloom, so paralyzing the languor, that 
 at last she gave up all endeavor to utter 
 words of prayer. She placed her cruci- 
 fix at the foot of the wall, and laid her- 
 self down on the ground and kissed 
 His feet, then, drawing back, gazed 
 upon that effigy of the mortal sufferings 
 of our Redeemer. 
 
 " O anima Christiana, respice vulnera morientis, 
 pretium redemptionis." 
 
 She had lain thus a good half-hour, 
 when a gentle tap came to the door. 
 
 "Who is that?" said she. 
 
 " Mrs. Menteith," the jailer's wife re- 
 plied, softly, and asked leave to come in. 
 
 Now this Mrs. Menteith had been 
 very kind to her, and stoutly main- 
 tained her innocence. Mrs. Gaunt 
 rose, and invited her in. 
 
 " Madam," said Mrs. Menteith, 
 "what I come for, there is a person 
 below who much desires to see you." 
 
 " I beg to be excused," was the re- 
 ply. " He must go to my solicitor at 
 the 'Angel,' Mr. Houseman." 
 
 Mrs. Menteith retired with that mes- 
 sage, but in about five minutes returned 
 to say that the young woman declined 
 to go to Mr. Houseman, and begged 
 hard to see Mrs. Gaunt. "And, dame," 
 said she, " if I were you, I 'd let her 
 come in ; 't is the honestest face, and 
 the tears in her soft eyes, at you deny- 
 ing her : ' O dear, dear ! ' said she, ' I 
 cannot tell my errand to any but 
 her.' " 
 
 "Well, well," said Mrs. Gaunt; "but 
 what is her business ? " 
 
 " If you ask me, I think her business 
 is your business. Come, dame, do see 
 the poor thing; she is civil spoken, and 
 she tells me she has come all the way 
 out of Lancashire o' purpose." 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt recoiled, as if she had 
 been stung. 
 
 " From Lancashire ? " said she, faint- 
 
 ly- 
 
 "Ay, madam,'' said Mrs. Menteith, 
 
 "and that is a long road ; and a child 
 
 upon her arm all the way, poor thing ! " 
 
 " Her name ? " said Mrs. Gaunt, 
 
 sternly. 
 
 " O, she is not ashamed of it. She 
 gave it me directly." 
 
 " What, has she the effrontery to take 
 my name ? " 
 
 Mrs. Menteith stared at her with ut- 
 ter amazement. " Your name ? " said 
 she. " 'T is a simple, country body, 
 and her name is Vint, — Mercy Vint." 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt was very much agitated, 
 and said she felt quite unequal to see a 
 stranger. 
 
 " Well, I 'm sure I don't know what 
 to do," said Mrs. Menteith. " She 
 says she will lie at your door all night, 
 but she will see you. 'T is the face of 
 a friend. She may know something. 
 It seems hard to thrust her and her 
 child out into the street, after tl:eir 
 coming all the way from Lancashire." 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt stood silent awhile, and 
 her intelligence had a severe combat 
 with her deep repugnance to be in the 
 same room with Grif5th Gaunt's mis- 
 tress (so she considered her). But a 
 certain curiosity came to the aid of 
 her good sense ; and, after all, she was 
 a brave and haughty woman, and her 
 
Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 195 
 
 natural courage began to rise. She 
 thought to herself, "What, dares she 
 come to me all this way, and shall I 
 shrink from herf' 
 
 She turned to IVTrs. Menteith with a 
 bitter smile, and she said, very slowly, 
 and clenching her white teeth: "Since 
 you desire it, and she insists on it, I 
 will receive Mistress Mercy Vint." 
 
 Mrs. Menteith went off, and in about 
 five minutes returned, ushering in Mer- 
 cy Vint, in a hood and travelling-cloak. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt received her standing, 
 and with a very formal courtesy ; to 
 which Mercy made a quiet obeisance, 
 and both women looked one another 
 all over in a moment. 
 
 Mrs. Menteith lingered, to know 
 what on earth this was all about ; but 
 as neither spoke a word, and their eyes 
 were fixed on each other, she divined 
 that her absence was necessary, and so 
 retired, looking very much amazed at 
 both of them. 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 " Be seated, mistress, if you please," 
 said Mrs. Gaunt, with icy civility, " and 
 let me know to what I owe this extraor- 
 dinary visit." 
 
 " I thank you, dame," said Mercy, 
 " for indeed I am sore fatigued." She 
 sat quietly down. " Why I have come 
 to you ? It was to serve you, and to 
 keep my word with George Neville." 
 
 " Will you be kind enough to ex- 
 plain? " said Mrs. Gaunt, in a freezing 
 tone, and with a look of her calm gray 
 eye to match. 
 
 Mercy felt chilled, and was too frank 
 to disguise it " Alas ! " said she, softly, 
 " 't is hard to be received so, and me 
 come all the way from Lancashire, with 
 a heart like lead, to do my duty, God 
 willing." 
 
 The tears stood in her eyes, and her 
 mellow voice was sweet and patient. 
 
 The gentle remonstrance was not 
 quite without effect. Mrs. Gaunt col- 
 ored a little ; she said, stiflSy : "Excuse 
 me if I seem discourteous, but you and 
 I ought not to be in one room a mo- 
 
 ment. You do not see this, apparently. 
 But at least I have a right to insist that 
 such an interview shall be very brief, 
 and to the purpose. Oblige me, then, 
 by telling me in plain terms why you 
 have come hither." 
 
 " Madam, to be your witness at the 
 trial." 
 
 " You to be my witness ? " 
 
 " Why not ? If I can clear you ? 
 What, would you rather be condemned 
 for murder, than let me show them 
 you are innocent ? Alas ! how you hate 
 me!" 
 
 " Hate you, child ? of course I hate 
 you. We are both of us flesh and 
 blood, and hate one another. And one 
 of us is honest enough, and uncivil 
 enough, to say so." 
 
 " Speak for yourself, dame," replied 
 Mercy, quietly, " for I hate you not ; 
 and I thank God for it. To hate is to 
 be miserable. I 'd liever be hated than 
 to hate." 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt looked at her. "Your 
 words are goodly and wise," said she ; 
 " your face is honest, and your eyes are 
 like a very dove's. But, for all that, 
 you hate me quietly, with all your 
 heart. Human nature is human na- 
 ture." 
 
 " 'T is so. But grace is grace." She 
 was silent a moment, then resumed : 
 " I '11 not deny I did hate you for a 
 time, when first I learned the man I 
 had married had a wife, and you were 
 she. We that be women are too unjust 
 to each other, and too indulgent to a 
 man. But I have worn out my hate. 
 I wrestled in prayer, and the God of 
 Love, he did quench my most unreason- 
 able hate. For 't was the man betrayed 
 me ; you never wronged me, nor I you. 
 But you are right, madam ; 't is true that 
 nature without grace is black as pitch. 
 The Devil, he was busy at my ear, and 
 whispered me, ' If the fools in Cumber- 
 land hang her, what fault o' thine ? 
 Thou wilt be his lawful wife, and thy 
 poor, innocent child will be a child of 
 shame no more.' But, by God's grace, 
 I did defy him. And I do defy him." 
 She rose swiftly from her chair, and 
 her dove's eyes gleamed with celestial 
 
196 
 
 Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 light. "Get thee behind me, Satan. 
 I tell thee the hangman shall never 
 have her innocent body, nor thou my 
 soul." 
 
 The movement was so unexpected, 
 the words and the look so simply noble, 
 that Mrs. Gaunt rose too, and gazed 
 upon her visitor with astonishment and 
 respect; yet still with a dash of doubt. 
 
 She thought to herself, " If this crea- 
 ture is not sincere, what a mistress of 
 deceit she must be." 
 
 But Mercy Vint soon returned to her 
 quiet self. She sat down, and said, 
 gravely, and for the first time a little 
 coldly, as one who had deserved well, 
 and been received ill : " Mistress Gaunt, 
 you are accused of murdering your hus- 
 band. 'T is false ; for two days ago I 
 saw him alive." 
 
 " What do you say ? " cried Mrs. 
 Gaunt, trembling all over. 
 
 " Be brave, madam. You have borne 
 great trouble : do not give way under 
 joy. He who has wronged us both — 
 he who wedded you under his own 
 name of Griffith Gaunt, and me under 
 the false name of Thomas Leicester — 
 is no more dead than we are.; I saw 
 him" two days ago, and spoke to him", 
 and persuaded liim to come to Carlisle 
 town, and do you justice." 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt fell on her knees. " He 
 is alive ; he is alive. Thank God ! O, 
 thank God ! He is alive ; and God 
 bless the tongue that tells me so. God 
 bless you eternally, Mercy Vint." 
 
 The tears of joy streamed down her 
 face, and then Mercy's flowed too. 
 She uttered a little pathetic cry of joy. 
 "Ah," she sobbed, " the bit of comfort 
 I needed so has come to my heavy 
 heart. She has blessed me." 
 
 But she said this very softly, arid 
 Mrs. Gaunt was in a rapture, and did 
 not hear her. - - 
 
 " Is it a dream ? My husband alive ? 
 and you the one to come and tell me 
 so ? How unjust I have been to you. 
 Forgive me. Why does he not come 
 himself?" 
 
 Mercy colored at this question, and 
 hesitated. 
 
 "Well, dame," said she, "for one 
 thing, he has been on the fuddle for the 
 last two months." 
 
 « On the fuddle ? " 
 
 " Ay ; he owns he has never been 
 sober a whole day. And that takes the 
 heart out of a man, as well as the brains. 
 And then he has got it into his head 
 that you will never forgive him, and 
 that he shall be cast in prison if he 
 shows his face in Cumberland." 
 
 " Why in Cumberland more than in 
 Lancashire ? " asked Mrs. Gaunt, biting 
 her lip. 
 
 Mercy blushed faintly. She replied 
 with some delicacy, but did not alto- 
 gether mince the matter. 
 
 " He knows I shall never punish him 
 for what he has done to me." 
 
 " Why not ? I begin to think he has 
 wronged you almost as much as he has 
 me." 
 
 " Worse, madam ; worse. He has 
 robbed me of my good name. You are 
 still his lawful wife, and none can point 
 the finger at you. But look at me. I 
 was an honest girl, respected by all 
 the parish. What has he made of me ? 
 The man that lay a dying in my house, 
 and I saved his hfe, and so my heart did 
 warm to him, — he blasphemed God's 
 altar, to deceive and betray rrie ; and 
 here I am, a poor forlorn creature, 
 neither maid, wife, nor widow ; with a 
 child on my arms that I do nothing but 
 cry over. Ay, my poor innocent, I left 
 thee down below, because I was ashamed 
 she should see thee ; ah me ! ah me ! " 
 She lifted up her voice, and wept. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt looked at her wistfully, 
 and, like Mercy before her, had a bitter 
 struggle with human nature, — a strug- 
 gle so sharp that, in the midst of it, she 
 bilrst out crying with great violence ; 
 'but, with that burst, her great soul con- 
 'quered. 
 
 Slie darted out of the room, leaving 
 Mercy astonished at her abrupt de- 
 parture. 
 
 Mercy was patiently drying her eyes, 
 when the door opened, and judge her 
 surprise when she saw Mrs. Gaunt 
 glide into the room with her little boy 
 sisleep in her arms, and an expression 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 197 
 
 upon her face more sublime than any- 
 thing Mercy Vint had ever yet seen on 
 earth. She kissed the babe softly, and, 
 becoming infantine as well as angelic by 
 this contact, sat herself down in a mo- 
 ment on the floor with him, and held 
 out her hand to Mercy. " There," said 
 she, "come, sit beside us, and see how 
 I hate him, — no more than you do; 
 sweet innocent." 
 
 They looked him all over, discussed 
 his every feature learnedly, kissed his 
 limbs and extremities after the manner 
 of their sex, and, comprehending at last 
 that to have been both of them wronged 
 by one man was a bond of sympathy, 
 not hate, the two wives of Griffith Gaunt 
 laid his child across their two laps, and 
 wept over him together. 
 
 Mercy Vint took herself to task. 
 " I am but a selfish woman," said she, 
 '" to talk or think of anything but that 
 I came here for." She then proceeded 
 to show Mrs . Gaunt by what means 
 she proposed to secure her acquittal, 
 without getting Griffith Gaunt into 
 trouble. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt listened with keen and 
 grateful attention, until she came to' 
 that part ; then she interrupted her 
 eagerly. " Don't spare him for me. 
 In your place I 'd trounce the villain 
 finely." 
 
 "Ay," said Mercy, "and then forgive 
 him.; but I am different. I shall never 
 forgive him ; but I am a poor hand at 
 punishing and revenging. I always 
 was. My name is Mercy, you know. 
 To tell the truth, I was to have been 
 called Prudence, after my good aunt ; 
 but she said, nay ; she had lived to hear 
 Greed, and Selfishness, and a heap 
 of faults, named Prudence. ' Call the 
 child something that means what it does 
 mean, and not after me,' quoth she. 
 So with me hearing ' Mercy, Mercy,' 
 called out after me so many years, I do 
 think ,the quality hath somehow got 
 under my skin ; for I cannot abide to 
 see folk smart, let alone to strike the 
 blow. What, shall I take the place of 
 God, and punish the evil-doers, because 
 't is me they wrong ? Nay, dariie, ' I 
 
 will never punish him, though he hath 
 wronged me cruelly. All I shall do is to 
 think very ill of him, and shun him, 
 and tear his memory out of my heart. 
 You look at me : do you think I can- 
 not ? You don't know me ; I am very 
 resolute when I see clear. Of course I 
 loved him, — loved him dearly. He was 
 like a husband to me, and a kind one. 
 But the moment I knew how basely he 
 had deceived us both, my heart began 
 to turn against the man, and now 't is 
 ice to him. Heaven knows what I am 
 made of; for, believe me, I 'd liever 
 ten times be beside you than beside 
 him. My heart it lay like a lump of 
 lead till I heard your story, and found I 
 could do you a good turn, — you that he 
 had wronged, as well as me. I read 
 your beautiful eyes ; but nay, fear me 
 not ; I 'm not the woman to pine for 
 the fruit that is my neighbor's. All I 
 ask for on earth is a few kind words 
 and looks from you. You are gentle, 
 and I am simple ; but we are both one 
 flesh and blood, and your lovely wet 
 eyes do prove it this moment. Dame 
 Gaurft — Kate — I ne'er was ten miles 
 from horne afore, and I am come all 
 this weary way to serve thee. O, give 
 me the one thing that can do me good 
 in this world, — the one thing I pine 
 for, — a little oi your love." 
 
 The words were scarce out of her lips, 
 when Mrs. Gaunt caught her impetu- 
 ously round the neck with both hands, 
 and laid her on that erring but noble 
 heart of hers, and kissed her eagerly. 
 
 They kissed one another again and 
 again, and wept over one another. 
 
 And now Mrs. Gaunt, who did noth- 
 ing by halves, could not make enough 
 of Mercy Vint. She ordered supper, 
 and ate with her, to make her eat. 
 Mrs. Menteith offered Mercy a bed; 
 but Mrs. Gaunt said she must lie with 
 her, she and her child. 
 
 "What," said she, "think you I'll 
 let you out of my sight ? Alas ! who 
 knows when you and I shall ever be 
 together again ? " 
 
 " I know," said Mercy, thoughtfully. 
 " In this world, never." 
 
 They slept in one bed, and held each 
 
198 
 
 Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 other by the hand all night, and talked 
 to one another, and in the morning 
 knew each the other's story, and each 
 the other's mind and character, better 
 than their oldest acquaintances knew 
 either the one or the other. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 The trial began again ; and the court 
 was crowded to suffocation. All eyes 
 were bent on the prisoner. She rose, 
 calm and quiet, and begged leave to 
 say a few words to the court. 
 
 Mr. Whitworth objected to that. She 
 had concluded her address yesterday, 
 and called a witness. 
 
 Prisoner. But I have not examined 
 a witness yet. 
 
 Judge. You come somewhat out 
 of time, madam ; but, if you will be 
 brief, we will hear you. 
 
 Prisoner. I thank you, my lord. It 
 was only to withdraw an error. The 
 cry for help that was heard by the side 
 of Hernshaw Mere, I said, yesterday, 
 that cry was uttered by Thomas Lei- 
 cester. Well, I find I was mistaken : 
 the cry for help was uttered by my 
 husband, — by that Griffith Gaunt I am 
 accused of assassinating. 
 
 This extraordinary admission caused 
 a great sensation in court. The judge 
 looked very grave and sad ; and Ser- 
 geant Wiltshire, who came into court 
 just then, whispered his junior, " She 
 has put the rope round her own neck. 
 The jury would never have believed 
 our witness." 
 
 Prisoner. I will only add, that a per- 
 son came into the town last night, who 
 knows a great deal more about this 
 mysterious business than I do. I pur- 
 pose, therefore, to alter the plan of my 
 defence ; and to save your time, my 
 lord, who have dealt so courteously with 
 me, I shall call but a single witness. 
 
 Ere the astonishment caused by this 
 sudden collapse of the defence was in 
 any degree abated, she called " Mercy 
 Vint." 
 
 There was the usual stir and strug- 
 gle ; and then the calm, self-possessed 
 
 face and figure of a comely young wo- 
 man confronted the court. She was 
 sworn ; and examined by the prisoner 
 after this fashion. 
 
 " Where do you live ? " 
 
 " At the ' Packhorse,' near Allerton, 
 in Lancashire." 
 
 Prisoner. Do you know Mr. Griffith 
 Gaunt ? 
 
 Mercy. Madam, I do. 
 
 Prisoner. Was he at your place in 
 October last ? 
 
 Mercy. Yes, madam, on the thirteenth 
 of October. On that day he left for 
 Cumberland. 
 
 Prisoner. On foot, or on horseback ? 
 
 Mercy. On horseback. 
 
 Ptisoner. With boots on, or shoes ? 
 
 Mercy. He had a pair of new boots 
 on. 
 
 Prisoner. Do you know Thomas 
 Leicester ? 
 
 Mercy. A pedler called at our house 
 on the eleventh of October, and he 
 said his name was Thomas Leicester. 
 
 Prisoner. How was he shod ? 
 
 Mercy. In hobnailed shoes. 
 
 Prisoner. Which way went he on 
 leaving you ? 
 
 Mercy. Madam, he went northwards ; 
 I know no more for certain. 
 
 Prisoner. When did you see Mr. 
 Gaunt last ? 
 
 Mercy. Four days ago. 
 
 Judge. What is that .' You saw him 
 alive four days ago ? 
 
 Mercy. Ay, my lord ; the last Wednes- 
 day that ever was. 
 
 At this the people burst out into a 
 loud, agitated murmur, and their heads 
 went to and fro all the time. In vain 
 the crier cried and threatened. The 
 noise rose and surged, and took its 
 course. It went down gradually, as 
 amazement gave way to curiosity ; and 
 then there was a remarkable silence ; 
 and then the silvery voice of the pris- 
 oner, and the mellow tones of the wit- 
 ness, appeared to penetrate the very 
 walls of the building, each syllable of 
 those two beautiful speakers was heard 
 so distinctly. 
 
 Prisoner. Be so good as to tell the 
 court what passed on Wednesday last 
 
Griffith Gaunt : or, Jealousy. 
 
 199 
 
 between Griffith Gaunt and you, rela- 
 tive to this charge of murder. 
 
 Mercy. I let him know one George 
 Neville had come from Cumberland in 
 search of him, and had told me you lay 
 "in Carlisle jail charged with his mur- 
 der. I did urge him to ride at once 
 to Carlisle, and show himself; but he 
 refused. He made light of the matter. 
 Then I told him not so ; the circum- 
 stances looked ugly, and your life was 
 in peril. Then he said, nay, 'twas in 
 no peril ; for if you were to be found 
 guilty, then he would show himself on 
 the instant. Then I told him he was 
 not worthy the name of a man, and if 
 he would not go, I would. " Go you, 
 by all means," said h«, " and I '11 give 
 you a writing that will clear her. Jack 
 Houseman will be there, that knows 
 my hand ; and so does the sheriff, and 
 half the grand jury at the least." 
 
 Prisoner. Have you that writing ? 
 
 Mercy. To be sure I have. Here 
 'tis. 
 
 Prisoner. Be pleased to read it. 
 
 Judge. Stay a minute. Shall you 
 prove it to be his handwriting .■' 
 
 Prisoner. Ay, my lord, by as many 
 as you please. 
 
 Judge. Then let that stand over for 
 the present. Let me see it. 
 
 It was handed up to him ; and he 
 showed it to the sheriff, who said he 
 thought it was GrifiSth Gaunt's writ- 
 ing. 
 
 The paper was then read out to the 
 jury. It ran as follows : — 
 
 " Know all men, that I, Griffith 
 Gaunt, Esq., of Bolton Hall and Hern- 
 shaw Castle, in the county of Cumber- 
 land, am alive and well ; and the matter 
 which has so puzzled the good fplk in 
 Cumberland befell as follows : — I left 
 Hernshaw Castle in the dead of night 
 upon the fifteenth of October. Why, 
 is no man's business but mine. I found 
 the stable locked ; so I left my horse, 
 and went on foot. I crossed' Hernshaw 
 Mere by the bridge, and had got about 
 a hundred yards, as I suppose, on the 
 way, when I heard some one fall with a 
 great jiplash into the mere, and soon 
 
 after cry dolefully for help. I, that am 
 no swimmer, ran instantly to the north 
 side to a clump of trees, where a boat 
 used always to be kept. But the boat 
 was not there. Then I cried lustily 
 for help, and, as no one came, I fired 
 my pistol and cried murder ! For I 
 had heard men will come sooner to that 
 cry than to any other. But in truth I 
 was almpst out of my wits, that a fel- 
 low-creature should perish miserably 
 so near me. Whilst I ran wildly to 
 and fro, some came out of the Castle 
 bearing torches. By this time I was 
 at the bridge, but saw no signs of the 
 drowning man ; yet the night was clear. 
 Then 1 knew that his fate was sealed ; 
 and, for reasons of my own, not choos- 
 ing to be seen by those who were com- 
 ing to his aid, I hastened from the 
 place. My happiness being gone, 
 and my conscience smiting me sore, 
 and not knowing whither to turn, I 
 took to drink^ and fell into bad ways, 
 and lived like a brute, and not a man, 
 for six weeks or more ; so that I never 
 knew of the good fortune that had 
 fallen on me when least I deserved it : 
 I mean by old Mr, Gaunt of Coggle- 
 swade making of me his heir. But one 
 day at Kendal I saw Mercy Vint's ad- 
 vertisement ; and I went to her, and 
 learned that my wife lay in Carlisle 
 jail for my supposed murder. But I 
 say that she is innocent, and nowise to 
 blame in this matter : for I deserved 
 every hard word she ever gave me; 
 and as for killing, she is a spirited wo- 
 man with her tongue, but hath not the 
 heart to kill a fly. She is what she al- 
 ways was, — the pearl of womankind ; 
 a virtuous, innocent, and noble lady. I 
 have lost the treasure of her love by 
 my fault, not hers ; but at least I have 
 a right to defend her life and honor. 
 Whoever molests her after this, out of 
 pretended regard for me, is a liar, and 
 a fool, and no friend of mine, but my 
 enemy, and I his — to the death. 
 
 "Griffith Gaunt." 
 
 It was a day of surprises. This 
 tribute from the murdered man to his 
 assassin was one of them. People 
 
200 
 
 Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 looked in one another's faces open- 
 eyed. 
 
 The prisoner looked in the judge's, 
 and acted on what she saw there. 
 " That is my defence," said she, qui- 
 etly, and sat down. 
 
 If a show of hands had been called 
 at that moment, she would have been 
 acquitted by acclamation. 
 
 But Mr. Whit worth was a zealous 
 young barrister, burning for distinction. 
 He stuck to his case, and cross-exam- 
 ined Mercy Virit'with severity; indeed, 
 with asperity. 
 
 Whitworth. What are you to receive 
 for this evidence ? 
 
 Mercy. Anan. 
 
 Whitworth. O, you know what I 
 mean. Are you not to be paid for tell- 
 ing us this romance ? 
 
 Mercy. Nay, sir, I ask naught for 
 telling the truth. 
 
 Whitworth. You were in the prison- 
 er's company yesterday .' 
 
 Mercy. Yes, sir, I visited her in the 
 jail last night. 
 
 Whitworth. And there concerted this 
 ingenious defence ? ^ 
 
 Mercy. Well, sir, for that matter, I 
 told her that her man was alive, and I 
 did offer to be her witness. 
 
 Whitworth. For naught ? 
 
 Mercy. For no money or reward, if 
 't is that you mean. Why, 't is a joy 
 beyond money to clear an innocent 
 body, and save her life ; and that satis- 
 faction is mine this day. 
 
 Whitworth (sarcastically). These 
 are very fine sentiments for a person 
 in your condition. Confess that Mrs. 
 Gaunt primed you with all that. 
 
 Mercy. Nay, sir, I left home in that 
 mind ; else I had not come at all. Be- 
 think you ; 't is a long journey for one 
 in my way of life ; and this dear child 
 on my arm all the way. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt sat boiling with indigna- 
 tion. But Mercy's good temper and 
 meekness parried the attack that time. 
 Mr. Whitworth changed his line. 
 
 Whitworth. You ask the jury to 
 believe that Griffith Gaunt, Esquire, a 
 gentleman, and a man of spirit and 
 honor, is alive, yet skulks and sends 
 
 you hither, when by showing his face in 
 this court he could clear his wife with- 
 out a single word spoken ? 
 
 Mercy. Yes, sir ; I do hope to be 
 believed, for I speak the naked truth. 
 But, with due respect to you, Mr. Gaunt 
 did not send me hither against my will. 
 I could not bide in Lancashire, and let 
 an innocent woman be murdered in 
 Cumberland. 
 
 Whitworth. Murdered, quotha. That 
 is a good jest. I 'd have you to know 
 we punish murders here, not do them. 
 
 Mercy. I am glad to hear that, sir, 
 on the lady's account. 
 
 Whitworth. Come, come. You pre- 
 tend you discovered this Griffith 
 Gaunt alive, by means of an adver- 
 tisement. If so, produce the adver- 
 tisement. 
 
 Mercy Vint colored, and cast a swift, 
 uneasy glance at Mrs. Gaunt. 
 
 Rapid as it was, the keen eye of the 
 counsel caught it. 
 
 " Nay, do not look to the culprit for 
 orders," said he. " Produce it, or con- 
 fess the truth.' Come, you never adver- 
 tised for him." 
 
 " Sir, I did advertise for him." 
 
 " Then produce the advertisement." 
 
 " Sir, I will not," said Mercy, calm- 
 
 " Then I shall move the court to 
 commit you." 
 
 " For what offence, if you please ? " 
 
 " P'or perjury and contempt of court." 
 
 " I am guiltless of either, God knows. 
 But I will not show the advertise- 
 ment." 
 
 Judge. This is very extraordinary. 
 Perhaps you have it not about you. 
 
 Mercy. My lord, the truth is I have 
 it in my bosom. But, if I show, it, it 
 will not make this matter one whit 
 clearer,' and 'twill open the wounds of 
 two poor women. 'T is not for myself 
 But, O my lord, look at her. Hath she 
 not gone through grief enow ? " 
 
 The appeal was made with a quiet, 
 touching earnestness, that affected ev- 
 ery hearer. But the judge had a duty 
 to perform. " Witness," said he, " you 
 mean well ; but indeed you do the 
 prisoner an injury by withholding this 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy . 
 
 20 1 
 
 paper. Be good enough to produce it 
 at once." 
 
 Prisoner (with a deep sigh). Obey 
 my lord. 
 
 Mercy (with a patient sigh). There, 
 sir, may the Lord forgive you the use- 
 less mischief you are doing. 
 
 Whitworth. I am doing my duty, 
 young woman. And yours is to tell 
 the whole truth, and not a part only. 
 
 Mercy (acquiescing). That is true, 
 sir. 
 
 Whit-worth. Why, what is this ? 'T 
 is not Mr. Gaunt you advertise for in 
 these papers. 'Tis Thomas Leicester. 
 
 Judge. What is that ? I don't un- 
 derstand. 
 
 Whitworth. Nor I neither. 
 
 Judge. Let me see the papers. 'T is 
 Thomas Leicester sure enough. 
 
 Whitworth. And you mean to swear 
 that Griffith Gaunt answered an ad- 
 vertisement inviting Thomas Leices- 
 ter? 
 
 Mercy. I do. Thomas Leicester was 
 the name he went by in our part. 
 
 H>%//w(7rM. What ? what ? You are 
 jesting. 
 
 Mercy. Is this a place or a time for 
 jesting ? I say he called himself Thom- 
 as Leicester. 
 
 Here the business was interrupted 
 again by a multitudinous murmur of 
 excited voices. Everybody was whis- 
 pering astonishment to his neighbor. 
 And the whisper of a great crowd has 
 the effect of a loud murmur. 
 
 Whitworth. O, he called himself 
 Thomas Leicester, did he ? Then 
 what makes you think he is Griffith 
 Gaunt ? 
 
 Mercy. Well, sir, the pedler, whose 
 real name was Thomas Leicester, came 
 to our house one day, and saw his pic- 
 ture, and knew it ; and said something 
 to a neighbor that raised my suspicions. 
 When he came home, I took this shirt 
 out of a drawer ; 't was the shirt he 
 wore when he first came to us. 'Tis 
 marked " G. G." (The shirt was ex- 
 amined.) Said I, " For God's sake 
 speak the truth : what does G. G. 
 stand for?" Then he told me his 
 real name was Griffith Gaunt, and he 
 
 had a wife in Cumberland. " Go back 
 to her," said I, "and ask her to forgive 
 you," Then he rode north, and I nev- 
 er saw him again till last Wednesday. 
 
 Whitworth (satirically). You seem 
 to have been mighty intimate with this 
 Thomas Leicester, whom you now call 
 Griffith Gaunt. May I ask what was, 
 or is, the nature of your connection 
 with him ? 
 
 Mercy was silent. 
 
 Whitworth. I must press for a re- 
 ply, that we may know what value to 
 attach to your most extraordinary evi- 
 dence. Were you his wife, — or' his 
 mistress ? 
 
 Mercy. Indeed, I hardly know ; but 
 not his mistress, or I should not be 
 here. 
 
 Whitworth. You don't know whether 
 you were married to the man or not ? 
 
 Mercy. I do not say so. But — 
 
 She hesitated, and cast a piteous look 
 at Mrs. Gaunt, who sat boiling with in- 
 dignation. 
 
 At this look, the prisoner, who had 
 long contained herself with difficulty, 
 rose, with scarlet cheeks and flashing 
 eyes, in defence of her witness, and 
 flung her prudence to the wind. 
 
 " Fie, sir," she cried. " The woman 
 you insult is as pure as your own moth- 
 er, or mine. She deserves the pity, the 
 respect, the veneration of all good men. 
 Know, my lord, that my miserable hus- 
 band deceived and married her under 
 the false name he had taken. She has 
 the marriage-certificate in her bosom. 
 Pray make her show it, whether she 
 will or not. My lord, this Mercy Vint 
 is more an angel than a woman. I am 
 her rival, after a manner. Yet, out of 
 the goodness and greatness of her no- 
 ble heart, she came all that way to save 
 me from an unjust death. And is sucli 
 a woman to be insulted ? I blush for 
 the hired advocate who cannot see his 
 superior in an incorruptible witness, a 
 creature all truth, piety, purity, unself- 
 ishness, and goodness. Yes, sir, you 
 began by insinuating that she was as 
 venal as yourself ; for you are one that 
 can be bought by the first-comer ; and 
 now you would cast a slur on her chas- 
 
202 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 tity. For shame ! for shame ! This is 
 one of those rare women that adorn 
 our whole sex, and embellish human 
 nature ; and, so long as you have the 
 privilege of exchanging words with 
 her, I shall stand here on the watch, 
 to see that you treat her with due re- 
 spect : ay, sir, with revereflce ; for I 
 have measured you both, and she is 
 as much your superior as she is mine." 
 
 This amazing burst was delivered 
 with such prodigious fire and rapidity 
 that nobody was self-possessed enough 
 to stop it in time. It was hke a furious 
 gust of words sweeping over the court 
 
 IVIr. Whitworth, pale with anger, 
 merely said : " Madam, the good taste 
 of these remarks I leave the court to 
 decide upon. But you cannot be al- 
 lowed to give evidence in your own 
 defence." 
 
 " No, but in hers I will," said Mrs. 
 Gaunt. " No power shall hinder me." 
 
 Judge (coldly). Had you not better 
 go on cross-examining the witness ? 
 
 Whitworth. Let me see your mar- 
 riage-certificate, if you have one .^ 
 
 It was handed to him. 
 
 " Well, now how do you know that 
 this Thomas Leicester was Griffith 
 Gaunt ? 
 
 yudge. Why, she has told you he 
 confessed it to her. 
 
 Mercy. Yes, my lord ; and, besides, 
 he wrote me two letters signed Thomas 
 Leicester. Here they are, and I desire 
 they may be compared with the paper 
 he wrote last Wednesday, and signed 
 Griffith Gaunt. And more than that, 
 whilst we lived together as man and 
 wife, one Hamilton, a travelling paint- 
 er, took our portraits, his and mine. 
 I have brought his with me. Let his 
 friends and neighbors look on this 
 portrait, and say whose likeness it is. 
 What I say and swear is, that on 
 Wednesday last I saw and spoke with 
 that Thomas Leicester, or Griffith 
 Gaunt, whose likeness I now show 
 you. 
 
 With that she lifted the portrait up, 
 and showed it all the court. 
 
 Instantly there was a roar of recog- 
 nition. 
 
 It was one of those hard daubs that 
 are nevertheless so monstrously like 
 the originals. 
 
 Judge (to Mr. Whitworth). Young 
 gentleman, we are all greatly obliged 
 to you. You have made the prison- 
 er's case. There was but one weak 
 point in it ; I mean the prolonged 
 absence of Griffith Gaunt. You have 
 now accounted for that. You have 
 forced a very truthful witness to de- 
 pose that this Gaunt is himself a 
 criminal, and is hiding from fear of 
 the law. The case for the crown is a 
 mere tissue of conjectures, on which 
 no jury could safely convict, even if 
 there was no defence at all. Under 
 other circumstances I might decline to 
 receive evidence at second-hand that 
 Griffith Gaunt is alive, But here such 
 evidence is sufficient, for it lies on the 
 crown to prove the man dead ; but you 
 have only proved that he was alive on 
 the fifteenth of October, and that since 
 then somebody is dead witli shoes on. 
 This somebody appears on the balance 
 of proof to be Thomas Leicester, the 
 pedler; and he has never been heard 
 of since, and Griffith Gaunt has. Then 
 I say you cannot carry the case further. 
 You have not a leg to stand on. What 
 say you, brother Wiltshire ? 
 
 Wiltshire. My lord, I think there is 
 no case against the prisoner, and am 
 thankful to your lordship for relieving 
 nje of a very unpleasant task. 
 
 The question of guilty or not guilty 
 was then put to the jury, who instantly 
 brought the prisoner in not guilty. 
 
 Judge,. Catharine Gaunt, you leave 
 this court without a stain, and with 
 our sincere respect and sympathy. I 
 much regret the fear and pain you 
 have been put to : you have been 
 terribly punished for a hasty word. 
 Profit now by this bitter lesson ; and 
 may Heaven enable you to add a well- 
 governed spirit to your many virtues 
 and graces. 
 
 He half rose from his seat, and bowed 
 courteously to her. She courtesied rev- 
 erently, and retired. 
 
 He then said a few words to Mercy 
 Vint, 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 203 
 
 " Young woman, I have no words to 
 praise you as you deserve. You have 
 shown us the beauty of the female char- 
 acter, and, let me add, the beauty of the 
 Christian religion. You have come a 
 long way to clear the innocent. I 
 hope you will not stop there ; but also 
 punish the guilty person, on whom we 
 have wasted so much pity." 
 
 " Me, my lord ? " said Mercy. " I 
 would not harm a hair of his head for 
 as many guineas as there be hairs in 
 mine." 
 
 " Child," said my lord, " thou art too 
 good for this world ; but go thy ways, 
 and God bless thee." 
 
 Thu% abruptly ended a trial that, at 
 first, had looked so formidable for the 
 accused. 
 
 The judge now retired for some re- 
 freshment, and while he was gone Sir 
 George Neville dashed up to the Town 
 Hall, four in hand, and rushed in by 
 the magistrate's door, with a pedler's 
 pack, which he had discovered in the 
 mere, a few yards from the spot where 
 the mutilated body was found. 
 
 He learned the prisoner was already 
 acquitted. He left the pack with the 
 sheriff, and begged him to show it to 
 the judge ; and went in search of Mrs. 
 Gaunt. 
 
 He found her in the jailer's house. 
 She and Mercy Vint were seated hand 
 in hand. 
 
 He started at first sight of the lat- 
 ter. Then there was a universal shak- 
 ing of hands, and glistening of eyes. 
 And, when this was over, Mrs. Gaunt 
 turned to him, and said, piteoUsly : 
 " She will go back to Lancashire to- 
 morrow ; nothing I can say will turn 
 her." 
 
 " No, dame," said Mercy, quietly ; 
 " Cumberland is no place for me. My 
 work is done here. Our paths in this 
 world do lie apart. George Neville, 
 persuade her to go home at once, and 
 not trouble about me." 
 
 " Indeed, madam," said Sir George, 
 "she speaks wisely: she always does. 
 My carriage is at the door, and the 
 people waiting by thousands in the 
 street to welcome your deliverance." 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt drew herself up with 
 fiery and bitter disdain. 
 
 " Are they so ? " said she, grimly. 
 " Then 1 '11 balk them. I '11 steal 
 away in the dead of night. No, mis- 
 erable populace, that howls and hisses 
 with the strong against the weak, you 
 shall have no part in my triumph ; 't is 
 sacred to my friends. You honored 
 me with your hootings, you shall not 
 disgrace me with your acclamations. 
 Here I stay till Mercy Vint, my guar- 
 diai'i angel, leaves me forever.'' 
 
 She then requested Sir George to 
 order his horses back to the inn, and 
 the coachman was to hold himself in 
 readiness to start when the whole town 
 should be asleep. 
 
 Mea:ntime, a courier was despatched 
 to Hernshaw Castle, to prepare for Mrs. 
 Gaunt's reception. 
 
 Mrs. Menteith made a bed up for 
 Mercy Vint, and at midnight, when 
 the coast was clear, came the parting. 
 
 It was a sad one. 
 
 Even Mercy, who had great self- 
 command, could not then restrain her 
 tears. 
 
 To apply the sweet and touching 
 words of Scripture, " They sorrowed 
 most of all for this, that they should 
 see each other's face no more." 
 
 Sir George accompanied Mrs. Gaunt 
 to Hernshaw. 
 
 She drew back into her corner of the 
 carriage, and was very silent and dis- 
 traite. 
 
 After one or two attempts at conver- 
 sation, he judged it wisest, and even 
 most polite, to respect her mood. 
 
 At last she burst out, " I cannot bear 
 it, I cannot bear it." 
 
 " Why, what is amiss ? " inquired Sir 
 George. 
 
 " What is amiss ? Why, 't is all 
 amiss. 'T is so heartless, so ungrate- 
 ful, to let that poor angel go home to 
 Lancashire all alone, now she has 
 served my turn. Sir George, do not 
 think I undervalue your company : 
 but if you would but take her home, 
 instead of taking me ! Poor thing, 
 she is brave ; but when the excitement 
 of her good action is over, and she 
 
204 
 
 Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 goes back the weary road all alpne, 
 what desolation it will be ! My heart 
 bleeds for her. I know I am an un- 
 conscionable woman, to ask such a 
 thing ; but then you are a true cheva- 
 lier; you always were, and you saw her 
 merit directly. O, do pray leave me 
 to slip unnoticed into Hernshaw Cas- 
 tle, and do you accompany my bene- 
 factress to her humble home. Will 
 you, dear Sir George ? 'T would be 
 such a load, off my heart." 
 
 To this appeal, uttered with trem- 
 bling lip and moist eyes, Sir George 
 replied in character. He decHned to 
 desert Mrs. Gaunt, until he had seen 
 her safe home ; but, that done, he would 
 ride back to Carlisle and escort Mercy 
 home. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt sighed, and said she was 
 abusing his friendship, and should kill 
 him with fatigue, and he was a good 
 creature. " If anything could make 
 me easy, this would," said she. "You 
 know how to talk to a woman, and 
 comfort her. I wish I was a man : 
 I 'd cure her of Griffith before we 
 reached the ' Packhorse.' And, now 
 I think of it, you are a very happy 
 man to travel eighty miles with an 
 angel, a dove-eyed angel." 
 
 " I am a happy man to have an op- 
 portunity of 'complying with your de- 
 sires, madam," was the demure reply. 
 " 'T is not often you do me the honor 
 to lay your orders on me." 
 
 After this, nothing of any moment 
 passed until they reached Hernshaw 
 Castle ; and then, as they drove up to 
 the door, and saw the hall blazing with 
 hghts, Mrs. Gaunt laid her hand softly 
 on Sir George, and whispered, " You 
 were right. I thank you for not leav- 
 ing me." 
 
 The servants were all in the hall, to 
 receive their mistress ; and amongst 
 them were those who had given hon- 
 est but unfavorable testimony at the 
 trial, being called by the crown. These 
 had consulted together, and, after many 
 pros and cons, had decided that they 
 had better not follow their natural im- 
 pulse, and hide from her face, since 
 that might be a fresh offence. Accord- 
 
 ingly, these witnesses, dressed in their 
 best, stood with the others in the hall, 
 and made their obeisances, quaking in- 
 wardly. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt entered the hall leaning 
 on Sir George's arm. She scarcely 
 bestowed a look upon any of her ser- 
 vants, but made them one sweeping 
 courtesy in return, and passed on ; only 
 Sir George felt her taper fingers just 
 nip his arm. 
 
 She made him partake of some sup- 
 per, and then this chevalier des dames 
 rode home, snatched a few hours' sleep, 
 put on the yeoman's suit in which he 
 had first visited the " Packhorse," and, 
 arriving at Carlisle, engaged th| whole 
 inside of the coach ; for his orders 
 were to console, and he did not see his 
 way clear to do that with two or three 
 strangers listening to every word. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 A GREAT change was observable in 
 Mrs. Gaunt after this fiery and chas- 
 tening ordeal. In a short time she 
 had been taught many lessons. She 
 had learned that the law will not allow 
 even a woman to say anything and 
 everything with impunity. She had 
 been in a court of justice, and seen 
 how gravely, soberly, and fairly an ac- 
 cusation is sifted there ; and, if false, 
 annihilated ; which, elsewhere, it never 
 is. Member of a sex that could never 
 have invented a court of justice, she 
 had found something to revere and 
 bless in that other sex to which her 
 erring husband belonged. Finally, she 
 had encountered in Mercy Vint a wo- 
 man whom she recognized at once as 
 her moral superior. The contact of 
 that pure and well-governed spirit told 
 wonderfully upon her. She began to 
 watch her tongue and to bridle her 
 high spirit. She became slower to 
 give offence, and slower to take it. 
 She took herself to task, and made 
 some little excuses even for Griffith. 
 She was resolved to retire from the 
 world altogether ; but, meantime, she 
 bowed her head to the lessons of ad- 
 
Lrnjjim Lruunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 205 
 
 versity. Her features, always lovely, 
 but somewhat too haughty, were now 
 softened and embellished beyond de- 
 scription by a mingled expression of 
 grief, humility, and resignation. 
 
 She never mentioned her husband ; 
 but it is not to be supposed she never 
 thought of him. She waited the course 
 of events in dignified and patient si- 
 lence. 
 
 As for Griffith Gaunt, he was in the 
 hands of two lawyers, Atkins and 
 Houseman. He waited on the first, 
 and made a friend of him. " I am at 
 your service," said he ; "but not if I 
 am to be indicted for bigamy, and 
 burned in the hand." 
 
 " These fears are idle," said Atkins. 
 " Mercy Vint declared in open court 
 she will not proceed against you." 
 
 " Ay, but there 's my wife." 
 
 " She will keep quiet ; I have House- 
 man's word for it." 
 
 " Ay, but there 's the Attorney-Gen- 
 eral." 
 
 "O, he will not move, unless he is 
 driven. We must use a little influence. 
 Mr. Houseman is of my mind, «nd he 
 has the ear of the county." 
 
 To be brief, it was represented in high 
 quarters that to indict Mr. Gaunt would 
 only open Mrs. Gaunt's wounds afresh, 
 and do no good ; and so Houseman 
 found means to muzzle the Attorney- 
 General. • 
 
 Just three weeks after the trial, 
 Griffith Gaunt, Esq. reappeared pub- 
 licly. The place of his reappearance 
 was Coggleswade. He came and set 
 about finishing his new mansion with 
 feverish rapidity. He engaged an 
 army of carpenters and painters, and 
 spent thousands of pounds on the dec- 
 orating and furnishing of the mansion, 
 and laying out the grounds. 
 
 This was duly reported to Mrs. 
 Gaunt, who said — not a word. 
 
 But at last one day came a letter to 
 Mrs. Gaunt, in Griffith's well-known 
 handwriting. 
 
 With all her acquired self-possession, 
 her hand trembled as she broke open 
 the seal. 
 
 It contained but these words : — 
 
 . " Madam, — I do not ask you to 
 .forgive me. For, if you had done what 
 I have, I could never forgive you. 
 But for the sake of Rose, and to stop 
 their tongues, I do hope you will do 
 me the honor to live under this my 
 roof. I dare not face Hernshaw Cas- 
 tle. Your own apartments here are 
 now ready for you. The place is large. 
 Upon my honor I will not trouble you ; 
 but show myself always, as now, 
 
 ' "Your penitent and very humble 
 servant, 
 
 " Griffith Gaunt." 
 
 The messenger was to wait for her 
 reply. 
 
 This letter disturbed Mrs. Gaunt's 
 sorrowful tranquillity at once. She was 
 much agitated, and so undecided that 
 she sent the messenger away, and 'told 
 him to call next day. 
 
 Then she sent off to Father Francis 
 to beg his advice. 
 
 But her courier returned, late at night, 
 to say Father Francis' was away from 
 home. 
 
 Then she took Rose, and said to 
 her, " My darling, papa wants us to go 
 to his new house, and leave dear old 
 Hernshaw ; I know not what to say 
 about that. What do joz^say ? " 
 
 " Tell him to come to us," said Rose, 
 dictatorially. " Only," (lowering her 
 little voice very suddenly,) " if he is 
 naughty and won't, why then we had 
 better go to him ; for he amuses 
 me." 
 
 " As you please," said Mrs. Gaunt ; 
 and sent her husband this reply : — 
 
 "Sir, — Rose and I are agreed to 
 defer to your judgment and obey your 
 wishes. Be pleased to let me know 
 what day you will require us ; and I 
 must trouble you to send a carriage. 
 
 " I am, sir, 
 " Your faithful wife and humble servant, 
 " Catharine Gaunt." 
 
 At the appointed day, ajfearriage and 
 four came wheeling up to the door. 
 The vehicle was gorgeously embla- 
 zoned, and the servants in rich liv- 
 
2o6 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 eries ; all which finery glittering in the 
 sun, and the glossy coats of the horses, 
 did mightily please Mistress Rose. 
 She stood on the stone steps, and 
 clapped her hands with delight. Her 
 mother just sighed, and said, "Ay, 'tis 
 in pomp and show we must seek our 
 happiness now." 
 
 She leaned back in the carriage, and 
 closed her eyes, yet not so close but 
 now and then a tear would steal out, as 
 she thought of the past. 
 
 They drove up under an avenue to a 
 noble mansion, and landed at the foot 
 of some marble steps, low and narrow, 
 but of vast breadth. 
 
 As they mounted these, a hall door, 
 through which the carriage could have 
 passed, was flung open, and discovered 
 the servants all drawn up to do honor 
 to their mistress. 
 
 She entered the hall, leading Rose 
 by the hand ; the servants bowed and 
 courtesied down to the ground. 
 
 She received this homage with digni- 
 fied courtesy, and her eye stole round 
 to see if the master of the house was 
 coming to receive her. 
 
 The library door was opened hastily, 
 and out came to meet her — Father 
 Francis. 
 
 " Welcome, madam, a thousand times 
 welcome to your new home," said he, 
 in a stentorian voice, with a double in- 
 fusion of geniality. " I claim the honor 
 of showing you your part of the house, 
 though 'tis all yours for that matter." 
 And he led the way. 
 
 Now this cheerful stentorian voice 
 was just a little shaky for once, and 
 his eyes were moist. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt noticed, but said noth- 
 ing before the people. She smiled 
 graciously, and accompanied him. 
 
 He took her to her apartments. 
 They consisted of a salle-k-manger, 
 three delightful bedrooms, a boudoir, 
 and a magnificent drawing-room, fifty 
 feet long, with two fireplaces, and a 
 bay-window thirty feet wide, filled with 
 the choicest flowers. 
 
 An exclamation of delight escaped 
 Mrs. Gaunt. Then she said, " One 
 would think I was a queen." Then 
 
 she sighed, " Ah," said she, " 't is 
 a fine thing to be rich." Then, de- 
 spondently, " Tell him I think it very 
 beautiful." 
 
 "Nay, madam, I hope you will tell 
 him so yourself." 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt made no reply to that. 
 She added : " And it was kind of him 
 to have you here the first day: I do 
 not feel so lonely as I should without 
 you." 
 
 She took GriflSth at his word, and 
 lived with Rose in her own apartments. 
 
 For some time Griffith used to slip 
 away whenever he saw her coming. 
 
 One day she caught him at it, and 
 beckoned him. 
 
 He came to her. 
 
 " You need not run away from me," 
 said she : " I did not come into your 
 house to quarrel with you. Let us be 
 friends" — and she gave him her hand 
 sweetly enough, but O so coldly ! 
 
 " I hope for nothing more," said 
 Grifiith. " If you ever have a wish, 
 give me the pleasure of gratifying it, — 
 that is all." 
 
 " I wish to retire to a convent," said 
 she, quietly. 
 
 " And desert your daughter ? " 
 
 " I would leave her behind, to re- 
 mind you of days gone by." 
 
 By degrees ' they saw a little more of 
 one another ; they even dined together 
 now and then. But it brought them 
 no nearer. There was no anger, with 
 its loving reaction. They were friend- 
 ly enough, but an icy barrier stood be- 
 tween them. 
 
 One person set himself quietly to 
 sap this barrier. Father Francis was 
 often at the Castle, and played the 
 peacemaker very adroitly. 
 
 The line he took might be called the 
 innocent Jesuitical. He saw that it 
 would be useless to exhort these two 
 persons to ignore the terrible things 
 that had happened, and to make it up 
 a-s if it was only a squabble. What he 
 did was to repeat to the husband every 
 gracious word the wife let fall, and vice 
 versd, and to suppress all either said 
 that might tend to estrange them. 
 
 In short, he acted the part of Mr. 
 
GHffith Gaunt ; or, Jealotisy. 
 
 207 
 
 Harmony in the play, and acted it to 
 perfection. 
 
 Gutta cavat lapidem. 
 
 Though no perceptible effect fol- 
 lowed his efforts, yet thefe is no doubt 
 that he got, fid of some of the bitter- 
 ness. But the coldness remained. 
 
 One day he was sent for all in a 
 hurry by Griffith. 
 
 He found him looking gloomy and 
 agitated. 
 
 The cause came out directly. Grif- 
 fith had observed, at last, what all the 
 females in the house had seen two 
 months ago, that Mrs. Gaunt was in 
 the family way. 
 
 He now communicated this to Father 
 Francis, with a voice of agony, and 
 looks to match. 
 
 "All the better, my son," said the 
 genial priest : " 't will be another tie 
 between you. I hope it will be a fine 
 boy to inherit your estates." Then, 
 observing a certain hideous expression 
 distorting Griffith's face, he fixed his 
 eyes full on him, and said, sternly, 
 " Are you not cured yet of that mad- 
 ness of yours ? " 
 
 " No, no, no," said Griffith, depre- 
 catingly ; " but why did she not tell 
 me?" 
 
 " You had better ask her.'' 
 
 " Not I. She will remind me I am 
 nothing to her now. And, thougli 'tis 
 so, yet I would not hear it from her 
 lips." 
 
 In Spite of this wise resolution, the 
 torture he was in drove him to remon- 
 strate with her on her silence. 
 
 She blushed high, and excused her- 
 self as follows : — 
 
 " I should have told you as soon as I 
 knew it myself. But you were not with 
 me. I was all by myself — in Carlisle 
 jail." 
 
 This repl}', uttered with hypocritical 
 meekness, went through Griffith like a 
 knife. He turned white, and gasped 
 for breath, but said nothing. He left 
 her, with a deep groan, and never ven- 
 tured to mention the matter again. 
 
 All he did in that direction was to 
 redouble his attentions and solicitude 
 for her health. 
 
 The relation between these two was 
 now more anomalous than ever. 
 
 Even Father Francis, who had seen 
 strange things in families, used to 
 watch Mrs. Gaunt rise from the table 
 and walk heavily to the door, and her 
 husband dart to it and open it obse- 
 quiously, and receive only a very for- 
 mal reverence in return, — and won- 
 der how all this was to end. 
 
 However, under this icy surface, a 
 change was gradually going on ; and 
 one afternoon, to his great surprise, 
 Mrs. Gaunt*s maid came to ask Grif- 
 fith if he would come to Mrs. Gaunt's 
 apartment. 
 
 He found her seated in her bay-win- 
 dow, among her flowers. She seemed 
 another woman all of a sudden, and 
 smiled on him her exquisite smile of 
 days gone by. 
 
 " Come, sit beside me," said she, 
 " in this beautiful window that you have 
 given me." 
 
 " Sit beside you, Kate ? " said Grif- 
 fith. " Nay, let me kneel at your knees : 
 that is my place." 
 
 " As you will," said she, softly ; and 
 continued, in the same tone : " Now 
 listen to me. You and I are two fools. 
 We have been very happy together in 
 days gone by ; and we should both of 
 us hke to try again ; but we neither of 
 us know how to begin. You are afraid 
 to tell me you love me, and I am 
 ashamed to own to you or anybody 
 else that I love you, in spite of it all ; 
 — I do, though." 
 
 " You love me ! a wretch like me, 
 Kate ? 'T is impossible. I cannot be 
 So happy." 
 
 " Child," said Mrs. Gaunt, " love is 
 not reason ; love is not common sense. 
 'Tis a passion ; like your jealousy, poor 
 fool. I love you, as a mother loves her 
 child, all the more for all you have 
 made me suffer. I might not say as 
 much, if I thought we should be long 
 together. But something tells me I 
 shall die this time : I never felt so be- 
 fore. Bury me at Hernshaw. After 
 all, I spent more happy years there 
 than most wives ever know. I see you 
 are very sorry for what you have done. 
 
208 
 
 Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 How could I die arid leave thee in 
 doubt of my forgiveness, and my love ? 
 Kiss me, poor jealous fool ; for I do 
 forgive thee, and love thee with all my 
 sorrowful heart." And even with the 
 words she bowed herself and sank 
 quietly into his arms, and he kissed her 
 and cried bitterly over her : bitterly. 
 But she was comparatively calm. For 
 she said to herself, "The end is at 
 hand." 
 
 Griffith, instead of pooh-poohing his 
 wife's forebodings, set himself to baffle 
 them. 
 
 He use"d his wealth freely, and, be- 
 sides the county doctor, had two very 
 eminent practitioners from London, one 
 of whom was a gray-headed man, the 
 other singularly young for the fame he 
 had obtained. But then he was a gen- 
 uine enthusiast in his art. 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 Griffith, white as a ghost, and un- 
 able to shake off the forebodings Catha- 
 rine had communicated to him, walked 
 incessantly up and down the room ; and, 
 at his earnest request, one or other 
 of the four doctors in attendance was 
 constantly coming to him with infor- 
 mation. 
 
 The case proceeded favorably, and, 
 to Griffith's surprise and joy, a healthy 
 boy was born about two o'clock in the 
 morning. The mother was reported 
 rather feverish, but nothing to cause 
 alarm. 
 
 Griffith threw himself on two chairs 
 and fell fast asleep. 
 
 Towards morning he found himself 
 shaken, and there was Ashley, the 
 young doctor, standing beside him with 
 a very grave face. Griffith started up, 
 and cried, " What is wrong, in God's 
 name .'' " 
 
 " I am sorry to say there has been a 
 sudden hemorrhage, and the patient is 
 much exhausted." 
 
 " She is dying, she is dying ! " cried 
 Griffith, in anguish. 
 
 "Not dying. But she will infallibly 
 
 sinjc, unless some unusual circumstance 
 occur to sustain vitality." 
 
 Griffith laid hold of him. "O sir, 
 take my whole fortune, but save her! 
 save her ! save her ! " 
 
 " Mr. Gaunt," said the young doc- 
 tor, "be calm, or you will make mat- 
 ters worse. There is one chance to 
 save her ; but my professional brethren 
 are prejudiced against it. However, 
 they have consented, at my earnest re- 
 quest, to refer my proposal to you. She 
 is sinking for want of blood ; if you 
 consent to my opening a vein and 
 transfusing healthy blood from a living 
 subject into hers, I will undertake the 
 operation. You had better come and 
 see her ; you will be more able to 
 judge." 
 
 " Let me lean on you," said Griffith. 
 And the strong wrestler went tottering 
 up the stairs. There they showed him 
 poor Kate, white as the bed-clothes, 
 breathing hard, and with a pulse that 
 hardly moved. 
 
 Griffith looked at her horror-struck. 
 
 " Death has got hold of my darling," 
 he screamed. "Snatch her away! for. 
 God's sake, snatch her from him! " 
 
 The young doctor whipped off his 
 coat, and bared his arm. 
 
 " There," he cried, " Mr. Gaunt con- 
 sents. Now, Corrie, be quick with the 
 lancet, and hold this tube as I tell you ; 
 warm it first in that water." 
 
 Here came an interruption. Griffith 
 Gaunt griped the young doctor's arm, 
 and, with an agonized and ugly expres- 
 sion of countenance, cried out, " What, 
 your blood ! What right have you to 
 lose blood for her ? " 
 
 " The right of a man who loves his 
 art better than his blood," cried Ash- 
 ley, with enthusiasm. 
 
 Griffith tore off his coat and waist- 
 coat, and bared his arm to the elbow. 
 " Take every drop I have. No man's 
 blood shall enter her veins but mine." 
 And the creature seemed to swell to 
 double his size, as, with flushed cheek 
 and sparkling eyes, he held out a bare 
 arm corded like a blacksmith's, and 
 white as a duchess's. 
 
 The young doctor eyed the magnifi- 
 
Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 209 
 
 cent limb a moment with rapture ; then 
 fixed his apparatus and performed an 
 operation which then, as now, was im- 
 possible in theory ; only he did it. He 
 sent some of Griffith Gaunt's bright red 
 blood smoking hot into Kate Gaunt's 
 veins. 
 
 This done, he watched his patient 
 closely, and administered stimulants 
 from time to time. 
 
 She hung between life and death for 
 hours. But at noon next day she 
 spoke, and, seeing Griffith sitting beside 
 her, pale with anxiety and loss of blood, 
 she said : " My dear, do not thou fret. 
 I died last night. I knew I should. 
 But they gave nie another life ; and 
 now I shall live to ^ hundred. 
 
 They showed her the little boy ; and, 
 at sight of him, the whole woman made 
 up her mind to hve. 
 
 And live she did. And, what is very 
 remarkable, her convalescence was 
 more rapid than on any former occa- 
 sion. 
 
 It was from a talkative nurse she first 
 learned that Griffith had given his blood 
 for her. She said nothing at the time, 
 but lay, with an angelic, happy smile, 
 thinking of it. 
 
 The first time she saw him after that, 
 she laid her hand on his arm, and, look- 
 ing Heaven itself into his eyes, she 
 said, " JMy life is very dear to me now. 
 'T is a present from thee." 
 
 She only wanted a good excuse for 
 loving him as frankly as beforCj and 
 now he had given her one. She used 
 to throw it in his teeth in the pret- 
 tiest way. Whenever she confessed a 
 fault, she was sure to turn slyly round 
 and say, " But what could one ex- 
 pect of me ? I have his blood in my 
 veins." 
 
 But once she told Father Francis, 
 quite seriously, that she had never been 
 quite the same woman since she lived 
 by Griffith's- blood ; she was turned 
 jealous ; and moreover it had given 
 him a fascinating power over her, and 
 she could tell blindfold when he was 
 in the room. Which last fact, indeed, 
 she once proved by actual experiment. 
 But all this I leave to such as study 
 14 
 
 the occult sciences in this profound age 
 of ours. 
 
 Starting with this advantage, Time, 
 the great curer, gradually healed a 
 wound that looked incurable. 
 
 Mrs. Gaunt became a better wife than 
 she had ever been before. She studied 
 her husband, and found he was not 
 hard to please. She made his home 
 bright and genial ; and so he never 
 went abroad for the sunshine he could 
 have at home. 
 
 And he studied her. He added a 
 chapel to the house, and easily per- 
 suaded Francis to become the chaplain. 
 Thus they had a peacemaker, and a 
 friend, in the house, and a man severe 
 in morals, but candid in rehgion, and 
 an inexhaustible companion to them 
 and their children. 
 
 And so, after that terrible storm, this 
 pair pursued the even tenor of a peace- 
 ful united life, till the olive - branches 
 rising around them, and the happy years 
 gliding on, almost obliterated that one 
 dark passage, and made it seem a mere 
 fantastical, incredible. dream. 
 
 Mercy Vint and her child went home 
 in the coach. It was empty at start- 
 ing, and, as Mrs. Gaunt had foretold, a 
 great sense of desolation fell upon her. 
 
 She leaned back, and the patient 
 tears coursed steadily down her comely 
 cheeks. 
 
 At the first stage a passenger got 
 down from the outside, and entered the 
 coach. 
 
 "What, George Neville!" said 
 Mercy. 
 
 " The same," said he. 
 
 She expressed her surprise that he 
 should be going her way. 
 
 " 'T is strange," said he, " but to 
 me most agreeable." 
 
 "And to me too, for that matter," 
 said she. 
 
 Sir George observed her eyes were 
 red, and, to divert her mind and keep ' 
 up her spirits, launched into a flow of 
 small talk. 
 
 In the midst of it, Mercy leaned back 
 in the coach, and began to cry bitterly. 
 So much for that mode of consolation. 
 
2IO 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 Upon this he faced the situation, and 
 begged her not to grieve. He praised 
 the good action she had done, and told 
 her how everybody admired her for it, 
 especially himself. 
 
 At that she gave him her hand in 
 silence, and turned away her pretty 
 head. He carried her hand respectfully 
 to his lips ; and his manly heart began 
 to yearn over this suffering virtue, — so 
 grave, so dignified, so meek. He was 
 no longer a young man ; he began to 
 talk to her like a friend. This tone, 
 and the soft, sympathetic voice in which 
 a gentleman speaks to a woman in 
 trouble, unlocked her heart ; and for 
 the first time in her life she was led to 
 talk about herself. 
 
 She opened her heart to him. She 
 told him she was not the woman to 
 pine for any man. Her youth, her 
 health, and love of occupation, would 
 carry her through. What she mourned 
 was the loss of esteem, and the blot 
 upon her child. At that she drew the 
 baby with inexpressible tenderness, 
 and yet with a half-defiant air, closer 
 to her bo^m. 
 
 Sir George assured her she would 
 lose the esteem of none but fools. " As 
 for me," said he, " I always respected 
 you, but now I revere you. You are a 
 martyr and an angel." 
 
 " George," said Mercy, gravely, " be 
 you my friend, not my enemy." 
 
 "Why, madam," said he, "sure you 
 can't think me such a wretch." 
 
 " I mean, our flatterers are our ene- 
 mies." 
 
 Sir George took the hint, given, as it 
 was, very gravely and decidedly ; and 
 henceforth showed her his respect by 
 his acts ; he paid her as much atten- 
 tion as if she had been a princess. He 
 handed her out, and handed her in ; 
 and coaxed her to eat here, and to drink 
 there ; and at the inn where the pas- 
 sengers slept for the night, he showed 
 his long purse, and secured her superi- 
 or comforts. Console her he could not ; 
 but he broke the sense of utter desola- 
 tion and loneliness with which she start- 
 ed from Carlisle. She told him so in 
 the inn, and descanted on the goodness 
 
 of God, who had sent her a friend in 
 that bitter hour. 
 
 "You have been very kind to me, 
 George," said she. " Now Heaven 
 bless you for it, and give you many 
 happy days, and well spent." 
 
 This, from one who never said a word 
 she did not mean, sank deep into Sir 
 George's heart, and he went to sleep 
 thinking of her, and asking himself was 
 there nothing he could do for her. 
 
 Next morning Sir George handed 
 Mercy and her babe into the coach ; 
 and the villain tried an experiment to 
 see what value she set on him. He did 
 not get in, so Mercy thought she had 
 seen the last of him. 
 
 " Farewell, good, kind George," said 
 she. " Alas ! there 's naught but meet- 
 ing and parting in this weary world." 
 
 The tears stood in her sweet eyes, 
 and she thanked him, not with words 
 only, but with the soft pressure of her 
 womanly hand. 
 
 He slipped up behind the coach, and 
 was ashamed of himself, and his heart 
 warmed to her more and more. 
 
 As soon as the coach stopped, my 
 lord opened the door for Mercy to 
 alight. Her eyes were very red ; he saw 
 that. She started, and beamed with 
 surprise and pleasure. 
 
 " Why, I thought I had lost you for 
 good," said she. " Whither are you 
 going ? to Lancaster ? " 
 
 " Not quite so far. I am going to 
 the ' Packhorse.' " 
 
 Mercy opened her eyes, and blushed 
 high. Sir George saw, and, to divert 
 her suspicions, told her merrily to be- 
 ware of making objections. " I am only 
 a sort of servant in the matter. 'T was 
 Mrs. Gaunt ordered me." 
 
 " I might have guessed it," said Mer- 
 cy. " Bless her ; she knew I should 
 be lonely.'' 
 
 " She was not easy till she had got 
 rid of me, I assure you," said Sir George. 
 " So let us make the best on 't, for she 
 is a lady that likes to have her own 
 way." 
 
 " She is a noble creature. George, I 
 shall never regret anything I have done 
 for her^ And she will not be ungrateful. 
 
Griffith Gaunt ; or, Jealousy. 
 
 211 
 
 O, the sting of ingratitude ! I have felt 
 that. Have you ? " 
 
 " No," said Sir George ; '^ I have es- 
 caped that, by never doing any good 
 actions." 
 
 " I doubt you are telling me a lie," 
 said Mercy Vint. 
 
 She now looked upon Sir George 
 as Mrs. Gaunt's representative, and 
 prattled freely to. him. Only now and 
 then her trouble came over her, and 
 then she took a quiet cry without cer- 
 emony. 
 
 As for Sir George, he sat and studied, 
 and wondered at her. 
 
 Never in his life had he met such a 
 wojnan as this, who was as candid with 
 him as if he had been a woman. She 
 seemed to have a window in her bosom, 
 through which he looked, and saw the 
 pure and lovely soul within. 
 
 In the afternoon they reached a Httle 
 town, whence a cart conveyed them to 
 the " Packhorse." 
 
 Here Mercy Vint disappeared, and 
 busied herself with Sir George's com- 
 forts. 
 
 He sat by himself in the parlor, and 
 missed his gentle qompanion. 
 
 In the morning Mercy thought of 
 course he would go. 
 
 But instead of that, he stayed, and 
 followed her about, and began to court 
 her downright. 
 
 But the warmer he got, the cooler 
 she. And at last she said, mighty dryly, 
 " This is a very dull place for the likes 
 of you." 
 
 " 'T is the sweetest place in Eng- 
 land," said he ; " at least to me ; for 
 it contains — the woman I love." 
 
 Mercy drew back, and colored rosy 
 red. " I hope not," said she. 
 
 " I loved you the first day I saw you, 
 and heard your voice. And now I love 
 you ten times more. Let me dry thy 
 tears forever, sweet Mercy. Be my 
 wife." 
 
 " You are mad;" said Mercy. " What, 
 would you wed a woman in my condi- 
 tion ? I am more your friend than to 
 take you at your word. And what must 
 you think I am made of, to go from one 
 man to another, like that ? " 
 
 "Take your time, sweetheart; only 
 give me your hand." 
 
 "George," said Mercy, very grave- 
 ly, " I am beholden to you ; but my 
 duty it lies another way. There is a 
 young man in these parts " (Sir George 
 groaned) "that was my follower for two 
 years and better. I wronged him for 
 one I never name now. I must marry 
 that poor lad, and make him happy, or 
 else live and die as I am." 
 
 Sir George turned pale. " One word : 
 do you love him ? " 
 
 " I have a regard for him." 
 
 " Do you love him ? " 
 
 " Hardly. But I i/fronged him, and 
 I owe him amends. I shall pay my 
 debts." 
 
 Sir George bowed, and retired sick 
 at heart, and deeply mortified. Mercy 
 looked after him and sighed. 
 
 Next day, as he walked disconsolate 
 up and down, she came to him and 
 gave him her hand. " You were a good 
 friend to me that bitter day," said she. 
 " Now let me be yours. Do not bide 
 here : 't will but vex you." 
 
 " I am going, madapi," said Sir 
 George, stiffly. " I but wait to see the 
 man you prefer to me. If he is not 
 too unworthy of you, I '11 go, and trou- 
 ble you no more. I have learned his 
 name." 
 
 Mercy blushed; for she knew Paul 
 Carrick would bear no comparison with 
 George Neville. 
 
 The next day Sir George took leave 
 to observe that this Paul Carrick did 
 not seem to appreciate her preference 
 so highly as he ought. " I understand 
 he has never been here." 
 
 Mercy colored, but made no reply ; 
 and Sir George was sorry he had taunt- 
 ed her. He followed her about, and 
 showed her great attention, but not a 
 word of love. 
 
 There were fine trout streams in the 
 neigh}?prhood, and he busied himself 
 fishing, and in the evening read aloud 
 to Mercy, and waited to see Paul Car- 
 rick. 
 
 Paul never came; and fr-pm a word 
 Mercy let drop, he saw that she was 
 mortified. Then, being no tyro in love, 
 
212 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 he told her he had business in Lan- 
 caster, and must leave her for a few 
 days. But he would return, and by 
 that time perhaps Paul Carrick would 
 be visible. 
 
 Now his main object was to try the 
 effect of correspondence. 
 
 Every day he sent her a long love- 
 letter from Lancaster. 
 
 Paul Carrick, who, in absenting him- 
 self for a time, had acted upon his sis- 
 ter's advice, rather than his own natu- 
 ral impulse, learned that Mercy re- 
 ceived a letter every day. This was a 
 thing unheard of in that parish. 
 
 So then Paul defied his sister's ad- 
 vice, and presented himself to IVEercy ; 
 when the following dialogue took place. 
 " Welcome home, Mercy." 
 " Thank you, Paul." 
 " Well, 1 'm single still, lass." 
 " So I hear." 
 
 " I 'm come to say let bygones be 
 bygones." 
 
 " So be it," said Mercy, dryly. 
 " You have tried a gentleman ; now 
 try a farrier." 
 
 " I have ; and he did not stand the 
 test." 
 "Anan." 
 
 " Why did you not come near me 
 for ten days ? " 
 
 Paul blushed up to the eyes. "Well," 
 said he, " I '11 tell you the truth. 'T 
 was our Jess advised me to leave you 
 quiet just at first." 
 
 " Ay, ay. I was to be humbled, and 
 made to smart for my fault ; and then I 
 should be thankful to take you. My 
 lad, if ever you should be really in love, 
 take a friend's advice ; listen to your 
 own heart, and not to shallow ad- 
 visers. You have mortified a poor sor- 
 rowful creature, who was going to makfe 
 a sacrifice for you ; and you have'loSt 
 her forever." "' 
 
 « What d' ye mean ? " 
 " I mean that you are to think no 
 more of Mercy Vint." , 
 
 " Then it is true, ye jadfe ; ye 've got- 
 ten a fresh lover already." 
 
 " Say no more than you know. If 
 you were the only man on earth, I 
 would not wed you, Paul Carrick." 
 
 Paul Carrick retired home, and blew 
 up his sister, and told her that she had 
 " gotten him the sack again." 
 
 The next day Sir George came back 
 from Lancaster, and Mercy lowered 
 her lashes for once at sight of him. 
 
 " Well," said he, " has this Carrick 
 shown a sense of your goodness ? " 
 
 "He has come, — and gone." 
 
 She then, with her- usual frankness, 
 told him what had passed. "And," 
 said she, with a smile', " you are partly 
 to blame ; for how could I help com- 
 paring your behavior to me with his ? 
 Yoit came to my side when I was in 
 trouble, and showed me respect when 
 I expected scorn from all the world. 
 A friend in need is a friend indeed." 
 
 " Reward me, reward me," said 
 Sir George, gayly ; " you know the 
 way." 
 
 " Nay, but I am too much your 
 friend," said Mercy. 
 
 " Be less my friend then, and more 
 my darling." 
 
 He pressed her, he urged her, he 
 stuck to her, he pestered her. 
 
 She snubbed, and evaded, and par- 
 ried, and liked him all the better for his 
 pestering her. 
 
 At last, one day, she said : " If Mrs. 
 Gaunt thinks it will be for your hap- 
 piness, I will — in six months' time; 
 but you shall not marry in haste to re- 
 pent at leisure. And I must have time 
 to learn two things, — whether you 
 can be constant to a simple woman 
 like me, and whether I can love again, 
 as tenderly as you deserve to be 
 loved." 
 
 All his endeavors to shake this de- 
 termination were vain. Mercy Vint 
 had a terrible deal of quiet resolution. 
 
 He retired to Cumberland, and, in a 
 long letter, asked Mrs. Gaunt's advice. 
 
 She replied characteristically. She 
 began very soberly to say that she 
 should be the last to advise a marriage 
 between persons of different conditions 
 in life. "But then," said she, "this 
 Mercy is altogether an exception. If 
 a flower grows on a dunghill, 't is still 
 a flower, and not a part of the dunghill. 
 She has the essence of gentility, and 
 
Griffith Gaunt; or, Jeahusy, 
 
 213 
 
 indeed her vtanners are better bred 
 than most of our ladies. There is too 
 much aiTectation abroad, and that is 
 your true vulgarity. Tack ' my lady ' 
 on to ' Mercy Vint,' and that dignified 
 and quiet simplicity of hers will carry 
 her with credit through every court in 
 Europe. Then think of her virtues," — 
 (here the writer began to lose her tem- 
 per,) — " where can you hope to find 
 such another ? She is a moral genius, 
 and acts well, no matter under what 
 temptation, as surely as Claude and 
 Raphael paint well. Why, sir, what do 
 you seek in a wife ? Wealth ? title ? 
 family ? But you possess them already ; 
 you want something in addition that 
 will make you happy. Well, take that 
 angelic goodness into your house, arid 
 you will find, by your own absolute 
 happiness, how ill your neighbors have 
 wived. For my part, I see but one 
 objection : the child. Well, if you are 
 man enough to take the mother, I am 
 woman enough to take the babe. In 
 one word, he who has the sense to fall 
 in love with such an angel, and has 
 not the sense to marry it, if he can, is 
 a fool. 
 
 " Postscript. — My poor friend, to 
 what end think you I sent you down in 
 the coach with her ? " 
 
 Sir George, thus advised, acted as he 
 would have done had the advice been 
 just the opposite. 
 
 He sent Mercy a love-letter by every 
 post, and he often received one in re- 
 turn ; only his were passionate, and 
 hers gentle and affectionate. 
 
 But one day came a letter that was a 
 mere cry of distress. 
 
 " George, my child is dying. What 
 shall I do ? " 
 
 He mounted his horse, and rode to 
 her. 
 
 He came too late. The little boy 
 had died suddenly of croup, and was to 
 be buried next morning. 
 
 The poor mother received him up 
 stairs, and her grief was terrible. She 
 clung sobbing to him, and could not be 
 comforted. Yet she felt his coming. 
 
 But a mother's anguish overpowered 
 all. 
 
 Crushed by this fearful blow, her 
 strength gave way for a time, and she 
 clung to George Neville, and told him 
 she had nothing left but him, and one 
 day implored him not to die and leave 
 her. 
 
 Sir George said all he could think 
 of to comfort her ; and at the end of a 
 fortnight persuaded her to leave the 
 " Packhorse," and England, as his 
 wife. 
 
 She had little power to resist now, 
 and indeed little inclination. 
 
 They were married by special li- 
 cense, and spent a twelvemonth abroad. 
 
 At the end of that time they returned 
 to Neville's Court, and Mercy took her 
 place there with the same dignified 
 simplicity that had adorned her in a 
 humbler station. 
 
 Sir George had given her no les- 
 sons ; but she had observed closely, 
 for his sake ; and being already well 
 educated, and very quick and docile, 
 she seldom made him blush except 
 with pride. 
 
 They were the happiest pair in Cum- 
 berland. Her merciful nature now 
 found a larger field for its exercise, 
 and, backed by her husband's purse, 
 she became the Lady Bountiful of the 
 parish and the county. 
 
 The day after she reached Neville's 
 Court came an exquisite letter to her 
 from Mrs. Gaunt. She sent an affec- 
 tionate reply. 
 
 But the Gaunts and the Nevilles did 
 not meet in society. 
 
 Sir George Neville and Mrs. Gaunt, 
 being both singularly brave and haugh- 
 ty people, rather despised this arrange- 
 ment. 
 
 But it seems that, one day, when 
 they were all four in the Town Hall, 
 folk whispered and looked ; and both 
 Griffith Gaunt and Lady Neville sur- 
 prised these glances, and determined, 
 by one impulse, it should never happen 
 again. Hence it was quite understood 
 that the Nevilles and the Gaunts were 
 not to be asked to the same party or 
 ball. 
 
214 
 
 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. 
 
 The wives, however, corresponded, 
 and Lady Neville easily induced Mrs. 
 Gaunt to co-operate with her in her 
 benevolent acts, especially in saving 
 young women, who had been betrayed, 
 from sinking deeper. 
 
 Living a good many miles apart, 
 Lady Neville could send her stray 
 sheep to service near Mrs. Gaunt ; and 
 vice versa; and so, merciful, but dis- 
 criminating, they saved many a poor 
 girl who had been weak, not wicked. 
 
 So then, though they could not eat 
 nor dance together in earthly mansions, 
 they could do good together ; and me- 
 thinks, in the eternal world, where 
 years of social intercourse will prove 
 less than cobwebs, these their joint acts 
 of mercy will be links of a bright, 
 
 strong chain, to bind their souls in 
 everlasting amity. 
 
 It was a remarkable circumstance, 
 that the one child of Lady Neville's 
 unhappy marriage died, but her nine 
 children by Sir George all grew to 
 goodly men and women. That branch 
 of the Nevilles became remarkable for 
 high principle and good sense ; and 
 this they owe to Mercy Vint, and to 
 Sir George's courage in marrying her. 
 This Mercy was granddaughter to one 
 of Cromwell's ironsides, and brought 
 her rare personal merit into their 
 house, and also the best blood of the 
 old Puritans, than which there is no 
 blood in Europe more rich in male 
 courage, female chastity, and all the 
 virtues. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 Cambridge ; Eleclrotypod and Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co. 
 
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