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 PHANTOM FORTUNE 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 "LADY AUDLEY'S SECEET '= 
 
 KTC. ETC. ETC. 
 
 in Ei^xn Folumcs 
 
 VOL. I 
 
 LONDON 
 JOHN AND EOBEBT MAXWELL 
 
 MILTON HOUSE, SHOE LANE, FLEET STEEET 
 
 1883 
 [All rights reserved.]
 
 LONDON : 
 
 WILLIAM EIDER AND SON, PRINTEES, 
 
 BARTHOLOMEW CLOSE.
 
 V.I 
 
 coxteints to vol. I. 
 
 
 CHAP. 
 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 4 
 •^ 
 
 I. 
 
 Penelope 
 
 1 
 
 II. 
 
 Ulysses 
 
 
 
 18 
 
 i 
 
 III. 
 
 On the Wrong Eoad 
 
 
 
 33 
 
 
 IV. 
 
 The TjARt Stage 
 
 
 
 53 
 
 i 
 
 V. 
 
 Forty Years After . 
 
 
 
 60 
 
 VI. 
 
 Maulevrier's Humble Friend . 
 
 
 
 99 
 
 VII. 
 
 In the Summer Morning . 
 
 
 
 115 
 
 
 VIII. 
 
 There is always a Skeleton . 
 
 
 
 129 
 
 
 IX. 
 
 A Cry in the Darkness . 
 
 
 
 148 
 
 ^ 
 
 X. 
 
 '0 Bitterness of things too Sweet' 
 
 
 172 
 
 XI. 
 
 'If I were to do as Iseult did' 
 
 
 208 
 
 
 XII. 
 
 ' The Greater Cantle of the World is Lost 
 
 219 
 
 J 
 
 XIII. 
 
 ' Since Painted or not Painted all shall Fadi 
 
 :' 232 
 
 XIV. 
 
 'Not Yet' 
 
 263 
 
 'i, 
 
 XV. 
 
 'Of all Men else I hate Avoided Thee' 
 
 280 
 
 } 
 
 XVI. 
 
 'Her Face resigned to Bliss or Bale' . 
 
 295 
 
 XVII. 
 
 'And the Spring comes Slowly up this Way' 
 
 307 
 
 V 
 
 XVIII, 
 
 'And Come Agen be it by Night or Day' 
 
 330 
 
 i 
 
 
 
 
 i 
 
 
 
 

 
 Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2009 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/phantomfortuneno01brad
 
 PHANTOM FOETUNE 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 PENELOPE. 
 
 People dined earlier forty years ago than they do 
 now. Even the salt of the earth, the elect of society, 
 represented by that little great world which lies 
 within the narrow circle bounded by Bryanstone 
 Square on the north and by Birdcage Walk on the 
 south, did not consider seven o'clock too early an 
 hour for a dinner-party which was to be followed by 
 routs, drums, concerts, conversazione, as the case 
 might be. It was seven o'clock on a lovely June 
 evening, and the Park was already deserted, and 
 carriages were rolling swiftly along all the West-End 
 streets, and through the West-End squares, carrying 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 PENELOPE. 
 
 rank, fashion, wealth, and beauty, political influence, 
 and intellectual power, to the particular circle which 
 each was destined to illumine upon that particular 
 evening. 
 
 Stateliest among London squares, Grosvenor — in 
 some wise a wonder to the universe as newly lighted 
 with gas, — grave Grosvenor with its heavy old 
 Georgian houses, and pompous entrances, sparkled 
 and shone, not alone with the novel splendour of gas, 
 but with the light of many wax candles, clustering 
 flower-like in silver branches and girandoles, multi- 
 plying their flame in numerous mirrors ; and of all 
 the houses in that stately square none had a more 
 imposing aspect than Lord Denyer's dark-red brick 
 mansion, with stone dressings, and the massive 
 grandeur of an Egyptian mausoleum. 
 
 Lord Denyer was an important personage in the 
 political and diplomatic world. He had been ambas- 
 sador at Constantinople and at Paris, and had now 
 retired on his laurels, an influence still, but no 
 longer an active power in the machine of govern- 
 ment. At his house gathered all that was most 
 brilliant in London society. To be seen at Lady
 
 PENELOPE, 3 
 
 Denyer's evening parties was the guinea stamp of 
 social distinction ; to dine with Lord Denyer was an 
 opening in life, almost as valuable as University 
 honours, and more difficult of attainment. 
 
 It was during the quarter of an hour before dinner 
 that a group of persons, mostly personages, congre- 
 gated round Lord Denyer's chimney-piece, naturally 
 trending towards the social hearth, albeit it was the 
 season of roses and lilies rather than of fires, and the 
 hum of the city was floating in upon the breath of 
 the warm June evening through the five tall 
 windows which opened upon Lord Denyer's balcony. 
 The ten or twelve persons assembled seemed only 
 a sprinkling in the large lofty room, furnished 
 sparsely with amber satin sofas, a pair of Florentine 
 marble tables, and half an acre or so of looking-glass. 
 Voluminous amber draperies shrouded the windows, 
 and deadened the sound of rolling wheels, and the 
 voices and footfalls of western London. The drawing- 
 rooms of those days were neither artistic nor pic- 
 turesque — neither Early English nor Low Dutch, nor 
 Renaissance, nor Anglo- Japanese. A stately com- 
 monplace distinguished the reception rooms of the
 
 4 PENELOPE. 
 
 great world. Upholstery stagnated at a dead level 
 of fluted legs, gilding, plate glass, and amber satin. 
 
 Lady Denyer stood a little way in advance of 
 the group on the hearthrug, fanning herself, with her 
 eye on the door, while she listened languidly to the 
 remarks of a youthful diplomatist, a sprig of a lordly 
 tree, upon the last dehitt at Her Majesty's Theatre. 
 
 * My own idea was that she screamed,' said her 
 ladyship. 'But the new Eosinas generally do 
 scream. Why do we have a new Eosina every 
 year, whom nobody ever hears of afterwards ? What 
 becomes of them ? Do they die, or do they set up as 
 singing mistresses in second-rate wateiing-places ? ' 
 hazarded her ladyship, with her eye always on the 
 door. 
 
 She was a large woman in amethyst satin, and a 
 gauze turban with a diamond aigrette, a splendid 
 jewel, which would not have misbeseemed the head- 
 gear of an Indian prince. Lady Denyer was one of 
 the last women who wore a turban, and that 
 Oriental head-dress became her bold and massive 
 features. 
 
 Infinitely bored by the whiskerless attache, who
 
 PEXELOPE. 5 
 
 had entered upon a disquisition on the genius of 
 Kossini as compared with this new man Meyerbeer, 
 her ladyship made believe to hear, while she listened 
 intently to the confidential murmurs of the group 
 on the hearthrug, the little knot of personages 
 clustered round Lord Denyer. 
 
 ' Indian mail in this morning,' said one — 'nothing 
 else talked of at the club. Very flagrant case ! A 
 good deal worse than AYarren Hastings. Quite 
 clear there must be a public inquiry — House of 
 Lords — criminal prosecution' 
 
 *I was told on very good authority, that he 
 has been recalled, and is now on his passage 
 home,' said another man. 
 
 Lord Denyer shrugged his shoulders, pursed up 
 his lips, and looked ineffably wise, a way he had when 
 he knew very little about the subject under discussion. 
 
 'How will ske take it, do you think?' in- 
 quired Colonel Madison, of the Life Guards, a 
 man about town, and pn inveterate gossip, who 
 knew everybody, and everybody's family his- 
 tory, down to the peccadilloes of people's great 
 grandmothers.
 
 6 PENELOPE. 
 
 * You will have an opportunity of judging,' 
 replied his lordship, coolly. * She's to be here 
 this evenicg.' 
 
 * But do you think she'll show ? ' asked the 
 Colonel. * The mail must have brought the news 
 to her, as well as to other people — supposing 
 she knew nothing about it beforehand. She must 
 know that the storm has burst. Do you think 
 she'll ' 
 
 * Come out in the thunder and lightning ? ' 
 interrupted Lord Denyer ; * I'm sure she will. 
 She has the pride of Lucifer and the courage of 
 a lion. Five to one in ponies that she is here 
 before the clock strikes seven.' 
 
 * I think you're right. I knew her mother, 
 Constance Talmash. Pluck was a family charac- 
 teristic with the Talmashes. Wicked as devils, and 
 brave as lions. Old Talmash, the grandfather, shot 
 his valet in a paroxysm of deliriiim tremens,' said 
 Colonel Madison. 'She's a splendid woman, and 
 she won't flinch. I'd rather back her than bet 
 against her.' 
 
 * Lady Maulevrier ! ' announced the groom of
 
 PENELOPE. 7 
 
 the chambers ; and Lady Denver moved at least 
 three paces forward to meet her guest. 
 
 The lady who entered, with slow and stately 
 movements and proudly balanced head, might have 
 served as a model for Juno or the Empress Livia. 
 She was still in the bloom of youth, at most 
 seven-and-twenty, but she had all the calm assur- 
 ance of middle-age. No dowager, hardened by the 
 varied experiences of a quarter of a century in the 
 great world, could have faced society with more 
 perfect coolness and self-possession. She was 
 beautiful, and she let the world see that she was 
 conscious of her beauty, and the power that went 
 along with it. She was clever, and she used her 
 cleverness with unfailing tact and unscrupulous 
 audacity. She had won her place in the world 
 as an acknowledged beauty, and one of the leaders 
 of fashion. Two years ago she had been the glory 
 and delight of Anglo-Indian soeiety in the city of 
 Madras, ruling that remote and limited kingdom 
 with a despotic power. Then all of a sudden she 
 was ordered, or she ordered her physician to order 
 her, an immediate departure from that perilous
 
 8 PENELOPE. 
 
 climate, and she came back to England with her 
 three-year-old son, two Ayahs, and four European 
 servants, leaving her husband. Lord Maulevrier, 
 Governor of the Madras Presidency, to finish the 
 term of his service in an enforced widowhood. 
 
 She returned to be the delight of London 
 society. She threw open the family mansion in 
 Curzon Street to the very best people, but to those 
 only. She went out a good deal, but she was 
 never seen at a second-rate party. She had not a 
 single doubtful acquaintance upon her visiting list. 
 She spent half of every year at the family seat 
 in Scotland, was a miracle of goodness to the poor 
 of her parish, and taught her boy his alphabet. 
 
 Lord Denyer came forward while his wife and 
 Lady Maulevrier were shaking hands, and greeted 
 her with more than his usual cordiality. Colonel 
 Madison watched for the privilege of a recognising 
 nod from the divinity. Sir Jasper Paulet, a legal 
 luminary of the first brilliancy, likely to be em- 
 ployed for the Crown if there should be an inquiry 
 into Lord Maulevrier's conduct out yonder, came 
 to press Lady Maulevrier's hand and murmur a 
 tender welcome.
 
 PENELOPE. 9 
 
 She accepted their friendliness as a matter of 
 course, and not by the faintest extra quiver of the 
 tremulous stars which glittered in a circlet above 
 her raven hair did she betray her consciousness 
 of the cloud that darkened her husband's reputa- 
 tion. Xever had she appeared gayer, or more 
 completely satisfied with herself and the world in 
 which she lived. She was ready to talk about 
 anything and everything — the newly- wedded queen, 
 and the fortunate Prince, whose existence among us 
 had all the charm of novelty — of Lord Melbourne's 
 declining health — and Sir Eobert Peel's sliding 
 scale — mesmerism — the Oxford Tracts — the latest 
 balloon ascent — the opera — Macready's last pro- 
 duction at Drury-lane — Bulwer's new novel — 
 that clever little comic paper, just struggling 
 into popularity — what do you call the thing — 
 ' Punch ? ' — yes, ' Punch, or the London Charivari' 
 — a much more respectable paper than its Parisian 
 prototype. 
 
 Seated next Lord Denyer, who was an ex- 
 cellent listener, Lady Maulevrier's vivacity never 
 flagged throughout the dinner, happily not so 
 long as a modern banquet, albeit more ponderous
 
 10 PENELOPE. 
 
 and not less expensive. From the turtle to the 
 pines and strawberries, Lady Maulevrier held her 
 host or her right-hand neighbour in interested 
 conversation. She always knew the particular 
 subjects likely to interest particular people, and 
 was a good listener as well as a good talker. 
 Her right-hand neighbour was Sir Jasper Paulet, 
 who had been allotted to the pompous wife of 
 a court physician, a lady who had begun her 
 married life in the outer darkness of Guildford 
 Street, Bloomsbury, with a household consisting 
 of a maid-of-all-work and a boy in buttons, 
 with an occasional interregnum of charwoman ; 
 and for whom all the length and breadth of 
 Harley Street was now much too small. 
 
 Sir Jasper was only decently civil to this 
 haughty matron, who on the strength of a card 
 for a ball or a concert at the palace once in a 
 season affected to be on the most intimate terms 
 with Eoyalty, and knew everything that happened, 
 and every fluctuation of opinion in that charmed 
 circle. The great lawyer's left ear was listening 
 greedily for any word of meaning that might
 
 PENELOPE. 11 
 
 fall from the lips of Lady Maulevrier ; but no 
 such word fell. She talked delightfully, with a 
 touch-and-go vivacity which is the highest form 
 of dinner-table talk, not dwelling with a heavy 
 hand upon any one subject, but glancing from 
 theme to theme with airy lightness. But not 
 one word did she say about the Governor of 
 Madras ; and at this juncture of affairs it would 
 have been the worst possible taste to inquire 
 too closely after his lordship's welfare. 
 
 So the dinner wore on to its stately close, 
 and just as the solemn procession of flunkeys, 
 long as the shadowy line of the kings in 
 * Macbeth,' filed off with the empty ice-dishes, 
 Lady Maulevrier said something which was as 
 if a shell had exploded in the middle of the table. 
 
 * Perhaps you are surprised to see me ia 
 such good spirits,' she said, beaming upon her 
 host, and speaking in those clear, perfectly 
 finished syllables which are heard further than 
 the louder accents of less polished speakers, *but 
 you will not wonder when I let you into the 
 secret. Maulevrier is on his way home/
 
 12 PENELOPE. 
 
 * Indeed ! ' said Lord Denyer, with the most 
 benignant smile he could command at such short 
 notice. He felt that the muscles round his eyes 
 and the corners of his mouth were betraying too 
 much of his real sentiments. 'You must be 
 very glad.' 
 
 ' I am gladder than I can say,' answered 
 Lady Maulevrier, gaily. * That horrid climate — 
 a sky like molten copper — an atmosphere that 
 tastes of red-hot sand — that flat barren coast 
 never suited him. His term of office would 
 expire in a little more than a year, but I 
 hardly think he could have lived out the year. 
 However, I am happy to say the mail that came 
 in to-day — I suppose you know the mail is in? ' 
 (Lord Denyer bowed) — 'brought me a letter from 
 his lordship, telling me that he has sent in his 
 resignation, and taken his passage by the next 
 big ship that leaves Madras. I imagine he will 
 be home in October.' 
 
 'If he have a favourable passage,' said Lord 
 Denyer. ' Favoured by your good wishes the 
 winds and the waves ought to deal gently with him.'
 
 PENELOPE. 13 
 
 'Ah, we have done with the old days of Greek 
 story, when Xeptune was open to feminine in- 
 fluence,' sighed her ladyship. *My poor Ulysses 
 has no goddess of wisdom to look after him.' 
 
 ' Perhaps not, but he has the most charm- 
 ing of Penelopes waiting for him at home.' 
 
 'A Penelope who goes to dinners, and takes 
 life pleasantly in his absence. That is a new 
 order of things, is it not?' said her ladyship, 
 laughingly. *I hope my poor Ulysses will not 
 come home thoroughly broken in health, but 
 that our Sutherlandshire breezes will set him 
 up again.' 
 
 'Eather an ordeal after India, I should think,' 
 said Lord Denyer. 
 
 'It is his native air. He will revel in it.' 
 
 * Delicious country, no doubt,' assented his 
 lordship, who was no sportsman, and who 
 detested Scotland, grouse moors, deer forests, 
 salmon rivers included. 
 
 His only idea of a winter residence was Florence 
 or Capri, and of the two he preferred Capri. The 
 island was at that time little frequented by English-
 
 14 PENELOPE. 
 
 men. It had hardly been fashionable since the 
 time of Tiberius,' but Lord Denyer went there, 
 accompanied by his French chef, and a dozen other 
 servants, and roughed it in the native hotel ; while 
 Lady Denyer wintered at the family seat among 
 the hills near Bath, and gave herself over to Low 
 Church devotion, and works of benevolence. She 
 made herself a terror to the neighbourhood by 
 the strictness of her ideas all through the autumn 
 and winter ; and in the spring she went up to 
 London, put on her turban and her diamonds and 
 plunged into the vortex of West-End society, where 
 she revolved among other diamonded matrons for 
 the season, telling herself and her intimates that 
 this sacrifice of inclination was due to his lord- 
 ship's position. Lady Denyer was not the less 
 serious-minded because she was seen at every 
 aristocratic resort, and wore low gowns with veiy 
 short sleeves, and a great display of mottled arm 
 and dimpled elbow. 
 
 Now came her ladyship's smiling signal for the 
 withdrawal of that fairer half of the assembly 
 which was supposed to be indifferent to Lord
 
 TENELOPE. 15 
 
 Denyer's famous port and Madeira. She had 
 been throwing out her gracious signals unperceived 
 for at least five minutes before Lady Maulevrier 
 responded, so entirely was that lady absorbed in 
 her conversation with Lord Denyer ; but she 
 caught the look at last, and rose as if moved by 
 the same machinery which impelled her hostess, 
 and then, graceful as a swan sailing with the 
 current, she drifted down the room to the distant 
 door, and headed the stately procession of matronly 
 velvet and diamonds, herself at once the most 
 regal and the most graceful figure in that bevy 
 of matrons. 
 
 In the drawing-room nobody could be gayer 
 than Lady Maulevrier, as she marked the time of 
 Signer Paponizzi's saltarello, exquisitely performed 
 on the Signor's famed Amati violin — or talked 
 of the latest scandal — always excepting that latest 
 scandal of all which involved her own husband — 
 in subdued murmurs with one of her intimates. 
 In the dining-room the men drew closer together 
 over their wine, and tore Lord Maulevrier's 
 character to rags. Yea, they rent him with
 
 16 PENELOPE. 
 
 their teeth and gnawed the flesh from his bones, 
 until there was not so much left of him as the 
 dogs left of Jezebel. 
 
 He had been a scamp from his cradle, a 
 spendthrift at Eton and Oxford, a blackleg in his 
 manhood. False to men, falser to women. Clever ? 
 Yes, undoubtedly, just as Satan is clever, and as 
 unscrupulous as that very Satan. This was what 
 his friends said of him over their wine. And 
 now he was rumoured to have sold the British 
 forces in the Carnatic provinces to one of the 
 native Princes. Yes, to have taken gold, gold to 
 an amount which Clive in his most rapacious 
 moments never dreamt of, for his countrymen's 
 blood. Tidings of dark transactions between the 
 Governor and the native Princes had reached 
 the ears of the Government, tidings so vague, so in- 
 credible, that the Government might naturally be 
 slow to believe, still slower to act. There were 
 whispers of a woman's influence, a beautiful Eanee, 
 a creature as fascinating and as unscrupulous as 
 Cleopatra. The scandal hai been growing for 
 months past, but it was only in the letters received
 
 PENELOPE. 17 
 
 to-day that the rumour had taken a tangible 
 shape, and now it was currently reported that 
 Lord Maulevrier had been recalled, and would 
 have to answer at the bar of the House of Lords 
 for his misdemeanours, which were of a much darker 
 colour than those acts for which Warren Hastings 
 had been called to account fifty years before. 
 
 Yet, in the face of all this, Lady Maulevrier 
 bore herself as proudly as if her husband's name 
 were spotless, and talked of his return with all 
 the ardour of a fond and trusting wife. 
 
 'One of the finest bits of acting I ever saw 
 in my life,' said the court physician. * Made- 
 moiselle Mars never did anything better.' 
 
 * Do you really think it was acting ? ' inquired 
 Lord Denyer, affecting a youthful candour and 
 trustfulness which at his age, and with his experi- 
 ence, he could hardly be supposed to possess. 
 
 * I know it,' replied the doctor. * I watched 
 her while she was talking of Maulevrier, and I 
 saw just one bead of perspiration break out on 
 her upper lip — an unmistakable sign of the mental 
 strucrcrle.' 
 
 VOL. I. C
 
 CHAPTEE II. 
 
 ULYSSES. 
 
 October was ending drearily with north-east 
 winds, dust, drifting dead leaves, and a steel-grey 
 sky : and the Dolphin Hotel at Southampton was 
 glorified by the presence of Lady Maulevrier 
 and suite. Her ladyship's suite was on this 
 occasion limited to three servants — her French 
 maid, a footman, and a kind of factotum, a man 
 of no distinct and arbitrary signification in her 
 ladyship's household, neither butler nor steward, 
 but that privileged being, an old and trusted 
 servant, and a person who was supposed to enjoy 
 more of Lady Maulevrier's confidence than any 
 other member of her establishment. 
 
 This James Steadman had been valet to her 
 ladyship's father. Lord Peverill, during the declin- 
 ing years of that nobleman. The narrow limits
 
 ULYSSES. 19 
 
 of a sick room had brousflit the master and ser- 
 vant into a closer companionship than is common 
 to tliat relation. Lady Diana Angersthorpe was 
 a devoted daughter, and in her attendance upon 
 the Earl during the last three years of his life — 
 a life which closed more than a year before her 
 own marriage — she saw a great deal of James 
 Steadman, and learned to trust him as servants 
 are not often trusted. He was not more than 
 twenty years of age at the beginning of his 
 service, but he was a man of extraordinary 
 gravity,- much in advance of his years; a man 
 of shrewd common-sense and clear, sharp intellect. 
 Not a reading man, or a man in any way superior 
 to his station and belongings, but a man who 
 could think quickly, and understand quickly, and 
 who always seemed to think rightly. Prompt 
 in action, yet steady as a rock, and to all appear- 
 ance recognising no earthly interest, no human 
 tie, beyond or above the interests of his master. 
 As a nurse Steadman showed himself invaluable. 
 Lord Peverill left him a hundred pounds in 
 acknowledgment of his services, which was some-
 
 20 ULYSSES. 
 
 thing for Lord Peverill, who had very little ready 
 cash wherewith to endow his only daughter. 
 After his death the title and estates went to a 
 distant cousin ; Lady Diana Angersthorpe was 
 taken in hand by her aunt, the Dowager 
 Marchioness of Carrisbrook ; and James Steadman 
 would have had to find employment among 
 strangers, if Lady Diana had not pleaded so 
 urgently with her aunt as to secure him a 
 somewhat insignificant post in her ladyship's 
 establishment. 
 
 ' If ever I have a house of my own, you shall 
 have a better place in it, Steadman,' said Lady 
 Diana. 
 
 She kept her word, and on her marriage with 
 Lord Maulevrier, which happened about eighteen 
 months afterwards, Steadman passed into that 
 nobleman's service. He was a member of her 
 ladyship's bodyguard, and his employment seemed 
 to consist chiefly in poking fires, cutting the leaves 
 of books and newspapers, superintending the foot- 
 man's attendance upon her ladyship's household 
 pets, and conveying her sentiments to the other
 
 ULYSSES. 21 
 
 servants. He was in a manner Lady Mauleviier's 
 mouthpiece, and although treated with a respect 
 that verged upon awe, he was not a favourite 
 with the household. 
 
 And now the house in Mayfair was given 
 over to the charge of caretakers. All the other 
 servants had been despatched by coach to her 
 ladyship's favourite retreat in Westmoreland, within 
 a few miles of the Laureate's home at Eydal 
 Mount, and James Steadman was charged with 
 the whole responsibility of her ladyship's travel- 
 ling arrangements. 
 
 Penelope had come to Southampton to wait 
 for Ulysses, whose ship had been due for more 
 than a week, and whose white sails might be 
 expected above the horizon at any moment 
 James Steadman spent a good deal of his time 
 waiting about at the docks for the earliest news 
 of Greene's ship, the Hypermnestra ; while Lady 
 Maulevrier waited patiently in her sitting-room 
 at the Dolphin, whose three long French windows 
 commanded a full view of the High Street, with 
 all those various distractions afforded by the
 
 22 ULYSSES. 
 
 chief thoroughfare of a provincial town. Her lady- 
 ship was provided with a large box of books, 
 from Ebers' in Bond Street, a basket of fancy 
 work, and her favourite Blenheim spaniel, Lalla 
 Kookh ; but even these sources of amusement 
 did not prevent the involuntary expression of 
 weariness in occasional yawns, and frequent 
 pacings up and down the room, where the formal 
 hotel furniture had a comfortless and chilly look. 
 Fellside, her ladyship's place in Westmoreland, 
 was the pleasure house which, among all her 
 possessions, she most valued ; but it had hitherto 
 been reserved for summer occupation, or for perhaps 
 two or three weeks at Easter, when the spring 
 was exceptionally fine. The sudden determination 
 to spend the coming winter in the house near 
 Grasmere was considered a curious freak of Lady 
 Maulevrier's, and she -was constrained to explain 
 her motives to her friends. 
 
 * His lordship is out of health,' she said, * and 
 wants perfect rest and retirement. Now, Fellside 
 is the only place we have in which he is likely 
 to get perfect rest. Anywhere else we should
 
 ULYSSES. 23 
 
 have to entertain. Fellside is out of the world. 
 There is no one to be entertained.' 
 
 * Except your neighbour, Wordsworth. I suppose 
 you see him sometimes ? ' 
 
 * Dear simple-minded old soul, he gives nobody 
 any trouble,' said her ladyship. 
 
 ' But is not Westmoreland very cold in winter ? ' 
 asked her friend. 
 
 Lady Maulevrier smiled benignly, as at in- 
 offensive ignorance. 
 
 * So sheltered,' she murmured. * We are at 
 the base of the Fell. Loughrigg rises up like a 
 Cyclopean wall between us and the wind.' 
 
 * But when the wind is in the other direction ? ' 
 'We have Nabb Scar. You do not know how 
 
 we are girdled and defended by hills.' 
 
 * Very pleasant,' agreed the friend ; ' but for 
 my own part I would rather winter in the south.' 
 
 Those terrible rumours which had first come 
 upon the world of London last June, had been 
 growing darker and more defined ever since, but 
 still Lady Maulevrier made believe to ignore 
 them; and she acted her part of unconsciousness
 
 24 ULYSSES. 
 
 with such consummate skill that nobody in her 
 circle could be sure where the acting began and 
 where the ignorance left off. The astute Lord 
 Denyer declared that she was a wonderful woman, 
 and knew more about the real state of the case 
 than anybody else. 
 
 Meanwhile it was said, by those who were 
 supposed to be well-informed, that a startling 
 mass of evidence was accumulating against Lord 
 Maulevrier. The India House, it was rumoured, 
 was busy with the secret investigation of his case, 
 prior to that public inquiry which was to come 
 on during the next session. His private fortune 
 would be made answerable for his misdemeanours 
 — his life, said the alarmists, might pay the penalty 
 of his treason. On all sides it was agreed that the 
 case against Lord Maulevrier was black as Erebus ; 
 and still Lady Maulevrier looked society in the 
 face with an unshaken courage, and was ready 
 with smiles and gracious words for all comers. 
 
 And now came a harder trial, which was to 
 receive the man who had disgraced her, lowered 
 her pride to the dust, degraded the name she bore.
 
 ULYSSES. 25 
 
 She had married him, not loving him — nay, plucking 
 another love out of her heart in order that she 
 might give herself to him. She had married him 
 for position and fortune ; and now by his follie?, 
 by his extravagance, and by that greed of gold 
 which is inevitable in the spendthrift and profligate, 
 he had gone near to cheat her out of both name 
 and fortune. Yet she so commanded herself as to 
 receive him with a friendly air when he arrived 
 at the Dolphin, on a dull grey autumn afternoon, 
 after she had waited for him nearly a fortnight. 
 
 James Steadman ushered in his lordship, a frail 
 attenuated looking figure, of middle height, wrapped 
 in a furred cloak, yet shivering, a pale sickly face, 
 light auburn whiskers, light blue eyes, full and 
 large, but with no intellectual power in them. 
 Lady Maulevrier was sitting by the fire, in a melan- 
 choly attitude, with the Blenheim spaniel on her lap. 
 Her son was at Hastings with his nurses. She 
 had nothing nearer and dearer than the spaniel. 
 
 She rose and went over to her husband, and 
 let him kiss her. It would have been too much 
 to say that she kissed him ; but she submitted
 
 26 ULYSSES. 
 
 her lips unresistingly to his, and then they sat 
 down on opposite sides of the hearth. 
 
 *A wretched afternoon,' said his lordship, 
 shivering, and drawing his chair closer to the fire. 
 Steadman had taken away his fur-lined cloak. * I 
 liad really underrated the disagreeableness of the 
 English climate. It is abominable.' 
 
 ' To-day is not a fair sample/ answered her 
 ladyship, trying to be cheerful; * we have had some 
 pleasant autumn days.' 
 
 * I detest autumn ! ' exclaimed Lord Maulevrier, 
 *a season of dead leaves, damp, and dreariness. 
 I should like to get away to Montpellier or 
 Nice as soon as we can.' 
 
 Her ladyship gave him a scathing look, half 
 scornful, half incredulous. 
 
 'You surely would not dream of leaving the 
 country,' she said, 'under present circumstances. 
 So long as you are here to answer all charges 
 no one will interfere with your liberty, but if 
 you were to cross the Channel ' 
 
 ' My slanderers might insinuate that I was 
 running away,' interrupted Maulevrier, 'although
 
 ULYSSES. 27 
 
 the very fact of my return ought to prove to every- 
 one that I am able to meet and face this cabal.' 
 
 * Is it a cabal ? ' asked her ladyship, looking 
 at him with a gaze that searched his soul. ' Can 
 you meet their charges ? Can you live down this 
 hideous accusation, and hold up your head as a 
 man of honour V 
 
 The sensualist's blue eyes nervously shunned 
 that look of earnest interrogation. His lips an- 
 swered the wife's spoken question with a lie, a 
 lie made manifest by the expression of his 
 countenance. 
 
 * I am not afraid,' he said. 
 
 His wife answered not a word. She was 
 assured that the charges were true, and that the 
 battered rake who shivered over the fire had 
 neither courage nor ability to face his accusers. 
 She saw the whole fabric of her life in ruins, 
 her son the penniless successor to a tarnished 
 name. There was silence for some minutes. Lady 
 Maulevrier sat with lowered eyelids looking at 
 the fire, deep in painful thought. Two perpen- 
 dicular wrinkles upon her broad white forehead
 
 28 ULYSSES. 
 
 — SO calm, so unclouded in society — told of gnaw- 
 ing cares. Then she stole a look at her hus- 
 band, as he reclined in his arm-chair, his head 
 lying back against the cushions in listless repose, 
 his eyes looking vacantly at the window, whence 
 he could see only the rain-blurred fronts of 
 opposite houses, blank, dull windows, grey slated 
 roofs, against a leaden sky. 
 
 He had been a handsome man, and he was 
 handsome still, albeit premature decay, the result 
 of an evil life, was distinctly marked in his 
 faded face. The dull, yellow tint of the com- 
 plexion, the tarnished dimness of the large blue 
 eyes, the discontented droop of the lips, the languor 
 of the attitude, the pallid transparency of the 
 wasted hands, all told of a life worn threadbare, 
 energies exhausted, chances thrown away, a mind 
 abandoned to despair. 
 
 'You look very ill,' said his wife, after that 
 long blank interval, which marked so unnatural 
 an apathy between husband and wife meeting 
 after so long a severance. 
 
 'I am very ill. I have been worried to death
 
 ULYSSES. 29 
 
 — surrounded by rogues and liars— the victim of 
 a most infernal conspiracy.' He spoke hurriedly, 
 growing whiter and more tremulous as he went 
 on. 
 
 ' Don't talk about it. You agitate yourself to 
 no purpose/ said Lady Maulevrier, with a tran- 
 quillity which seemed to indicate supreme cold- 
 ness, yet which might be the result of suppressed 
 feeling. ' If you are to face this scandal firmly 
 and boldly next January, you must try to re- 
 cover physical strength in the meanwhile. Mental 
 energ}^ may come with better health.' 
 
 ' I shall never be any better,' said Lord 
 Maule\Tier, testily ; * that infernal climate has 
 shattered my constitution.' 
 
 ' Two or three months of perfect rest and 
 good nursing will make a new man of you. I 
 have arranged that we shall go straight from here 
 to Fellside. No one can plague you there with 
 that disguised maliciousness called sympathy. 
 You can give all your thoughts to the ordeal 
 before you, and be ready to meet your accusers. 
 Fortunately, you have no Burke against you.'
 
 30 ULYSSES. 
 
 ' Fellside ? You think of going to Fellside ? ' 
 
 'Yes. You know how fond I am of that 
 place. I little thought when you settled it upon 
 me — a cottage in Westmoreland with fifty acres of 
 garden and meadow — so utterly insignificant — that I 
 should ever like it better than any of your places.' 
 
 ' A charming retreat in summer ; but we have 
 never wintered there ? What put it into your head 
 to go there at such a season as this ? Why, I dare 
 say the snow is on the tops of the hills already.' 
 
 ' It is the only place I know where you will 
 not be watched and talked about,' replied Lady 
 Maulevrier. 'You will be out of the eye of the 
 world. I should think that consideration would 
 weigh more with you than two or three degrees 
 of the thermometer.' 
 
 ' I detest cold/ said the Earl, ' and in my 
 weak health ' 
 
 * We will take care of you,' answered her 
 ladyship ; and in the discussion which followed 
 she bore herself so firmly that her husband was 
 fain to give way. 
 
 How could a disgraced and ruined man.
 
 ULYSSES. 31 
 
 broken in health and spirits, contest the mere 
 details of life with a resolute high-spirited woman 
 ten years his junior ? 
 
 The Earl wanted to ^o to London, and remain 
 there at least a week, but this her ladyship 
 strenuously opposed. He must see his lawyer, 
 he urged ; there were steps to be taken which 
 could be taken only under legal advice — counsel 
 to be retained. If this lying invention of Satan 
 were really destined to take the form of a public 
 trial, he must be prepared to fight his foes on 
 their own ground. 
 
 'You can make all your preparations at Fell- 
 side,' answered his wife, resolutely. 'I have seen 
 Messrs. Rigby and Eyder, and your own particular 
 ally, Eigby, will go to you at Fellside whenever 
 you want him.' 
 
 'That is not like my being on the spot/ said 
 his lordship, nervously, evidently much discon- 
 certed by her ladyship's firmness, but too feeble 
 in mind and body for a prolonged contest. ' I 
 ought to be on the spot. I am not without 
 influence ; I have friends, men in power.'
 
 32 ULYSSES. 
 
 ' Surely you are not going to appeal to friend- 
 ship in order to vindicate your honour. These 
 charges are true or false. If they are false your 
 own manhood, your own rectitude, can face them 
 and trample upon them, unaided by back-stairs 
 influence. If they are true, no one can help you.' 
 
 ' I think you, at least, ought to know that 
 they are as false as hell,' retorted the Earl, with 
 an attempt to maintain his dignity. 
 
 * I have acted as if I so believed,' replied his 
 wife, gravely. 'I have lived as if there were no 
 such slanders in the air. I have steadily ignored 
 every report, every insinuation — have held my 
 head as high as if I knew you were immaculate.' 
 
 * I expected as much from you,' answered the 
 Earl, coolly. * If I had not known you were a 
 woman of sense I should not have married you.' 
 
 This was his utmost expression of gratitude. 
 His next remarks had reference solely to his 
 own comfort. Where were his rooms ? at what 
 hour were they to dine? And hereupon he rang 
 for his valet, a German Swiss, and a servant out 
 of a thousand.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 ox THE WRONG ROAD. 
 
 Lord and Lady Maulevrier left Southampton next 
 morning, posting. -They took two servants in the 
 rumble, Steadman and the footman. Steadman was 
 to valet his lordship, the footman to be useful in all 
 emergencies of the journey. The maid and the 
 valet were to travel by heavy coach, with the luggage 
 — her ladyship dispensing with all personal attend- 
 ance during the journey. 
 
 The first day took them to Eugby, whither they 
 travelled across country by WaHingford and Oxford. 
 The second day took them to Lichfield. Lord 
 Maulevrier was out of health and feeble, and 
 grumbled a good deal about the fatigue of the 
 journey, the badness of the weather, which was dull 
 and cold, east winds all day, and a light frost morning 
 and night. As they progressed northward the sky 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 o4 ON THE WEONG ROAD. 
 
 looked frayer, the air became more biting. His 
 lordship insisted upon the stages being shortened. 
 He lay in bed at his hotel till noon, and was seldom 
 ready to start till two o'clock. He could see no 
 reason for haste ; the winter would be long enough 
 in all conscience at Fellside. He complained of 
 mysterious aches and pains, described himself in 
 the presence of hotel-keepers and headwaiters as a 
 mass of maladies. He was nervous, irritable, 
 intensely disagreeable. Lady Maulevrier bore his 
 humours with unwavering patience, and won golden 
 opinions from all sorts of people by her devotion to a 
 husband whose blighted name was the common talk 
 of England. Everybody, even in distant provincial 
 towns, had heard of the scandal against the Governor 
 of Madras ; and everybody looked at the sallow, 
 faded Anglo-Indian with morbid curiosity. His 
 lordship, sensitive on all points touching his own 
 ease and comfort, was keenly conscious of this 
 unpleasant inquisitiveness. 
 
 The journey, protracted by Lord Maulevrier 's 
 languor and ill-health, dragged its slow length along 
 for nearly a fortnight; until it seemed to Lady
 
 ON THE WRONG EOAD. 35 
 
 Maulevrier as if they had been travelling upon those 
 dismal, flat, "unpictiiresque roads k>v months. Each 
 day was so horribly like yesterday. The same 
 hedgerows and flat fields, and passing glimpse of 
 river or canal. The same absence of all beauty in 
 the landscape-^the same formal hotel rooms, and 
 smirking landladies — and so on till they came to 
 Lancaster, after which the country became more 
 interesting — hills arose in the background. Even 
 the smoky manufacturing towns through which they 
 passed without stopping, were less abominable than 
 the level respectability of the Midland counties. 
 
 But now as they drew nearer the hills the 
 weather grew colder. Snow was spoken of, and 
 when they got into Westmoreland the mountain- 
 peaks gleamed whitely against a lead-coloured sky. 
 
 * You ought not to have brought me here in 
 such weather,' complained the Earl, shivering in his 
 sables, as he sat in his corner of the travelling 
 chariot, looking discontentedly at the gloomy 
 landscape. ' What is to become of us if we are 
 caught in a snowstorm ? ' 
 
 * We shall have no snow worth talking about
 
 36 ON THE WRONG ROAD. 
 
 before we are safely housed at Fellside, and then 
 we can defj^ the elements,' said Lady Maulevrier, 
 coolly. 
 
 They slept that night at Oxenholme, and started 
 next morning, under a clear, bright sky, intending 
 to take luncheon at Windermere, and to be at home 
 by nightfall. 
 
 But by the time they got to Windermere the 
 sky had changed to a dark grey, and the people 
 at the hotel prophesied a heavy fall before night, 
 and urged the Earl and Countess to go no further 
 that day. The latter part of the road to Fellside 
 was rough and hilly. If there should be a snow- 
 storm the horses would never be able to drag the 
 carriage up the steepest bit of the way. Here, 
 however. Lord Maulevrier' s obstinacy came into 
 play. He would not drag out another night at an 
 hotel so near his own house. He was sick to 
 death of travelling, and wanted to be at rest 
 among comfortable surroundings. 
 
 ' It was murder to bring me here,' he said 
 to his wife. * If I had gone to Hastings I 
 should have been a new man by this time.
 
 ox THE WEONG EOAD. 37 
 
 As it is I am a great deal worse than when 
 I landed/ 
 
 Everyone at the hotel noticed his lordship's 
 white and haggard looks. He had been known 
 there as a young man in the bloom of health 
 and strength, and his decay was particularly 
 obvious to these people. 
 
 'I saw death in his face,' the landlord said, 
 afterwards. 
 
 Everything, even her ladyship's firmness and 
 good sense, gave way before the invalid's im- 
 patience. At three in the afternoon they left 
 the hotel, with four horses, to make the remain- 
 ing nineteen miles of the way in one stage. 
 They had not been on the road half an hour 
 before the snow began to fall thickly, whitening 
 everything around them, except the lake, which 
 showed a dark leaden surface at the bottom of 
 the slope alung the edge of which they were 
 travelling. Too sullen for speech, Lord Maulevrier 
 sat back in his corner, with his sable cloak 
 drawn up to his chin, his travelling cap cover- 
 ing head and ears, his eyes contemplating the
 
 38 ON THE WKONG ROAD. 
 
 whitening world with a weary anger. His wife 
 watched the landscape as long as she could, 
 but the snow soon began to darken all the air, 
 and she could see nothing save that blank blind- 
 ing fall. 
 
 Half-way to Fellside there was a point where 
 two roads met, one leading towards Grasmere, 
 the other towards the village of Great Lang- 
 dale, a cluster of humble habitations in the heart 
 of the hills. When the horses had struggled as 
 far as this point, the snow was six inches deep 
 on the road, and made a thick curtain around 
 them as it fell. By this time the Earl had 
 dozed off to sleep. 
 
 He woke an hour after, let down the window, 
 which let in a snow-laden gust, and tried to 
 pierce the gloom without. 
 
 * As black as Erebus ! * he exclaimed, * but 
 we ought to be close at home by this time. 
 Yes, thank God, there are the lights/ 
 
 The carriage drew up a minute afterwards, 
 and Steadman came to the door. 
 
 'Very sorry, my lord. The horses must have
 
 ox THE WROXG ROAD. 39 
 
 taken a wrong turn after we crossed the bridge. 
 And now the men say they can't go back to 
 Fellside unless we can get fresh horses ; and I'm 
 afraid there's no chance of that here.' 
 
 ' Here ! ' exclaimed the Earl, ' what do you 
 mean by here ? Where the devil are we ? ' 
 
 ' Great Langdale, my lord/ 
 
 A door opened and let out a flood of light 
 — the red light of a wood fire, the pale flame 
 of a candle — upon the snowy darkness, reveal- 
 ing the panelled hall of a neat little rustic inn : 
 an eight-day clock ticking in the corner, a 
 black and white sheep-dog coming out at hi 
 master's heels to investigate the travellers. To 
 the right of the door showed the light of a 
 window, sheltered by a red curtain, behind which 
 the chiefs of the village were enjoying their 
 evening. 
 
 ' Have you any post-horses ? ' asked the Earl, 
 discontentedly, as the landlord stood on the 
 threshold, shading the candle with his hand. 
 
 'No, sir. We don't keep post-horses.' 
 
 ' Of course not. I knew as much before I
 
 40 ON THE WEONG ROAD. 
 
 asked/ said the Earl. ' We are fixed in this 
 dismal hole for the night, I suppose. How far 
 are we from Fellside ? ' 
 
 * Seven miles/ ansv/ered the landlord. * I beg 
 your pardon, my lord ; I didn't know it was 
 your lordship/ he added, hurriedly. 'We're in 
 sore trouble, and it makes a man daft-like ; 
 but if there's anything we can do ' 
 
 * Is there no hope of getting on, Steadman ? ' 
 asked the Earl, cutting short these civilities. 
 
 * Not with these horses, my lord.' 
 
 ' And you hear we can't get any others. Is 
 there any farmer about here who could lend us 
 a pair of carriage horses ? ' 
 
 The landlord knew of no such person. 
 
 *Then we must stop here till to-morrow 
 morning. What infernal fools those post-boys 
 must be,' protested Lord Maulevrier. 
 
 James Steadman apologised for the postilions, 
 explaining that when they came to the critical point 
 of their journey, where the road branched off to the 
 Langdales, the snow was falling so thickly, the 
 whole country was so hidden in all-pervading white-
 
 ON THE WRONG EOAD. 41 
 
 ness, that even he, who knew the way so well, could 
 give no help to the drivers. He could only trust 
 to the instinct of local postilions and local horses ; 
 and instinct had proved wrong. 
 
 The travellers alighted, and were ushered into 
 a not uncomfortable-looking parlour ; very low as to 
 the ceiling, very old-fashioned as to the furniture, 
 but spotlessly clean, and enlivened by a good fire, 
 to which his lordship drew near, shivering and 
 muttering discontentedly to himself. 
 
 ' We might be worse off/ said her ladyship, look- 
 ing round the bright little room, which pleased her 
 better than many a state apartment in the large 
 hotels at which they had stopped. 
 
 * Hardly, unless we were out on the moor,' 
 grumbled her husband. ' I am sick to death of this 
 ill-advised, unreasonable journey. I am at a loss 
 to imagine your motive in bringing me here. You 
 must have had a motive.' 
 
 * I had,' answered Lady Maulevrier, with a 
 freezing look. ' I wanted to get you out of the way. 
 I told you that plainly enough at Southampton.* 
 
 ' I don't see why I should be hurried away and
 
 42 ON THE WRONG ROAD. 
 
 hidden,' said Lord Maulevrier. ' I must face my 
 accusers, sooner or later.' 
 
 *0f course. The day of reckoning must come. 
 Bub in the meantime have you no delicacy ? Do 
 you want to be pointed at everywhere ? ' 
 
 ' All I know is that I am very ill,' answered her 
 husband, 'and that this wretched journey has made 
 me twenty years older.' 
 
 ' We shall be safe at home before noon to- 
 morrow, and you can have Horton to set you right 
 again. You know you always believed in his skill.' 
 
 * Ilorton is a clever fellow enough, as country 
 doctors go ; but at Hastings I could have had the 
 best physicians in London to see me,' grumbled his 
 lordship. 
 
 The rustic maid-servant came in to lay the table, 
 assisted by her ladyship's footman, who looked a 
 good deal too tall for the room. 
 
 'I shan't dine,' said the Earl. *I am a great 
 deal too ill and cold. Light a fire in my room, girl, 
 and send Steadman to me ' — this to the footman, 
 who hastened to obey. * You can send me up a 
 basin of soup presently. I shall go to bed at once.'
 
 ON THE WRONG ROAD. 43 
 
 He left the room without another word to his 
 wife, who sat by the hearth staring thoughtfully at 
 the cheery wood fire. Presently she looked np, and 
 saw that the man and maid were goinc; on with 
 their preparations for dinner. 
 
 * I do not care about dining alone,' said her 
 ladyship. * We lunched at Windermere, and I have 
 no appetite. You can clear away those things, and 
 bring me some tea.' 
 
 When the table furniture had been cleared, 
 and a neat little tea-tray set upon the white cloth. 
 Lady Maulevrier drew her chair to the table, and 
 took out her pocket-book, from which she produced 
 a letter. This she read more than once, meditating 
 profoundly upon its contents. 
 
 * I am very sorry he has come home.' wrote her 
 correspondent, ' and yet if he had stayed in India 
 there must have been an investigation on the spot. 
 A public inquiry is inevitable, and the knowledge 
 of his arrival in the country will precipitate matters. 
 From all I hear I much fear that there is no chance 
 of the result being favourable to him. You have 
 asked me to write the unvarnished truth, to be
 
 44 ON THE WRONG ROAD. 
 
 brutal even, remember. His delinquencies are pain- 
 fully notorious, and I apprehend that the last six- 
 pence he owns will be answerable. His landed 
 estate I am told can also be confiscated, in the 
 event of an impeachment at the bar of the House 
 of Lords, as in the Warren Hastings case. But as 
 yet nobody seems clear as to the form which the 
 investigation will take. In reply to your inquiry 
 as to what would have happened if his lordship 
 had died on the passage home, I believe I am justi- 
 fied in saying the scandal would have been allowed 
 to die with him. He has contrived to provoke 
 powerful animosities both in the Cabinet and at the 
 India House, and there is, I fear, an intention to 
 pursue the inquiry to the bitter end.' 
 
 Assurances of the writer's sympathy followed 
 these harsh truths. But to this polite common- 
 place her ladyship paid no attention. Her mind 
 was intent on hard facts, the dismal probabilities 
 of the near future. 
 
 ' If he had died upon the passage home ! ' she 
 repeated. ' Would to God that he had so died, and 
 that my son's name and fortune could be saved.'
 
 ox THE ^YRO^'G ROAD. 45 
 
 The innocent child who had never given her 
 an hour's care ; the one creature she loved ^Yith 
 all the strength of her proud nature — his future 
 was to be blighted by his father's misdoings — 
 overshadowed by shame and dishonour in the 
 very dawn of life. It was a wicked wish — an 
 unnatural wish to find room in a woman's breast; 
 but the wish was there. ^Yould to God he had 
 died before the ship touched an English port. 
 
 But he was living, and would have to face his 
 accusers — and she, his wife, must give him all the 
 help she could 
 
 She sat long by the waning fire. She took 
 nothing but a cup of tea, although the landlady 
 had sent in substantial accompaniments to the 
 tea-tray in the shape of broiled ham, new-laid eggs, 
 and hot cakes, arguing that a traveller on such a 
 night must be hungry, albeit disinclined for a 
 ceremonious dinner. She had been sitting for nearly 
 an hour in almost the same attitude, when there 
 came a knock at the door, and, on being bidden 
 to enter, the landlady came in, with some" logs in 
 her apron, under pretence of replenishing the fire.
 
 46 ON THE WRONG ROAD. 
 
 *I was afraid your fire must be getting low, 
 my lady,' she said, as she put on the logs, and 
 swept up the ashes on the hearth. ' Such a 
 dreadful night. So early in the year, too. I'm 
 afraid we shall have a hard winter.' 
 
 ' That does not always follow,' said Lady 
 Maulevrier. ' Has Steadman come downstairs ? 
 
 ' Yes, my lady. He told me to tell your lady- 
 ship that his lordship is pretty comfortable, and 
 hopes to pass a good night.' 
 
 ' I am glad to hear it. You can give me another 
 room, I suppose. It would be better for his lordship 
 not to be disturbed, as he is very much out of 
 health.' 
 
 * There is another room, my lady, but it's very 
 small.' 
 
 * I don't mind how small, if it is clean and 
 airy.' 
 
 * Yes, my lady. I am thankful to say you 
 won't find dirt or stuffiness anywhere in this 
 house. His lordship do look mortal bad,' added 
 the landlady, shaking her head dolefully ; * and 
 I remember him such a fine young gentleman,
 
 ox THE WEOXG ROAD. 47 
 
 when he used to come down the Eothay with 
 the otter hounds, running along the bank — dashing 
 in and out of the beck — up to his knees in the 
 water — and now to see him, so white and mashiated, 
 and broken-down like, in the very prime of life, 
 all along of living out in a hot country, among 
 blackamoors, which is used to it — poor, ignorant 
 creatures — and never knew no better. It must 
 be a hard trial for you, my lady.' 
 
 * It is a hard trial.' 
 
 * Ah ! we all have our trials, rich and poor,' 
 sighed the woman, who desired nothing better 
 than to be allowed to unbosom her woes to the 
 grand-looking lady in the fur-bordered cloth pelisse, 
 with beautiful dark hair piled up in clustering 
 masses above a broad white forehead, with slender 
 white hands on which diamonds flashed and glittered 
 in the firelight, an unaccustomed figure by that 
 rustic hearth. 
 
 ' We all have our trials — high and low.' 
 'That reminds me,' said Lady Maulevrier, look- 
 ing up at her, ^ your husband said you were in 
 trouble. What did that mean?'
 
 48 ON THE WRONG KOAD. 
 
 'Sickness in the house, my lady. A brother of 
 mine that went to America to make his fortune, 
 and seemed to be doing so well for the first five 
 or six years, and wrote home such beautiful 
 letters, and then left off writing all at once, and 
 we made sure as he was dead, and never got a 
 word from him for ten years, and just three 
 weeks ago he drops in upon us as we was sitting 
 over our tea between the lights, looking as white 
 as a ghost. I gave a shriek when I saw him, for 
 I was regular scared out of my senses. "Eobert's 
 ^host ! " I cried ; but it was Eobert himself, come 
 home to us to die. And he's lying upstairs 
 now, with so little life in him that I expect 
 every breath to be his last.' 
 
 ' What is his complaint ? ' 
 
 * Apathy, my lady. Dear, dear, that's not it. 
 I never do remember the doctor's foreign names.' 
 
 'Atrophy, perhaps/ 
 
 ' Yes, my lady, that was it. ISTo doubt such 
 words come easy to a scholar like your ladyship.' 
 
 ' Does the doctor give no hope ? ' 
 
 ' Well, no, my lady. He don't go so far as to
 
 ON THE WRONG ROAD. 49 
 
 say that the case is hopeless. It all depends, 
 he says, upon the rallying power of the consti- 
 tution. The lungs are not gone, and the heart 
 is not diseased. If there's rallying power, Eobert 
 will come round, and if there isn't he'll sink. 
 But the doctor says nature will have to make 
 an effort. But I have my own idea about the 
 case,' added the landlady, with a sigh. 
 
 ' What is your idea ? ' 
 
 *That the stamp of death was on our Eobert 
 when he came into this house, and that he 
 meant what he said when he spoke of coming 
 home to die. Things had gone against him for 
 the last ten years in America. He married and 
 took his wife out to a farm in the Bush, and 
 thought to make a good thing out of farming 
 with the money he'd accumulated up to then. 
 But America isn't Westmoreland, you see, my 
 lady, and his knowledge stood him in no stead 
 in the Bush ; and first he lost his money, and 
 then he lost a child or two, and then he lost 
 his wife, and he came back to us a broken- 
 hearted man, with no wish to live. The doctor 
 
 YOL. I. E
 
 50 ON THE WRONG ROAD. 
 
 may call it atrophy, but I call it wliat the 
 Scripture calls it, a broken and a wounded 
 spirit.' 
 
 'Who is 3^our doctor?' 
 
 *Mr. Evans, of Ambleside.' 
 
 * That little half-blind old man ! ' exclaimed her 
 ladyship. * Surely you have no confidence in 
 him ? ' 
 
 * Not much, my lady. But I don't believe 
 all the doctors in London could do anything for 
 Eobert. Good nursing will bring him round if 
 anything can; and he gets that, I can assure 
 your ladyship. He's my only brother, the only 
 kith and kin that's left to me, and he and I were 
 very fond of each other when we was young. 
 You may be sure I don't spare any trouble, and 
 my good man thinks the best of his larder or 
 his cellar hardly good enough for Eobert.' 
 
 *I am sure you are kind good people,' replied 
 her ladyship, gently ; ' but I should have thought 
 Mr. Horton, of Grasmere, could have done more 
 than old Evans. However, you know best. 1 
 hope his lordship is not going to add to your
 
 ON THE WRONG ROAD. 51 
 
 cares by being laid up here, but be looked very- 
 ill this evening.' 
 
 ' He did, my lady, mortal bad/ 
 
 ' However, we must hope for the best. Stead- 
 man is a splendid servant in illness. He nursed 
 my father for years. Will you tell him to come 
 to me, if you please. I want to hear what he 
 thinks of his lordship, and to discuss the chances 
 of our getting home early to-morrow.' 
 
 The landlady retired, and summoned Mr. Stead- 
 man, who was enjoying his modest glass of grog 
 in front of the kitchen fire. He had taught 
 himself to dispense with the consolations of 
 tobacco, lest he should at any time make 
 himself obnoxious to her ladyship. 
 
 Steadman was closeted with Lady Maulevrier 
 for the next half-hour, during which his lord- 
 ship's condition was gravely discussed. When 
 he left the sitting-room he told the landlord to 
 be sure and feed the post-horses well, and make 
 them comfortable for the night, so that they 
 might be ready for the drive to Fellside early 
 next morning. 
 
 LIBRARY
 
 52 ON THE WRONG ROAD. 
 
 *Do you think his lordship will be well 
 enough to travel?' asked the landlord. 
 
 'He has made up his mind to get home — 
 ill or well/ answered Steadman. * He has wasted 
 about a week by his dawdling ways on the 
 road ; and now he's in a fever to get to Fellside.'
 
 CHAPTER lY. 
 
 THE LAST STAGE. 
 
 The post-horses — which had been well fed, but 
 accommodated somewhat poorly in stable and 
 l)arn — were quite ready to go on next morning; 
 but Lord Maulevrier was not able to leave his 
 room, where her ladyship remained in close 
 attendance upon him. The hills and valleys 
 were white with snow, but there was none 
 falling, and Mr. Evans, the elderly surgeon from 
 Ambleside, rode over to Great Langdale on his 
 elderly cob to look at Eobert Haswell, and was 
 called in to see Lord Maulevrier. Her ladyship 
 liad spoken lightly of his skill on the previous 
 evening, but any doctor is better than none, so 
 this feeble little personage was allowed to feel 
 his lordship's pulse, and look at his lordship's
 
 54: THE LAST STAGE. 
 
 His opinion, never too decidedly given, was 
 a little more hazy than usual on this occasion, 
 perhaps because of a certain awfulness, to "un- 
 accustomed eyes, in Lady Maulevrier's proud 
 bearing. He said that his lordship was low, very 
 low, and that the pulse was more irregular than 
 he liked, but he committed himself no further 
 than this, and went away, promising to send 
 such pills and potions as were appropriate to 
 the patient's condition. 
 
 A boy rode the same pony over to Langdale 
 later in the afternoon with the promised medicines. 
 
 Throughout the short winter day, which 
 seemed terribly long in the stillness and solitude 
 of Great Langdale, Lady Maulevrier kept watch 
 in the sick-room, Steadman comiug in and out in 
 constant attendance upon his master— save for 
 one half-hour only, which her ladyship passed 
 in the parlour below, in conversation with the 
 landlady, a very serious conversation, as indicated 
 by Mrs. Smithson*s grave and somewhat troubled 
 looks when she left her ladyship ; but a good 
 deal of her trouble may have been caused by
 
 THE LAST STAGE. 55 
 
 her brother, who was pronounced by the doctor 
 to be 'much the same.' 
 
 At eleven o'clock that night a mounted 
 messenger was sent off to Ambleside in hot 
 haste to fetch Mr. Evans, who came to the inn 
 to find Lady Maulevrier kneeling beside her 
 husband's bed, while Stead man stood with a 
 troubled countenance at a respectful distance. 
 
 The room was dimly lighted by a pair of 
 candles burning on a table near the window, 
 and at some distance from the old four-post 
 bedstead, shaded by dark moreen curtains. The 
 surgeon looked round the room, and then fum- 
 bled in his pockets for his spectacles, without 
 the aid of which the outside world presented 
 itself to him under a blurred and uncertain 
 aspect. 
 
 He put on his spectacles, and moved towards 
 the bed ; but the first glance in that direction 
 showed him what had happened. The outline 
 of the rigid figure under the coverlet looked 
 like a sculptured effigy upon a tomb. A sheet 
 was drawn over the face of daath.
 
 56 THE LAST STAGE. 
 
 'You are too late to be of any use, Mr. 
 Evans,* murmured Steadman, laying his hand 
 upon the doctor's sleeve, and drawing him away 
 towards the door. 
 
 They went softly on to the landing, off 
 which opened the door of that other sick-room 
 where the landlady's brother was lying. 
 
 'When did this happen?' 
 
 * A quarter of an hour after the messenger rode 
 off to fetch you,' answered Steadman. ' His 
 lordship lay all the afternoon in a heavy sleep, 
 and we thought he was going on well ; but 
 after dark there was a difficulty in his breath- 
 ing which alarmed her ladyship, and she insisted 
 upon your being sent for. The messenger had 
 hardly been gone a quarter of an hour when 
 his lordship woke suddenly, muttered to himself 
 in a curious way, gave just one long-drawn 
 shuddering sigh, and — and all was over. It was 
 a terrible shock for her ladyship.' 
 
 * Indeed it must have been,' murmured the 
 village doctor. ' It is a great surprise to me. I 
 knew Lord Maulevrier was low, very low, the
 
 THE LAST STAGE. 67 
 
 pulse feeble and intermittent; but I had no fear 
 of anything of this kind. It is very sudden.' 
 
 * Yes, it is awfully sudden/ said Steadman, and 
 then he murmured in the doctor's ear, * You will 
 give the necessary certificate, I hope, with as little 
 trouble to her ladyship as possible. This is a 
 dreadful blow, and she ' 
 
 * She shall not be troubled. The body will be 
 removed to-morrow, I suppose.' 
 
 * Yes. He must be buried from his own house. 
 I sent a second messenger to Ambleside for the 
 undertaker. He will be here very soon, no doubt, 
 and if the shell is ready by noon to-morrow, the 
 body can be removed then. I have arranged to get 
 her ladyship away to-night.' 
 
 * So late ? After midnight ? ' 
 
 ' Why not ? She cannot stay in this small 
 house — so near the dead. There is a moon, and 
 there is no snow falling, and we are within seven 
 miles of Fellside.' 
 
 The doctor had nothing further to say against 
 the arrangement, although such a drive seemed 
 to him a somewhat wild and reckless proceed-
 
 58 THE LAST STAGE. 
 
 ing. Mr. Steadman's grave, self-possessed manner 
 answered all doubts. Mr. Evans filled in the cer- 
 tificate for the undertaker, drank a glass of hot 
 brandy and water, and remounted his nag, in nowise 
 relishing his midnight ride, but consoling himself 
 with the reflection that he would be handsomely 
 paid for his trouble. 
 
 An hour later Lady Maulevrier's travelling 
 carriage stood ready in the stable yard, in the deep 
 shadow of wall and gables. It was at Steadman's 
 order that the carriage waited for her ladyship at 
 an obscure side door, rather than in front of the inn. 
 An east wind was blowing keenly along the mountain 
 road, and the careful Steadman was anxious his 
 mistress should not be exposed to that chilly blast. 
 
 There was some delay, and the four horses 
 jingled their bits impatiently, and then the door 
 of the inn opened, a feeble light gleamed in the 
 narrow passage within, Steadman stood ready to 
 assist her ladyship into the carriage, there was a 
 bustle, a confusion of dark figures on the thres- 
 hold, the carriage door was clapped to, the horses 
 went clattering out of the yard, turned sharnlv into
 
 THE LAST STAGE. 59 
 
 the snowy road, and started at a s^viDging pace 
 towards the dark sullen bulk of Loughrigg Fell. 
 
 The moon was shining upon Elterwater in the 
 valley yonder — the mountain ridges, the deep gorges 
 below those sullen heights, looked black where the 
 shadow of night enfolded them; but all along the 
 snow-white road the silver light shone fall and clear, 
 until the mountain way looked like a path through 
 fairyland.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 FORTY YEARS AFTER. 
 
 * What a horrid day ! ' said Lady Mary, 
 throwing down her book with a yawn, and 
 looking out of the deep bay window into a 
 world of mountain and lake which was clouded 
 over by a dense veil of rain and dull grey 
 mist ; such rain as one sees only in a lake 
 district, a curtain of gloom which shuts off sky 
 and distance, and narrows the world to one 
 solitary dwelling, suspended amidst cloud and 
 water, like another ark in a new deluge. 
 
 Eain — such rain as makes out-of-door 
 exercise impossible — was always an affliction to 
 Lady Mary Haselden. Her delight was in open 
 air and sunshine — fishing in the lake and rivers 
 — sitting in some sheltered hollow of the hills 
 more fitting for an eagle's nest than for the
 
 FORTY YEARS AFTER. 61 
 
 occupation of a yoimg lady, trying to paint 
 those ever-varying, unpaintable mountain peaks, 
 which change their hues with every change of 
 the sky — swimming, riding, roving far and wide 
 over hill and heather — pleasures all more or less 
 masculine in their nature, and which were a 
 subject of regret with Lady Maulevrier. 
 
 Lady Lesbia was of a different temper. She 
 loved ease and elegance, the gracious luxuries 
 of life. She loved art and music, but not to 
 labour hard at either. She played and saDg a 
 little — excellently within that narrow compass 
 which she had allotted to herself — played 
 Mendelssohn's ' Lieder ' with finished touch and 
 faultless accent, sang Heine's ballads with 
 consummate expression. She painted not at all. 
 Why should anyone draw or paint indifferently, 
 she asked, when Providence has furnished the 
 world with so many great painters in the past 
 and present. She could not understand Mary's 
 atdent desire to do the thing herself, — to be 
 able with her own pencil and her own brush 
 to reproduce the lakes and valleys, the wild
 
 62 FORTY YEARS AFTER. 
 
 brown hills slie loved so passionately. Lesbia 
 did not care two straws for the lovely lake 
 district amidst which she had been reared, — 
 every pike and force, every beck and gill 
 whereof was distinctly dear to her younger 
 sister. She thought it a very hard thing to 
 have spent so much of her life at Fellside, a 
 trial that would have hardly been endurable 
 if it were not for grandmother. Grandmother 
 and Lesbia adored each other. Lesbia was the 
 one person for whom Lady Maulevrier's state- 
 liness was subjugated by perfect love. To all 
 the rest of the world the Countess was marble, 
 but to Lesbia she was wax. Lesbia could 
 mould her as she pleased; but happily Lesbia 
 was not the kind of young person to take 
 advantage of this privilege ; she was thoroughly 
 ductile or docile, and had no desire, at present, 
 which ran counter to her grandmother. 
 
 Lesbia was a beauty. In her nineteenth year 
 she was a curious reproduction in face and figure, 
 expression and carriage, of that Lady Diana 
 Angersthorpe who five and forty years ago flut-
 
 FORTY YEAES AFTEE. 63 
 
 tered the dove-cots of St. James's and May- 
 fair by her brilliant beauty and her keen intelli- 
 gence. There in the panelled drawing-room at 
 Fellside hung Harlow's portrait of Lady Diana 
 in her zenith, in a short-waisted, white satin 
 frock, with large puffed gauze sleeves, through 
 which the perfect arm showed diml}^ Standing 
 under that picture Lady Lesbia looked as if she 
 had stepped out of the canvas. She was to be 
 painted by Millais next year, Lady Maule^Tier 
 said, when she had been introduced, and society 
 was beginning to talk about her : for Lady 
 Maulevrier made up her mind five or six years 
 ago that Lesbia should be the reigning beauty of 
 her season. To this end she had educated and 
 trained her, furnishing her with all those graces 
 best calculated to please and astonish society. 
 She was too clever a woman not to discover 
 Lesbia's shallowness and lack of all great gifts, 
 save that one peerless dower of perfect beauty. 
 She knew exactly what Lesbia could be trained 
 to do ; and to this end Lesbia had been educated ; 
 and to this end Lady Maulevrier brought down to
 
 64 FORTY YEARS AFTER. 
 
 Fellside the most accomplislied of Hanoverian 
 governesses, who had learned French in Paris, and 
 had toiled in the educational mill with profit to 
 herself and her pupils for a quarter of a century. 
 To this lady the Countess entrusted the education 
 of her granddaughters' minds, while for their 
 physical training she provided another teacher in 
 the person of a clever little Parisian dancing 
 mistress, who had set up at the West-End of 
 London as a teacher of dancing and calisthenics, 
 and had utterly failed to find pupils enough to 
 pay her rent and keep her modest pot-au- 
 feu going. Mademoiselle Thiebart was very glad 
 to exchange the uncertainties of a first floor in 
 North Audley Street for the comfort and security 
 of Fellside Manor, with a salary of a hundred 
 and fifty pounds a year. 
 
 Both Fraulein and Mademoiselle had been quick 
 to discover that Lady Lesbia was the apple of 
 her grandmother's eye, while Lady Mary was com- 
 paratively an outsider. 
 
 So it came about that Mary's education was 
 in somewise a mere picking-up of the crumbs which
 
 FORTY YEAES AFTER. 6 5 
 
 fell from Lesbia's table, and that she was allowed 
 
 in a general way to run wild. She was much 
 
 quicker at any intellectual exercise than Lesbia. 
 
 She learned the lessons that were given her at 
 
 railroad speed, and rattled off her exercises with 
 
 a slap-dash penmanship which horrified the neat 
 
 and niggling Fraulein, and then rushed off to the 
 
 lake or mountain, and by this means grew 
 
 browner and browner, and more indelibly freckled 
 
 day by day, thus widening the gulf between 
 
 herself and her beauty sister. 
 
 But it is not to be supposed that because 
 
 Lesbia was beautiful, Mary was plain. This is 
 
 very far from the truth. Mary had splendid 
 
 hazel eyes, with a dancing light in them when 
 
 she smiled, ruddy auburn hair, white* teeth, a 
 
 deeply-dimpled chin, and a vivacity and archness 
 
 of expression, which served only in her present 
 
 state of tutelage for the subjugation of old women 
 
 and shepherd boys. Mary had been taught to 
 
 believe that her chances of future promotion 
 
 were of the smallest ; that nobody would ever 
 
 talk of her, or think of her by-and-by when 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 FORTY YEARS AFTER. 
 
 she in her turn would make her appearance in 
 London society, and that it would be a very 
 happy thing for her if she were so fortunate 
 as to attract the attention of a fashionable 
 physician, a Canon of Westminster or St. Paul's, 
 or a barrister in good practice. 
 
 Mary turned up her pert little nose at this 
 humdrum lot. 
 
 * 1 would much rather spend all my life 
 among these dear hills than marry a nobody in 
 London,' she said, fearless of that grand old lady 
 at whose frown so many people shivered. ' If 
 you don't think people will like me and admire 
 me — a little — you had better save yourself the 
 trouble of taking me to London. I don't want 
 to play second fiddle to my sister?' 
 
 *You are a very impertinent person, and 
 deserve to be taken at your word,' replied my 
 lady, scowling at her ; ' but I have no doubt 
 before you are twenty you will tell another story.' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' said Mary, now just turned seventeen, 
 ' then I am not to come out till I am twenty.' 
 
 'That will be soon enough,' answered the
 
 FORTY YEARS AFTER. 67 
 
 Countess. ' It will take you as long to get rid of 
 those odious freckles. And no doubt by that 
 time Lesbia will have made a brilliant marriage.' 
 And now on this rainy July morning these 
 two girls, neither of whom had any serious em- 
 ployment for her life, or any serious purpose in 
 living, wasted the hours, each in her own fashion. 
 Lesbia reclined upon a cushioned seat in the 
 deep embrasure of a Tudor window, her pose per- 
 fection — it was one of many such attitudes which 
 Mademoiselle had taught her, and which by 
 assiduous training had become a second nature. 
 Poor Mademoiselle, having finished her mission 
 and taught Lesbia all she could teach, had now 
 departed to a new and far less luxurious situation 
 in a finishing school at Passy; but Fraulein 
 Mtiller was still retained, as watch-dog and 
 duenna. 
 
 Lesbia's pale blue morning gown harmonised 
 exquisitely ■ with a complexion of lilies and roses, 
 violet eyes, and golden-brown hair. Her features 
 were distinguished by that perfect chiselling which 
 gave such a haughty grace to her grandmother's
 
 68 FORTY YEARS AFTER. 
 
 countenance, even at sixty-seven years of age — a 
 loveliness which, like the sculptured marble it 
 resembles, is unalterable by time. Lesbia was 
 reading Keats. It was her habit to read the 
 poets, carefully and deliberately, taking up one at 
 a time, and duly laying a volume aside when 
 she found herself mistress of its contents. She 
 had no passion for poetry, but it was an elegant 
 leisurely kind of reading which suited her languid 
 temperament. Moreover, her grandmother had told 
 her that an easy familiarity with the great poets 
 is of all knowledge that which best qualifies 
 a woman to shine in conversation, without 
 offending the superior sex by any assumption of 
 scholarship. 
 
 Mary was a very different class of reader ; 
 capricious, omniverous, tearing out the hearts of 
 books, roaming from flower to flower in the fields 
 of literature, loving old and new, romance and 
 reality, novels, travels, plays, poetry, and never 
 dwelling long on any one theme. Perhaps if 
 Mary had lived in the bosom of a particularly 
 sympathetic family she might have been reckoned
 
 FORTY YEARS AFTER. 69 
 
 almost a genius, so much of poetry and originality 
 was there in her free unconventional character; 
 but hitherto it had been Mary's mission in life 
 to be snubbed, whereby she had acquired a very 
 poor opinion of her own talents. 
 
 'Oh/ she cried with a desperate yawn, while 
 Lesbia smiled her languid smile over Endymion, 
 ' how I wish something would happen — anything 
 to stir us out of this statuesque, sleeping-beauty 
 state of being. I verily believe the spiders are 
 aU asleep in the ivy, and the mice behind the 
 wainscot, and the horses in the stable.' 
 
 'What could happen?' asked Lesbia, with a 
 gentle elevation of pencilled brows. 'Are not these 
 lovely lines — 
 
 *' And coverUds gold-tinted Hke the peach. 
 Or ripe October's faded marigolds. 
 Fell sleek about him in a thousand folds.' 
 
 Faded marigolds! Is not that intensely sweet?' 
 
 'Very well for your sleepy Keats, but I 
 don't suppose you would have noticed the 
 passage if marigolds were not in fashion,' said 
 Mary, with a touch of scorn. * What could
 
 70 FORTY YEAES AFTER. 
 
 happen? Why a hundred things — an earthq^uake, 
 flood, or fire. What could happen, do you say, 
 Lesbia? Why Maulevrier might come home un- 
 expectedly, and charm us out of this death-in-life.' 
 
 * He would occasion a good deal of unplea- 
 santness if he did,' answered Lesbia, coldly. ' You 
 know how angry he has made grandmother.' 
 
 * Because he keeps race-horses which have an 
 unlucky knack of losing,' said Mary, dubiously. 
 'I suppose if his horses won, grandmother would 
 rather approve ? ' 
 
 'Not at all. That would make hardly any 
 difference, except that he would not ruin himself 
 quite so quickly. Grandmother says that a young 
 man who goes on the turf is sure to be ruined 
 sooner or later. And then Maulevrier's habits 
 are altogether wild and foolish. It is very hard 
 upon grandmother, who has such noble ambition 
 for all of us.' 
 
 * Not for me,' answered Mary, smiling. * Her 
 views about me are very humble. She considers 
 that I shall be most fortunate if a doctor or a 
 lawyer condescend to like me well enough to
 
 FORTY YEAES AFTER. 71 
 
 make me an offer. He might make me the offer 
 without likinjj me, for the sake of hearincf himself 
 and his wife announced as Mr. and Lady Mary 
 Snooks at dinner parties. That would be too 
 horrid ! But I daresay such things have happened.' 
 'Don't talk nonsense, Mary,' said Lesbia, loftily. 
 'There is no reason why you should not make a 
 really good marriage, if you follow grandmother's 
 advice and don't affect eccentricity.' 
 
 * I don't affect eccentricity, but I'm afraid I 
 really am eccentric,' murmured Mary, meekly, 
 ' for I like so many things I ought not to like, 
 and detest so many things. which I ought to admire.' 
 
 ' I daresay you will have tamed down a little 
 before you are presented,' said Lesbia, carelessly. 
 
 She could not even affect a profound interest 
 in anyone but herself. She had a narrowness 
 of mental vision which prevented her looking 
 beyond the limited circle of her own pleasures, 
 her own desires, her own dreams and hopes. She 
 was one of those strictly correct young women 
 who was not likely to do much harm in the 
 world, but who was just as unlikely to do any good.
 
 72 FORTY YEARS AFTER. 
 
 Mary sighed, and went back to her book, a bnlky 
 volume of travels, and tried to lose herself in the 
 sandy wastes of Africa, and to be deeply interested 
 in the sources of the Congo, not, in her heart of 
 hearts, caring a straw whether that far-away river 
 comes from the mountains of the moon, or from 
 the moon itself To-day she could not pin her 
 mind to pages which might have interested her 
 at another time. Her thoughts were with Lord 
 Maulevrier, that fondly-loved only brother, just 
 seven years her senior, who had taken to race- 
 horses and bad ways, and seemed to be trying 
 his hardest to dissipate the splendid fortune which 
 his grandmother, the dowager Countess, had 
 nursed so judiciously during his long minority. 
 Maulevrier and Mary had always been what the 
 young man called ' no end of chums.' 
 
 He called her his own brown-eyed Molly, much 
 to the annoyance of Lady Maulevrier and Lesbia ; 
 and Mary's life was all gladness when Maulevrier 
 was at Fellside. She devoted herself wholly to 
 his amusements, rode and drove with him, fol- 
 lowed on her pony when he went otter hunting,
 
 FORTY YEAES AFTER. 73 
 
 and very often abandoned the pony to the care 
 of some stray mountain youth in order to join 
 the hunters, and go leaping from stone to stone 
 on the margin of the stream, and occasionally, 
 in moments of wild excitement, when the hounds 
 were in full cry, splashing in and out of the 
 water, like a naiad in a neat little hunting-habit. 
 
 Mary looked after Maulevrier's stable when he 
 was away, and had supreme command of a kennel 
 of fox-terriers which cost her brother more money 
 than the Countess would have cared to know; 
 for in the wide area of Lady Maulevrier's ambi- 
 tion there was no room for two hundred guinea 
 fox-terriers, were they never so perfect. 
 
 Altogether Mary's life was a different life 
 when her brother was at home ; and in his 
 absence the best part of her days were spent 
 in thinking about him and fulfilling the duties 
 of her position as his representative in stable and 
 kennel, and among certain rustics in the district, 
 chiefly of the sporting type, who were Maulevrier's 
 chosen allies oy prote(/4s. 
 
 Never, perhaps, had two girls of patrician
 
 74 FOETY YEARS AFTER. 
 
 lineage lived a more secluded life than Lady 
 Maulevrier's granddaughters. They had known 
 no pleasures beyond the narrow sphere of home 
 and home friends. They had never travelled — 
 they had seen hardly anything of the outside 
 world. They had never been to London or Paris, 
 or to any city larger than York ; and their 
 visits to that centre of dissipation had been of 
 the briefest, a mere flash of mild gaiety, a hor- 
 ticultural show or an oratorio, and back by 
 express train, closely guarded by governess and 
 footmen, to Fell side. In the autumn, when the 
 leaves were falling in the wooded grounds of 
 Fellside, the young ladies were sent, still under 
 guardianship of governesses and footmen, to some 
 quiet seaside resort between Alnwick and Edinburgh, 
 where Mary lived the wild free life she loved, roaming 
 about the^ beach, boating, shrimping, seaweed- 
 gathering, making hard work for the governesses 
 and footmen who had been sent in charge of her. 
 
 Lady Maulevrier never accompanied her grand- 
 daughters on these occasions. She was a vigorous 
 old woman, straight as a dart, slim as a girl,
 
 FORTY YEARS AFTER. 75 
 
 active in her degree as any young athlete among 
 those hills, and she declared that she never felt 
 the need of change of air. The sodden shrub- 
 beries, the falling leaves, did her no harm. Xever 
 within the memory of this generation had she 
 left Fellside. Her love of this mountain retreat 
 was a kind of culte. She had come here 
 broken spirited, perhaps broken hearted, bringing 
 her dead husband from the little inn at Great 
 Langdale forty years ago, and she had hardly 
 left the spot since that day. 
 
 In those days Fellside House was a very 
 different kind of dwelling from the gracious 
 modern Tudor mansion which now crowned and 
 beautified the hill-side above Grasmere Lake. 
 It was then an old rambling stone house, with 
 queer little rooms and inconvenient passages, low 
 ceilings, thatched gables, and all manner of 
 strange nooks and corners. Lady Maulevrier 
 was of too strictly conservative a temper to 
 think of pulling down an old house which had 
 been in her husband's family for generations. 
 She left the original cottage undisturbed, and
 
 76 FORTY YEARS ATTEK. 
 
 built her new house at right angles with it, 
 connecting the two with a wide passage below 
 and a handsome corridor above, so that access 
 should be perfect in the event of her requiring 
 the accommodation of the old quaint, low-ceiled 
 rooms for her family or her guests. During forty- 
 years no such necessity had ever arisen ; but the 
 old house, known as the south wing, was still 
 left intact, the original farniture undisturbed, 
 although the only occupants of the building 
 were her ladyship's faithful old house-steward, 
 James Steadman, and his elderly wife. 
 
 The house which Lady Maulevrier had built 
 for herself and her grandchildren had not been 
 created all at once, though the nucleus datiog 
 forty years back was a handsome building. She 
 had added more rooms as necessity or fancy 
 dictated, now a library with bedrooms over it, 
 now a music room for Lady Lesbia and her 
 grand piano — anon a billiard-room, as an agree- 
 able surprise for Maule^Tier when he came home 
 after a tour in America. Thus the house had 
 grown LQto a long low pile of Tudor masonry
 
 FORTY YEARS AFTER. 77 
 
 — 3teep gables, heavily muUioned casements, grey 
 stone wall.^, curtained with the rich growth of 
 passion-flower, magnolia, clematis, myrtle and 
 roses — and all those flowers which thrive and 
 flourish in that mild and sheltered spot 
 
 The views from those mullioned casements were 
 perfect. Switzerland could give hardly any more 
 exquisite picture than that lake shut in by hills, 
 grand and bold in their varied outlines, so rich in 
 their colouring that the eye, dazzled with beauty, 
 forgot to calculate the actual height of those craggy 
 peaks and headlands, the mind forgot to despise 
 them because they were not so lofty as Mont Blanc 
 or the Matterhorn. The velvet sward of the hill 
 sloped steeply downward from Lady Maulevrier's 
 drawing-room windows to the road beside the lake, 
 and this road was so hidden by the wooded screen 
 which bounded her ladyship's grounds that the lake 
 seemed to Ke in the green heart of her gardens, a 
 lovely, placid lake on summer days, reflecting the 
 emerald hue of the surrounding hills, and looking 
 like a smooth green meadow, which invited the foot 
 passenger to cross it
 
 78 FORTY YEARS AFTER. 
 
 The house was approached by a winding car- 
 riage drive that led up and up and up from the 
 road beside the lake, so screened and sheltered by 
 shrubberies and pine woods, that the stranger knew 
 not whither he was going, till he came upon an 
 opening in the wood, and the stately Italian garden 
 in front of a massive stone porch, through which he 
 entered a spacious oak-panelled hall, and anon, 
 descending a step or two, he found himself in Lady 
 Maulevrier's drawing-room, and face to face with 
 that divine view of the everlasting hills, the lake 
 shining below him, bathed in sunlight. 
 
 Or if it were the stranger's evil fate to come in 
 wet weather, he saw only a rain-blotted landscape — 
 the blurred outlines of grey mountain peaks, scowl- 
 ino" at him from the other side of a grey pool. 
 But if the picture without were depressing, the 
 picture within was always good to look upon, for 
 those oak-panelled or tapestried rooms, commu- 
 nicating by richly-curtained doorways from drawing- 
 room to library, from library to billiard-room, were 
 as perfect as wealth and taste could make them. 
 Lady Maulevrier argued that as there was but one
 
 FORTY YEAES AFTEE. 79 
 
 house among all the possessions of her race which 
 she cared to inhabit, she had a right to make that 
 house beautiful, and she had spared nothing upon 
 the beautifi cation of Fellside ; and yet she had 
 spent much less than would have been squandered 
 by any pleasure-loving dowager, restlessly roving 
 from Piccadilly to the Engadine, from Pontresina 
 to jN'ice or Monaco, winding up with Easter in 
 Paris, and then back to Piccadilly. Her ladyship's 
 friends wondered that she could care to bury her- 
 self alive in Westmoreland, and expatiated on the 
 eccentricity of such a life ; nay, those who had 
 never seen Eellside argued that Lady Maulevrier 
 had taken in her old age to hoarding, and that 
 she pigged at a cottage in the Lake District, in 
 order to swell a fortune which young Maulevrier 
 would set about squandering as soon as she was 
 in her coffin. But here they were wrong. It was 
 not in Lady Maulevrier's nature to lead a sordid 
 life in order to save money. Yet in these quiet 
 years that were gone — starting with that golden 
 nucleus which her husband was supposed to have 
 brought home from India, obtained no one knows
 
 80 FORTY YEARS AFTER. 
 
 how, the Countess had amassed one of the largest 
 fortunes possessed by any dowager in the 
 peerage. She had it, and she held it, with 
 a grasp that nothing but death could loosen 
 nay, that all-foreseeing mind of hers might 
 contrive to cheat grim death itself, and to scheme 
 a way for protecting this wealth, ev^en when she 
 who had gathered and garnered it should be moul- 
 dering in her grave. The entailed estates belonged 
 to Maulevrier, were he never such a fool or spend- 
 thrift ; but this fortune of the dowager's was her 
 own, to dispose of as she pleased, and not a penny 
 of it was likely to go to the young Earl. 
 
 Lady Maulevrier' s pride and hopes were concen- 
 trated upon her granddaughter Lesbia. She should 
 be the inheritress of this noble fortune — she should 
 spread and widen the power of the Maulevrier 
 race. Lesbia's son should link the family name with 
 the name of his father ; and if, by any hazard of 
 fate, the present Earl should die young and child- 
 less, the old Countess's interest should be strained 
 to the uttermost to obtain the title for Lesbia's 
 offspring. Why should she not be Countess of
 
 FORTY YEARS AFTER. 81 
 
 Maulevrier in her own right? But in order to 
 make this future possible the most important factor 
 in the sum was yet to be found in the person of 
 a husband for Lady Lesbia — a husband worthy of 
 peerless beauty and exceptional wealth, a husband 
 whose own fortune should be so important as to 
 make him above suspicion. That was Lady Mau- 
 levrier's scheme — to wed wealth to wealth — to 
 double, or quadruple the fortune she had built up 
 in the long slow years of her widowhood, and 
 thus to make her granddaughter one of the greatest 
 ladies in the land ; for it need hardly be said that 
 the man who was to wed Lady Lesbia must be her 
 equal in rank and lineage, if not her superior. 
 
 Lady Maulevrier was not a miser. She was 
 liberal and benevolent to all who came within the 
 circle of her life. Wealth for its own sake she 
 valued not a jot. But she lived in an age in which 
 wealth is power; and ambition was her ruling 
 passion. As she had been ambitious for her 
 husband in the days that were gone, she was now 
 ambitious for her granddaughter. Time had 
 intensified the keen eagerness of her mind. She 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 FORTY YEARS AFTER. 
 
 had been disappointed, cruelly, bitterly, in the 
 ambition of her youth. She had been made to 
 drink the cup of shame and humiliation. But 
 to this ambition of her old age she held with 
 even greater tenacity. God help her if she 
 should be disappointed here. 
 
 It is not to be supposed that so astute a 
 schemer as Lady Maulevrier had not surveyed 
 the marriage market in order to discover that 
 fortunate youth who should be deemed worthy 
 to become the winner of Lesbia's hand. Years 
 ago, when Lesbia was still in the nursery, the 
 dowager had made herself informed of the age, 
 weight, and colours of every likely runner in the 
 matrimonial stakes ; or in plainer words had 
 kept herself, by her correspondence with a few 
 intimate friends, and her close study of the 
 fashionable newspapers, thoroughly acquainted 
 with the characters and exploits, the dispositions 
 and antecedents, of those half-dozen elder sons, 
 among whom she hoped to find Lesbia's lord 
 and master. She knew her peerage by heart, 
 and knew the family history of every house
 
 FOETY YEARS AFTER. 83 
 
 recorded therein ; the sins and weaknesses, the 
 follies and losses of by-gone years ; the taints, 
 mental and physical ; the lateral branches and 
 intermarriages ; the runaway wives aod unfaithful 
 husbands ; idiot sons or scrofulous daughters. 
 She knew everything that was to be known 
 about that aristocratic world into which she had 
 been born sixty-seven years ago ; and the sum 
 total of her knowledge was that there was one 
 man, and one only, whom she desired for her 
 granddaughter's husband — one man, and one only, 
 into whose hands, when earth and sea and sky 
 should fade from her glazing eyes, she could be 
 content to resign the sceptre of power. 
 
 There were no doubt half-a-dozen, or more, in 
 the list of elder sons, who were fairly eligible. 
 But this young man was the Achilles in the 
 rank and file of chivalry, and her soul yearned to 
 have him and no other for her darling. 
 
 Her soul yearned to him with a tenderness 
 which was not all on Lesbia's account. Forty- 
 nine years ago she had fondly loved his father — 
 loved him and had been fain to renounce him :
 
 §4 rOETY YEARS AFTER. 
 
 for Eonald Hollister, aterwards Earl of Hartfield, 
 was then a younger son, and tlie two families 
 had agreed that marriage between paupers was 
 an impudent flying in the face of Providence, 
 which must be put down with an iron hand. 
 Lord Hartfield sent his son to Turkey in the 
 diplomatic service; and the old dowager Lady 
 Carrisbrook whisked her niece off to London, and 
 kept her there, under watch and ward, till Lord 
 Maulevrier proposed and was accepted by her. 
 There should be no foolishness, no clandestine 
 correspondence. The iron hand crushed two young 
 hearts, and secured a brilliant future for the bodies 
 which survived. 
 
 [Fifteen years later Eonald's elder brother died 
 unmarried. He abandoned that career of vagrant 
 diplomacy which had taken him all over Europe, 
 and as far as Washington, and reappeared in 
 London, the most elegant man of his era, but 
 thoroughly blase. There were rumours of an un- 
 happy attachment in the Eaubourg Saint Germain ; 
 of a tragedy at Petersburg. Society protested 
 that Lord Haitfield would die a bachelor, as his
 
 FORTY YEAES AFTER. 85 
 
 brother died before him. The Hollisters are not 
 a marrying family, said society. But six or seven 
 years after his return to England Lord Hartfield 
 married Lady Florence Ilmington, a beauty in her 
 first season, aod a very sweet but somewhat 
 prudish young person. The marriage resulted in 
 the birth of an heir, whose appearance upon this 
 mortal stage was followed w^ithin a year by his 
 father*s exit. Hence the Hartfield property, always 
 a fine estate, had been nursed and fattened during 
 a long minority, and the present Lord Hartfield 
 w^as reputed one of the richest young men of his 
 time. He was also spoken of as a superior person, 
 inheriting all his father's intellectual gifts, and 
 having the reputation of being singularly free 
 from the vices of profligate youth. He was neither 
 prig nor pedant, and he was very popular in the 
 best society ; but he was not ashamed to let it 
 be seen that his ambition soared higher than the 
 fashionable world of turf and stable, cards and 
 pigeon matches. 
 
 Though not of the gay world, nor in it, Lady 
 Maulevrier had contrived to keep herself thoroughly
 
 86 FORTY YEARS AFTER. 
 
 en rapport with society. Her few chosen friends, 
 with whom she corresponded on terms of perfect 
 confidence, were among the best people in London 
 — not the circulators of club-house canards, the 
 pickers-up of second-hand gossip from the society- 
 papers, but actors in the comedy of high life, 
 arbiters of fashion and taste, born and bred in 
 the purple. 
 
 Last season Lord Hartiield's absence had cast 
 a cloud over the matrimonial horizon. He had 
 been a traveller for more than a year — Patagonia, 
 Peru, the Pyramids, Japan, the North Pole — 
 society cared not where — the fact that he was 
 gone was all-sufficient. Bachelors a shade less 
 eligible came to the front in his absence and 
 became first favourites. Lady Maulevrier, well 
 informed in advance, had deferred Lesbia's pre- 
 sentation till next season, when she was told Lord 
 Hartfield would certainly reappear. His plans 
 had been made for return before Christmas ; and 
 it would seem that his scheme of life was laid 
 down with as much precision as if he had been 
 a prince of the blood royal. Thus it happened,
 
 FORTY YEARS AFTER. 87 
 
 to Lesbia's intense disgust, that her dehut was 
 deferred till the verge of her twentieth birthday. 
 It would never do, Lady ]Maulevrier told herself, 
 for the edge to be taken off the effect which 
 Lesbia's beauty was to make on society during 
 Lord Hartfield's absence. He must be there, on 
 the spot, to see this star rise gently and slowly 
 above society's horizon, and to mark how every 
 body bowed down and worshipped the new light 
 
 *I shall be an old woman before I appear in 
 society,' said Lesbia, petulantly ; * and I shall be 
 like a wild woman of the woods; for I have seen 
 nothing, and know nothing of the civilised world.' 
 
 * You will be ever so much more attractive 
 than the young women I hear of, who have seen 
 and known a great deal too much,' answered the 
 dowager; and as her granddaughter knew that 
 Lady Maulevrier's word was like the law of the 
 Medes and Persians, there were no more idle 
 repinings. 
 
 Her ladyship gave no reason for the postpone- 
 ment of Lesbia's presentation. She was far too 
 diplomatic to breathe a word of her ideas with
 
 88 FOKTY YEARS AFTER. 
 
 regard to Lord Hartfield. Anything like a matrix 
 monial scheme would naturally have been revolting 
 to Lesbia, who had grand, but not sordid views 
 about matrimony. She thought it her mission to 
 appear, and to conquer. A crowd of suitors 
 would sigh around her, like the loves and graces 
 round that fair Belinda whose story she had read 
 so often; and it would be her part to choose the 
 most worthy. The days are gone when a girl 
 would so much as look at Sir Plume. Her virgin 
 fancy demands the Tennysonian ideal, the grave 
 and knightly Arthur. 
 
 But when Lesbia thought of the most worthy, 
 it was always of the worthiest in her own parti- 
 cular sphere ; and he of course would be titled and 
 wealthy, and altogether fitted to be her husband. 
 He would take her by the hand and lead her to a 
 higher seat on the dais, and place upon her head, 
 or at least upon her letter-paper and the panels of 
 her carriage, a coronet in which the strawberry 
 leaves should stand out more prominently than in 
 her brother's emblazonment. Lesbia's mind could 
 not conceive an ignoble marriage, or the possibility
 
 FOKTY YEARS AFTER. 89 
 
 of the most worthy happening to be found in a 
 lower circle than her own. 
 
 And now it was the end of July, and the season 
 which should have been glorified by Lady Lesbie's 
 dehut was over and done with. She had read in 
 the society papers of all the balls, and birthdays, 
 and race meetings, and regattas, and cricket matches, 
 and gowns, and parasols, and bonnets — what this 
 beauty wore on such an occasion, and how that other 
 beauty looked on another occasion — and she felt as 
 she read like a spell-bound princess in a fairy tale, 
 mewed up in a battlemented tower, and deprived of 
 her legitimate share in all the pleasures of earth. 
 She had no patience with Mary — that wild, unkempt, 
 ungraceful creature, who could be as happy as 
 summer days are long, racing about the hills with 
 her bamboo alpenstock, rioting with a pack of fox- 
 terriers, practising long losers, rowing on the lake, 
 doing all things unbecoming Lady Maulevrier's 
 granddaughter. 
 
 That long rainy day dragged its slow length to 
 a close ; and then came fine days, in which Molly 
 and her fox-terriers went wandering over the sun-
 
 90 FORTY YEARS AFTER. 
 
 lit hills, skipping and dancing across the mountain 
 streamlets — gills, as they were called in this parti- 
 cular world — almost as gaily as the shadows of 
 fleecy cloudlets dancing up yonder in the windy 
 sky. Molly spent half her days among the hills, 
 stealing off from governess and grandmother and 
 the stately beauty sister, and sometimes hardly 
 being missed by them, so ill did her young exu- 
 berance harmonise with their calmer life. 
 
 * One can tell when Mary is at home by a 
 perpetual banging of doors,' said Lesbia, which was 
 a sisterly exaggeration founded upon fact, for Molly 
 was given to impetuous rushing in and out of room?, 
 when that eager spirit of hers impelled the light 
 lithe body upon some new expedition. Nor is the 
 society of fox-terriers conducive to repose or state- 
 liness of movement ; and Maulevrier's terriers, 
 although strictly forbidden the house, were for ever 
 breaking bonds and leaping in upon Molly's re- 
 tirement at all unreasonable hours. She and they 
 were enchanted to get away from the beautiful 
 luxurious rooms, and to go roving by hill-side and 
 force, away to Easedale Tarn, to bask for hours on
 
 FORTY YEARS AFTER. 91 
 
 the grassy margin of the deep still water, or to row 
 round and round the mountain lake in a rotten 
 boat. It was here, or in some kindred spot, that 
 Molly got through most of her reading — here that 
 she read Shakespeare, Byron, and Shelley, and 
 Wordsworth — dwelling lingeringly and lovingly 
 upon every line in which that good old man spoke 
 of her native land. Sometimes she climbed to 
 higher ground, and felt herself ever so much nearer 
 heaven upon the crest of Silver Howe, or upon the 
 rugged stony steep of Dolly Waggon pike, half way 
 up the dark brow of Helvellyn ; sometimes she 
 disappeared for hours, and climbed to the 
 summit of the hill, and wandered in perilous 
 pathways on Striding Edge, or by the dark still 
 water of the Eed Tarn. This had been her life 
 ever since she had been old enough to have an 
 independent existence ; and the hills and the lakes, 
 and the books of her own choosing, had done a 
 great deal more in ripening her mind than Fraulein 
 Muller and that admirable series of educational 
 works which has been provided for the tuition of 
 modern youth. Grammars and geographies, pri-
 
 92 FORTY YEARS AFTER. 
 
 niers and elementary works of all kinds, were 
 Mary's detestation ; but she loved books that 
 touched her heart and filled her mind with thoughts 
 wide and deep enough to reach into the infinite 
 of time and space, the mystery of mind and matter, 
 life and death. 
 
 Nothing occurred to break the placid monotony 
 of life at Fellside for three long days after that 
 rainy morning; and then came an event which, 
 although commonplace enough in itself, marked 
 the beginning of a new era in the existence of 
 Lady Maulevrier's granddaughters. 
 
 It was evening, and the two girls were 
 dawdling about on the sloping lawn before the 
 drawing-room windows, while Lady Maulevrier 
 read the newspapers in her own particular chair 
 by one of those broad Tudor windows, according 
 to her infallible custom. Kemote as her life had 
 been from the busy world, her ladyship had 
 never allowed her knowledge of public life and 
 the bent of modern thought to fall into arrear. 
 She took a keen interest in politics, in progress 
 of all kinds. She was a staunch Conservative,
 
 FORTY YEAES AFTER. 93 
 
 and looked upon every Liberal politician as her 
 personal enemy; but she took care to keep 
 herself informed of everything that was being said 
 or done in the enemy's camp. She had an intense 
 respect for Lord Bacon's maxim : Knowledge is 
 power. It was a kind of power secondary to 
 the power of wealth, perhaps ; but wealth un- 
 protected by wisdom would soon dwindle into 
 poverty. 
 
 Lady Lesbia sauntered about the lawn, looking 
 very elegant in her cream-coloured Indian silk 
 gown, very listless, very tired of her lovely sur- 
 roundings. Neither lake nor mountain possessed 
 any charm for her. She had had too much of 
 them. Mary roamed about with a swifter foot- 
 step, looking at the roses, plucking off a dead 
 leaf, or a cankered bud here and there. Presently 
 she tore across the lawn to the shrubbery which 
 screened the lawn and flower gardens from the 
 winding carriage drive sunk many feet below, 
 and disappeared in a thicket of arbutus and 
 Irish yew. 
 
 'What terribly hoydenish manners/ murmured
 
 94 FORTY YEARS AFTER. 
 
 Lesbia, with a languid shrug of her shoulders, as 
 she strolled back to the drawing-room. 
 
 She cared very little for the newspapers, for 
 politics not at all; but anything was better than 
 everlasting contemplation of the blue still water, 
 and the rugged crest of Helm Crag. 
 
 'What was the matter with Mary that she 
 rushed off like a mad woman ? ' inquired Lady 
 Maulevrier, looking up from the 'Times.' 
 
 'I haven't the least idea. Mary's movements 
 are quite beyond the limits of my comprehension. 
 Perhaps she has gone after a bird's-nest.' 
 
 Mary was intent upon no bird's-nest. Her 
 quick ear had caught the sound of manly voices 
 in the winding drive under the pine wood ; and 
 surely, yes, surely one was a dear and familiar 
 voice, which heralded the coming of happiness. 
 In such a moment she seemed to have wings. 
 She became unconscious that she touched the earth ; 
 she went skimming bird-like over the lawn, and 
 in and out, with fluttering muslin frock, among 
 arbutus and bay, yew and laurel, till she stood 
 poised lightly on the top of the wooded bank
 
 FORTY YEAES AFTER. 95 
 
 wliich bordered the steep ascent to Lady Mau- 
 levrier's gate, looking down at two figures which 
 were sauntering up the drive. 
 
 They were both young men, both tall, broad- 
 shouldered, manly, walking with the easy swing- 
 ing movement of men accustomed to active 
 exercise. One, the handsomer of the two in 
 Mary's eyes, since she thought him simply per- 
 fection, was fair-haired, blue-eyed, the typical 
 Saxon. This was Lord Maulevrier. The other 
 was dark, bronzed by foreign travel, perhaps, with 
 black hair, cut very close to an intelligent- 
 looking head, bared to the evening breeze. 
 
 * Hulloa ! ' cried Maulevrier, ' there's Molly. 
 How d'ye do, old girl ? ' 
 
 The two men looked up, and Molly looked 
 down. Delight at her brother's return so tilled 
 her heart and mind that there was no room left 
 for embarrassment at the appearance of a stranger. 
 
 * Oh, Maulevrier, I am so glad. I have been 
 pining for you. Why didn't you write to say 
 you were comiug? It would have been something 
 to look forward to.'
 
 96 FORTY YEAES AFTER. 
 
 'Couldn't. Never knew from day to day what 
 I was going to be up to; besides, I knew I 
 should find you at home.' 
 
 'Of course. We are always at home,' said 
 Mary; *go up to the house as fast as ever you 
 can. I'll go and tell grandmother.' 
 
 'And tell them to get us some dinner,' said 
 Maulevrier. 
 
 Mary's fluttering figure dipped and was gone, 
 vanishing in the dark labyrinth of shrubs. The 
 two young men sauntered up to the house. 
 
 'We needn't hurry,' said Maulevrier to his 
 companion, whom he had not taken the trouble 
 to introduce to his sister. 'We shall have to 
 wait for our dinner.' 
 
 'And we shall have to change our dusty 
 clothes,' added the other ; ' I hope that man will 
 bring our portmanteaux in time.' 
 
 ' Oh, we needn't dress. We can spend the 
 evening in my den, if you like ! ' 
 
 Mary flew across the lawn again, and bounded 
 up the steps of the verandah — a picturesque Swiss 
 verandah which made a covered promenade in front 
 of the house.
 
 FORTY YEAES AFTER. 97 
 
 'Mary, may I ask the meaning of this 
 excitement/ inquired her ladyship, as the breath- 
 less girl stood before her. 
 
 'Maulevrier has come home.' 
 
 'At last?' 
 
 'And he has brouc^ht a friend.' 
 
 'Indeed. He might have done me the honour 
 to inquire if his friend's visit would be agreeable. 
 What kind of person ? ' 
 
 * I have no idea. I didn't look at him. 
 Maulevrier is looking so well. They will be here 
 in a minute. May I order dinner for them ? ' 
 
 'Of course, they must have dinner,' said her 
 ladyship, resignedly, as if the whole thing were 
 an infliction ; and Mary ran out and interviewed 
 the butler, begging that all things might be made 
 particularly comfortable for the travellers. It was 
 nine o'clock, and the servants were enjoying their 
 eventide repose. 
 
 Having given her orders, Mary went back to 
 the drawing-room, impatiently expectant of her 
 brother's arrival, for which event Lesbia and her 
 grandmother waited with perfect tranquillity, the 
 
 VOL. L H
 
 98 FORTY YEARS AFTER. 
 
 dowager calmly continuing the perusal of her 
 'Times,' while Lesbia sat at her piano in a 
 shadowy corner, and played one of Mendelssohn's 
 softest Lieder. To those dreamy strains Maulevrier 
 and his friend presently entered. 
 
 ' How d'ye do, grandmother ? how do, Lesbia ? 
 This is my very good friend and Canadian travel- 
 ling companion, Jack Hammond. Mr. Hammond 
 — Lady Maulevrier, Lady Lesbia.' 
 
 * Very glad to see you, Mr. Hammond,* said 
 the dowager, in a tone so purely conventional 
 that it might mean anything. * Hammond ! I 
 ought to remember your family — the Hammonds 
 of ' 
 
 *0f nowhere,' answered the stranger in the 
 easiest tone ; * I spring from a race of nobodies, 
 of whose existence your ladyship is not likely 
 to have heard.'
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 ma^ulevriee's humble fkiend. 
 
 That faint interest whicli Lady Lesbia had felt 
 in the advent of a stranger dwindled to nothing 
 after Mr. Hammond's frank avowal of his insig- 
 nificance. At the very beginning of her career, 
 with the world waiting to be conquered by her, 
 a high-born beauty could not be expected to feel 
 any interest in nobodies. Lesbia shook hands 
 with her brother, honoured the stranger with a 
 stately bend of her beautiful throat, and then 
 withdrew herself from their society altogether as 
 it were, and began to explore her basket of 
 crewels, at a distant table, by the soft light of a 
 shaded lamp, while Maulevrier answered his 
 grandmother's questions, and Mary stood watching 
 him, hanging on his words, as if unconscious of 
 any other presence.
 
 100 maulevrier's humble friend. 
 
 Mr. Hammond went over to the window and 
 looked out at the view. The moon was rising 
 above the amphitheatre of hills, and her rays were 
 silvering the placid bosom of the lake. Lights 
 were dotted here and there about the valley, 
 telling of village life. The Prince of Wales's 
 hotel yonder sparkled with its many lights, 
 like a castle in a fairy tale. The stranger had 
 looked upon many a grander scene, but on none 
 more lovely. Here were lake and mountain in 
 little, without the snow-peaks and awful inacces- 
 sible regions of solitude and peril ; homely hills 
 that one might climb, placid English vales in 
 which English poets have lived and died. 
 
 * Hammond and I mean to spend a month or 
 six weeks with you, if you can make us comfort- 
 able,' said Maulevrier. 
 
 ' I am delighted to hear that you can contem- 
 plate staying a month anywhere,' replied her 
 ladyship. * Your usual habits are as restless as if 
 your life were a disease. It shall not be my 
 fault if you and Mr. Hammond are uncomfortable 
 at Eellside.'
 
 mauleveier's humble friend. 101 
 
 There was courtesy, but not cordiality in the 
 reply. If Mr. Hammond was a sensitive man, 
 touchily conscious of his own obscurity, he must 
 have felt that he wa.s not wanted at Fellside — 
 that he was an excrescence, matter in the wrong 
 place. 
 
 I^obody had presented the stranger to Lady 
 Mary. It never entered into Maulevrier's mind 
 to be ceremonious about his sister Molly. She 
 was so much a part of himself that it seemed as 
 if anyone who knew him must needs know her. 
 Molly sat a little way from the window by which 
 Mr. Hammond was standing, and looked at him 
 doubtfully, wonderingly, with not altogether a 
 friendly eye, as he stood with his profile turned 
 to her, and his eyes upon the landscape. 
 She was inclined to be jealous of her brother's 
 fiiend, who would most likely deprive her of 
 much of that beloved society. Hitherto she had 
 been Maulevrier's chosen companion, at Fellside — 
 indeed, his sole companion after the dismissal of 
 his tutor. Now this brown, bearded stranger would 
 usurp her privileges — those two young men would
 
 102 maulevrier's humble friend. 
 
 go roaming ovar the hills, fishing, otter-hunting, 
 going to distant wrestling matches, and leaving 
 her at home. It was a hard thing, and she was 
 prepared to detest the interloper. Even to-night 
 she would be a loser by his presence. Under 
 ordinary circumstances she would have gone to 
 the dining-room with Maulevrier, and sat by him 
 and waited upon him as he ate. But she dared 
 not intrude herself upon a meal that was to be 
 shared with a stranger. 
 
 She looked at John Hammond critically, eager 
 to find fault with his appearance ; but unluckily for 
 her present humour there was not much room 
 for fault-finding. 
 
 He was tall, broad-shouldered, well-built. His 
 enemies would hardly deny that he was good- 
 looking — nay, even handsome. The massive regular 
 features were irreproachable. He was more sun- 
 burnt than a gentleman ought to be, Mary 
 thought. She told herself that his good looks 
 were of a vulgar quality, like those of Charles 
 Ford, the champion wrestler, whom she saw at 
 the sports the other day. Why did Maulevrier
 
 maulevrier's humble friend. 103 
 
 pick up a companion who was evidently not of 
 his own sphere. Hoydenish, plain-spoken, frank 
 and affectionate as Mary Haselden was, she knew 
 that she belonged to a race apart, that there 
 were circles beneath circles, below her own world, 
 circles which hers could never touch; and she 
 supposed Mr. Hammond to be some waif from 
 one of those nethermost worlds — a village doctor's 
 son, perhaps, or even a tradesman's — sent to the 
 University by some benevolent busy-body, and 
 placed at a disadvantage ever afterwards, an 
 unfortunate anomaly, suspended between two 
 worlds, like Mahomet's cofi&n. 
 
 The butler announced that Lord Maulevrier's 
 dinner was served. 
 
 ' Come along, Molly,' said his lordship ; ' come 
 and tell me about the terriers, while I eat my 
 dinner.* 
 
 Mary hesitated, glanced doubtfully at her grand- 
 mother, who made no sign, and then slipped out 
 of the room, hanging fondly on her brother's arm, 
 and almost forgetting that there was any such 
 person as Mr. Hammond in existence.
 
 104 maulevrier's humble friend. 
 
 When these three were gone Lady Lesbia ex- 
 pressed herself strongly upon Maulevrier's folly in 
 bringing such a person as Mr. Hammond to 
 Tellside. 
 
 ' What are we to do with him, grandmother ? ' 
 she said, pettishly. ' Is he to live with us, and be 
 one of us, a person of whose belongings we know 
 positively nothing, who owns that his people are 
 common. 
 
 *My dear, he is your brother's friend, and we 
 have the right to suppose he is a gentleman.' 
 
 * Not on that account,' said Lesbia, more sharply 
 than her wont. * Didn't he make a friend, or 
 almost a friend, of Jack Howell, the huntsman, 
 and of Ford, the wrestler. I have no confidence 
 in Maulevrier's ideas of fitness.' 
 
 *We shall find out all about this Mr. 
 JIamleigh — no Hammond — in a day or two,* 
 replied her ladyship, placidly ; * and in the mean- 
 time we must tolerate him, and be grateful to 
 him if he reconcile Maulevrier to remaining at 
 Fellside for the next six weeks.' 
 
 Lesbia was silent. She did not consider
 
 maulevkier's humble feiend. 105 
 
 Maidevrier's presence at Pellside an unmitigated 
 advantage, or, indeed, his presence anywhere. 
 Those two were not sympathetic. Maiilevrier 
 made fun of his elder sister's perfections, chafifed 
 her intolerably about the great man she was 
 going to captivate, in her first season, the great 
 houses in which she was going to reign. Lesbia 
 despised him for that neglect of all his oppor- 
 tunities of culture, which had left him, after the 
 most orthodox and costly curriculum, almost as 
 ignorant as a ploughboy. She despised a man 
 whose only d alight was in horse and hound, gun 
 and fishing tackle. Molly would have cared very 
 little for the guns or the fishing tackle perhaps 
 in the abstract ; but she cared for everything 
 that interested Maulevrier, even to the bagful 
 of rats which were let loose in the stable yard 
 sometimes, for the education of a particularly 
 game fox-terrier. 
 
 There was plenty of talk and laughter at the 
 dinner-table, while the Countess and Lady Lesbia 
 conversed gravely and languidly in the dimly- 
 lighted drawing-room. The dinner was excellent,
 
 106 maulevrier's humble friend. 
 
 and both travellers were ravenous. They had 
 eaten nothing since breakfast, and had driven 
 from Windermere on the top of the coach in 
 the keen evening air. When the sharp edge of 
 appetite was blunted, Maulevrier began to talk 
 of his adventures since he and Molly had last 
 met. He had not been dissipating in London all 
 the time — or, indeed, any great part of the time 
 of his absence from Fellside; but Molly had been 
 left in Cimmerian darkness as to his proceedings. 
 He never wrote a letter if he could possibly avoid 
 doing so. If it became a vital necessity to him to 
 communicate with anyone he telegraphed, or, in 
 his own language, ' wired ' to that person ; but to 
 sit down at a desk and labour with pen and 
 ink was not within his capacities or his views 
 of his mission in life. 
 
 *If a fellow is to write letters he might as 
 well be a clerk in an office,' he said, * and sit on a 
 high-legged stool.' 
 
 Thus it happened that when Maulevrier was 
 away from Fellside, no fair chatelaine of the 
 Middle Ages could be more ignorant of the move-
 
 mauleveier's humble friend. 107 
 
 ments or whereabouts of her crusader knif^ht, 
 than Mary was of her brother's goings on. She 
 could but pray for him with fond and faithful 
 prayer, and wait and hope for his return. And 
 now he told her that things had gone badly 
 with him at Epsom, and worse at Ascot, that 
 he had been, as he expressed it, 'Up a tree,' 
 and that he had gone off to the Black Forest 
 directly the Ascot week was over, and at Eip- 
 poldsau he had met his old friend and fellow- 
 traveller, Hammond, and they had gone for a 
 walking tour together among the homely villages, 
 the watchmakers, the timber cutters, the pretty 
 peasant girls. They had danced at fairs — and 
 shot at village sports — and had altogether enjoyed 
 the thing. Hammond, who was something of an 
 artist, had sketched a good deal. Maulevrier had 
 done nothing but smoke his German pipe and 
 enjoy himself. 
 
 * I was glad to find myself in a world where 
 a horse was an exception and not the rule,' he said . 
 
 'Oh, how I should love to see the Black 
 Torest,' cried Mary, who knew the first part of
 
 108 maulevrier's humble friend. 
 
 Faust by heart, albeit she had never been given 
 permission to read it, ' the gnomes and the witches 
 — der Treyschutz — all that is lovely. Of course, 
 you went up the Brocken.' 
 
 * Of course/ answered Mr. Hammond ; ' Mephis- 
 topheles was our valet de place, and we went up 
 among a company of witches riding on broom- 
 sticks.' And then he quoted, 
 
 ' Seh.' die Baume hinter Baumen, 
 Wie sie sclinell voriiberrUcken, 
 Und die Klippen, die sich biicken, 
 Und die langen Pelsennasen, 
 Wie sie sclmarcher>, wie sie blasen ! ' 
 
 This was the first time he had addressed 
 himself directly to Mary, who sat close to her 
 brother's side, and never took her eyes from his 
 face, ready to pour out his wine, or to change 
 his plate, for the serving-men had been dismissed 
 at the beginning of this unceremonious meal. 
 
 Mary looked at the stranger almost as 
 superciliously as Lesbia might have done. She was 
 not inclined to be friendly to her brother's friend. 
 
 'Do you read German?' she inquired, with 
 a touch of surprise.
 
 MAULEVRIER'S HUaiBLE FRIEND. 109 
 
 * You had better ask him what language he 
 does not read or speak,' said her brother. 'Ham- 
 mond is an admirable Crichton, my dear — by-the- 
 by, who was admirable Crichton ? — knows every- 
 thing, can twist your little head the right way 
 upon any subject.' 
 
 *0h,' thought Mary, * highly cultivated, is 
 he ? Very proper in a man who was educated 
 on charity to have worked his hardest at the 
 University.' 
 
 She was not prepared to think very kindly of 
 young men who had been successful in their 
 college career, since poor Maulevrier had made 
 such a dismal failure of his, had been gated and 
 sent down, and ploughed, and had everything igno- 
 minious done to him that could be done ; which 
 ignominy had involved an expenditure of money 
 that Lady Maulevrier bemoaned and lamented until 
 this day. Because her brother had not been vir- 
 tuous Mary grudged virtuous young men their 
 triumphs and their honours. Great, raw-boned 
 fellows, who have taken their degrees at Scotch 
 Universities, come to Oxford and Cambridge and
 
 110 maulevrier's humble friend. 
 
 sweep the beard, Maulevrier had told her, when his 
 own failures demanded explanation. Perhaps this 
 Mr. Hammond had graduated north of the Tweed, 
 and had come southward to rob the native. Mary 
 was not any more inclined to be civil to him 
 because he was a linguist. He had a pleasant 
 manner, frank and easy, a good voice, a cheery 
 laugh. But she had not yet made up her mind 
 that he was a gentleman. 
 
 * If some benevolent old person were to take 
 a fancy to Charles Ford, the wrestler, and send 
 him to a Scotch University, I daresay he would 
 turn out just as fine a fellow,' she thought, 
 Ford being somewhat of a favourite as a local 
 hero. 
 
 The two young men went off to the billiard- 
 room after they had dined. It was half-past ten 
 by this time, and, of course, Mary did not go with 
 them. She bade her brother good-night at the 
 dining-room door. 
 
 * Good-night, Molly ; be sure you are up early 
 to show me the dogs,' said Maulevrier, after an 
 affectionate kiss. 
 
 'Good-night, Lady Mary,' said Mr. Hammond,
 
 maulevrier's humble friend. Ill 
 
 holding out his hand, albeit she had no idea of 
 shaking hands with him. 
 
 She allowed her hand to rest for an instant 
 in that strong, friendly grasp. She had not risen 
 to giving a couple of fingers to a person whom 
 she considered her inferior ; but she was inclined 
 to snub Mr. Hammond as rather a presuming 
 young man. 
 
 'Well, Jack, what do you think of my beauty 
 sister ? ' asked his lordship, as he chose his cue 
 from the well-filled rack. 
 
 The lamps were lighted, the table uncovered 
 and ready, Carambole in his place, albeit it was 
 months since any player had entered . the room. 
 Everything which concerned Maulevrier's comfort 
 or pleasure was done as if by magic at Fellside ; 
 and Mary was the household fairy whose 
 influence secured this happy state of things. 
 
 * What can any man think except that she is as 
 lovely as the finest of Eeynold's portraits, as that 
 Lady Diana Beauclerk of Colonel Aldridge's, or the 
 Kitty Fisher, or any example you please to name 
 of womanly loveliness ? '
 
 112 mauleveier's humble friend. 
 
 ' Glad to hear it/ answered Maulevrier, chalking 
 his cue ; * can't say I admire her myself — not my 
 style, don't you know. Too much of my lady Di — 
 too little of poor Kitty. But still, of course, it 
 always pleases a fellow to know that his people 
 are admired; and I know that my grandmother 
 has views, grand views/ smiling down at his cue. 
 ' Shall I break ? ' and he began with the usual 
 miss in baulk. 
 
 * Thank you,' said Mr. Hammond, beginning 
 to play. * Matrimonial views, of course. Very 
 natural that her ladyship should expect such a 
 lovely creature to make a great match. Is there 
 no one in view ? Has there been no family 
 conclave — no secret treaty ? Is the young lady 
 fancy free ? ' 
 
 * Perfectly. She has been buried alive here ; 
 except parsons and a few decent people whom she 
 is allowed to meet now and then at the houses 
 about here, she has seen nothing of the world. 
 My grandmother has kept Lesbia as close as a 
 nun. She is not so fond of Molly, and that young 
 person has wild ways of her own, and gives every-
 
 mauleveier's humble friend. 113 
 
 body the slip. By-the-by, bow do you like my 
 little Moll ? ' 
 
 The '[ adjective was hardly accurate about a 
 young lady who measured five feet six, but 
 Maulevrier had not yet grown out of the ideas 
 belonging to that period when Mary was really 
 his little sister, a girl of twelve, with long 
 hair and short petticoats. 
 
 Mr. Hammond was slow to reply. Mary 
 had not made a very strong impression upon 
 him. Dazzled by her sister's pure and classical 
 beauty, he had no eyes for Mary's homelier 
 charms. She seemed to him a frank, affectionate 
 girl, not too well-mannered; and that was aU 
 he thought of her. 
 
 'I'm afraid Lady Mary does not like me,' 
 he said, after his shot, which gave him time 
 for reflection. 
 
 ' Oh, Molly is rather farouche in her man- 
 ners ; never would train fine, don't you know. 
 Her ladyship lectured till she was tired, and 
 now Mary runs wild, and I suppose will be 
 left at grass tiLL six months before her presenta- 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 maulevkier's humble feiend. 
 
 tion, and then they'll put her on the pillar- 
 reins a bit to give her a better mouth. Good 
 shot, by Jove ! ' 
 
 John Hammond was used to his lordship's 
 style of conversation, and understood his friend 
 at all times. Maulevrier was not an intellectual 
 companion, and the distance was wide between 
 the two men ; but his lordship's gaiety, good- 
 nature, and acuteness made amends for all 
 shortcomings in culture. And then Mr. Hammond 
 may have been one of those good Conservatives 
 who do not expect very much intellectual power 
 in an hereditary legislator.
 
 CHAPTEE VII. 
 
 IN THE SUMMER MOENIXG. 
 
 John Hjlmmoxd loved the wild freshness of 
 morning, and was always eager to explore a 
 new locality ; so he was up at five o'clock 
 next morning, and out of doors before six. He 
 left the sophisticated beauty of the Fellside 
 gardens below him, and climbed higher and higher 
 up the Fell, tiU he was able to command a bird's- 
 eye view of the lake and village, and just under 
 his feet, as it were, Lady Maulevrier's favourite 
 abode. He was provided with a landscape glass 
 which he always carried in his rambles, and with 
 the aid of this he could see every stone of the 
 building. 
 
 The house, added to at her ladyship's pleasure, 
 and without regard to cost, covered a consider- 
 able extent of ground. The new part consisted
 
 116 m THE BUMMER MORNING. 
 
 of a straight range of about a hundred and 
 twenty feet, facing the ]ake, and commandingly 
 placed on the crest of a steepish slope; the old 
 buildings, at right angles with the new, made a 
 quadrangle, the third and fourth sides of which were 
 formed by the dead walls of servants* rooms and 
 coach-houses, which had no windows upon this inner 
 enclosed side. The old buildings were low and 
 irregular, one portion of the roof thatched, another 
 tiled. In the quadrangle there was an old-fashioned 
 garden, with geometrical flower-beds, a yew tree hedge, 
 and a stone sun-dial in the centre. A peacock 
 stalked about in the morning light, and greeted the 
 newly risen sun with a strident scream. Presently a 
 man came out of a half glass door under a verandah 
 which shaded one side of the quadrangle, and 
 strolled about the garden, stopping here and there 
 to cut a dead rose, or trim a geranium, a stoutly 
 built broad-shouldered man, with grey hair and 
 beard, the image of well-fed respectability. 
 
 Mr. Hammond wondered a little at the man's 
 leisurely movements as he sauntered about, whist- 
 ling to the peacock. It was not the manner
 
 IN THE SUMMER MORNING. 117 
 
 of a servant who had duties to perform — rather 
 that of a gentleman Imng at ease, and hardly 
 knowing how to get rid of his time. 
 
 'Some superior functionary, I suppose,' thought 
 Hammond ; ' the house-steward, perhaps.' 
 
 He rambled a long way over the hill, and 
 came back to Fellside by a path of his own 
 discovering, which brought him to a wooden gate 
 leading into the stable-yard, just in time to meet 
 Maulevrier and Lady Mary emerging from the 
 kennel, where his lordship had been inspecting 
 the terriers. 
 
 'Angelina is bully about the muzzle,' said 
 Maulevrier; *we shall have to give her away.' 
 
 * Oh, don't,' cried Mary. ' She is a most 
 perfect darling, and laughs so deliciously when- 
 ever she sees me.' 
 
 Angelina was in Lady Mary's arms at this 
 moment; a beautifully marked little creature, all 
 thew and sinew, palpitating with suppressed emo- 
 tions, and grinning to her heart's content. 
 
 Lady ]\Iary looked very fresh and bright in 
 her neat tailor gown, kilted kirtle, and tight-
 
 118 IN THE SUMMER MORNING. 
 
 fitting bodice, with neat little brass buttons. It 
 was a gown of Maulevrier's ordering, made at 
 his own tailor's. Her splendid chestnut hair was 
 uncovered, the short crisp curls about her fore- 
 head dancing in the morning air. Her large, 
 bright, brown eyes were dancing, too, with delight 
 at having her brother home again. 
 
 She shook hands with Mr. Hammond more 
 graciously than last night ; but still with a 
 carelessness which was not complimentary, looking 
 at him absently as if she hardly knew that he 
 was there, and hugging Angelina all the time. 
 
 Hammond told his friend about his ramble 
 over the hills, yonder, up above that homely 
 bench called * Eest, and be Thankful,' on the crest 
 of Loughrigg Fell. He was beginning to learn 
 the names of the hills already. Yonder darkling 
 brow, rugged, gloomy looking, was Nab Scar; 
 yonder green slope of sunny pasture, stretching 
 wide its two arms as if to enfold the valley, was 
 Fairfield; and here close on the left, as he 
 faced the lake, were Silver Howe and Helm 
 Crag, with that stony excrescence on the summit
 
 IN THE SUMMER MORNING. 119 
 
 of the latter known as the 'Lion and the Lamb.' 
 Lady Maulevrier's house stood within a circle of 
 mountain peaks and long fells, which walled in 
 the deep, placid, fertile valley. 
 
 'If you are not too tired to see the gardens, 
 we might show them to you before breakfast,' 
 said Maulevrier. ' We have three-quarters of an 
 hour to the good.' 
 
 ' Half an hour for a stroll, and a quarter to 
 make myself presentable after my long walk/ said 
 Hammond, who did not wish to face the dowager 
 and Lady Lesbia in disordered apparel. Lady 
 Mary was such an obvious Tomboy that he 
 might be pardoned for leaving her out of the 
 question. 
 
 They set out upon an exploration of the 
 gardens, Mary clinging to her brother's arm, as 
 if she wanted to make sure of him, and still 
 carrying Angelina. 
 
 The gardens were as other gardens, but passing 
 beautiful. The sloping lawns and richly-timbered 
 banks, winding shrubberies, broad terraces cut on 
 the side of the hill, gave infinite variety. All
 
 120 IN THE SUMMER MORNING. 
 
 that wealth and taste and labour could do to 
 make those grounds beautiful had been done — 
 the rarest conifers, the loveliest flowering shrubs 
 grew and flourished there, and the flowers bloomed 
 as they bloom only in Lakeland, where every 
 cottage garden can show a wealth of luxurious 
 bloom, unknown in more exposed and arid 
 districts. Mary was very proud of those gardens. 
 She had loved them and worked in them from 
 her babyhood, trotting about on chubby legs 
 after some chosen old gardener, carrying a few 
 weeds or withered leaves in her pinafore, and 
 fancying herself useful. 
 
 * I help'oo, doesn't I, Teeven,* she used to say 
 to the grey-headed old gardener, who first taught 
 her to distinguish flowers from weeds. 
 
 * I shall never learn as much out of these horrid 
 books as poor old Stevens taught me,' ,she said 
 afterwards, when the grey head was at rest under 
 the sod, and governesses, botany manuals, and hard 
 words from the Greek were the order of the day. 
 
 Nine o'clock was the breakfast hour at Fellside. 
 There were no family prayers. Lady Maulevrier
 
 IN THE SUMMER MORNING. 121 
 
 did not pretend to "be pious, and she put no 
 restraints of piety npon other people. She Tvent 
 to Church on Sunday mornings, for the sake of 
 example ; but she read all the newest scientific 
 books, subscribed to the Anthropological Society, 
 and thought as the newest scientific people think. 
 She rarely communicated her opinions among her 
 own sex ; but now and then, in strictly masculine 
 and superior society, she had been heard to express 
 herself freely upon t;he nebular hypothesis and the 
 doctrine of evolution. 
 
 * After all, what does it matter ? ' she said, 
 finally, with her grand air ; 'I have only to 
 marry my granddaughters creditably, and prevent 
 my grandson going to the dogs, and then my 
 mission on this insignificant planet will be accom- 
 plished. What new form that particular modifi- 
 cation of molecules which you call Lady Maulevrier 
 may take afterwards is hidden in the great mystery 
 of material life.' 
 
 There was no family prayer, therefore, at 
 Fellside. The sisters had been properly educated 
 in their relidous duties, had been taught the
 
 122 IN THE SUMMER MORNING. 
 
 Anglican faith carefully and well by their governess, 
 Fraulein Miiller, who had become a staunch 
 Anglican before entering the families of the English 
 nobility, and by the kind Vicar of Grasmere, who 
 took a warm interest in the orphan girls. Their 
 grandmother had given them to understand that 
 they might be as religious as they liked. She 
 would be no let or hindrance to their piety ; but 
 they must ask her no awkward questions. 
 
 * I have read a great deal and thought a great 
 deal, and my ideas are still in a state of transition,' 
 she told Lesbia ; and Lesbia, who was somewhat 
 automatic in her piety, had no desire to know 
 more. 
 
 Lady Maulevrier seldom appeared in the fore- 
 noon. She was an early riser, being too vivid 
 and highly strung a creature, even at sixty-seven 
 years of age, to give way to sloth. She rose at 
 seven, summer and winter, but she spent the 
 early part of the day in her own rooms, reading, 
 writing, giving orders to her housekeeper, and 
 occasionally interviewing Steadman, who, without 
 any onerous duties, was certainly the niost in-
 
 IN THE SOIMER MOEXING. 123 
 
 fluential person in the house. People in the village 
 talked of him, and envied him so good a berth. 
 He had a gentleman's house to live in, and to 
 all appearance lived as a gentleman. This tranquil 
 retirement, free from care or labour, was a rich 
 reward for the faithful service of his youth. And 
 it was known by the better informed among the 
 Grasmere people that Mr. Steadman was saving 
 money, and had shares in the Xorth-Western 
 Eailway. These facts had oozed out of them- 
 selves, as it were. He was not a communicative 
 man, and rarely wasted half an hour at the snug 
 little inn near St. Oswald's Church, amidst the 
 cluster of habitations that was once called Kirktown. 
 He was an unsociable man people said, and thought 
 himself better than Grasmere folk, the lodging- 
 house keepers, and guides, and wrestlers, and the 
 honest friendly souls who were the outcome of 
 that band of Norwegian exiles which found a 
 home in these peaceful vales. 
 
 Miss Miiller, more commonly known as Fraulein, 
 officiated at breakfast. She never appeared at the 
 board when Lady Maulevrier was present, but in
 
 124 IN THE SUMMER MORNING. 
 
 her ladyship's absence Miss MuUer was guardian 
 of the proprieties. She was a stout, kindly creature, 
 and by no means a formidable dragon. When 
 the gong sounded, John Hammond went into the 
 dining-room, where he found Miss Miiller seated 
 alone in front of the urn. 
 
 He bowed, quick to read ' governess ' or * com- 
 panion ' in the lady's appearance ; and she bowed. 
 
 ' I hope you have had a nice walk ? ' she said. 
 * I saw you from my bedroom window.* 
 
 ' Did you ? Then I suppose yours is one of 
 the few windows which look into that curious 
 old quadrangle ? ' 
 
 ' No, there are no windows looking into the 
 quadrangle. Those that were in the original plan 
 of the house were walled up at her ladyship's 
 orders, to keep out the cold winds which sweep 
 down from the hills in winter and early spring, 
 when the edge of Loughrigg Fell is white with 
 snow. My window looks into the gardens, and 
 I saw you there with his lordship and Lady Mary.' 
 
 Lady Lesbia came in at this moment, and 
 saluted Mr. Hammond with a haughty inclination
 
 IN THE SUMMER MORNING. 125 
 
 of her beautiful head. She looked lovelier in 
 her simple morning gown of pale blue cambric 
 than in her more elaborate toilette of last evening ; 
 such purity of complexion, such lustrous eyes, the 
 perfect untarnished beauty of youth, breathing the 
 delicate freshness of a newly-opened flower. She 
 might be as scornful as she pleased, yet he could 
 •not withhold his admiration. He was inclined to 
 admire a woman who kept him at a distance ; 
 for the general bent of young women now-a-days 
 is otherwise. 
 
 Maulevrier and Mary came in, and everyone 
 sat down to breakfast. Lady Lesbia unbent a 
 little presently, and smiled upon the stranger. 
 There was a relief in a stranger's presence. He 
 talked of new things, places and people she had 
 never seen. She brightened and became quite 
 friendly, deigned to invite the expression of Mr. 
 Hammond's opinions upon music and art, and after 
 breakfast allowed him to follow her into the 
 drawing-room, and to linger there fascinated for 
 half an hour, looking over her newest books and 
 her last batch of music from the circulating
 
 126 IN THE SUMMER MORNING. 
 
 library, but looking most of all at ber, wbile 
 Maulevrier and Mary were loafing on tbe lawn 
 outside. 
 
 *Wbat are you going to do witb yourself tbis 
 morning ? ' asked Maulevrier, appearing suddenly 
 at tbe window. 
 
 'Anytbing you like/ answered Hammond. 
 * Stay, tbere is one pilgrimage I am eager to make. 
 I must see Words w or tb's grave, and Wordswortb's 
 bouse.' 
 
 *You sball see tbem botb, but tbey are in 
 opposite directions — one at your elbow, tbe otber 
 a four mile walk. Wbicb will you see first ? 
 We'll toss for it,' taking a sbilling from a pocket- 
 ful of loose casb, always ready for moments of 
 besitation. * Heads, bouse; tails, grave. Tails it 
 is. Come and bave a smoke, and see tbe poet's 
 grave. Tbe splendour of tbe monument, tbe ex- 
 quisite neatness witb wbicb it is kept, will astound 
 you, considering tbat we live in a period of 
 Words wortb worsbip.', 
 
 Hammond besitated, and looked at Lady Lesbia. 
 
 * Aren't you coming ? ' called Maulevrier from
 
 IN THE SUMMER MORNING. 127 
 
 the lawn. 'It was a fair offer. I've got my 
 cigarette case.* 
 
 * Yes, I'm comiug/ answered the other, with 
 a disappointed air. 
 
 He had hoped that Lesbia would offer to 
 show him the poet's grave. He could not abandon 
 that hope without a struggle. 
 
 *WiU you come with us, Lady Lesbia ? We'U 
 suppress the cigarettes ! ' 
 
 * Thanks, no,' she said, becoming suddenly 
 frigid. 'I am going to practice.' 
 
 *Do you never walk in the morning — on such 
 a_lovely morning as this ? ' 
 
 * Xot very often.' 
 
 She had re-entered those frozen regions 
 from which his attentions had lured her for a 
 little while. She had reminded herseK of the 
 inferior social position of this person, in whose 
 conversation she had allowed herself to be 
 interested. 
 
 * Filons ! ' cried Maulevrier from below, and they 
 went. 
 
 Mary would have very much Liked to go
 
 12S IN THE SUMMER MORNING. 
 
 with them, but she did not want to be intrusive; 
 so she went off to the kennels to see the 
 terriers eat their n^orning and only meal of dog 
 biscuit.
 
 CHAPTER VIIT. 
 
 THERE IS AL^YAYS A SKELETON. 
 
 The two young men strolled through the village, 
 Maulevrier pausing to exchange greetings with 
 almost everyone he met, and so to the rustic 
 churchyard above the beck. 
 
 The beck was swollen with late rains, and was 
 brawling merrily over its stony bed ; the church- 
 yard grass was deep and cool and shadowy under 
 the clustering branches. The poet's tomb was 
 disappointing in its unlovely simplicity, its stern, 
 slatey hue. The plainest granite cross would have 
 satisfied Mr. Hammond, or a cross in pure white 
 marble, with a sculptured lamb at the base. Surely 
 the lamb, emblem at once pastoral and sacred, 
 ought to enter into any monument to Words- 
 worth ; but that grey headstone, with its catalogue 
 of dates, those stern iron railings — were these fit 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 THERE IS ALWAYS A SKELETON. 
 
 memorials of one whose soul so loved nature's love- 
 liness ? 
 
 After Mr. Hammond had seen the little old, 
 old church, and the medallion portrait inside, had 
 seen all that Maulevrier could show him, in fact, 
 the two young men went back to the place of 
 graves, and sat on the low parapet above the 
 beck, smoking their cigarettes, and talking with 
 that perfect unreserve which can only obtain 
 between men who are old and tried friends. They 
 talked, as it was only natural they should talk, of 
 that household at Fellside, where all things were 
 new to John Hammond. 
 
 * You like my sister, Lesbia ? ' said Maulevrier. 
 ' Like her ! well, yes. The difficulty with most 
 
 men must be not to worship her.' 
 
 *Ah, she's not my style. And she's beastly 
 proud.' 
 
 ' A little hauteur gives piquancy to her beauty ; 
 I admire a grand woman.' 
 
 * So do I in a picture. Titian's Queen of 
 Cyprus, or any party of that kind ; but for flesh 
 and blood I like humility — a woman who knows
 
 THERE IS ALWAYS A SKELETON. 131 
 
 she is human, and not infallible, and only just a 
 little better than you or me. When I choose a 
 wife, she will be no such example of cultivated 
 perfection as my sister Lesbia. I want no goddess, 
 but a nice little womanly woman, to jog along the 
 rough and tumble road of life with me.' 
 
 *Lady Maulevrier's influence, no doubt, has in 
 a great measure determined the bent of your 
 sister's character : and from what you have told me 
 about her ladyship, I should think a fixed idea of 
 her own superiority would be inevitable in any 
 girl trained by her.' 
 
 'Yes, she is a proud woman — a proud, hard 
 woman— and she has steeped Lesbia's mind in all 
 her own pet ideas and prejudices. Yet, God knows, 
 we have little reason to hold our heads high,' said 
 Maulevrier, with a gloomy look. 
 
 John Hammond did not reply to this remark : 
 perhaps there was some difficulty for a man situated 
 as he was in finding a fit reply. He smoked in 
 silence, looking down at the pure swift waters of 
 the Eotha tumbling over its craggy bed. 
 
 ' Doesn't somebody say there is always a skele-
 
 132 THERE IS ALWAYS A SKELETON. 
 
 ton in the cupboard, and the nobler and more 
 ancient the race the bigger the skeleton/ said 
 Maulevrier, with a philosophical air. 
 
 * Yes, your family secret is an attribute of 
 a fine old race. The Pelopidse, for instance — in 
 their case it was not a single skeleton, but a whole 
 charnel house. I don't think your skeleton need 
 trouble you, Maulevrier. It belongs to the 
 remote past.' 
 
 * Those things never belong to the past,' said 
 the young man. ' If it were any other kind 
 of taint — profligacy — madness, even — the story of 
 a duel that went very near murder — a runaway 
 wife — a rebellious son — a cruel husband. I have 
 heard such stories hinted at in the records of 
 families. But our story means disgrace. I seldom 
 see strangers putting their heads together at the 
 
 •club without fancying they are telling each other 
 about my grandfather, and pointing me out as 
 the grandson and heir of a thief.' 
 
 * "Why use unduly hard words ? ' 
 
 * Why should I stoop to sophistication, with 
 you, my friend. Dishonesty is dishonesty all the
 
 THEEE IS ALWAYS A SKELETON. 133 
 
 world over : and to plunder Eajahs on a large 
 scale is no less vile than to pick a pocket on 
 Ludgate Hill.' 
 
 * Nothing was ever proved against your grand- 
 father.' 
 
 *'No, he died in the nick of time, and the 
 inquiry was quashed, thanks to the Angersthorpe 
 interest, and my grandmother's cleverness. But 
 if he had lived a few weeks longer England would 
 have rung with the story of his profligacy and 
 dishonour. Some people say he committed 
 suicide in order to escape the inquiry ; but I 
 have heard my mother emphatically deny this. 
 My father told her that he had often talked with 
 the people who kept the little inn where his 
 father died, and they were clear enough in their 
 assertion that the death was a natural death — 
 the sudden collapse of an exhausted constitution.' 
 
 'Was it on account of this scandal that your 
 father spent the best part of his life away from 
 England ? ' Hammond asked, feeling that it was a 
 relief to Maulevrier to talk about this secret 
 burden of his.
 
 134 THERE IS ALWAYS A SKELETON. 
 
 The young Earl was light-hearted and frivolous 
 by nature, yet even he had his graver moments ; 
 and upon this subject of the old Maulevrier 
 scandal he was peculiarly sensitive, perhaps all 
 the more so because his grandmother had never 
 allowed him to speak to her about it, had never 
 satisfied his curiosity upon any details of that 
 painful story. 
 
 * I have very little doubt it was so — though 
 I wasn't old enouc^h when he died to hear as 
 much from his own lips. My father went straight 
 from the University to Vienna, where he began 
 his career in the diplomatic service, and where 
 he soon afterwards married a dowerless English 
 girl of good family. He went to Rio as first secretary 
 and died of fever within seven years of his marriage, 
 leaving a widow and three babies, the youngest in 
 long clothes. Mother and babies all came over to 
 England, and were at once established at Fellside. 
 I can remember the voyage — and I can remember 
 my poor mother, who never recovered the blow of 
 my father's death, and who died in yonder house, 
 after five years of broken health and broken spirits.
 
 THERE IS ALWAYS A SKELETON. 135 
 
 We had no one but the dowager to look to as 
 children — hardly another friend in the world. She 
 did what she liked with us ; she kept the girls as 
 close as nuns, so they have never heard a hint 
 of the old history ; no breath of scandal has reached 
 their ears. But she could not shut me up in a 
 country house for ever, though she did succeed in 
 keeping me away from a public school. The time 
 came when I had to go to the University, and there 
 I heard all that had been said about Lord 
 Maulevrier. The men who told me about the old 
 scandal in a friendly way pretended not to believe 
 it ; but one night, when I had got into a row at a 
 wine-party with a tailor's son, he told me that if 
 his father was a snip my grandfather was a thief, 
 and so he thought himself the bettei* bred of the 
 two. I smashed his nose for him ; but as it was 
 a decided pug before the row began, that hardly 
 squared the matter.' 
 
 * Did you ever hear the exact story ? ' 
 
 * I have heard a dozen stories ; and if only 
 a quarter of them are true my grandfather was 
 a scoundrel. It seems that he was immensely
 
 136 THEEE IS ALWAYS A SKELETON. 
 
 popular for the first year or so of his govern- 
 ment, gave more splendid entertainments than 
 had been given at Madras for half a century 
 before his time, lavished his wealth upon his 
 favourites. Then arose a rumour that the governor 
 was insolvent and harassed by his creditors, 
 and then a new source of wealth seemed to be 
 at his command ; he was more reckless, more 
 princely than «ever : and then, little by little, 
 there arose the suspicion that he was trafficking 
 in English interests, selling his influence to 
 petty princes, winking at those mysterious crimes 
 by which rightful heirs are pushed aside to 
 make room for usurpers. Lastly it became 
 notorious that he was the slave of a wicked 
 woman, false wife, suspected murderess,' whose 
 husband, a native prince, disappeared from the 
 scene just when his existence became perilous 
 to the governor's reputation. According to one 
 version of the story, the scandal of this Eajah's 
 mysterious disappearance, followed not long after 
 by the Eanee's equally mysterious death, was 
 the immediate cause of my grandfather's recall.
 
 THERE IS ALWAYS A SKELETON. 137 
 
 How much, or how little of this story — or other 
 dark stories of the same kiud — is true, whether 
 my grandfather was a consummate scoundrel, or 
 the victim of a baseless slander, — whether he 
 left India a rich man or a poor man, is known 
 to no mortal except Lady Maulevrier, and com- 
 pared with her the Theban Sphinx was a 
 communicative individual.' 
 
 *Let the dead bury their dead,' said Hammond. 
 * Neither you nor your sisters can be the worse 
 for this ancient slander. No doubt every part 
 of the story has been distorted and exaggerated 
 in the telling; and a great deal of it may be 
 pure invention, evolved from the inner conscious- 
 ness of the slanderer. God forbid that any 
 whisper of scandal should ever reach Lady 
 Lesbia's ears.' 
 
 He ignored poor Mary. It was to him as 
 if there were no such person. Her feeble light 
 was extinguished by the radiance of her sister's 
 beauty; her very individuality was annihilated. 
 
 'As for you, dear old fellow,' he said, with 
 warm affection, ' no one will ever think the
 
 138 THERE IS ALWAYS A SKELETON. 
 
 worse of you on account of your grandfather's 
 peccadilloes.' 
 
 *Yes, they will. Hereditary genius is one 
 of our modern crazes. When a man's grand- 
 father was a rogue, there must be a taint in 
 his blood. People don't believe in spontaneous 
 generation, moral or physical, now-a-days. 
 Typhoid breeds typhoid, and typhus breeds typhus, 
 just as dog breeds dog ; and who will believe 
 that a cheat and a liar can be the father of 
 honest men ? ' 
 
 *In that case, knowing what kind of man 
 the grandson is, I will never believe that the 
 grandfather was a rogue/ said Hammond, heartily. 
 
 Maulevrier put out his hand without a word, 
 and it was warmly grasped by his friend. 
 
 'As for her ladyship, I respect and honour 
 her as a woman who has led a life of self- 
 sacrifice, and has worn her pride as an armour,' 
 continued Hammond. 
 
 ' Yes, I believe the dowager's character is 
 rather fine,' said Maulevrier ; ' but she and I have 
 never hit our horses very well together. She
 
 THERE IS ALWAYS A SKELETON. 139 
 
 would have liked such a fellow as you for a 
 grandson, Jack — a man who took high honours 
 at Oxford, and could hold his own against all 
 comers. Such a grandson would have gratified 
 her pride, and would have repaid her for the 
 trouble she has taken in nursing the Maulevrier 
 estate; for however poor a property it was 
 when her husband went to India there is no 
 doubt that it is a very fine estate now, and 
 that the dowager has been the making of it.' 
 
 The two young men strolled up to Easedale 
 Tarn before they went back to Fellside, where 
 Lady Maulevrier received them with a stately 
 graciousness, and where Lady Lesbia unbent 
 considerably at luncheon, and condescended to an 
 animated conversation with her brother's friend. 
 It was such a new thing to have a stranger ' 
 at the family board, a man whose information 
 was well abreast with the march of progress, who 
 could talk eloquently upon every subject which 
 people care to talk about. In this new and 
 animated society Lesbia seemed like an enchanted 
 princess suddenly awakened from a spell-bound
 
 140 THERE IS ALWAYS A SKELETON. 
 
 slumber. Molly looked at her sister with absolute 
 astonishment. Never had she seen her so bright, 
 so beautiful, — no longer a picture or a statue, but 
 a woman warm with the glow of life. 
 
 *No wonder Mr. Hammond admires her,' 
 thought poor Molly, who was quite acute enough 
 to see the stranger's keen appreciation of her 
 sister's charms, and positive indifference towards 
 herself. 
 
 There are some things which women find 
 out by instinct, just as the needle turns towards 
 the magnet. Shut a girl up in a tower till 
 she is eighteen years old, and on the day of 
 her release introduce her to the first man her 
 eyes have ever looked upon, and she will know 
 at a glance whether he admires her. 
 
 After luncheon the four young people started 
 for E3^dal Mount, with Fraulein as chaperon 
 and watch-dog. The girls were both good 
 walkers. Lady Lesbia even, though she looked 
 like a hothouse flower, had been trained to 
 active habits, could walk and ride, and play 
 tennis, and climb a hill as became a mountain-
 
 THERE IS ALWAYS A SKELETON. 141 
 
 bred damsel Molly, feeling that her conversa- 
 tional powers were not appreciated by her 
 brother's friend, took half a dozen dogs for 
 company, and with three fox-terriers, a little 
 Yorkshire dog, a colley and an otter-hound, 
 was at no loss for society on the road, more 
 especially as Maulevrier gave her most of his 
 company, and entertained her with an account 
 of his Black Forest adventures, and all the fine 
 things he had said to the fair-haired, blue- 
 eyed Baden girls, who had sold him photographs 
 or wild strawberries, or had awakened the echoes 
 of the hills with the music of their rustic 
 flutes. 
 
 Traulein was perfectly aware that her 
 mission upon this particular afternoon was not 
 to let Lady Lesbia out of her sight for an 
 instant, to hear every word the young lady 
 said, and every word Mr. Hammond addressed 
 to her. She had received no specific instructions 
 from Lady Maulevrier. They were not necessary, 
 for the Eraulein knew her ladyship's intentions 
 with regard to her elder granddaughter, — knew
 
 142 THERE IS ALWAYS A SKELETON. 
 
 them, at least, so far as that Lesbia was 
 intended to make a brilliant marriage ; and 
 she knew, therefore, that the presence of this 
 handsome and altogether attractive young man 
 was to the last degree obnoxious to the dowager. 
 She was obliged to be civil to him for her 
 nephew's sake, and she was too wise to let 
 Lesbia imagine him dangerous : but the fact 
 that he was dangerous was obvious, and it was 
 Fraulein's duty to protect her employer's interests. 
 
 Everybody knew Lord Maulevrier, so there 
 was no difficulty about getting admission to 
 Wordsworth's garden, and Wordsworth's house, 
 and after Mr. Hammond and his companions 
 had explored these, they went back to the shores 
 of the little lake, and climbed that rocky 
 eminence upon which the poet used to sit, above 
 the placid waters of silvery Rydal. It is a 
 lovely spot, and that narrow lake, so poor a 
 thing were magnitude the gauge of beauty, had 
 a soft and pensive loveliness in the clear 
 afternoon light. 
 
 ' Poor Wordsworth ! ' sighed Lesbia, as she
 
 THERE IS ALWAYS A SKELETON. 143 
 
 stood on the grassy crag looking down on the 
 shining water, broken in the foreground by fringes 
 of rushes, and the rich luxuriance of water-lilies. 
 ' Is it not pitiable to think of the years he spent 
 in this monotonous place, without any society 
 worth speaking of, with only the shabbiest 
 collection of books, with hardly any interest in 
 life except the sky, and the hiUs, and the 
 peasantry ? ' 
 
 ' I think Wordsworth's was an essentially 
 happy life, in spite of his narrow range,' 
 answered Hammond. ' You, with your ardent 
 youth and vivid desire for a life of action, 
 cannot imagine the calm blisses of reverie and 
 constant communion with nature. Wordsworth 
 had a thousand companions you and I would 
 never dream of ; for him every flower that 
 grows was an individual existence — almost a 
 soul.' 
 
 *It was a mild kind of lunacy, an everlast- 
 ing opium dream without the opium; but I am 
 grateful to him for living such a life, since it 
 has bequeathed us some exquisite poetry,' said
 
 144 THERE IS ALWAYS A SKELETON. 
 
 Lesbia, who had been too carefully cultured to 
 fleer or flout at Wordsworth. 
 
 ' I do believe there's an otter just under 
 that bank,' cried Molly, who had been watching 
 the obvious excitement of her bandy-legged hound ; 
 and she rushed down to the brink of the water, 
 leapiug lightly from stone to stone, and inciting 
 the hound to business. 
 
 ' Let him alone, can't you,' roared Maulevrier ; 
 * leave him in peace till he's wanted. If you 
 disturb him now he'll desert his holt, and we 
 may have a blank day. The hounds are to be 
 out to-morrow.' 
 
 * I may go with you ? ' asked Mary, eagerly. 
 
 *Well, yes, I suppose you'll want to be in it.' 
 
 Molly and her brother went on an exploring 
 ramble along the edge of the water towards 
 Ambleside, leaving John Hammond in Lesbia's 
 company, but closely guarded by Miss M tiller. 
 They went to look at Nab Cottage, where poor 
 Hartley Coleridge ended his brief and clouded 
 days; and they had gone some way upon their 
 homeward walk before they were rejoined by
 
 THERE IS ALWAYS A SKELETON. 145 
 
 Maulevrier and Mary, the damsel's kilted skirt 
 considerably the worse for mud and mire. 
 
 * What would grandmother say if she were 
 to see you ? ' exclaimed Lesbia, looking con- 
 temptuously at the muddy petticoat. 
 
 'I am not going to let her see me, so she 
 will say nothing/ cried Mary, and then she called 
 to the dogs, * Ammon, Agag, Angelina ; ' and the 
 three fox-terriers flew along the road, falling 
 over themselves in the swiftness of their flight, 
 darting, and leaping, and scrambling over each 
 other, and offering the spectators the most intense 
 example of joyous animal life. 
 
 The coUey was far up on the hill-side, and the 
 otter-hound was still hunting the water, but the 
 terriers never went out of Mary's sight. They 
 looked to her to take the initiative in all their sports. 
 
 They were back at Fellside in time for a 
 very late tea. Lady Maulevrier was waiting for 
 them in the drawing-room. 
 
 'Oh, grandmother, why did you not take your 
 tea ! ' exclaimed Lesbia, looking really distressed . 
 ' It is six o'clock.' 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 Id6 THERE IS ALWAYS A SKELETON. 
 
 'I am used to have you at home to hand 
 me my cup,' replied the dowager, with a touch 
 of reproachfulness. 
 
 'I am so sorry,' said Lesbia, sitting down 
 before the tea-table, and beginning her accus- 
 tomed duty. * Indeed, dear grandmother, I had 
 no idea it was so late ; but it was such a lovely 
 afternoon, and Mr. Hammond is so interested in 
 everything connected with Wordsworth " 
 
 She was looking her loveliest at this moment, 
 all that was softest in her nature called forth 
 by her desire to please her grandmother, whom 
 she really loved. She hung over Lady Maulevrier's 
 chair, attending to her small wants, and seem- 
 ing scarcely to remember the existence of anyone 
 else. In this phase of her character she seemed 
 to Mr. Hammond the perfection of womanly grace. 
 
 Mary had rushed off to her room to change 
 her muddy gown, and came in presently dressed 
 for dinner, looking the picture of innocence. 
 
 John Hammond received his tea-cup from 
 Lesbia's hand, and lingered in the drawing- 
 room talking to the dowager and her grand-
 
 THERE IS AL"\VATS A SICELETON. 147 
 
 daughters till it was time to dress. Lady 
 Maule^Tier found herself favourably impressed by 
 him in spite of her prejudices. It was very 
 provoking of Maulevrier to have brought such a 
 man to Fellside. His very merits were objection- 
 able. She tried with exquisite art to draw him 
 into some revealment as to his family and ante- 
 cedents : but he evaded every attempt of that 
 kind. It was too evident that he was a self- 
 made man, whose intellect and good looks 
 were his only fortune. It was criminal in 
 Maule\TJer to have brought such a person to 
 Fellside. Her ladyship began to think seriously 
 of sending the two girls to St. Bees or Tynemouth 
 for change of air, in charge of Fraulein. But any 
 sudden proceeding of that kind would inevitably 
 awaken Lesbia's suspicions ; and there is nothing 
 so fatal to a woman's peace as this idea of danger. 
 No, the peril must be faced. She could only 
 hope that Maulevrier would soon tire of Fellside. 
 A week's Westmoreland weather — grey skies and 
 long days of perpetual rain, would send these 
 young men away.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A CRY IN THE DARKNESS. 
 
 The peril had to be faced, for the weather did not 
 favour Lady Maulevrier's hopes. Westmoreland 
 skies forgot to shed their accustomed showers. 
 Westmoreland hills seemed to have lost their 
 power of drawing down the rain. That August 
 was a lovely month, and the young people at 
 Tellside revelled in ideal weather. Maulevrier 
 took his friend everywhere — by hill and stream 
 and force and gill — to all those chosen spots 
 which make the glory of the Lake country—on 
 Windermere and Thirlmere, away through the 
 bleak pass of Kirkstone to Ullswater — on driving 
 excursions, and on boating excursions, and pedes- 
 trian rambles, which latter the homely-minded 
 Hammond seemed to like best of all, for he was 
 a splendid walker, and loved the freedom of a
 
 A. CRY IN THE DAEKNESS. 149 
 
 mountain ramble, the liberty to pause and loiter 
 and waste an hour at will, without being account- 
 able to anybody's coachman, or responsible for the 
 well-being of anybody's horses. 
 
 On some occasions the two girls andj Miss 
 Miiller were of the party, and then it seemed to 
 John Hammond as if nothing were needed to 
 complete the glory of earth and sky. There were 
 other days — rougher journeys — when the men 
 went alone, and there were days when Lady Mary 
 stole away from her books and music, and all 
 those studies which she was supposed still to be 
 pursuing — no longer closely supervised by her 
 governess, but on parole, as it were— and went 
 with her brother and his friend across the hills 
 and far away. Those were happy days for Mary, 
 for it was always delight to her to be with 
 Maulevrier ; yet she had a profound conviction of 
 John Hammond's indifference, kind and courteous 
 as he was in all his dealings with her, and a 
 sense of her own inferiority, of her own humble 
 charms and little power to please, which was so 
 acute as to be almost pain. One day this keen
 
 150 A CRY IN THE DARKNESS. 
 
 sense of humiliation broke from her unawares in 
 her talk with her brother, as they two sat on a 
 broad heathy slope face to face with one of the 
 Langdale pikes, and with a deep valley at their 
 feet, while John Hammond was climbing from rock 
 to rock in the gorge on their right, exploring the 
 beauties of Dungeon Ghyll. 
 
 * I wonder whether he thinks me very ugly ? ' 
 said Mary, with her hands clasped upon her knees, 
 her eyes fixed on Wetherlam, upon whose steep 
 brow a craggy mass of brown rock clothed with 
 crimson heather stood out from the velvety green 
 of the hill-side. 
 
 * Who thinks you ugly ? * 
 
 *Mr. Hammond. I'm sure he does. I am so 
 sunburnt and so horrid ! * 
 
 *But you are not ugly. Why, Molly, what 
 are you dreaming about ? ' 
 
 *0h, yes, I am ugly. I may not seem so to 
 you, perhaps, because you are used to me ; but 
 I know he must think me very plain compared 
 with Lesbia, whom he admires so much.' 
 
 *Yes, he admires Lesbia. There is no doubt 
 of that/
 
 A CRY IN THE DAEKNESS. 151 
 
 * And I know he thinks me plain,' said Molly, 
 contemplating Wetherlam with sorrowful eyes, as 
 if the sequence were inevitable. 
 
 ' My dearest girl, what nonsense ! Plain, for- 
 sooth ? Ugly, quotha ? Why, there are not a 
 finer pair of eyes in Westmoreland than my 
 Molly's, or a prettier smile, or whiter teeth.' 
 
 * But all the rest is horrid,' said Mary, in- 
 tensely in earnest. ' I am sunburnt, freckled, and 
 altogether odious — like a haymaker or a market 
 woman. Grandmother has said so often enough, 
 and I know it is the truth. I can see it in 
 Mr. Hammond's manner.* 
 
 * What ! freckles and sunburn, and the hay- 
 maker, and all that ? ' cried Maulevrier, laughing. 
 ' What an expressive manner Jack's must be, if 
 it can convey all that — like Lord Burleigh's nod, 
 by Jove. Why, what a goose you are, Mary. 
 Jack thinks you a very nice girl, and a very 
 pretty girl, I'll be bound ; but aren't you clever 
 enough to understand that when a man is over 
 head and ears in love with one woman, he is 
 apt to seem just a little indifferent to all the
 
 lo2 A CRY IN THE DAEKNESS. 
 
 other women in tlie world? and there is no 
 doubt Jack is desperately in love with Lesbia.' 
 *You ought not to let him be in love with 
 her/ protested Mary, ' You know it can only 
 lead to his unhappiness. You must know what 
 grandmother is, and how she has made up her 
 mind that Lesbia is to marry some great person. 
 You ought not to have brought Mr. Hammond 
 here. It is like letting him into a trap.' 
 
 ' Do you think it was wrong ? ' asked her 
 brother, smiling at her earnestness. * I should 
 be very sorry if poor Jack should come to grief. 
 But still, if Lesbia likes him — which I think 
 she does — we ought to be able to talk over 
 the dowager.' 
 
 ' Never,' cried Mary. * Grandmother would 
 never give way. You have no idea how am- 
 bitious she is. Why, once when Lesbia was in 
 a poetical mood, and said she would marry the 
 man she liked best in the world, if he were a 
 pauper, her ladyship flew into a terrible passion, 
 and told her she would renounce her, that she 
 would curse her, if she were to marry beneath
 
 A CRY IN THE DAEKNESS. lo3 
 
 her, or marry without her grandmother's con- 
 sent.' 
 
 'Hard lines for Hammond/ said Maulevrier, 
 rather lightly. * Then I suppose we must give up 
 the idea of a match between him and Lesbia.' 
 
 'You ought not to have brought him here/ 
 retorted Mary. ' You had better invent some 
 plan for sending him away. If he stay it will 
 be only to break his heart.' 
 
 'Dear child, men's hearts do not break so 
 easily. I have fancied that mine was broken 
 more than once in my life, yet it is sound 
 enough, I assure you.' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' sighed Mary, ' but you are not like 
 him ; wounds do not go so deep with you.' 
 
 The subject of their conversation came out 
 of the rocky cleft in the hills as Mary spoke. 
 She saw his hat appearing out of the gorge, 
 and then the man himself emerged, a tall well- 
 built figure, clad in brown tweed, coming towards 
 them, with sketch-book and colour-box in his 
 pocket. He had been making what he called 
 memoranda of the waterfall, a stone or two
 
 154 A CRY IN THE DAEKNESS. 
 
 here, a cluster of ferns there, or. a tree torn 
 up by the roots, and yet green and living, hang- 
 ing across the torrent, a rude natural bridge. 
 
 This round by the Langdale Pikes and Dungeon 
 Ghyll was one of their best days ; or, at least, Molly 
 and her brother thought so ; for to those two the 
 presence of Lesbia and her chaperon was always 
 a restraint. 
 
 Mary could walk twice as far as her elder sister, 
 and revelled in hill-side paths and all manner of 
 rough places. They ordered their luncheon at 
 the inn below the waterfall, and had it carried 
 up on to the furzy slope in front of Wetherlam, 
 where they could eat and drink and be merry to 
 the music of the force as it came down from the 
 hills behind them, while the lights and shadows 
 came and went upon yonder rugged brow, now 
 grey in the shadow, now ruddy in the sunshine. 
 
 Mary was as gay as a bird during that rough 
 
 and ready luncheon. No one would have suspected 
 
 her uneasiness about John Hammond's peril or 
 
 her own plainness. She might let her real self 
 
 •appear to her brother, who had been her trusted
 
 A CRY IN THE DARKXESS. 155 
 
 friend and father confessor from her babyhood : 
 but she was too thorough a woman to let Mr. 
 Hammond discover the depth of her sympathy, 
 the tenderness of her compassion for his woes. 
 Later, as they were walking home across the hills, 
 by Great Langdale and Little Langdale, and Fox 
 Howe and Loughrigg Fell, she fell behind a few 
 paces with Maulevrier, and said to him very 
 earnestly — 
 
 * You won't tell, will you, dear ? ' 
 *Tell what?' he asked, staring at her. 
 
 * Don't tell Mr. Hanimond what I said about 
 his thinking me ugly. He might want to apologise 
 to me, and that would be too humiliating. I was 
 very childish to say such a silly thing.' 
 
 * Undoubtedly you were.' 
 
 * And you won't tell him ? ' 
 
 *TeU him anything that would degrade my 
 Mary ? Assail her dignity by so much as a breath ? 
 Sooner would I have this tongue torn out with 
 red-hot pincers.' 
 
 On the next day, and the next, sunshine and 
 summer skies still prevailed; but Mr. Hammond
 
 156 A CRY IN THE DARKNESS. 
 
 did not seem to care for rambling far afield. He 
 preferred loitering about in the village, rowing 
 on the lake, reading in the garden, and playing 
 lawn tennis. He had only inclination for those 
 amusements which kept him within a stone's 
 throw of Fellside ; and Mary knew that this 
 disposition had arisen in his mind since Lesbia 
 had withdrawn herself from all share in their 
 excursions. Lesbia had not been rude to her 
 brother or her brother's friend; she had declined 
 their invitations with smiles and sweetness ; but 
 there was always some reason— a new song to be 
 practised, a new book to be read, a letter to be 
 written — why she should not go for drives or 
 walks or steamboat trips with Maulevrier and his 
 friend. 
 
 So Mr. Hammond suddenly found out that he 
 had seen all that was worth seeing in the Lake 
 country, and that there was nothing so enjoyable 
 as the placid idleness of Fellside ; and at Fellside 
 Lady Lesbia could not always avoid him, without 
 a too-marked intention, so he tasted the sweetness 
 of her society to a much greater extent than was
 
 A CRY IN THE DARKNESS. 157 
 
 good for his peace, if the case were indeed as 
 hopeless as Lady Mary declared. He strolled about 
 the grounds with her ; he drank the sweet melody of 
 her voice in Heine's tenderest ballads; he read 
 to her on the sunlit lawn in the lazy afternoon 
 hours ; he played billiards with her ; he was her 
 faithful attendant at afternoon tea ; he gave himseK 
 up to the study of her character, which, to his 
 charmed eyes, seemed the perfection of pure and 
 placid womanhood. There might, perhaps, be some 
 lack of passion and of force in this nature, a marked 
 absence of that impulsive feeling which is a charm 
 in some women : but this want was atoned for by 
 sweetness of character, and Mr. Hammond argued 
 that in these calm natures there is often an 
 unsuspected depth, a latent force, a grandeur of 
 soul, which only reveals itself in the great ordeals 
 of life. 
 
 So John Hammond hung about the luxurious 
 drawing-room at Fellside in a manner which hif. 
 friend Maulevrier ridiculed as unmanly. 
 
 ' I had no idea you were such a tame cat,' he 
 said : ' if when we were salmon fishing in Canada
 
 158 A CEY IN THE DAEKNESS. 
 
 anybody had told me you could loll about a 
 drawing-room all day listening to a girl squalling 
 and reading novels, I shouldn't have believed a 
 word of it.' 
 
 *We had plenty of roughing on the shores 
 of the St. Lawrence,' answered Hammond. * Sum- 
 mer idleness in a drawing-room is an agreeable 
 variety.' 
 
 It is not to be supposed that John Hammond's 
 state of mind could long remain unperceived by the 
 keen eyes of the dowager. She saw the gradual 
 dawning of his love, she saw the glow of its 
 meridian. She was pleased to behold this proof of 
 Lesbia's power over the heart of man. So would 
 she conquer the man foredoomed to be her husband 
 when the coming time should bring them together. 
 But agreeable as the fact of this first conquest 
 might be as an evidence of Lesbia's supremacy 
 among women, the situation was not without its 
 peril ; and Lady Maulevrier felt that she could 
 no longer defer the duty of warning her grand- 
 daughter. She had wished, if possible, to treat the 
 thing lightly to the very last, so that Lesbia should
 
 A CKY IN THE DARKNESS. 159 
 
 never know there had been danger. She had told 
 her, a few days ago, that those drives and walks 
 with the two young men were undignified, even 
 although guarded by the Fraulein's substantial 
 presence. 
 
 *You are making yourself too much a com- 
 panion to Maulevrier and his friend,' said the 
 dowager. * If you do not take care you will 
 grow like Mary.' 
 
 'I would do anything in the world to avoid 
 tliatj' replied Lesbia. * Our walks and drives have 
 been very pleasant. Mr. Hammond is extremely 
 clever, and can talk about everything.' 
 
 Her colour heightened ever so little as she 
 spoke of him, an indication duly observed by Lady 
 Maulevrier. 
 
 * No doubt the man is clever ; all adventurers 
 are clever ; and you have sense enough to see that 
 this man is an adventurer — a mere sponge and 
 toady of Maulevrier's.' 
 
 * There is nothing of the sponge or the toady 
 in his manner,' protested Lady Lesbia, with a still 
 deeper blush, the warm glow of angry feeling.
 
 160 A CRY IN THE DAEKNESS. 
 
 *My dear child, what do you know of such 
 people — or of the atmosphere in which they are 
 generated? The sponge and toady of to-day is not 
 the clumsy fawning wretch you have read about 
 in old-fashioned novels. He can flatter adroitly, 
 and feed upon his friends, and yet maintain a show 
 of manhood and independence. I'll wager Mr. 
 Hammond's trip to Canada did not cost him six- 
 pence, and that he hardly opened his purse all 
 the time he was in Germany.' 
 
 * If my brother wants the company of a friend 
 who is much poorer than himself, he must pay for 
 it,' argued Lesbia. 'I think Maulevrier is lucky 
 to have such a companion as Mr. Hammond.' 
 
 Yet, even while she so argued. Lady Lesbia felt 
 in some manner humiliated by the idea that this 
 man who so palpably worshipped her was too poor 
 to pay his own travelling expenses. 
 
 Poets and philosophers may say what they will 
 about the grandeur of plain living and high think- 
 ing ; but a young woman thinks better of the plain 
 liver who is not compelled to plainness by want of 
 cash. The idea of narrow means, of dependence
 
 A CEY IX THE DARKXESS. 161 
 
 upon the capricious generosity of a wealthy friend 
 is not without its humiliating influence. Lesbia 
 was barely civil to Mr. Hammond that evening, 
 when he praised her singing ; and she refused to 
 join in a four game proposed by Maulevrier, albeit she 
 and Mr. Hammond had beaten Mary and Maulevrier 
 the evening before, with much exultant hilarity. 
 
 Hammond had been at Fellside nearly a month, 
 and Maulevrier was beginning to talk about a move 
 further northward. There was a grouse moor in 
 Argyleshire which the two young men talked about 
 as belonging to some unnamed friend of the Earl's, 
 which they had thought of shooting over before the 
 grouse season was ended. 
 
 ' Lord Hart Held has property in Argyleshire,' said 
 the dowager, when they talked of these shootings. 
 ' Do you know his estate, Mr. Hammond ? ' 
 
 ' Hammond knows that there is such a place, 
 I daresay,' replied Maidevrier, replying for his 
 friend. 
 
 ' But you do not know Lord Hartfield, perhaps,' 
 said her ladyship, not arrogantly, but still in a 
 tone which implied her conviction that John Ham- 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 A CEY m THE DARKNESS. 
 
 mond would not be hand-in-glove with earls, in 
 Scotland or elsewhere. 
 
 * Oh yes, I know him by sight ; everyone in 
 Argyleshire knows him by sight.' 
 
 ' Naturally. A young man in his position must 
 be widely known. Is he popular ? ' 
 ' Fairly so.' 
 
 * His father and I were friends many years ago.' 
 said Lady Maulevrier, with a faint sigli. ' Have 
 you ever heard if he resembles his father ? ' 
 
 ' I believe not. I am told he is like his mother's 
 family.' 
 
 * Then he ouglit to be handsome : Lady Florence 
 Ilmington was a famous beauty.' 
 
 They were sitting in the drawing-room after 
 dinner, the room dimly lighted with darkly-shaded 
 lamps, the windows wide open to the summer 
 sky and moonlit lake. In that subdued light Lady 
 Maulevrier looked a woman in the prime of life. 
 The classical modelling of her features and the 
 delicacy of her complexion were unimpaired by 
 time, while those traces of thought and care which 
 gave age to her face in the broad light of day
 
 A CRY IN THE DAEKNESS. 163 
 
 were invisible at niglit. John Hammond con- 
 templated that refined and placid countenance 
 with profound admiration. He remembered how 
 her ladyship's grandson had compared her with 
 the Sphinx ; and it seemed to him to-night, as 
 he studied her proud and tranquil beauty, that 
 there was indeed something of the mysterious, 
 the unreadable in that countenance, and that 
 beneath its heroic calm there might be the ashes 
 of tragic passion, the traces of a life-long struggle 
 with Fate. That such a woman, so beautiful, so 
 gifted, so well fitted to shine and govern in the 
 great world, should have been content to live a 
 long life of absolute seclusion in this remote 
 valley was in itself a social mystery which must 
 needs set an observant young man wondering. It 
 was all very well to say that Lady Maulevrier 
 loved a country life, that she had made Fellside 
 her earthly Paradise, and had no desire beyond 
 it. The fact remained that it was not in Lady 
 Maulevrier's temperament to be satisfied with 
 such an existence ; that falcon eye was never 
 meant to gaze for ever upon one narrow range
 
 16J: A CRY IN THE DAKKNESS. 
 
 of mountain and lake ; that lip was meant to 
 speak among the great ones of the world. 
 
 Lady Maulevrier was particularly gracious to 
 her grandson's friend this evening. Maulevrier 
 spoke so decisively about a speedy migration north- 
 ward, seemed so inclined to regret the time 
 wasted since the twelfth of the month, that 
 she thought the danger was past, and she could 
 afford to be civil. She really liked the young 
 man, had no doubt in her own mind that he 
 was a gentleman in the highest and broadest 
 sense of the word, but not in the sense which 
 made him an eligible husband for either of her 
 granddaughters. 
 
 Lesbia was in a pensive mood this evening. 
 She sat in the verandah, looking dreamily at 
 the lake, and at Fairfield yonder, a broad green 
 slope, silvered with moonlight, and seeming to 
 stretch far away into unfathomable distance. 
 
 If one could but take one's lover by the hand 
 and go wandering over those mystic moonlit 
 slopes into some new unreal world where it would 
 not matter whether "a man were rich or poor,
 
 A CKY IN THE DAPJvXESS. 165 
 
 high-born or low-born, where there should be no 
 such things as rank and state to be won 
 or lost ! Lesbia felt to-night as if she would 
 like to live out her life in dreamland. Keality 
 was too hard, too much set round by difficulties 
 and sacrifices. 
 
 While Lesbia was losing herself in that dream- 
 world, Lady Maulevrier unbent considerably to 
 John Hammond, and talked to him with more 
 appearance of interest in his actual self, and in 
 his own affairs, than she had manifested hitherto, 
 although she had been uniformly courteous. 
 
 She asked him his plans for the future — had 
 he chosen a profession? 
 
 He told her that he had not. He meant to 
 devote himself to literature and politics. 
 
 * Is not that rather vague ? ' inquired her 
 ladyship. 
 
 'Everything is vague at first.' 
 
 'But literature now — as an amusement, no 
 doubt, it is delightful— but as a profession — does 
 literature ever pay ? ' 
 
 ' There have been such cases.*
 
 166 A CRY IN THE DARKNESS. 
 
 'Yes, I suppose so. Walter Scott, Gibbon, 
 Macaulay, Froude, those made money no doubt. 
 But there is a suspicion of hopelessness in the 
 idea of a young man starting in life intending 
 to earn his bread by literature. One remembers 
 Chatterton. I should have thought that in your 
 case the law or the church would have been 
 better. In the latter Maulevrier might have 
 been useful to you. He is patron of three or 
 four livings.' 
 
 'You are too good even to think of such a 
 thing,' said Hammond ; 'but I have set my heart 
 upon a political career. I must swim or sink in 
 that sea.' 
 
 Lady Maulevrier looked at him with a com- 
 passionate smile. Poor young man ! No doubt 
 he thought himself a genius, and that doors which 
 had remained shut to everybody else would turn on 
 their hinges directly he knocked at them. She 
 was sincerely sorry for him. Young, clever, 
 enthusiastic, and doomed to bitterest disappoint- 
 ment. 
 
 * You have parents, perhaps, who are ambitious
 
 A CRY IN THE DARKNESS. 167 
 
 for you — a mother who thinks her son a heaven- 
 born statesman ! ' said her ladyship, kindly. 
 
 'Alas, no! that grand incentive to ambition is 
 wanting in my case. I have neither father nor 
 mother livincj.' 
 
 'That is very sad. Xo doubt that fact has 
 been a bond of sympathy between you and 
 ]\Iaulevrier ? ' 
 
 * I believe it has.' 
 
 ' Well, I hope Providence will smile upon 
 your path.' 
 
 ' Come what may, I shall never forget the 
 happy weeks I have spent at Fellside,' said 
 Hammond, 'or your ladyship's gracious hospi- 
 tality.' 
 
 He took up the beautiful hand, white to trans- 
 parency, showing the delicate tracing of blue 
 veins, and pressed his lips upon it in chivalrous 
 worship of age and womanly dignity. 
 
 Lady jMaulevrier smiled upon him with her calm 
 grave smile. She would have liked to say, 'You 
 shall be welcome again at Fellside,' but she felt 
 that the man was danfrerous. Xot while Lesbia
 
 168 A CRY IN THE DARKXESS. 
 
 remained single could she court his company. If 
 Maulevrier brought him she must tolerate his 
 presence, but she would do nothing to invite 
 that danger. 
 
 There was no music that evening. Maulevrier 
 and Mary were playing billiards; Friiulein Miiller 
 was sitting in her corner working at a high- art 
 counterpane. Lesbia came in from the verandah 
 presently, and sat on a low stool by her grand- 
 mother's armchair, and talked to her in soft, 
 cooing accents, inaudible to John Hammond, 
 who sat a little way off turning the leaves of 
 the Contemporary 'Review : and this went on till 
 eleven o'clock, the regular hour for retiring, when 
 Mary came in from the billiard-room, and told 
 Mr. Hammond that Maulevrier was waiting for 
 a smoke and a talk. Then candles were 
 lighted, and the ladies all departed, leaving John 
 Hammond and his friend with the house to 
 themselves. 
 
 They played a fifty game, and smoked and 
 talked till the stroke of midnight, by which time 
 it seemed as if there were not another creature
 
 A CKY IN THE DARKNESS. 169 
 
 awake in the house. Maulevrier put out the 
 lamps ill the billiard-room, and then they went 
 softly up the shadowy staircase, and parted in 
 the gallery, the Earl going one way, and his 
 friend the other. 
 
 The house was large and roomy, spread over 
 a good deal of ground. Lady Maulevrier having 
 insisted upon there being only two stories. The 
 servants' rooms were all in a side wing, corre- 
 sponding with those older buildings which had 
 been given over to Steadman and his wife, and 
 among the villagers of Grasmere enjoyed the 
 reputation of being haunted. A wide panelled 
 corridor extended from one end of the house to 
 the other. It was lighted from the roof, and 
 served as a gallery for the display of a small 
 and choice collection of modern art, which her 
 ladyship had acquired during her long residence 
 at Fellside. Here, too, in Sheraton cabinets, 
 were those treasures of old English china which 
 lady Maulevrier had inherited from past genera- 
 tions. 
 
 Her ladyship's rooms were situated at the
 
 170 A CRY IN THE DARKNESS. 
 
 southern end of this corridor, her bedchamber 
 being at the extreme end of the house, with 
 windows commanding two magnificent views, one 
 across the lake and the village of Grasmere to 
 the green slopes of Fairfield, the other along the 
 valley towards Rydal Water. This and the 
 adjoining boudoir were the prettiest rooms in 
 the house, and no one wondered that her lady- 
 ship should spend so much of her life in the 
 luxurious seclusion of her own apartments. 
 
 John Hammond went to his room, which was 
 on the same side of the house as her ladyship's ; 
 but he was in no disposition for sleep. He 
 opened the casement, and stood looking out upon 
 the moonlit lake and the quiet village, where one 
 solitary light shone like a faint star in a village 
 window, amidst that little cluster of houses by 
 the old church, once known as Kirktown. Beyond 
 the village rose gentle slopes, crowned with foliage, 
 and above those fertile wooded crests appeared 
 the grand outline of the hills, surrounding and 
 guarding Easedale's lovely valley, as the hills 
 surrounded Jerusalem of old.
 
 A CKY IX THE DARKNESS. 171 
 
 He looked at that delicious landscape with 
 eyes that hardly saw its beauty. The image 
 of a lovely face came bet\veen him and all the 
 glory of earth and sky. 
 
 * I think she likes me,' he was saying to him- 
 self. 'There was a look in her eyes to-night 
 that told me the time was come when ' 
 
 The thought died unfinished in his brain. 
 Through the silent house, across the placid lake, 
 there rang a wild, shrill cry that froze the blood 
 in his veins, or seemed so to freeze it — a shriek 
 of agony, and in a woman's voice. It rang out 
 from an open window near his own. The sound 
 seemed close to his ear.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 *0 BITTERNESS OF THINGS TOO SWEET.' 
 
 Only for an instant did John Hammond stand 
 motionless after hearing that unearthly shriek. 
 In the next moment he moved into the corridor, 
 expecting to hear the sound repeated, to find 
 himself face to face with some midnight robber, 
 whose presence had caused that wild cry of alarm. 
 But in the corridor all was silent as the grave. 
 No open door suggested the entrance of an 
 intruder. The dimly-burning lamps showed only 
 the long empty gallery. He stood still for a 
 few moments listening for voices, footsteps, the 
 rustle of garments : but there was nothing. 
 
 Nothing? Yes, a groan, a long-drawn moan- 
 ing sound as of infinite pain. This time there 
 was no doubt as to the direction from which the 
 sound came. It came from Lady Maulevrier's
 
 '0 BITTERNESS OF THINGS TOO SWEET.' 173 
 
 room. The door was ajar, and he could see the 
 faint light of the night-lamp within. That 
 fearful cry had come from her ladyship's room. 
 She was in peril or pain of some kind. 
 
 Convinced of this one fact, Mr. Hammond 
 had not an instant's hesitation. He pushed open 
 the door without compunction, and entered the 
 room, prepared to behold some tenible scene. 
 
 But all was quiet as death itself. Xo mid- 
 night burglar had violated the sanctity of Lady 
 Maulevrier's apartment. The soft, steady light 
 of the night-lamp shone on the face of the 
 sleeper. Yes, all was quiet in the room, but not 
 in that sleeper's soul. The broad white brow 
 was painfully contracted, the lips drawn down and 
 distorted, the delicate hand, half hidden by the 
 deep Valenciennes ruffle, clutched the coverlet 
 with convulsive force. Sigh after sigh burst from 
 the agitated breast. John Hammond gazed upon 
 the sleeper in an agony of apprehension, uncertain 
 what to do. "Was this dreaming only ; or was it 
 some kind of seizure which called for medical 
 aid ? At her ladyship's age the idea of paralysis
 
 174 '0 BITTERNESS OF THINGS TOO SWEET.' 
 
 was not too improbable for belief. If this was a*- 
 dream, then indeed the visions of Lady Maulevrier's 
 head upon her bed were more terrible than the 
 dreams of common mortals. 
 
 In any case Mr. Hammond felt that it was 
 his duty to send some attendent to Lady 
 Maulevrier, some member of the household who 
 was familiar with her ladyship's habits, her own 
 maid if that person could be unearthed easily. 
 He knew that the servants slept in a separate 
 wing ; but he thought it more than likely that 
 her ladyship's personal attendant occupied a room 
 near her mistress. 
 
 He went back to the corridor and looked round 
 him, in doubt for a moment or two. 
 
 Close against her ladyship's door there was 
 a swing door, covered with red cloth, which 
 seemed to communicate with the old part of the 
 house. John Hammond pushed this door, and 
 it yielded to his hand, revealing a lamp-lit 
 passage, narrow, old-fashioned, and low. He 
 thought it likely that Lady Maulevrier's maid 
 might occupy a room in this half-deserted wing.
 
 '0 BITTERNESS OF THINGS TOO SWEET.' 175 
 
 ^As lie pushed open the door he saw an elderly 
 man coming towards him. with a candle in his 
 hand, and with the appearance of having huddled 
 on his clothes hastily. 
 
 * You heard that scream ? ' said Hammond. 
 'Yes. It was her ladyship, I suppose. Night- 
 mare. She is subject to nightmare.' 
 
 * It is very dreadful. Her whole countenance 
 was convulsed just now, when I went into 
 her room to see what was wrong. I was almost 
 afraid of a fit of some kind. Ought not her maid 
 to ofo to her?' 
 
 ' She wants no assistance,' the man- answered, 
 coolly. * It was only a dream. It is not the first 
 time I have been awakened by a shriek like that. 
 It is a kind of nightmare, no doubt ; and it passes 
 off in a few minutes, and leaves her sleeping 
 calmly.' 
 
 He went to her ladyship's door, pushed it open 
 a little way, and looked in. 'Yes, she is sleeping 
 as quietly as an infant,' he said, shutting the door 
 softly as he spoke. 
 
 * I am very glad ; but surely she ought to have
 
 176 *0 BITTERNESS OF THINGS TOO SWEET.' 
 
 her maid near her at night, if she is subject to 
 those attacks.' 
 
 'It is no attack, I tell yon. It is nothing but 
 a dream,' answered Steadman, impatiantty. 
 
 'Yet you were frightened, just as I was, or 
 you would not have got up and dressed,' said 
 Hammond, looking at the man suspiciously. 
 
 He had heard of this old servant Steadman, 
 who was supposed to enjoy more of her ladyship's 
 confidence than any one else in the household; 
 but he had never spoken to the man before that 
 night. 
 
 'Yes, I came. It was my duty to come, 
 knowing her ladyship's habits. I am a light 
 sleeper, and that scream woke me instantly. If 
 her ladyship's maid were wanted I should call 
 her. I am a kind of watch-dog, you see, sir.' 
 
 * You seem to be a very faithful dog.' 
 
 ' I have been in her ladyship's service more 
 than forty years. I have reason to be faithful. 
 I know her ladysliip's habits better than any one 
 in the house. I know that she has had a great 
 deal of trouble in her early life, and I believe the
 
 '0 BITTEENESS OF THINGS TOO SWEET/ 177 
 
 memory of it comes back upon her sometimes in 
 her dreams, and gets the better of lier.' 
 
 ' If it was memory that v.Timg that agonised 
 shriek from her just now, her recollections of the 
 past must be very terrible.' 
 
 'All, sir, there is a skeleton in every liouse,' 
 answered James Steadman, gravely. 
 
 This was exactly what Maulevrier had said 
 under the yew trees which ^yordsworth planted. 
 
 ' Good-night, sir,' said Steadman. 
 
 * Good-night. You are sure that Lady Maulev- 
 rier may be left safely — that there is no fear of 
 illness of any kind ? ' 
 
 * No, sir. It was only a bad dream. Good- 
 night, sii\' 
 
 Steadman went back to his own quarters. 
 Mr. Hammond heard him draw^ the bolts of the 
 swing door, thus cutting off aU communication 
 with the corridor. 
 
 The fine old eight- day clock on the staircase 
 struck two as Mr. Hammond returned to his room, 
 even less inclined for sleep than when he left it. 
 Strange, that nocturnal disturbance of a mind 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 *0 BITTEKNESS OF THINGS TOO SWEET.' 
 
 which seemed so tranquil in the day. Or was 
 that tranquillity only a semblance — a mask which 
 her ladyship wore before the world: and was the 
 bitter memory of events which happened forty 
 years ago still a source of anguish to that highly 
 strung nature ? 
 
 ' There are some minds which cannot forget,' 
 John Hammond said to himself, as he meditated 
 upon her ladyship's character and history. * The 
 story of her husband's crime may still be fresh in 
 her memory, though it is only a tradition for the 
 outside world. His crime may have involved 
 some deep wrong done to herself, some outrage 
 against her love and faith as a wife. One of the 
 stories Maulevrier spoke of the other day was of 
 a wicked woman's influence upon the governor — 
 a much more likely story than that of any traffic 
 in British interests or British honour, which would 
 have been almost impossible for a man in Lord 
 Maulevrier's position. If the scandal was of that 
 darker kind — a guilty wife — the mysterious disap- 
 pearance of a husband— the horror of the thing may 
 have made a deeper impression on Lady Maulevrier
 
 '0 BITTERNESS OF THINGS TOO SWEET.' 179 
 
 than even her nearest and dearest dream of : and that 
 superb calm which she wears Hke a royal mantle 
 — that queen-like bearing and gracious smile with 
 which she greets all comers— may be maintained 
 at the cost of struggles which tear her heart- 
 strings. And then at night, when the will is 
 dormant, when the nervous system of the brain 
 is no longer ruled by the power of waking intel- 
 ligence, the old familiar agony returns, the hated 
 images flash back upon the brain, and in propor- 
 tion to the fineness of the temperament is the 
 intensity of the dreamer's pain.' 
 
 And then he went on to reflect upon the long 
 monotonous years spent in that lonely house, 
 shut in from the world by those everlasting hills. 
 Albeit the house was an ideal house, set in a 
 landscape of infinite beauty, the monotony must 
 be none the less oppressive for a mind bur- 
 dened with dark memories, weighed down by 
 sorrows which could seek no relief from sym- 
 pathy, which could never become familiarised by 
 discussion. 
 
 *I wonder tliat a woman of Lady Maulev-
 
 ] 80 * BITTERNESS OF THINGS TOO SWEET.' 
 
 rier's intellect should not have better known 
 how to treat her own malady,' thought Hammond. 
 
 Mr. Hammond inquired after her ladyship's 
 health next morning, and was told she was 
 perfectly well. 
 
 'Grandmother is in capital spirits,' said Lady 
 Lesbia. *She is pleased witli the contents of 
 yesterday's " Globe." Lord Denyer, the son of one 
 of her oldest friends, has been making a great 
 speech at Liverpool in the Conserva.tive interest, 
 and her ladyship thinks we shall have a change 
 of parties before long.' 
 
 ' A general shuffle of the cards,' said Maulevrier, 
 looking up from his breakfast. * I'm sure I hope 
 so. I'm no politician, but I like a row.' 
 
 ' I hope you are a Conservative, Mr. Hammond,' 
 said Lesbia. 
 
 ' I had hoped you would have known that 
 ever so long ago, Lady Lesbia.' 
 
 Lesbia blushed at his tone, which was almost 
 a reproach. 
 
 *I suppose I ought to have understood from 
 the general tenor of your conversation/ she said ;
 
 '0 BITTERNESS OF THINGS TOO SWEET.' 181 
 
 * but I am terribly stupid about politics. I take 
 so little interest in them. I am always hearing 
 that we are being badly governed — that the men 
 who legislate for us are stupid or wicked ; yet 
 the world seems to go on somehow, and we are 
 no worse.' 
 
 ' It is just the same wdth sport,' said Maulevrier. 
 
 * Every rainy spring we are told that all the 
 young birds have been drowned, or that the 
 grouse-disease . has decimated the fathers and 
 mothers, and that we shall have nothing to 
 shoot ; but when Ausfust comes the birds are 
 there all the same.' 
 
 *It is the nature of mankind to complain,* 
 said Hammond. ' Cain and Abel were the first 
 farmers, and you see one of them grumbled.' 
 
 They were rather lively at breakfast that 
 morning — Maulevrier's last breakfast but one — 
 for he had announced his determination of going 
 to Scotland next day. Other fellows w^ould have 
 shot all the birds if he dawdled any longer. 
 Mary w^as in deep despondency at the idea of 
 his departure, yet she laughed and talked with
 
 182 ' BITTERNESS OF THINGS TOO SWEET.' 
 
 the rest. And perhaps Lesbia felt a little moved 
 at the thought of losing Mr. Hammond. Maulevrier 
 would come back to Mary, but John Hammond 
 was hardly likely to return. Their parting would 
 be for ever. 
 
 'You needn't sit quite in my pocket, Molly,' 
 said Maulevrier to his younger sister. 
 
 * I like to make the most of you, now you 
 are going away,' sighed Mary. * Oh, dear, how 
 dull we shall all be when you are gone.' 
 
 * Not a bit of it ! You will have some fox- 
 hunting, perhaps, before the snow is on the hills.' 
 
 At the very mention of fox-hounds Lady 
 Mary's bright young face crimsoned, and Maulev- 
 rier began to laugh in a provoking way, with 
 side-long glances at his younger sister. 
 
 ' Did you ever hear of Molly's fox-hunting, 
 by-the-bye, Hammond ? ' he asked. 
 • Mary tried to put her hand before his lips, 
 but it was useless. 
 
 ' Why shouldn't I tell ? ' he exclaimed. * It 
 was quite a heroic adventure. You must know 
 our fox-hunting here is rather a peculiar institu-
 
 '0 BITTERNESS OF THI^'GS TOO SWEtT.' 183 
 
 tion, — very good in its way, but strictly local. No 
 horse could live among our hills, so we hunt on 
 foot, and as the pace is good, and the work hard, 
 nobody who starts with the hounds is likely to 
 be in at the death, except the huntsmen. We 
 are all mad for the sport, and off we go, over 
 the hills and far away, picking up a fresh field 
 as we go. The ploughman leaves his plough, and 
 the shepherd leaves his flock, and the farmer 
 leaves his thrashing, to follow us ; in every field 
 we cross we get fresh blood, while those who join 
 us at the start fall off by degrees. AVell, it 
 h-appened one day late in October, when there 
 were long ridges of snow on Helvellyn's dark 
 brow, and patches of white on Fairfield, Mistress 
 Mary here must needs take her bamboo staff and 
 start for the Striding Edge. It was just the day 
 upon which she might have met her death easily 
 on that perilous point, but happily something 
 occurred to divert her juvenile fancy, for scarcely 
 had she got to the bottom of Dolly Waggon Pike 
 
 — you know Dolly ' 
 
 ' Intimately,' said Hammond, with a nod.
 
 184 '0 BITTEENESS OF THINGS TOO SWEET.' 
 
 ' Scarcely had slie neared the base of Dolly 
 Waggon when she heard the huntsman's horn 
 and the hounds in full cry, streaming along to- 
 wards Dunmail Eaise. Off flew Molly, all among 
 the butcher boys, and farmers' men, and rosy- 
 cheeked squireens of the district — racing over the 
 rugged fields — clambering over the low stone walls 
 — up hill, down hill — shouting when the others 
 shouted — never losincf sight of the waviiisr sterns — 
 winding and doubling, and still going upward and 
 upward, till she stood, panting and puffing like a 
 young grampus, on the top of Seat Sandal, still 
 all among the butcher boys and the farmers' men, 
 and the guides and the red-cheeked squireens, her 
 frock ^ torn to ribbons, her hat lost in a ditch, 
 her hair streaming down her back, and every 
 inch of her, from her nose downwards, splashed 
 and spattered with mire and clay. What a 
 spectacle for gods and men, guides and butcher 
 boys. And there she stood with the sun going 
 down beyond Coniston Old Man, and a seven- 
 mile walk between her and Fellside. 
 
 * Poor Lady Mary ! ' said Hammond, looking
 
 '0 BITTERNESS OF THIN'GS TOO SWEET.' 185 
 
 at her very kindly; but Mary did not see that 
 friendly glance, which betokened sympathy rather 
 than scorn. She sat silent and very red, with 
 drooping eyelids, thinking her brother horribly 
 cruel for thus publishing her foolishness. 
 
 * Poor, indeed ! " exclaimed Maule\Tier. ' She 
 came crawling home after dark, footsore and 
 draggled, looking like a beggar girl, and, as evil 
 fate would have it, her ladyship, who so seldom 
 goes out, must needs have been taking afternoon 
 tea at the Vicarage upon that particular occasion, 
 and was driving up the avenue as Mary crawled 
 to the gate. The storm that followed may be 
 more easily imagined than described.' 
 
 ' It was years and years ago,' expostulated 
 Mary, looking very angry. ' Grandmother needn't 
 have made such a fuss about it.' 
 
 *Ah, but in those days she still had hopes of 
 civilising you/ answ^ered Maulevrier. ' Since then 
 she has abandoned all endeavour in that dii'ection, 
 and has given you over to your own devices — 
 and me. Since then you have become a chartered 
 libertine. You have letters of mark.'
 
 186 '0 BITTERNESS OF THINGS TOO SWEET.' 
 
 'I don't care what you call me,' said Ma^3^ 
 *I only know tliat I am very happy when you 
 are afc home, and very miserable when you are 
 away.' 
 
 ' It is hardly kind of you to say that, Lady 
 Mary,' remonstrated Fraulein Miiller, who, up to 
 this point, had been busily engaged with muffins 
 and gooseberry jam. 
 
 * Oh, I don't mean that any one is unkind 
 to me or uses me badly,' said Mary. * I only 
 mean that my life is empty when Maulevrier 
 is away, and that I am always longing for him 
 to come back again.' 
 
 ' I thought you adored the hills, and the 
 lake, and the villagers, and your pony, and 
 Maulevrier's dogs,' said Lesbia, faintly con- 
 temptuous. 
 
 ^ Yes, but one wants something human to 
 love,' answered Mary, making it very obvious that 
 there was no warmth of affection between herself 
 and the feminine members of her family. 
 
 She had no thought of the significance of her 
 speech. She was very angry with Maulevrier
 
 ' BITTERNESS OF THINGS TOO SWEET.' 187 
 
 for having held her up to ridicule before Mr. 
 
 Hammond, who already despised her, as she 
 
 believed, and whose contempt was more galling 
 
 than it need have been, considering that he was 
 
 a mere casual visitor who would go away and 
 
 return no more. Xever till his coming had she 
 
 felt her deficiencies; but in his presence she 
 
 writhed under the sense of her unworthiness, and 
 
 had an almost agonising consciousness of all those 
 
 faults which her grandmother had told her about 
 
 so often with not the slightest effect. In those 
 
 days she had not cared what Lady Maulevrier 
 
 or any one else might say of her, or think of 
 
 her. She lived her life, and defied fortune. 
 
 She was worse than her reputation. To-day she 
 
 felt it a bitter thing that she had grown to the 
 
 age of womanhood lacking all those graces and 
 
 accomplishments which made her beautiful 
 
 sister adorable, and which might make even a 
 
 plain woman charming. 
 
 Xever till John Hammond's coming had she 
 felt a pang of envy in the contemplation of 
 Lesbia's beauty or Lesl)ia's grace ; but now she
 
 188 *0 BITTERNESS OF TtllNGS TOO SWEET.' 
 
 had so keen a sense of the difference between 
 herself and her sister that she began to fear 
 that this cruel pain must indeed be that lowest 
 of all vices. Even the difference in their gowns 
 was a source of humiliation to her now. Lesbia 
 was looking her loveliest this morning, in a gown 
 that was all lace and soft Madras muslin, flowing, 
 diaphanous, cloud-like ; while Mary's tailor gown, 
 with its trim tight bodice, horn buttons, and 
 kilted skirt, seemed to cry aloud that it had 
 been made for a Tomboy. And this tailor gown 
 was a costume to which Mary had condemned 
 herself by her own folly. Only a year ago, 
 moved by an artistic admiration for Lesbia's 
 delicate breakfast gowns, Mary had told her 
 grandmother that she would like to have some- 
 thing of the same kind, whereupon the dowager, 
 who did not take the faintest interest in Mary's 
 toilet, but who had a stern sense of justice, 
 replied — 
 
 'I do not think Lesbia's frocks and your 
 habits will agree, but you can have some pretty 
 morning gowns if you like ; ' and the order had
 
 ' BITTERNESS OF THINGS TOO SWEET.' 1 89 
 
 been given for a confection in muslin and lace 
 for Lady Mary. 
 
 Mary came down to breakfast one bright June 
 morning, in the new frock, feeling very proud of 
 herself, and looking very pretty. 
 
 'Fine feathers make fine birds,' said Friiulein 
 Miiller. * I should hardly have known you.' 
 
 ' I wish you would always dress like that/ said 
 Lesbia : ' you really look like a young lady ; ' 
 and Mary danced about on the lawn, feeling 
 sylph -like, and quite in love with her own 
 elegance, when a sudden uplifting of canine 
 voices in the distance had sent her flying to .':ee 
 what was the matter with the terrier pack. 
 
 In the kennel there was riot and confusion. 
 Ahab was demolishing Angelina, Absalom and 
 Agamemnon were annihilating each other. Dog- 
 whip in hand, Mary rushed to the rescue, and 
 laid about her, like the knights of old, utterly 
 forgetful of her frock. She soon succeeded in 
 restoring order, but the Madras muslin, the 
 Breton lace had perished in the conflict. She 
 left the kennel panting, and in rags and tatters,
 
 190 '0 BITTERNESS OF THINGS TOO SWEET.' 
 
 some of the muslin and lace hanging about her 
 in strips a yard long, but the greater part remain- 
 ing in the possession of the terriers, who had 
 mauled and munched her finery to their hearts' 
 delight, while she was reading the Eiot Act. 
 
 She went back to the house, bowed down by 
 shame and confusion, and marched straight to the 
 dowager's morning-room. 
 
 'Look what the terriers have done to me, 
 grandmother,' she said, with a sob. ' It is all my 
 own fault, of course. I ought not to have gone 
 near them in that stupid muslin. Please forgive me 
 for being so foolish. I am not fit to have pretty 
 frocks.' 
 
 ' I think, my dear, you can now have no 
 doubt that the tailor gowns are fittest for you,' 
 answered Lady Maulevrier, with crushing placidity. 
 *We have tried the experiment of dressing you 
 like Lesbia, and you see it does not answer. Tell 
 Kibble to throw your new gown in the rag-bag, 
 and please let me hear no more about it/ 
 
 After this dismal failure Mary could not feel 
 herself ill-used in having to wear tailor gowns all
 
 * BITTERNESS OF THINGS TOO SWEET.' 191 
 
 the year round. She was allowed cotton frocks 
 for very warm weather, and she had pretty gowns 
 for evening wear ; but her common attire was 
 cloth or linsey-woolsey, made by the local tailor. 
 Sometimes Maulevrier ordered her a gown or a 
 coat from his own man in Conduit Street, and 
 then she felt herself smart and fashionable. And 
 even the local tailor contrived to make her gowns 
 prettily, having a great appreciation of her straight 
 wiUowy figure, and deeming it a privilege to work 
 for her, so that hitherto Mary had felt very well 
 content with her substantial attire. But now that 
 John Hammond so obviously admired Lesbia's 
 delicate raiment, poor Mary began to think herself 
 odious in woollen. 
 
 After breakfast Mary and Maulevrier went 
 straight off to the kennels. His lordship had 
 numerous instructions to give on this last day, 
 and his lieutenant had to receive and resrister 
 his orders. Lesbia went to the garden with her 
 book and with Fraulein— the inevitable Fraulein 
 as Hammond thought her — in close attendance. 
 
 It was a lovely morning, sultry, summer-like,
 
 192 * BITTERNESS OF THINGS TOO SWEET.' 
 
 albeit September had just begun. Tlie tennis 
 lawn, which had been levelled on one side of the 
 house, was surrounded on three sides by shrub- 
 beries planted forty years ago, in the beginning 
 of Lady Maulevrier's widowhood. All loveliest 
 trees grew there in perfection, sheltered by the 
 mighty wall of the mountain, fed by the mists 
 from the lake. Larch and mountain ash, and 
 Lawsonian Cyprus, — deodara and magnolia, arbu- 
 tus, and silver broom, acacia and lilac, flourished 
 here in that rich beauty which made every cottage 
 garden in the happy district a little paradise ; 
 and here in a semicircular recess at one end of 
 the lawn were rustic chairs and tables and an 
 umbrella tent. This was Lady Lesbia's chosen 
 retreat on summer mornings, and a favourite place 
 for afternoon tea. 
 
 Mr. Hammond followed the two ladies to their 
 bower. 
 
 *Tliis is to be my last morning,' he said, 
 looking at Lesbia. ' Will you think me a great 
 bore if I spend it with you?' 
 
 * We shall think it very nice of you,' answered
 
 *0 BITTERNESS OF THINGS TOO SWEET.' 1Q3 
 
 Lesbia, without a vestige of emotion ; ' especially 
 if you will read to us.' 
 
 *I will do anything to make myself useful. 
 What shall I read ? ' 
 
 'Anything you like. What do you say to 
 Tennyson ? ' 
 
 ' That he is a noble poet, a teacher of all good ; 
 but too philosophical for my present mood. May 
 I read you some of Heine's ballads, those songs 
 which you sing so exquisitely, or rather some 
 you do not sing, and which will be fresher to you. 
 My German is far from perfect, but I am told it 
 is passable, and Fraulein Miiller can throw her 
 scissors at me when my accent is too dreadful.' 
 
 * You speak German beautifully,' said Fraulein. 
 ' I Wonder where you learned it ? ' 
 
 * I have been a good deal in Germany, and I 
 had a Hanoverian valet who was quite a gentleman, 
 and spoke admirably. I think I learned more from 
 him than from grammars or dictionaries. I'll go 
 and fetch Heine.' 
 
 *What a very agreeable person Mr. Hammond 
 is,* said Fraulein, when he was gone. *We shall 
 quite miss him.' 
 
 VOL. I. O
 
 194 '0 BITTERNESS OF THINGS TOO SWEET.' 
 
 ' Yes, I have no doubt we shall miss him,' said 
 Lesbia, again without the faintest emotion. 
 
 The governess began to think that the ordeal 
 of an agreeable young man's presence at Tellside 
 had been passed in safety, and that her pupil was 
 unscathed. She had kept a close watch on the two, 
 as in duty bound. She knew that Hammond was 
 in love with Lesbia; but she thought Lesbia was 
 heart-whole. 
 
 Mr. Hammond came back with a shabby little 
 book in his hand, and established himself 
 comfortably in one of the two Beaconsfield 
 chairs. 
 
 He opened his book at that group of short 
 poems called Heimkehr, and read here and there, 
 as fancy led him. Sometimes the strain was a 
 love-song, brief, passionate as the cry of a soul in 
 pain ; sometimes the verses were bitter and cynical ; 
 sometimes full of tenderest simplicity, telling of 
 childhood, and youth and purity ; sometimes dark 
 with hidden meanings, grim, awful, cold with the 
 chilling breath of the charnel-house. Sometimes 
 Lesbia's heart beat a little faster as Mr. Hammond
 
 *0 BITTERNESS OF THINGS TOO SWEET.' 195 
 
 read, for it seemed as if it was he who was speaking 
 to her, and not the dead poet. 
 
 An hour or more passed in this way. Fraulein 
 Miiller was charmed at hearing some of her favourite 
 poems, asking now for this little bit, and anon for 
 another, and expatiating upon the merits of German 
 poets in general, and Heine in particular, in the pauses 
 of the lecture. She was quite carried away by 
 her delight in the poet, and was so entirely uplifted 
 to the ideal world that, when a footman came with 
 a message from Lady Maulevrier requesting her 
 presence, she tripped gaily off at once, without a 
 thought of danger in leaving those two together 
 on the lawn. She had been a faithful watch-doi' 
 up to this point ; but she was now lulled into a 
 false sense of security by the idea that the time 
 of peril was all but ended. 
 
 So she left them ; but could she have looked 
 back two minutes afterwards she would have 
 perceived the unwisdom of that act. 
 
 No sooner had the Fraulein turned the corner 
 of the shrubbery than Hammond laid aside bis 
 book and drew nearer Lesbia, who sat lookin<^'
 
 196 '0 BITTERNESS OF THINGS TOO SWEET.* 
 
 downward, with her eyes upon the delicate piece 
 of fancy work which had occupied her fingers all 
 the morning. 
 
 *Lesbia, this is my last day at Fellside, and 
 you and I may never have a minute alone 
 together again while I am here. Will you come 
 for a little walk with me on the Fell ? There is 
 something I must say to you before I go.' 
 
 Lesbia's delicate cheek grew a shade more 
 pale. Instinct told her what was coming, though 
 never mortal man had spoken to her of love. Nor 
 until now had Mr. Hammond ever addressed her 
 by her Christian name without the ceremonious 
 prefix. There was a deeper tone in his voice, a 
 graver look in his eyes, than she had ever noticed 
 before. 
 
 She rose, and took up her sunshade, and 
 went with him meekly through the cultivated 
 shrubbery of ornamental timber to the rougher 
 pathway that wound through a copse of Scotch 
 fir, which formed the outer boundary of Lady 
 Maulevrier's domain. Beyond the fir trees rose 
 the grassy slope of the hill, on the brow of
 
 ' O BITTERNESS OF THINGS TOO SWEET.* 197 
 
 which sheep were feeding. Deep down in the 
 hollow below the lawns and shrubberries of 
 Fellside the placid bosom of the lake shone like 
 an emerald floor in the sunlight, reflecting the 
 verdure of the hill, and the white sheep dotted 
 about here and there. 
 
 There was not a breath in the air around 
 them as those two sauntered slowly side by side 
 in the pine wood, not a cloud in the dazzling 
 blue sky above; and for a little time they too 
 were silent, as if bound by a spell which neither 
 dared to break. Then at last Hammond spoke. 
 
 *Lesbia, you know that I love you,' he began, 
 in his low, grave voice, tremulous with feeling. 
 ' Xo words I can say to-day can tell you of my 
 love more plainly than my heart has been telling 
 you in every hour of this happy, happy time 
 that you and I have spent together. I love you 
 as I never hoped to love, fervently, completely, 
 believing that the perfection of earthly bliss will 
 be mine if I can but win you. Dearest, is there 
 such a sweet hope for me ; are you indeed my 
 own, as I am yours, heart and soul, and mind
 
 198^ '0 BITTERNESS OF THINGS TOO SWEET.' 
 
 and being, till the last throb of life in this poor 
 clay ? ' 
 
 He tried to take her hand, but she drew herself 
 away from him with a frightened look. She was 
 very pale, and there was infinite distress in the dark 
 violet eyes, which looked entreatingly, depreca- 
 tingly at her lover. 
 
 * I dare not answer as you would like me to 
 answer,' she faltered, after a painful pause. *I 
 am not my own mistress. My grandmother has 
 brought me up, devoted herself to me almost, 
 and she has her own views, her own plans. I 
 dare not frustrate them ! ' 
 
 * She would like to marry you to a man of 
 rank and fortune — a man who will choose you, 
 perhaps, because other people admire you, rather 
 than because he himself loves you as you ought 
 to be loved ; who will choose you because you 
 are altogether the best and most perfect thing of 
 your year ; just as he would buy a yearling at 
 IN'ewmarket or Doncaster. Her ladyship means 
 you to make a great alliance — coronets, not hearts, 
 are the counters for her game ; but, Lesbia, would
 
 *0 BITTERNESS OF THINGS TOO SWEET.* 199 
 
 you, in the bloom and freshness of youth — you 
 with the pulses of youth throbbing at your heart 
 — ^lend yourself to the calculations of age which 
 has lived its life and forgotten the very meaning 
 of love ? "Would you submit to be played as a 
 cari in the game of a dowager's ambition ? Trust 
 me dearest, in the crisis of a woman's life there 
 is one only counsellor she should listen to, and that 
 coinsellor is her own heart. If you love me — as 
 I care to hope you do — trust in me, hold by me, 
 and leave the rest to Heaven. I know that T can 
 mace your life happy.' 
 
 * You frighten me by your impetuosity,' said 
 Lejbia. ' Surely you forget how short a time we 
 have known each other.' 
 
 ' An age. All my life before the day I saw 
 you is a dead, dull blank, as compared with the 
 magical hours I have spent with you.' 
 
 ' I do not even know who and what you are.' 
 
 * First, I am a gentleman, or I should not be 
 your brother's friend. A poor gentleman, if you 
 like, with only my own right arm to hew my 
 pathway through the wood of life to the temple
 
 200 *0 BITTEKNESS OF THINGS TOO SWEET.* 
 
 of fortune ; but trust me, only trust me, Lesbia, 
 and I will so hew my path as to reach that 
 temple. Look at me, love. Do I look like a man 
 born to fail ? * 
 
 She looked up at him shyly, with eyes tlfat 
 were dim with tears. He looked like a demi-gdd, 
 tall, straight as the pine trunks amongst which pe 
 was standing, a frame formed for strength and 
 activity, a face instinct with mental power, dajrk 
 eyes that glowed with the fire of intellect ajid 
 passion. The sunlight gave an almost uneartl|ly 
 radiance to the clear dark of his complexion, jhe 
 curly brown hair cut close to the finely-shaded 
 head, the broad brow and boldly modelled featuifes. 
 
 Lesbia felt in her heart that such a man mij^t 
 be destined for success, born to be a conqueror 
 in all strifes, a victor upon every field. 
 
 * Have I the thews and sinews of a man 
 doomed to be beaten in the battle ? ' he asked her. 
 * No, dearest ; Heaven meant me to succeed ; and 
 with you to fight for I shall not be beaten by 
 adverse fortune. Can you not trust Providence 
 and me ? '
 
 '0 BITTEKNESS OF THINGS TOO SWEET.' 201 
 
 * I cannot disobey my grandmother. If she 
 will consent ' 
 
 * She wiU not consent. You must defy Lady 
 Maulevrier, I^esbia, if you mean to reward my 
 love. But I will promise you this much, darling, 
 that if you will be my wife — with your brother's 
 consent — which I am sure of before I ask for it, 
 within one year of our marriage I will find means 
 of reconciling her ladyship to the match, and 
 winning her entire forgiveness for you and me.' 
 
 ' You are talking of impossibilities,' said Lesbia, 
 frowning. * Why do you talk to me as if I were 
 a child? I know hardly anything of the world, 
 but I do know the woman who has reared and 
 educated me. My grandmother would never forgive 
 me if I married a poor man. I should be an 
 outcast.' 
 
 ' We would be outcasts together — happy out- 
 casts. Besides, we should not always be poor. I 
 tell you I am predestined to conquer fate.' 
 
 *But we should have to beo;in from the besin- 
 ning.' 
 
 ' Yes, we should have to begin from the be-
 
 202 '0 BITTERNESS OF THINGS TOO SWEET.' 
 
 ginning, as Adam and Eve did when they left 
 Paradise.' 
 
 *We are not told in the Bible that they had 
 any happiness after that. It seems to have been 
 all trouble and weariness, and toil and death, after 
 the angel with the flaming sword drove them 
 out of Eden.' 
 
 * They were together, and they must have been 
 happy. Oh, Lesbia, if you do not feel that you 
 can face poverty and the world's contempt by my 
 side, and for my sake, you do not love me. Love 
 never calculates so nicely ; love never fears the 
 future ; and yet you do love me, Lesbia,' he said, 
 trying to fold her in his arms; but again she 
 drew herself away from him — this time with a 
 look almost of horror — and stood facing him, cling- 
 ing to one of the pine trunks, like a scared wood- 
 nymph. 
 
 * You have no right to say that,' she said. 
 
 * I have the divine right of my own deep 
 love — of heart which cries out to heart. Do you 
 think there is no magnetic power in true love 
 which can divine the answering love in another?
 
 * BITTEENESS OF THINGS TOO SWEET.' 203 
 
 Lesbia, call me an insolent coxcomb if you like, 
 but I know you love me, and that you and I 
 may be utterly bappy together. Oh, why — why 
 do you shrink from me, my beloved ; why with- 
 hold yourself from my arms ? Oh, love, let me 
 hold you to my heart — let me seal our betrothal 
 with a kiss ! ' 
 
 * Betrothal — no, no ; not for the world,' cried 
 Lesbia. 'Lady Maulevrier would cast me off for 
 ever; she would curse me.' 
 
 * What would the curse of an ambitious woman 
 weigh against my love ? And I tell you that 
 her anger would be only a passing tempest. She 
 would forgive you.' 
 
 'Never — you don't know her.' 
 
 * I tell you she would forgive you, and all 
 would be well with us before we had been married 
 a year. Why cannot you believe me, Lesbia?' 
 
 'Because I cannot believe impossibilities, even 
 from your lips,' she answered, sullenly. 
 
 She stood before him with downcast eyes, 
 the tears streaming down her pale cheeks, ex- 
 quisitely lovely in her agitation and sorrow. Yes,
 
 204 *0 BITTERNESS OF THINGS TOO SWEET.' 
 
 she did love him; her heart was beating pas- 
 sionately ; she was longing to throw herself on 
 his breast, to be folded upon that manly heart, 
 to trust in that brave, bright look which seemed 
 to defy fortune. Yes, he was a man born to 
 conquer; he was handsome, intellectual, powerful 
 in all mental and physical gifts. A man of men. 
 But he was, by his own admission, a very obscure 
 and insignificant person, and he had no money. 
 Life with him meant a long fight with adverse 
 drcumstances ; life for his wife must mean patience, 
 submission, long waiting upon destiny, and perhaps 
 with old age and grey hairs the tardy turning of 
 Fortune's wheel. And was she for this to resign 
 the kingdom that had been promised to her, the giddy 
 heights which she was born to scale, the triumphs 
 and delights and victories of the great world ? 
 Yes, Lesbia loved this fortuneless knight ; but she 
 loved herself and her prospects of promotion still 
 better. 
 
 * Oh, Lesbia, can you not be brave for my sake — 
 trustful for my sake ? God will be good to us if 
 we are true to each other.'
 
 'O BITTERNESS OF THINGS TOO SWEET.* 205 
 
 'God will not be good to me if I disobey my 
 grandmother. I owe her too much ; ingratitude in 
 me would be doubly base. I will speak to 
 her. I will tell her all you have said, and if she 
 gives me the faintest encouragement ' 
 
 * She will not ; that is a foregone conclusion. Tell 
 her all, if you like ; but let us be prepared for the 
 answer. When she denies the right of your heart 
 to choose its own mate, then rise up in the might 
 of your womanhood and defy her. Tell her, " I 
 love him, and be he rich or poor, I will share his 
 fate ;" tell her boldly, bravely, nobly, as a true 
 woman should ; and if she be adamant still, pro- 
 claim your right to disobey her worldly wisdom 
 rather than the voice of your own heart. And then 
 come to me, darling, and be my own, and the 
 world which you and I will face together shall not 
 be a bad world. I will answer for that. Xo 
 trouble shall come near you. Xo humiliation shall 
 ever touch you. Only believe in me.' 
 
 / I can believe in you, but not in the impos- 
 sible,' answered Lesbia, with measured accents. 
 
 The voice was silver-sweet, but passing cold.
 
 206 '0 BITTERNESS OF THINGS TOO SWEET.' 
 
 Just then there was a rustling among the pine 
 branches, and Lesbia looked round with a startled 
 air. 
 
 'Is there any one listening?' she exclaimed. 
 * What was that ? ' 
 
 * Only the breath of heaven. Oh, Lesbia, if you 
 were but a little less wise, a little more trustful. 
 Do not be a dumb idol. Say that you love me, or 
 do not love me. If you can look me in the face 
 and say the last, I will leave you without another 
 word. I will take my sentence and go.' 
 
 But this was just what Lesbia could not do. 
 She could not deny her love ; and yet she could 
 not sacrifice all things for her love. She lifted the 
 heavy lids which veiled those lovely eyes, and 
 looked up at him imploringly. 
 
 'Give me time to breathe, time to think,' she 
 said. 
 
 'And then wiU you answer me plainly, truth- 
 fully, without a shadow of reserve, remembering 
 that the fate of two lives hangs on your words.* 
 
 'I will.' 
 
 ' Let it be so, then. I'll go for a ramble over
 
 *0 BITTERNESS OF THINGS TOO SWEET.' 207 
 
 the hills, and return in time for afternoon tea. I 
 shall look for you on the tennis lawn at half-past 
 four/ 
 
 He took her in his arms, and this time she 
 yielded herself to him, and the beautiful head 
 rested for a few moments upon his breast, and 
 the soft eyes looked up at him in confiding fond- 
 ness. He bent and kissed her once only, but a 
 kiss that meant for Hfe and death. In the next 
 moment he was gone, leaving her alone among the 
 pine trees.
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 *IF I WERE TO DO AS ISEULT DID.' 
 
 Lady Maulevkier rarely appeared at luncheon. 
 She took some slight refection in her morning 
 room, among her books and papers, and in the 
 society of her canine favourites, whose company 
 suited her better at certain hours than the noisier 
 companionship of her grandchildren. She was a 
 studious woman, loving the silent life of books 
 better than the inane chatter of every-day humanity. 
 She was a woman who thought much and read 
 much, and who lived more in the past than the 
 present. She lived also in the future, counting 
 much upon the splendid career of her beautiful 
 granddaughter, which should be in a manner a 
 lengthening out, a renewal of her own life. She 
 looked forward to the day when Lesbia should reign 
 supreme in the great world, a famous beauty and
 
 *IF I WERE TO DO AS ISEULT DID.' 209 
 
 leader of fashion, her every act and word inspired 
 and directed by her grandmother, who would be 
 the shadow behind the throne. It was possible^ 
 nay, probable — that in those days Lady Maulevrier 
 would herself reappear in society, establish her 
 salon, and draw around her closing years all 
 that is wittiest, best, and wisest in the great 
 world. 
 
 Her ladyship was reposing in her low reading 
 chair, with a volume of TyndaU on the book- 
 stand before her, when the door was opened 
 softly and Lesbia came gliding in, and seated 
 herself without a word on the hassock at her 
 grandmother's feet. Lady Maulevrier passed her 
 hand caressingly over the girl's soft brown hair, 
 without looking up from her book. ^ 
 
 * You are a late visitor,' she said ; * why did 
 you not come to me after breakfast ? ' 
 
 * It was such a lovely morning, we went straight 
 from the breakfast table to the garden; I did 
 not think you wanted me.' 
 
 *I did not want you; but I am always glad 
 
 to see my pet. What were you doing in the 
 VOL. I. p
 
 210 ' IF I WERE TO DO AS ISEULT DID.' 
 
 garden all the morning ? I did not hear you 
 playing tennis.' 
 
 Lady Maulevrier had already interrogated the 
 German governess upon this very subject, hut 
 she had her own reasons for wishing to hear 
 Lesbia's account. 
 
 'No, it was too warm for tennis. Traulein 
 and I sat and worked, and Mr. Hammond read 
 to us.' 
 
 'What did he read?' 
 
 ' Heine's ballads. He reads German beau- 
 tifully.' 
 
 * Indeed ! I daresay he was at school in Germany. 
 There are cheap schools there to which middle- 
 class people send their boys.' 
 
 This was like a thrust from a rusty knife. 
 * Mr. Hammond was at Oxford,' Lesbia said, 
 reproachfully ; and' then, after a longish pause, 
 she clasped her hands upon the arm of Lady 
 Maulevrier's chair, and said, in a pleading ^voice, 
 * Grandmother, Mr. Hammond has asked me to 
 marry him.' 
 
 * Indeed ! Only that ? And pray, did he tell
 
 *IF I WERE TO DO AS ISEULT DID.' 211 
 
 you what are his means of maintaining Lord 
 Maulevrier's sister in the position to which her 
 birth entitles her ? ' inquired the dowager, with 
 crushing calmness. 
 
 * He is not rich ; indeed, I believe, he is poor ; 
 but he is brave and clever, and he is full of con- 
 fidence in his power to conquer fortune.' 
 
 'Xo doubt; that is your true adventurer's 
 style. He confides implicitly in his own talents, 
 and in somebody else's banker. ^Mr. Hammond 
 would make a tremendous figure in the world, 
 I daresay, and while he was making it your 
 brother would have to keep him. Well, my 
 dear Lesbia, I hope you gave this gentleman the 
 answer his insolence deserved ; or that you did 
 better, and referred him to me. I should be 
 glad to give him my opinion of his conduct — 
 a person admitted to this house as your brother's 
 hanger-on — tolerated only on your brother's 
 account ; such a person, nameless, penniless, 
 friendless (except for Maulevrier's too facile 
 patronage), to dare to lift his eyes to my grand- 
 daughter ! It is ineffable insolence ! '
 
 2.12 * IF I WEEE TO DO AS ISEULT DID.' 
 
 Lesbia crouched by her grandmother's chair, 
 her face hidden from Lady Maulevrier's falcon 
 eye. Every word uttered by her ladyship stung 
 like the knotted cords of a knout. She knew 
 not whether to be most ashamed of her lover 
 or of herself — of her lover for his obscure posi- 
 tion, his hopeless poverty ; of herself for her 
 folly in loving such a man. And she did love 
 him, and would fain have pleaded his cause, had 
 she not been cowed by the authority that had 
 ruled her all her life. 
 
 * Lesbia, if I thought you had been silly 
 enough, degraded enough, to give this young man 
 encouragement, to have justified his audacity of 
 to-day by any act or word of yours, I should 
 despise, I should detest you,' said Lady Maulevrier, 
 sternly. * What could be more contemptible, 
 more hateful in a girl reared as you have been 
 than to give encouragement to the first comer — 
 to listen greedily to the first adventurer who 
 had the insolence to make love to you, to be 
 eager to throw yourself into the arms of the 
 first man who asked you. That my grand-
 
 *IF I WERE TO DO AS ISEULT DID.' 213 
 
 daughter, a girl reared and taught and watched 
 and guarded by me, should have no more dignity, 
 no more modesty, or womanly feeling, than a 
 barmaid at an inn ! ' 
 Lesbia began to cry. 
 
 * I don't see why a barmaid should not be 
 a good woman, or why it should be a crime to 
 fall in love,' she said, in a voice broken by sobs. 
 'You need not speak to me so unkindly. I 
 am not going to marry Mr. Hammond.' 
 
 * Oh, you are not ? that is very good of you. 
 I am deeply grateful for such an assurance.' 
 
 *But I like him better than anyone I ever 
 saw in my life before.' 
 
 *You have seen so many people. You have 
 had such a wide area for choice.' 
 
 ' No ; I know I have been kept like a nun in 
 a convent : but I don't think when I go into the 
 world I shall ever see any one I should like better 
 than Mr. Hammond.' 
 
 * Wait till you have seen the world before yon 
 make up your mind about that. And now, Lesbia, 
 leave off talking and tliinking like a child ; look
 
 214 'IF I WERE TO DO AS ISEULT DID.' 
 
 me in the face and listen to me, for I am going 
 to speak seriously ; and with me, when 1 am in 
 earnest, what is said once is said for ever.' 
 
 Lady Maulevrier grasped her granddaughter's 
 arm with long slender fingers which held it as 
 tightly as the grasp of a vice. She drew the girl's 
 slim figure round till they were face to face, look- 
 ing into each other's eyes, the dowager's eagle 
 countenance lit up with impassioned feeling, 
 severe, awful as the face of one of the fatal sisters 
 the avengers of blood, the harbingers of doom. 
 
 * Lesbia, I think I have been good to you, and 
 kind to you,' she said. 
 
 *You have been all that is kind and dear,' 
 faltered Lesbia. 
 
 'Then give me measure for measure. My life 
 has been a hard one, child ; hard and lonely, and 
 loveless and joyless. My son, to whom I devoted 
 myself in the vigour of youth and in the prime of 
 life, never loved me, never repaid me for my love. 
 He spent his days far away from me, when his 
 presence would have gladdened my difficult life. 
 He died in a strange land. Of his three children.
 
 *IF I WERE TO DO AS ISEULT DID.' 215 
 
 you are the one I took into my heart. I did my 
 duty to the others ; I lavished my love upon you 
 Do not give me cursing instead of blessing. Do' 
 not give me a stone instead of bread. I have 
 built every hope of happiness or pleasure in this 
 world upon you and your obedience. Obey me, 
 be true to me, and I will make you a queen, and 
 I will sit in the shadow of your throne. I will 
 toil for you, and be wise for you. You shall have 
 only to shine, and dazzle, and enjoy the glory of 
 life. My beautiful darling, for pity's sake do not 
 give yourseK over to folly.' 
 
 * Did not you marry for love, grandmother ? ' 
 
 'No, Lesbia. Lord Maulevrier and I got on 
 very well together, but ours was no love match.' 
 
 'Does nobody in our rank ever marry for 
 love? are all marriages a mere exchange and 
 barter ? ' 
 
 *Ko, there are love-matches now and then, 
 which often turn out badly. But, my darling, I 
 am not asking you to marry for rank or for money. 
 I am only asking you to wait till you find your 
 mate among the noblest in the land. He may be
 
 216 *IF I WERE TO DO AS ISEULT DID.' 
 
 the handsomest and most accomplished of men, a 
 man born to win women's hearts ; and you 
 may love him as fervently as ever a village girl 
 loved her first lover. I am not going to sacrifice 
 you, or to barter you, dearest. I mean to marry 
 you to the best and noblest young man of his day. 
 You shall never be asked to stoop to the unworthy, 
 not even if worthlessness wore strawberry leaves 
 in his cap, and owned the greatest estate in the 
 land.' 
 
 * And if — instead of waiting for this King 
 Arthur of yours — I were to do as Iseult did — 
 as Guinevere did — choose for myself ' 
 
 * Iseult and Guinevere were wantons. I 
 wonder that you can name them in compari- 
 son with yourself.' 
 
 * If I were to marry a good and honourable 
 man who has his place to make in the world, 
 would you never forgive me ? ' 
 
 ' You mean Mr. Hammond ? You may just 
 as well speak plainly,' said Lady Maulevrier, 
 freezingly. * If you were capable of such idiocy 
 as that, Lesbia, I would pluck you out of my
 
 * IF I WERE TO DO AS ISEULT DID.' 217 
 
 heart like a foul weed. I would never look 
 upon you, or hear your name spoken, or think 
 of you again as long as I lived. My life would 
 not last very long after that blow. Old age 
 cannot bear such shocks. Oh, Lesbia, I have 
 been father and mother to you ; do not bring 
 my grey hairs in sorrow to the grave.' 
 
 Lesbia gave a deep sigh, and brushed the 
 tears from her cheeks. Yes, the very idea of 
 such a marriage was foolishness. Just now, in 
 the pine wood, carried away by the force of her 
 lover's passion, by her own softer feelings, it 
 had seemed to her as if she could count the 
 world well lost for his sake ; but now, at Lady 
 Maulevrier's feet, she became again true to her 
 training, and the world was too much to lose. 
 
 'What can I do, grandmother?' she asked, 
 submissively, despairingly. ' He loves me, and I 
 love him. How can I tell him that he and I 
 can never be anything to each other in this 
 world ? ' 
 
 'Eefer him to me. I will give him his 
 answer.'
 
 218 'IF I WERE TO DO AS ISEULT DID.' 
 
 ' !N"o, no ; that will not do. I have promised 
 to answer him myself. He has gone for a walk on 
 the hills, and will come back at four o'clock 
 for my answer.' 
 
 * Sit down at that table, and write as I 
 dictate.' 
 
 ' But a letter will be so formal.' 
 
 ' It is the only way in which you can 
 answer him. "When he comes back from his 
 walk you will have left Fellside. I shall send 
 you off to St. Bees with Fraulein. You must 
 never look upon that man's face again.' 
 
 Lesbia brushed away a few more tears, and 
 obeyed. She had been too well trained to attempt 
 resistance. Defiance was out of the question.
 
 CHAPTER XTT. 
 
 *THE GREATER CAXTLE OF THE WORLD IS LOST.* 
 
 The sky was still cloudless when John 
 Hammond strolled slowly up the leafy aveuue 
 at Fellside. He had been across the valley and 
 up the hill to Easedale Tarn, and then by rough 
 untrodden ways, across a chaos of rock and 
 heather, into a second valley, long, narrow, and 
 sterile, known as Far Easedale, a desolate gorge, 
 a rugged cleft in the heart of the mountains. 
 The walk had been long and laborious ; but only 
 in such clambering and toiling, such expenditure of 
 muscular force and latent heat, could the man's 
 restless soul endure those long hours of suspense. 
 * How will she answer me ? Oh, my God ! 
 how will she answer ? ' he said within himself, 
 as he walked up the romantic winding road, 
 which made so picturesque an approach to Lady
 
 220 * GREATER CANTLE OF THE WORLD IS LOST.' 
 
 Maulevrier's domain. * Is my idol gold or clay ? 
 How will she come through the crucible? Oh, 
 dearest, sweetest, loveliest, only be true to the 
 instinct of your womanhood, and my cup will be 
 full of bliss, and all my days will flow as sweetly 
 as the burden of a song. But if you prove 
 heartless, if you love the world's wealth better 
 than you love me — ah ! then all is over, and you 
 and I are lost to each other for ever. I have 
 made up my mind.' 
 
 His face settled into an expression of indomit- 
 able determination, as of a man who would 
 die rather than be false to his own purpose. 
 There was no glow of hope in his heart. He had 
 no deep faith in the girl he loved; indeed in his 
 heart of hearts he knew that this being to whom 
 he had trusted his hopes of bliss was no heroine. 
 She was a lovely, loveable girl, nothing more- 
 How would she greet him when they met presently 
 on the tennis lawn ? With tears and entreaties, and 
 pretty little deprecating speeches, irresolution, 
 timidity, vacillation, perhaps : hardly with heroic 
 resolve to act and dare for his sake.
 
 * GREATER CAKTLE OF THE WORLD IS LOST.' 221 
 
 There was no one on the tennis lawn when 
 he went there, though the hour was close at hand 
 at which Lesbia had promised to give him his 
 answer. He sat down in one of the low chairs, 
 glad to rest after his long ramble, having had 
 no refreshment but a bottle of soda-water and a 
 biscuit at the cottage by Easedale Tarn. He waited, 
 calmly as to outward seeming, but with a heavy 
 heart. 
 
 ' If it were Mary now whom I loved, I should 
 have little fear of the issue,' he thought, weighing his 
 sweetheart's character, as he weighed his chances 
 of success. 'That young termagant would defy 
 the world for her lover.' 
 
 He sat in the summer silence for nearly half- 
 an-hour, and still there was no sign of Lady 
 Lesbia. Her satin-lined workbasket, with the work 
 thrown carelessly across it, was still on the rustic 
 table, just as she had left it when they went to 
 the pine wood. Waiting was weary work when 
 the bliss of a lifetime trembled in the balance ; 
 and yet he did not want to be impatient. She 
 might find it difficult to get away from her fanuly,
 
 222 'GREATER CANTLE OF THE WORLD IS LOST.' 
 
 perhaps. She was closely watched and guarded, 
 as the most precious thing at Fellside. 
 
 At last the clocji struck five, and Hammond 
 could endure delay no longer. He went round by 
 the flower garden to the terrace before the drawing- 
 room windows, and through an open window to the 
 drawing-room. 
 
 Lady Maulevrier was in her accustomed seat, 
 with her own particular little table, magazines, 
 books, newspapers at her side. Lady Mary was 
 pouring out the tea, a most unusual thing ; and 
 Maulevrier was sitting on a stool at her feet, 
 with his knees up to his chin, very warm and 
 dusty, drinking tea. 
 
 * Where the mischief have you been hiding 
 yourself all day, Jack ? ' he called out as Hammond 
 appeared, looking round the room as he entered, 
 with eager, interrogating eyes, for that one figure 
 which was absent. 
 
 * I've been for a walk.' 
 
 * You might have had the civility to announce 
 your design, and Molly and I would have shared 
 your peregrinations.'
 
 ' GREATER CANTLE OF THE WORLD IS LOST.' 223 
 
 * I am sorry that I lost the privilege of your 
 company.' 
 
 ' I suppose you lost your luncheon, which was 
 of more importance,' said Maulevrier. 
 
 * Will you have some tea ? ' asked !Mary, who 
 looked more womanly than usual in a cream- 
 coloured surah gown — one of her Sunday gowns. 
 
 She had a faint hope that by this essentially 
 feminine apparel she might lessen the prejudicial 
 effect of Maulevrier's cruel story about the fox- 
 hunt. 
 
 Mr. Hammond answered absently, hardly look- 
 ing at Mary, and quite unconscious of her pretty 
 gown. 
 
 'Thanks, yes,' he said, taking the cup and 
 saucer, and looking at the door by which he 
 momently expected Lady Lesbia's entrance, and 
 then, as the door did not open, he looked down 
 at Mary, very busy with china teapots and a 
 brass kettle which hissed and throbbed over a 
 spirit lamp. 
 
 * Won't you have some cake,' she asked, 
 looking up at him gently, grieved at the distress
 
 224 ^ GREATER CANTLE OF THE WORLD IS LOST.' 
 
 and disappointment in his face. *I am sure you 
 must be dreadfully hungry.* 
 
 *Not in the least, thanks. How came you to 
 be entrusted with those sacred vessels, Lady Mary ? 
 What has become of Praulein and your sister?' 
 
 'They have rushed off to St. Bees. Grand- 
 mother thought Lesbia looking pale and out of 
 spirits, and packed her off to the seaside at a 
 minute's notice.' 
 
 'What! She has left Fellside?' asked Ham- 
 mond, paling suddenly, as if a man had struck 
 him. 'Lady Maulevrier, do I understand that 
 Lady Lesbia has gone away?' 
 
 He asked the question in an authoritative 
 tone, with the air of a man who had a right 
 to be answered. The dowager wondered at his 
 surpassing insolence. 
 
 ' My granddaughter has gone to the seaside 
 with her governess,' she said, haughtily. 
 
 ' At a minute's notice ? ' 
 
 ' At a minute's notice. I am not in the habit 
 of hesitating about any step which I consider 
 necessary for my grandchildren's welfare.'
 
 • GREATER CANTLE OF THE WORLD IS LOST.' 225 
 
 She looked him full in the face with those 
 falcon eyes of hers ; and he gave her back a look 
 as resolute, and every whit as full of courage 
 and of pride. 
 
 'Well,' he said, after a yery perceptible pause, 
 * no doubt your ladyship has done wisely, and I 
 must submit to your jurisdiction. But I had 
 asked Lady Lesbia a question, and I had been 
 promised an answer.' 
 
 *Your question has been answered by Lady 
 Lesbia. She left a note for you,' replied Lady 
 Maulevrier. 
 
 'Thanks,' answered Mr. Hammond, briefly, and 
 he hurried from the room without another word. 
 
 The letter was on the table in his bedroom. 
 He had little hope of any good waiting for him in 
 a letter so written. The dowager and the world 
 had triumphed over a girl's dawning love, no doubt. 
 
 This was Lesbia's letter : 
 
 ' Dear ^Mr. Hammond, — Lady Maulevrier desires 
 me to say that the proposal which you honoured 
 me by making this morning is one which I 
 cannot possibly accept, and that any idea of an 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 ' GREATER CANTLE OF THE WORLD IS LOST.' 
 
 engagement between you and me could result 
 only in misery and humiliation to both. She 
 thinks it best, under these circumstances, that we 
 should not again meet, and I shall therefore have 
 left Fellside before you receive this letter. 
 
 *\Yith all good wishes, very faithfully yours, 
 
 •Lesbia Haselden.' 
 
 ' Very faithfully mine — faithful to her false 
 training, to the worldly mind that rules her ; 
 faithful to the gods of this world — Belial and Mam- 
 mon, and the Moloch Fashion. Poor cowardly 
 soul ! She loves me, and owns as much, yet 
 weakly flies from me, afraid to trust the strong 
 arm and the brave heart of the man who loves 
 her, preferring the glittering shams of the world 
 to the reality of true and honest love. Well, 
 child, I have weighed you in the balance and 
 found you wanting. Would to God it had been 
 otherwise! If you had been brave and bold for 
 love's sake, where is that pure and perfect chryso- 
 lite for which I would have bartered you?' 
 . He flung himself into a chair, and sat with
 
 ' GREATER CAXTLE OF THE WORLD IS LOST.' 227 
 
 his head bowed upon his folded arms, and his 
 eyes not innocent of tears. What would he not 
 have given to find truth and courage and 'scorn 
 of the world's wealth in that heart which he 
 had tried to win. Did he think her altogether 
 heartless because she so glibly renounced him ? 
 No, he was too just for that. He called her 
 only half-hearted. She was like the cat in the 
 adage, 'Letting I dare not, wait upon I would.' 
 But he told himself with one deep sigh of 
 resignation that she was lost to him for ever. 
 
 ' I have tried her, and found her not worth 
 the winning,' he said. 
 
 The house, even the lovely landscape smiling 
 under his windows, the pastoral valley, smooth 
 lake and willowy island, seemed hateful to him. 
 He felt himself hemmed round by those green 
 hills, by yonder brown and rugged w^all of Xabb 
 Scar, stifled for want of breathing space. The 
 landscape was lovely enough, but it was like a 
 beautiful grave. He longed to get away from it. 
 
 'Another man would follow her to St. Bees,' 
 he said. *I will not.'
 
 228 ' GKEATER CANTLE OF THE WORLD IS LOST.' 
 
 He flung a few things into a Gladstone bag, 
 sat down, and wrote a brief note to Maiilevrier, 
 asking bim to make his excuses to her ladyship. 
 He had made up his mind to go to Keswick 
 that afternoon, and would rejoin his friend to- 
 morrow, at Carlisle. This done he rang for Maul- 
 evrier's valet, and asked that person to look after 
 his luggage and bring it on to Scotland with his 
 master's things ; and then, without a word of 
 adieu to any one, John Hammond went out of 
 the house, with his Gladstone bag in his hand, 
 and shook the dust of Fellside off his feet. 
 
 He ordered a fly at the Prince of Wales's 
 Hotel, and drove to Keswick, whence he went 
 on to the Lodore. The gloom and spaciousness 
 of Derwentwater, grey in the gathering dusk, 
 suited his humour better than the emerald pretti- 
 ness of Grasmere — the roar of the waterfall made 
 music in his ear. He dined in a private room, 
 and spent the evening roaming on the shore of 
 the lake, and at eleven o'clock went back to his 
 hotel and sat late into the night reading Heine, 
 and thinking of the girl who had refused him.
 
 * GREATER CAXTLE OF THE WORLD IS LOST.' 229 
 
 Mr. Hammond's letter was delivered to Lord 
 Maulevrier . five minutes before dinner, as lie sat 
 in the drawing-room with her ladyship and 
 Mary. Poor Mary had put on another pretty 
 gown for dinner, still bent upon effacing Mr. 
 Hammond's image of her as a tousled, frantic 
 creature in torn and muddy raiment. She sat 
 watching the door, just as Hammond had watched 
 it three hours ago. 
 
 ' So,' said Maulevrier, ^ your ladyship has 
 succeeded in driving my friend away. Hammond 
 has left Fellside, and begs me to convey to 
 you his compliments and his grateful acknow- 
 ledgment of all your kindness.' 
 
 * I hope I have not been uncivil to him/ 
 answered Lady Maulevrier coldly. 'As you had 
 both made up your minds to go to-morrow, it 
 can matter very little that he should go 
 to-day.' 
 
 Mary looked down at the ribbon and lace 
 on her prettiest frock, and thought that it 
 mattered a great deal to her. Yet, if he had 
 stayed, would he have seen her frock or her.
 
 230 ' GREATER CANTLE OF THE WORLD IS LOST.' 
 
 With his bodily eyes perhaps, but not with the 
 eyes of his mind. Those eyes saw only Lesbia. 
 
 * No, perhaps it hardly matters,' answered 
 Maulevrier, with suppressed anger. 'The man is 
 not worth talking about or thinking about. 
 What is he ? Only the best, truest, bravest 
 fellow I ever knew.' 
 
 ' There are shepherds and guides in Grasmere 
 of whom we could say almost as much,' said 
 Lady Maulevrier, 'yet you would scarcely expect 
 me to encourage one of them to pay his 
 addresses to your sister ? Pray spare us all 
 nonsense-talk, Maulevrier. This business is 
 very well ended. You ought never to have 
 brought Mr. Hammond here.' 
 
 'I am sure of that now. I am very sorry 
 I did bring liim.' 
 
 ' Oh, the man will not die for love. A 
 disappointment of that kind is good for a young 
 man in his position. It will preserve him 
 from more vulgar entanglements, and perhaps 
 from the folly of a too early marriage.' 
 
 * That is a mighty philosophical way of looking 
 at the matter.'
 
 ' GREATER CANILE OF THE WORLD IS LOST.' 231 
 
 ' It is the only true way. I hope when 
 you are my age you will have learnt to look 
 at everything in a philosophical spii'it.' 
 
 ' Well, Lady Maulevrier, you have had it all 
 your own way,' said the young man, walking up 
 and down the room in an angry mood. •' I 
 hope you will never he sorry for having come 
 between two people who loved each other, and 
 might have made each other happy.' 
 
 ' I shall never be sorry for having saved my 
 granddaughter from an imprudent marriage. 
 Give me your arm, Maulevrier, and let me hear 
 no more about Mr. Hammond. We have all 
 had quite enough of him,' said her ladyship, as 
 the butler announced dinner.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 'SINCE PAINTED OR NOT PAINTED ALL SHALL FADE.' 
 
 Traulein Muller and her charge returned from 
 St. Bees after a sojourn of about three weeks 
 upon that quiet shore : but Lady Lesbia did 
 not appear to be improved in health or spirits 
 by the revivifying breezes of the ocean. 
 
 ' It is a duU, horrid place, and I was bored 
 to death there ! ' she said, when Mary asked 
 how she had enjoyed herself. * There was no 
 question of enjoyment. Grandmother took it 
 into her head that I was looking ill, and sent 
 me to the sea; but I should have been just as 
 well at Tellside.' 
 
 This meant that between Lesbia and that 
 distinctly inferior being, her younger sister, there 
 was to be no confidence. Mary had watched the 
 life-drama acted under her eyes too closely not
 
 * SINCE PAINTED OR NOT PAINTED.' 233 
 
 to know all about it, and was not inclined to be 
 so put off. 
 
 That pale perturbed countenance of John 
 Hammond's, those eager inquiring eyes looking 
 to the door which opened not, had haunted 
 Mary's waking thoughts, had even mingled with 
 the tangled web of her dreams. Oh, how could 
 any woman scorn such love ? To be so loved, 
 and by such a man, seemed to Mary the per- 
 fection of earthly bliss. She had never been 
 educated up to those wider and loftier views of 
 life, which teach a woman that houses and 
 lands, place and power, are the supreme good. 
 
 * I can't understand how you could treat 
 that noble-minded man so badly,' she exclaimed 
 one da)^ when she and Lesbia were alone in 
 the library, and after she had sat for ever so 
 long, staring out of the window, meditating 
 upon her sister's cruelty. 
 
 ' Of whom are you speaking, pray ? ' 
 
 ' As if you didn't know ! Of Mr. Hammond.' 
 
 * And pray, how do you know that he is 
 noble-minded, or that I treated him badly.'
 
 234 'SINCE PAINTED OR NOT PAINTED.' 
 
 ' Well, as to his being noble-minded, that 
 jumps to the eyes, as French books say. As 
 for your treatment of him, I was looking on 
 all the time, and I know how unkind you 
 were, and I heard him talking to you in the 
 fir-copse that day.' 
 
 ' You were listening,' cried Lesbia indignantly. 
 
 ' I was not listening ! I was passing by. 
 And if people choose to carry on their love 
 affairs out of doors they must expect to be 
 overheard. I heard him iDleading to you, tell- 
 ing you how he would work for you, fight the 
 battle of life for you, asking you to be trustful 
 and brave for his sake. But you have a heart 
 of stone. You and grandmother both have 
 hearts of stone. I think she must have taken 
 out your heart when you were little, and put a 
 stone in its place.' 
 
 ' Eeally,' said Lesbia, trying to carry things 
 with a high hand, albeit her very human heart 
 was beating passionately all the time, ' I think 
 you ought to be very grateful to me — and 
 grandmother — for refusing Mr. Hammond.'
 
 ' SINCE PAINTED OR NOT PAINTED.' 235 
 
 *Why grateful?' 
 
 * Because it leaves you a chance of getting 
 him for yourself ; and everybody can see that you 
 are over head and ears in love with him. That 
 jumps to the eyes, as you say.' 
 
 Mary turned crimson, trembled with rage, 
 looked at her sister as if she would kill her, 
 for a moment or so, and finally burst into tears. 
 
 ' That is not true, and it is shameful for 
 you to say such a thing,' she cried. 
 
 ' Why, what a virago you are, Mary. Well, 
 I'm very glad it is not true. Mr. Hammond 
 is — yes, I will be quite candid with you — he is 
 the only man I am ever likely to admire for 
 his own sake. He is good, brave, clever, all 
 that you think him. But you and I do not 
 live in a world in which girls are free to follow 
 their own inclinations. I should break Lady 
 Maulevrier's heart if I were to make a foolish 
 marriage ; and I owe her too much to set her 
 wishes at naught, or to make her declining 
 years unhappy. I must obey her, at any cost 
 to my own feelings. Please never mention Mr.
 
 236 ' SINCE PAINTED OK NOT PAINTED.' 
 
 Hammond's name. I'm sure I have had quite 
 enough unhappiness about him.' 
 
 ' I see,' said Mary, bitterly. ' It is your 
 own pain you think of, not his. He may suffer, 
 so long as you are not worried.' 
 
 ' You are an impertinent chit,' retorted 
 Lesbia, * and you know nothing about it.' 
 
 After this there was no more said about Mr. 
 Hammond; but Mary did not forget him. She 
 wrote long letters to her brother, who was still 
 in Scotland, shooting, deer-stalking, fishing, killing 
 something or other daily, in the most approved 
 fashion of an Englishman taking his pleasure. 
 Maulevrier occasionally repaid her with a tele- 
 gram ; but he was not a good correspondent. He 
 declared that life was too short for letter-writing. 
 
 Summer was gone ; the lake was no longer 
 a shining emerald floor, dotted with the reflection 
 of the flock upon the verdant slopes above it, 
 but dull and grey of hue, and broken by white- 
 edged wavelets. Patches of snow gleamed on 
 the misty heights of Helvellyn, and the autumn 
 winds howled and shrieked around Fellside in
 
 'SINCE PAINTED OR NOT PAINTED.' 237 
 
 the evenings, when all the shutters were shut, 
 and the outside world seemed little more than 
 an idea : that mystic hour when the sheep are 
 slumbering under the starry sky, and when, as 
 the Westmoreland peasant believes, the fairies 
 help the housewife at her spinning-wheel. 
 
 Those October evenings were very long and 
 weary for Lesbia and her sister. Lady Maulevrier 
 read and mused in her low chair beside the 
 fire, with her books piled upon her own par- 
 ticular table, and lighted by her own particular 
 lamp. She talked very little, but she was 
 always gracious to her granddaughters and their 
 governess, and she liked them to be with her 
 in the evening. Lesbia played or sang, or sat 
 at work at her basket-table, which occupied 
 the other side of the fireplace ; and Fraulein and 
 Mary had the rest of the room to themselves, 
 as it were, those two places by the hearth being 
 sacred, as if dedicated to household gods. Mary 
 read immensely in those long evenings, devouring 
 volume after volume, feeding her imagination 
 with every kind of nutriment, good, bad, and
 
 238 ' SINCE PAINTED OK NUT PAINTED.' 
 
 indifferent. Eraulein MuUer knitted a woollen 
 shawl, which seemed to have neither beginning, 
 middle, nor end, and was always ready for con- 
 versation ; but there were times when silence 
 brooded over the scene for long intervals, and 
 when every sound of the light wood-ashes 
 dropping on the tiled hearth was distinctly 
 audible. 
 
 This state of things went on for about three 
 weeks after Lesbia's return from St. Bees, Lady 
 Maulevrier watchful of her granddaughter all the 
 time, though saying nothing. She saw that 
 Lesbia was not happy, not as she had been in 
 the time before the coming of John Hammond. 
 She had never been particularly gay or light- 
 hearted, never gifted with the wild spirits and 
 buoyancy which make girlhood so lovely a season 
 to some natures, a time of dance and song and 
 joyousness, a morning of life steeped in the 
 beauty and gladness of the universe. She had 
 never been gay as young lambs and foals and 
 fawns and kittens and puppy dogs are gay, by 
 reason of the well-spring of delight within them,
 
 230 
 
 needing no stimulus from the outside world. 
 She had been just a little inclined to murmur 
 at the dulness of her life at Fellside ; yet she 
 had borne herself with a placid sweetness which 
 had been Lady Maulevrier's delight. But now 
 there was a marked change in her manner. 
 She was not the less submissive and dutiful in 
 her bearing to her grandmother, whom she botli 
 loved and feared ; but there were moments of 
 fretfulness and impatience which she could not 
 conceal. She was captious and sullen in her 
 manner to Mary and the Fraulein. She would 
 not walk or drive with them, or share in any 
 of their amusements. Sometimes of an evening 
 that studious silence of the drawing-room was 
 suddenly broken by Lesbia's weary sigh, an 
 unconscious sigh, breathed unawares as she bent 
 over her work. 
 
 Lady Maulevrier saw, too, that Lesbia's cheek 
 was paler than of old, her eyes less bright. 
 There was a heavy look that told of broken 
 slumbers, there was a pinched look in that oval 
 cheek. Good heavens ! if her beauty were to pale
 
 240 * SINCE PAINTED OR NOT PAINTED.' 
 
 and wane, before society had "bowed down and 
 worshipped it ; if this fair flower were to fade 
 uQtiraely; if this prize rose in the garden of 
 beauty were to wither and decay before it won 
 the prize. 
 
 Her ladyship was a woman of action, and no 
 sooner did this fear shape itself in her mind than 
 she took steps to prevent the evil her thoughts 
 foreshadowed. 
 
 Among those friends of her youth and allies 
 of her house with whom she had always main- 
 tained an affectionate correspondence was Lady 
 Kirkbank, the fashionable wife of a sporting 
 baronet, owner of a castle in Scotland, a place in 
 Yorkshire, a villa at Cannes, and a fine house in 
 Arlington Street, with an income large enough for 
 their enjoyment. When Lady Diana Angers- 
 thorpe shone forth in the West End world as the 
 acknowledged belle of the season, the star of 
 Georgina Lorimer was beginning to wane. She 
 was the eldest daughter of Colonel Lorimer, a 
 man of good old family, and a fine soldier, who 
 had fought shoulder to shoulder with Gough and
 
 'SINCE PAINTED OR NOT PAINTED.' 241 
 
 Lawrence, and who had contrived to make a 
 figure in society with very small means. Georgina's 
 sisters had all married well. It was a case of 
 necessity, the Colonel told them; they must 
 either marry or gravitate ultimately to the work- 
 house. So the Miss Lorimers made the best of 
 their youth and freshness, and 'no good offer 
 refused' was the guiding rule of their young 
 lives. Lucy married an East India merchant and 
 set up a fine house in Porchester Terrace. ^Maud 
 married wealth personified in the person of a 
 leading member of the Tallow Chandlers' Com- 
 pany, and had her town liouse and country house, 
 and as fine a set of diamonds as a duchess. 
 
 But Georgina, the eldest, trifled with her 
 chances, 'and her twenty-seventh birthday beheld 
 her pouring out her father's tea in a small fur- 
 nished house in a street off Portland Place, which 
 the Colonel had hired on his return from India, 
 and which he declared himself unable to main- 
 tain another year. 
 
 'Directly the season is over I shall give up 
 housekeeping and take a lodging at Bath,' said 
 
 VOL. I. n
 
 242 SINCE PAINTED OR NOT PAINTED.' 
 
 Colonel Lorimer. * If you don't like Bath all the 
 year round you can stay with your sisters.' 
 
 'That is the last thing I am likely to do,' 
 answered Georgina ; ' my sisters were barely en- 
 durable when they were single and poor. They 
 are quite intolerable now they are married and 
 rich. I would sooner live in the monkey house 
 at the Zoological than stay v/ith either Lucy or 
 Maud.' 
 
 * That's rank envy,' retorted her father. * You 
 can't forgive them for having done so much better 
 than you.' 
 
 ' I can't forgive them for having married snobs. 
 When I marry I shall marry a gentleman/ 
 
 'When!' echoed the parent, with a sneering 
 laugh. * Hadn't you better say " if " ? ' 
 
 At this period Georgina's waning good looks 
 were in some measure counterbalanced by the 
 cumulative effects of half-a-dozen seasons in good 
 society, which had given style to her person, ease 
 to her manners, and sharpness to her tongue. 
 Nobody in society said sharper or more unpleasant 
 things than Miss Lorimer, and by virtue of
 
 'SINCE PAINTED OR NOT PAINTED.' 243 
 
 this gift slie got invited about a great deal more 
 than she might have done had she been distin- 
 guished for sweetness of speech and manner. 
 Georgie Lorimer's presence at a dinner table gave 
 just that pungent flavour which is like the faint sus- 
 picion of garlic in a fricassee or of tarragon in a salad. 
 Xow in this very season, when Colonel Lorimer 
 was inclined to speak of his daughter, as Sainte 
 Beuve wrote of Musset, as a young woman with 
 a very brilliant past, a lucky turn of events gave 
 Georgina a fresh start in life, which may be called 
 a new departure. Lady Diana Angersthorpe, the 
 belle of the season, took a fancy to her, was 
 charmed with her sharp tongue and acute sense 
 of the ridiculous. The two became fast friends, 
 and were seen everywhere together. The best men 
 all flocked round the beauty, and all talked to the 
 beauty's companion : and before the season was 
 over, Sir George Kirkbank, who had half made 
 up his mind^ to propose to Lady Diana, found 
 himself engaged to that uncommonly jolly girl, 
 Lady Diana's friend. Georgina spent August and 
 September with Lady Di, at the Marchioness of
 
 244 ' SINCE PAINTED OR NOT PAINTED.' 
 
 Carisbroke's delightful villa in the Isle of Wight, 
 and Sir George kept his yacht at Cowes all the 
 time, and was in constant attendance upon his 
 fiancee. It was George and Georgie everywhere. 
 In October Colonel Lorimer had the profound 
 pleasure of giving away his daughter, before the 
 altar in St. George's, Hanover Square ; and it may 
 be said of him that nothing in his relations with 
 that young lady became him better than his manner 
 of parting with her. 
 
 So the needy Colonel's daughter became Lady 
 Kirkbank, and in the following spring Diana 
 Angersthorpe was married at the same St. George's 
 to the Earl of Maulevrier. The friends were divided 
 by distance and by circumstance as the years rolled 
 on ; but friendship was steadily maintained ; and 
 a regular correspondence with Lady Kirkbank, whose 
 pen was as sharp as her tongue, was one of the 
 means by which Lady Maulevrier had kept herself 
 thoroughly posted in all those small events, unre- 
 corded by newspapers, which make up the secret 
 history of society. 
 
 It was of her old friend Georgie that her lady-
 
 'SINCE PAINTED OR NOT PAINTED.' 24o 
 
 ship thought iu her present anxiety. Lady Kirk- 
 bank had more than once suggested that Lady 
 Maulevrier's granddaughters should vary the 
 monotony of Fellside by a visit to her place near 
 Doncaster, or her castle north of Aberdeen ; but 
 her ladyship had evaded these friendly suggestions, 
 being very jealous of any strange influence upon 
 Lesbia's life. Now, however, there had come a 
 time when Lesbia must have a complete change of 
 scenery and surroundings, lest she should pine and 
 dwindle in sullen submission to fate, or else defy 
 the world and elope with John Hammond. 
 
 Now, therefore, Lady Maulevrier decided to 
 accept Lady Kirkbank's hospitality. She told 
 her friend the whole story with perfect frankness, 
 and her letter was immediately answered by 
 a telegram. 
 
 ' I start for Scotland to-morrow, will break my 
 journey by staying a night at Fellside, and will take 
 Lady Lesbia on to Kirkbank with me next day, if 
 she can be ready to go.' 
 
 ' She shall be ready,' said Lady Maulevrier. 
 
 She told Lesbia that she had accepted an invita-
 
 246 'SINCE PAINTED OR NOT PAINTED 
 
 tion for her, and that she was to go to Kirkbank 
 Castle the day after to-morrow. She was prepared 
 for unwillingness, resistance even ; but Lesbia 
 received the news with evident pleasure. 
 
 ' I shall be very glad to go,' she said, ' this place 
 is so dull. Of course I shall be sorry to leave you, 
 grandmother, and I wish you would go with me ; 
 but any change will be a relief. I think if I had to 
 stay here all the winter, counting the days and the 
 hours, I should go out of my mind.' 
 
 The tears came into her eyes, but she wiped 
 them away hurriedly, ashamed of her emotion. 
 
 *My dearest child, I am so sorry for you,' 
 murmured Lady Maulevrier. ' But believe me the 
 day will come when you will be very glad that you 
 conquered the first foolish inclination of your girlish 
 heart.' 
 
 *Yes, I daresay, when I am eighty,' Lesbia 
 answered, impatiently. 
 
 She had made up her mind to submit to the 
 inevitable. She had loved John Hammond — had 
 been as near breaking her heart for him as it 
 was in her nature to break her heart for anybody;
 
 'SINCE PAINTED OR NOT PAINTED.' 2-47 
 
 but she wanted to make a great marriage, to be 
 renowned and admired. She had been reared and 
 trained for that ; and she was not going [to belie 
 her training. 
 
 A visitor from the great London world was so 
 rare an event that there was naturally a little 
 excitement in the idea of Lady Kirkbank's arrival. 
 The handsomest and most spacious of the spare 
 bedrooms was prepared for the occasion. The 
 housekeeper was told that the dinner must be 
 perfect. There must be nothing old-fashioned or 
 ponderous ; there must be mind as well as matter 
 in everything. Earely did Lady Maulevrier look 
 at a bill of fare ; but on this particular morning 
 she went carefully through the menu, and cor- 
 rected it with her own hand. 
 
 A pail' of post-horses brought Lady Kirkbank 
 and her maid from Windermere station, in time 
 for afternoon tea, and the friends who had only 
 met twice within the last forty years, embraced 
 each other on the threshold of Lady Maulevrier's 
 morning-room. 
 
 *My dearest Di,' cried Lady Kirkbank, 'what
 
 248 * SINCE PAINTED OR NOT PAINTED.' 
 
 a delight to see you again after such ages ! and 
 what a too lovely spot you have chosen for your 
 retreat from the world, the flesh, and the devil. 
 If I could be a recluse anywhere, it would be 
 amongst just such delicious surroundings.' 
 
 Without, twilight shades were gathering ; 
 within, there was only the light of a fire and a 
 shaded lamp upon the tea-table; there was just 
 light enough for the two women to see each other's 
 faces, and the change which time had wrought there. 
 
 Never did womanhood in advanced years offer 
 a more striking contrast than that presented by 
 the woman of fashion and the recluse. Lady 
 Maulevrier was almost as handsome in the winter 
 of her days as she had been when life was in its 
 spring. The tall, slim figure, erect as a dart, the 
 delicately chiselled features and alabaster com- 
 plexion, the soft silvery hair, the perfect hand, 
 whiter and more transparent than the hand of 
 girlhood, the stately movements and bearing, all 
 combined to make Lady Maulevrier a queen 
 among women. Her brocade gown of a deep 
 shade of red, with a border of dark sable on cuffs
 
 * SI>XE PAINTED OR NOT PAINTED.' 249 
 
 and collar, suggested a portrait by Velasquez. 
 She wore no ornaments except the fine old 
 Brazilian diamonds which flashed and sparkled 
 upon her slender fingers. 
 
 If Lady Maulevrier looked like a picture in the 
 Escurial, Lady Kirkbank resembled a caricature 
 in La Vie Parisienne. Everything she wore was 
 in the very latest fashion of the Parisian demi- 
 monde, that exaggerated elegance of a fashion 
 plate which only the most exquisite of women 
 could redeem from vulgarity. Plush, brocade, 
 peacock's feathers, golden bangles, mousquetaire 
 gloves, a bonnet of purple plumage set off by 
 ornaments of filagree gold, an infantine little 
 muff of lace and wild flowers, buttercups and 
 daisies; and hair, eyebrows, and complexion as 
 artificial as the flowers on the muff. 
 
 All that art could do to obliterate the traces of 
 age had been done for Georgina Kirkbank. But 
 seventy years are not to be obliterated easily, and 
 the crow's feet showed through the bloom de Xinon, 
 and the eyes under the painted arches were glassy 
 and haggard, the carnation lips had a withered
 
 250 ' SINCE PAINTED OR NOT PAINTED.' 
 
 look. Age was made all the more palpable by 
 the artifice which would have disguised it. 
 
 Lady Maulevrier suffered an absolute shock 
 at beholding the friend of her youth. She had 
 not accustomed herself to the idea that women 
 in society could raddle their cheeks, stain their 
 lips, and play tricks before high heaven with 
 their eyebrows and eyelashes. In her own youth 
 painted faces had been the ghastly privilege of 
 a class of womankind of which the women of 
 society were supposed to know nothing. Persons 
 who showed their ankles and rouged their 
 cheeks were to be seen of an afternoon in 
 Bond Street ; but Lady Diana Angersthorpe had 
 been taught to pass them by as if she saw 
 them not, to behold without seeing these 
 creatures outside the pale. And now she saw 
 her own dearest friend, a person distinctly 
 within the pale, plastered with bismuth and 
 stained with carmine, and wearing hair of a 
 colour so obviously false and inharmonious, that 
 child-like faith could hardly accept it as reality. 
 Forty years ago Lady Kirkbank's long ringlets
 
 'since paikted ok not painted.' 251 
 
 had been darkest glossiest brown, to-day she 
 wore a tousled fringe of bright yellow, piquantly 
 contrasting with Vandyke brown eyebrows. 
 
 It took Lady Maiilevrier some moments to 
 get over the shock. She drew a chair to the 
 fire and established her friend in it, and then, 
 with a little gasp, she said : 
 
 ' I am charmed to see you again, Georgie ! ' 
 
 *Tou darling, I w^as sure you would be glad. 
 But you must find me awfully changed — awfully/ 
 
 For w^orlds Lady Maulevrier could not have 
 denied this truth. Happily Lady Kirkbank did 
 not wait for an answer. 
 
 * Society is so wearing, and George and I 
 never seem to get an interval of quiet. Kirkbank 
 is to be full of men next week. Your grand- 
 daughter will have a good time.' 
 
 'There will be a few women, of course?' 
 
 ' Oh, yes, there's no avoiding that ; only one 
 doesn't reckon them. Sir George only counts 
 his guns. "\Ye expect a splendid season. I shall 
 send you some birds of my own shooting.' 
 
 ' You shoot ! ' exclaimed Lady Maulevrier, amazed.
 
 252 ' SINCE PAINTED OR NOT PAINTED. 
 
 ' Shoot ! I should think I do. What else is 
 there to amuse one in Scotland, after the 
 salmon fishing is over ? I have never missed a 
 season for the last thirty years, unless' we have 
 been abroad.' 
 
 ' Please don't innoculate Lesbia with your 
 love of sport.' 
 
 ' What ! you wouldn't like her to shoot ? 
 Well, perhaps you are right. It is hardly the 
 thing for a pretty girl with her fortune to 
 make. It spoils the delicacy of the skin. But 
 I'm afraid she'll find Kirkbank dull if she 
 doesn't go out with the guns. She can meet 
 us with the rest of the women at luncheon. 
 We have some capital picnic luncheons on the 
 moor, I can assure you.' 
 
 ' I know she will enjoy herself with yon. 
 She has been accustomed to a very quiet life 
 here.' 
 
 * It is a lovely spot ; but I own I cannot 
 understand how you can have lived here 
 exclusively during all these years, you who 
 used to be all life and fire, loving change,
 
 *SIXCE PAIXTED OR NOT PAINTED.' 1:53 
 
 action, political and diplomatic society, to dauce 
 upon the crest of the wave, as it were. Your 
 whole nature must have suffered some curious 
 change.' 
 
 Their close intimacy of the past warranted 
 freedom of speech in the present. 
 
 *My nature did undergo a change, and a 
 severe one,' answered Lady Maulevrier, gloomily. 
 
 'It was that horrid — and I daresay unfounded 
 — scandal about his lordship ; and then the sad 
 shock of his death,' murmured Lady Kirkbank, 
 sympathetically. 'Most women, with your youth 
 and beauty, would have forgotten the scandal and 
 the husband in a twelvemonth, and would have 
 made a second marriage more brilliant than the 
 first. But no Indian widow who ever performed 
 suttee was more worthy of praise than you, or 
 even that person of Ephesus, whose story I have 
 heard somewhere. Indeed, I have always spoken 
 of your life as a long suttee. But you mean to 
 re- appear in society next season, I hope, when 
 you present your granddaughter ' ? 
 
 ' I shall certainly go up to London to present
 
 254 ' SINCE PAINTED OR NOT PAINTED.' 
 
 her, and possibly I may spend the season in 
 town ; but I shall feel like Eip Van Winkle.' 
 
 ' No, no, you won't, my dear Di. You have 
 kept yourself aib courant, I know. Even my silly 
 gossiping letters may have been of some use.' 
 
 ' They have been most valuable. Let me give 
 you another cup of tea,' said Lady Maulevrier, 
 who had been officiating at her own exquisite tea- 
 table, an arrangement of inlaid woods, antique 
 silver, and modern china, which her friend pro- 
 nounced a perfect poem. 
 
 Indeed the whole room was poetic, Lady Kirk- 
 bank declared ; and there are many highly- 
 praised scenes which less deserve the epithet. The 
 dark red walls and cedar dado, the stamped velvet 
 curtains, of an indescribable shade between silver- 
 grey and olive, the Sheraton furniture, the par- 
 queterie floor and Persian prayer-rugs, the deep 
 yet brilliant hues of crackle porcelain and Chinese 
 cloisonne enamel, the artistic fireplace, with dog- 
 stove, low brass fender, and ingle nook recessed 
 under the high mantelpiece, all combined to form 
 a luxurious and harmonious whole.
 
 ' SINCE PAINTED OR NOT PAINTED.' 255 
 
 LadyKirkbank admired the tout ensemUe in the fit- 
 ful light cf the fire, the dim grey of deepening twilight. 
 
 * There never was a more delicious cell ! ' she 
 exclaimed, 'but still I should feel it a prison, if 
 I had to spend six weeks in the year in it. I 
 never stay more than six weeks anywhere out of 
 London ; and I always find six weeks more than 
 enough. The first fortnight is rapture, the third 
 and fourth weeks are calm content, the fifth is 
 weariness, the sixth a fever to be gone. I once tried 
 a seventh week at Pontresiua, and I hated the place 
 so intensely that I dared not go back there for 
 the next three years. But now tell me, Diana, 
 have you really performed suttee, have you buried 
 yourself alive in this sweet spot deliberately, or 
 has the love of retirement grown upon you, and 
 have you become a kind of lotus eater ? ' 
 
 'I believe I have become a kind of lotus eater. 
 My retirement here has been no sentimental sacrifice 
 to Lord Maulevrier's memory.' 
 
 ' I am glad to hear that ; for really I think 
 the worst possible use a woman can make of her 
 life is in wasting it on lamentation for a dead
 
 250 ' SINCE PAINTED OR NOT PAINTED.' 
 
 and gone husband. Life is odiously short at the 
 best, and it is mere imbecility to fritter away 
 any of our scanty portion upon the dead, who 
 can never be any the better for our tears.' 
 
 * My motive in living at Fellside was not 
 reverence for the dead. And now let us talk of 
 the gay worl(J, of which you know all the secrets. 
 Have you heard anything more about Lord Hart- 
 field ? ' 
 
 ' Ah, there is a subject in which you have reason 
 to be interested. I have not forgotten the romance 
 of your youth— that first season in which Eonald 
 Hollister used to haunt every place at which you 
 appeared. Do you remember that wet afternoon 
 at the Chisvvick flower show, when you and he 
 and I took shelter in tlie orange house, and you 
 two made love to each other most audaciously in 
 an atmosphere of orange blossoms that almost 
 stifled me ? Yes, those were glorious days.' 
 
 ' A short summer of gladness, a brief dream,' 
 sighed liady Maulevrier. * Is young Lord Hartfield 
 like his father ? ' 
 
 'No, he takes after the Ilmingtons ; but still
 
 257 
 
 there is a look of your old sweetheart — yes, I think 
 there is an expression. I have not seen him for 
 nearly a year. He is still abroad, roaming about 
 somewhere in search of adventures. These young 
 men who belong to the Geographical and the Alpine 
 Club are hardly ever at home.' 
 
 ' But though they may be sometimes lost to 
 society, they are all the more worthy of society's 
 esteem when they do appear,' said Lady Maulevrier. 
 ' I think there must be an ennobling influence in 
 Alpine travel, or in the vast soKtudes of the Dark 
 Continent. A man finds himself face to face with 
 unsophisticated nature, and with the grandest forces 
 of the universe. Professor Tyndall writes delight-, 
 fully of his Alpine experiences ; his mind seems 
 to have ripened in the solitude and untainted 
 air of the Alps. And I believe Lord Hartfield 
 is a young man of very high character and of 
 considerable cultivation, is he not ? ' 
 
 * He is a splendid young fellow. I never heard 
 
 a word to his disparagement, even from those people 
 
 who pretend to know something bad about everybody. 
 
 What a husband he would make for one of your girls ! ' 
 VOL. I. S
 
 258 'SINCE PAINTED OR NOT PAINTED.' 
 
 * Admirable ! But those perfect arrangements, 
 which seem predestined by heaven itself, are so 
 rarely realised on earth,' answered the dowager, 
 lightly. 
 
 She was not going to show her cards, even to 
 an old friend. 
 
 *Well, it would be very sweet if they were to 
 meet next season and fall in love with each other,' 
 said Lady Kirkbank. * He is enormously rich, and 
 I daresay your girls will not be portionless.' 
 
 * Lesbia may take a modest place among 
 heiresses,' answered Lady Maulevrier. * I have lived 
 so quietly during the last forty years that I could 
 hardly help saving money.' 
 
 ' How nice,' sighed Georgie. ' I never saved six- 
 pence in my life, and am always in debt.' 
 
 'The little fortune I have saved is much too 
 small for division. Lesbia will therefore have all I 
 can leave her. Mary has the usual provision as a 
 daughter of the Maulevrier house.' 
 
 * And I suppose Lesbia has that provision also ? ' 
 ' Of course.' 
 
 ' Lucky Lesbia. I only wish Hartfield were
 
 ' SINCE PAINTED OR NOT PAINTED.' 259 
 
 comiug to US for the shooting. I would engage 
 he should fall in love with her. Kirkbank 
 is a splendid place for match-making. But the 
 fact is I am not very intimate with him. He is 
 almost always travelling, and when he is at home 
 he is not in our set. And now, my dear Diana, 
 tell me more about yourself, and your own life in 
 this delicious place.' 
 
 * There is so little to tell. The books I have 
 read, the theories of literature and art and science 
 which I have adopted and dismissed, learnt and 
 forgotten — those are the history of my life. The 
 ideas of the outside world reach me here only in 
 books and newspapers ; but you who have been 
 living in the world must have so much to say. 
 Let me be the listener.' 
 
 Lady Kirkbank desired nothing better. She 
 rattled on for three-quarters of an hour about her 
 doings in the great world, her social triumphs, 
 the wonderful things she had done for Sir George, 
 who seemed to be as a puppet in her hands, the 
 princes and princeKngs she had entertained, the 
 songs she had composed, the comedy she had
 
 260 ' SINCE PAINTED OR NOT PAINTED.' 
 
 written, for private representation only, albeit the 
 Haymarket manager was dying to produce it, the 
 scathing witticisms with which she had withered 
 her social enemies. She would have gone on 
 much longer, but for the gong, which reminded 
 her that it was time to dress for dinner. 
 
 Half-an-hour later Lady Kirkbank was in the 
 drawing-room, where Mary had retired to the most 
 shadowy corner, anxious to escape the gaze of the 
 fashionable visitor. 
 
 But Lady Kirkbank was not inclined to take 
 much notice of Mary. Lesbia's brilliant beauty, 
 the exquisite Greek head, the faultless com- 
 plexion, the deep, violet eyes, caught Georgina 
 Kirkbank's eye the moment she entered the room, 
 and she saw that this girl and no other must be 
 the beauty, the beloved and chosen grandchild. 
 
 ' How do you do, my dear ? ' she said, taking 
 Lesbia's hand, and then, as if with a gush of 
 warm feeling, suddenly drawing the girl towards 
 her and kissing her on both cheeks. ' I am 
 going to be desperately fond of you, and I hope 
 you will soon contrive to like me — just a little,'
 
 * SINCE PAINTED OR NOT PAINTED.' 261 
 
 *I feel sure that I shall like you very much/ 
 Lesbia answered sweetly. 'I am prepared to love 
 you as grandmother's old friend.' 
 
 *0h, my dear, to think that I should ever be 
 the old friend of anybody's grandmother!' sighed 
 Lady Kirkbank, with unaffected regret. * When 
 I was your age I used to think all old people 
 odious. It never occurred to me that I should 
 live to be one of them.' 
 
 * Then you had no dear grandmother whom 
 you loved/ said Lesbia, * or you would have liked 
 old people for her sake.' 
 
 *No, my love, I had no grandparents. I had 
 a father, and he was all-sufficient — anything 
 beyond him in the ancestral line would have 
 been a burden laid upon me greater than I could 
 bear, as the poet says.' 
 
 Dinner w^as announced, and Mary came shyly 
 out of her corner, blushing deeply. 
 
 * And this is Lady Mary, I suppose ? ' said 
 Lady Kirkbank, in an off-hand way. *How do 
 you do, my dear? I am going to steal your 
 sister.'
 
 262 * SINCE PAINTED OR NOT PAINTED.' 
 
 *I am very glad/ faltered Mary. *I mean I 
 am glad that Lesbia should enjoy herself.' 
 
 *And some fine day, when Lesbia is married 
 and a great lady, I shall ask you to come to 
 Scotland,' said Lady Kirkbank, condescendingly, 
 and then she murmured in her friend's ear, as 
 they went to the dining-room, ' Quite an English 
 girl. Very fresh and frank and nice,' which was 
 great praise for such a second-rate young person 
 as Lady Mary. 
 
 * What do you thiuk of Lesbia ? ' asked Lady 
 Maulevrier, in the same undertone. 
 
 ' She is simply adorable. Your letters prepared 
 me to expect beauty, but not such beauty. My 
 dear, I thought the progress of the human race 
 was all in a downward line since our time; but 
 your granddaughter is as handsome as you were 
 in your first season, and that is going very far.'
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 *NOT YET.' 
 
 Lady Kiekbank carried off Lesbia early next 
 day, the girl radiant at the idea of seeing life 
 under new conditions. She had a few minutes' 
 serious talk with her grandmother before she 
 went. 
 
 * Lesbia, you are going into the world/ said 
 Lady Maulevrier; *yes, even a country house is 
 the world in little. You will have many admirers 
 instead of one ; but I think, I believe, that you 
 will be true to me and to yourself.' 
 
 * You need not fear, grandmother. I have been 
 an idiot ; but — but it was only a passing folly, 
 and I shall never be so weak again.' 
 
 Lesbia's scornful lips and kindling eyes gave 
 intensity to her speech. It was evident that she 
 despised herself for that one touch of womanly
 
 264 * NOT YET.' 
 
 softness whicli had made her as ready to fall in 
 love with her first wooer as any peasant girl 
 in Grasmere Vale. 
 
 'I am delighted to hear you speak thus, 
 dearest,' said Lady Maulevrier. *And if Mr. 
 Hamilton — Hammond, I mean — should have the 
 audacity to follow you to Kirkbank, and to in- 
 trude himself upon you there — perhaps to persecute 
 you with clandestine addresses ' 
 
 'I do not believe he would do anything 
 clandestine,' said Lesbia, drawing herself up. 'He 
 is quite above that.' 
 
 'My dear child, we know absolutely nothing 
 about him. He has his way to make in the 
 world, unaided by family or connections. He is 
 clever — daring. Such a man cannot help being 
 an adventurer ; and an adventurer is capable of 
 anything. I warn you to beware of him.' 
 
 *I don't suppose I shall ever see his face 
 again,' retorted Lesbia, irritably. 
 
 She had made up her mind that her life was 
 not to be spoiled, her brilliant future sacrificed, 
 for the sake of John Hammond; but the wound
 
 ' NOT YET.' 2G5 
 
 which she had suffered in renouncing him was 
 still fresh, her feelings were still sore. Any con- 
 temptuous mention of him stung her to the 
 quick. 
 
 * I hope not. And you will beware of other 
 adventurers, Lesbia, men of a worse stamp than 
 Mr. Hammond, more experienced in ruse and 
 iniquity, men steeped to the lips in worldly know- 
 ledge, men who look upon women as mere counters 
 in the game of life. The world thinks that I 
 am rich, and you will no doubt take rank as an 
 heiress. You will therefore be a mark for every 
 spendthrift, noble or otherwise, who wants to 
 restore his broken fortunes by a wealthy marriage. 
 And now, my dearest, good-bye. Half my heart 
 goes with you. Kothing could induce me to part 
 with you, even for a few weeks, except the con- 
 viction that it is for your good.' 
 
 ' But we shall not be parted next year, I hope, 
 grandmother,' said Lesbia, affectionately. * You 
 said something about presenting me, and then 
 leaving me in Lady Kirkbank's care for the 
 season. I should not like that at all. I want
 
 266 *NOT YET.' 
 
 you to go everywhere with me, to teach me 
 all the mysteries of the great world. You have 
 always promised me that it should be so.* 
 
 *And I have always intended that it should 
 be so. I hope that it will be so,' answered her 
 grandmother, with a sigh ; * but I am an old 
 woman, Lesbia, and I am rooted to this 
 place.* 
 
 * But why should you be rooted here ? What 
 charm can keep you here, when you are so 
 fitted to shine in society ? You are old in 
 nothing but years, and not even old in years in 
 comparison with women whom we hear of, going 
 everywhere and mixing in every fashionable 
 amusement. You are full of fire and energy, and as 
 active as a girl. Why should you not enjoy a 
 London season, grandmother?' pleaded Lesbia, 
 nestling her head lovingly against Lady Maulevrier's 
 shoulder. 
 
 *I should enjoy it, dearest, with you. It 
 would be a renewal of my youth to see you 
 shine and conquer. I should be as proud as if 
 the glory were all my own. Yes, dear, I hope
 
 'NOT YET.' 267 
 
 I shall be a spectator of your triumphs. But 
 do not let us plan the future. Life is so full 
 of changes. Eemember what Horace says ' 
 
 * Horace is a bore,' said Lesbia. * I hate 
 a poet who is always harping upon change and 
 death.' 
 
 The carriage, which was to take the travellers 
 to Windermere Station, was announced at this 
 moment, and Lesbia and her grandmother gave 
 each other the farewell embrace. 
 
 * You like Lady Kirkbank, I hope ? ' said 
 Lady Maulevrier, as they went towards the 
 hall, where that lady was waiting for them, 
 with Lady Mary and Fraulein Mliller in attend- 
 ance upon her. 
 
 * She seems very kind, but I should like 
 her better if she did not paint — or if she painted 
 better.' 
 
 * My dear child, I'm afraid it is the fashion 
 of the day, just as it was in Pope's time, and 
 we ought to think nothing about it.' 
 
 * Well, I suppose I shall get hardened in 
 time.'
 
 268 * NOT YET.' 
 
 ' My dearest Lesbia,' shrieked Lady Kirk- 
 bank from below, ' remember we have to catch 
 a train.' 
 
 Lesbia hurried downstairs, followed by Lady 
 Maulevrier, who had to bid her friend adieu. 
 The luggage had been sent on in a cart, Lesbia's 
 trunks and dress baskets forming no small item. 
 She was so well furnished with pretty gowns of 
 all kinds that there had been no difficulty in 
 getting her ready for this sudden visit. Her 
 maid v^as on the box beside the coachman. 
 Lady Kirkbank's attendant, a Frenchwoman of 
 five-and- thirty, who looked as if she had gradu- 
 ated at Mabille, was to occupy the back seat 
 of the landau. 
 
 Lady Mary looked after her sister longingly, 
 as the carriage drove down the hill. She was 
 going into a new world, to see all kinds of 
 people — clever people — distinguished people — 
 musical, artistic, political people — hunting and 
 shooting people — while Mary was to stay at 
 home all the winter among the old familiar 
 faces. Dearly as she loved these hills and vales
 
 'NOT YET.' 269 
 
 her heart sank a little at the thought of those 
 long lonely months, clays and evenings that 
 would be all alike, and which must be spent 
 without sympathetic companionship. And there 
 would be dreary days on which the weather 
 would keep her a prisoner in her luxurious gaol, 
 when the mountains, and the rugged paths 
 beside the mountain streams, would be inac- 
 cessible, when she would be restricted to 
 Fraulein's phlegmatic society, that lady being 
 stout and lazy, fond of her meals, and given 
 to afternoon slumbers. Lesbia and Mary were not 
 by any means sympathetic ; yet, after all, blood 
 is thicker than water ; and Lesbia was intelligent, 
 and could talk of the things Mary loved, which 
 was better than total dumbness, even if she 
 generally took an antagonistic view of them. 
 
 ' I shall miss her dreadfully,' thought Mary, 
 as she strolled listlessly in the gardens, where 
 the leaves were falling and the flowers fading. 
 
 * I wonder if she will see Mr. Hammond 
 at Lady Kirkbank's ? ' mused Mary. * If he were 
 anything like a lover he would find out all
 
 270 'NOT yet/ 
 
 about her visit, and seize the opportunity of 
 her being away from grandmother. But then 
 if he had been much of a lover he would have 
 followed her to St. Bees.' 
 
 Lady Maulevrier sorely missed her favourite 
 grandchild. In a life spent in such profound 
 seclusion, so remote from the busy interests of 
 the world, this beloved companionship had be- 
 come a necessity to her. She had concentrated 
 her affections upon Lesbia, and the girl's absence 
 made a fearful blank. But her Ladyship's 
 dignity was not compromised by any outward 
 signs of trouble or loss. 
 
 She spent her mornings in her own room, 
 reading and writing and musing at her leisure ; 
 she drove or walked every fine afternoon, some- 
 times alone, sometimes attended by Mary, who 
 hated these stately drives and walks. She dined 
 tete-a-tete with Mary, except on those rare 
 occasions when there were visitors — the Vicar 
 and his wife, or some wandering star from other 
 worlds. 
 
 Mary lived in profound awe of her grand-
 
 * NOT YET.' 271 
 
 mother, but was of far too frank a nature to 
 be able to adapt her speech or her manners to 
 her ladyship's idea of feminine perfection. She 
 was silent and shy under those falcon eyes ; 
 but she was still the same Mary, the girl to 
 whom pretence or simulation of any kind was 
 impossible. 
 
 Letters came almost every day from Kirkbank 
 Castle, letters from Lesbia describing the bright 
 gay life she was living at that hospitable abode, 
 the excursions, the rides, the picnic luncheons 
 after the morning's sport, the dinner parties, 
 the dances. 
 
 * It is the most delightful house you can ima- 
 gine,' wrote Lesbia ; ' and Lady Kirkbank is an 
 adorable hostess. I have quite forgiven her for 
 wearing false eyebrows ; for after all, you know, 
 one must have eyebrows ; they are a necessity ; 
 but why does she not have the two arches aKke ? 
 They are never a pair, and I really think that 
 French maid of hers does it on purpose. 
 
 * By-the-bye, Lady Kirkbank is going to write 
 to you to beseech you to let me go to Cannes
 
 272 'NOT YET.' 
 
 and Monte Carlo with her. Sir George insists 
 upon it. He says they both like young society, 
 and -will be horribly vexed if I refuse to go with 
 them. And Lady Kirkbank thinks my chest is 
 just a little weak — I almost broke down the other 
 night in that lovely little song of Jensen's— and 
 that a winter in the south is just what I want. 
 But, of course, dear grandmother, I won't ask 
 you to let me be away so long if you think you 
 will miss me.' 
 
 ' If I think I shall miss her ! ' repeated Lady 
 Maulevrier. 'Has the girl no heart, that she can 
 ask such a question ? But can I wonder at 
 that ? Of what account was I or my love to her 
 father, although I sacrificed myself for his good 
 name ? Can I expect that she should be of a 
 different clay ? ' 
 
 And then, meditating upon the events of the 
 summer that was gone, Lady Maulevrier thought — 
 
 * She renounced her first lover at my bidding ; 
 she renounces her love for me at the bidding of 
 the world. Or was it not rather self-interest, the 
 fear of making a bad marriage, which influenced
 
 *NOT YET.' 273 
 
 her in her renunciation of Mr. Hammond. It 
 was not obedience to me, it was not love for me 
 which made her give him up. It was the selfish- 
 ness engrained in her race. Well, I have heaped 
 my love upon her, because she is fair and sweet, 
 and reminds me of my own youth. I must let 
 her go, and try to be happy in the knowledge 
 that she is enjoying her life far away from me.' 
 
 Lady Maulevrier wrote her consent to the 
 extension of Lesbia's visit, and by return of post 
 came a letter from Lesbia which seemed brimming 
 over with love, and which comforted the grand- 
 mother's wounded heart. 
 
 'Lady Kirkbank and I are both agreed, 
 dearest, that you must join us at Cannes,' wrote 
 Lesbia. ' At your age it is very wrong of you 
 to spend a winter in our horrible climate. You 
 can travel with Steadman and your maid. Lady 
 Kirkbank wiU secure you a charming suite of 
 rooms at the hotel, or she would like it still 
 better if you would stay at her own villa. Do 
 consent to this plan, dear grandmother, and then 
 we should not be parted for a long winter. Of 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 'NOT YET.' 
 
 course Mary would be quite happy at home 
 running wild.* 
 
 Lady Maulevrier sighed as she read this 
 letter, sighed again, and heavily, as she put it 
 back into the envelope. Alas, how many and 
 many a year had gone, long monotonous 
 colourless years, since she had seen that bright 
 southern world which she was now urged to 
 revisit. In fancy she saw it again to-day, the 
 tideless sea of deepest sapphire blue, the little 
 wavelets breaking on a yellow beach, the white 
 triangular sails, the woods full of asphodel and 
 great purple and white lilies, the atmosphere 
 steeped in warmth and light and perfume, the 
 glare of white houses in the sun, the red and 
 yellow blinds, the pots of green and orange and 
 crimson clay, with oleanders abloom, the wonder- 
 ful glow of colour everywhere and upon all things. 
 And then as the eyes of the mind recalled these 
 vivid images her bodily eyes looked out upon the 
 rain-blotted scene, the mountains rising in a dark 
 and dismal circle round that sombre pool below, 
 walling her in from the outer world.
 
 * NOT YET.' 275 
 
 * I am at the bottom of a grave,' she said 
 to herself. * I am in a living tomb, from which 
 there is no escape. Forty years! Forty years of 
 patience and hope, for what ? For dreams which 
 may never be realised ; for descendants who may 
 never give me the price of my labours. Yes, I 
 should like to go to my dear one. I shoujd like 
 to revisit the South of France, to go on to Italy. 
 I should feel young again amidst that eternal, 
 unchangeable loveliness. 1 should forget all I 
 have suffered. But it cannot be. Not yet, not 
 yet ! ' 
 
 Presently with a smile of concentrated bitter- 
 ness she repeated the words ' Not yet ! ' 
 
 ' Surely at my age it must be folly to dream 
 of a future : and yet I feel as if there were 
 half a century of life in me, as if I had lost 
 nothing in either mental or bodily vigour since 
 I came here forty years ago.' 
 
 She rose as she said these words, and began 
 to pace the room, with quiet, firm step, erect, 
 stately, beautiful in her advanced years as she 
 had been in her bloom and freshness, only with
 
 276 *NOT ykt/ 
 
 another kind of ^beauty — an empress among 
 women. The boast that she had made to her- 
 self was no idle boast. At sixty-seven years of 
 age her physical powers showed no signs of 
 decay, her mental qualities were at their best 
 and brightest. Long years of thought and study 
 had ripened and widened her mind. She was 
 a woman fit to be the friend and counsellor 
 of statesmen, the companion and confidant of her 
 sovereign: and yet fate willed that she should 
 be buried alive in a Westmoreland valley, seeing 
 the same hills and streams, the same rustic 
 faces, from year's end to year's end. Surely it 
 was a hard fate, a heavy penance, albeit self- 
 imposed. 
 
 Lesbia went straight from Scotland to Paris 
 with Sir George and Lady Kirkbank. Here 
 they stayed at the Bristol for just two days, 
 during which her hostess went all over the 
 fashionable quarter buying clothes for -the Cannes 
 campaign, and assisting Lesbia to spend the 
 hundred pounds which her grandmother had sent 
 her for the replenishment of her well-provided
 
 *NOT YET.* 277 
 
 wardrobe. It is astouisliing how little way a 
 hundred pounds goes among the dressmakers, 
 corset-makers, and shoemakers of Lutetia. 
 
 ' I had no notion that clothes were so dear,' 
 said Lesbia, when she saw how little she had 
 got for her money. 
 
 * My dear, you have two gowns which are 
 absolutely chien,' replied Lady Kirkbank, ' and you 
 have a corset which gives you a figure, which you 
 must forgive me for saying you never had before.' 
 
 Lady Kirkbank had to explain that chien as 
 applied to a gown or bonnet was the same thing 
 as chic, only a little more so. 
 
 * I hope my gowns will always be chien y 
 said Lesbia meekly. 
 
 Next evening they were dining at Cannes, 
 with the blue sea in front of their windows, 
 dining at a table all abloom with orange flowers, 
 tea roses, mignonette, waxen camellias, and pale 
 Parma violets, while Lady Maulevrier and Mary 
 dined tete-a-tete at Fellside, with the feathery 
 snowflakes faUing outside, and the world whiten- 
 ing all around them.
 
 278 *NOT YET.' 
 
 ISText day the world was all white, and Mary's 
 beloved hills were inaccessible. 
 
 Who could tell how long they might be 
 covered ; the winding tracks hidden ; the narrow 
 forces looking like black water or molten iron 
 against that glittering whiteness ? Mary could 
 only walk along the road by Loughrigg to the 
 bench called ' Eest and be thankful,' from which 
 she looked with longing eyes across towards the 
 Langdale Pikes, and to the sharp cone-shaped 
 peak, known as Coniston Old Man, just visible 
 above the nearer hills. 
 
 Fraulein Miiller suggested that it was in just 
 such weather as this that a well brought up 
 young lady, a young lady with Vernunft and 
 Anstand, should devote herself to the improvement 
 of her mind. 
 
 * Let us read German this abscheulich afternoon,' 
 said the Fraulein. ' Suppose we go on with the 
 " Sorrows of Werther." ' 
 
 * Werther was a fool,' cried Mary ; * any book 
 but that.' 
 
 * Will you choose your own book ? *
 
 * NOT YET.' 279 
 
 'Let me read Heine.' 
 
 Fraulein looked doubtful. There were things in 
 Heine — an all-pervading tone — which rendered him 
 hardly an appropriate poet for ' the young person.' 
 But Fraulein compromised the matter by letting 
 Mary read Atta Troll, the exact bearing of which 
 neither of them understood. 
 
 'How beautifully Mr. Hammond read Heine 
 that morning ! ' said Mary, breaking off suddenly 
 from a perfectly automatic reading. 
 
 ' You did not hear him, did you ? You were 
 not there,' said the Fraulein.' 
 
 ' I was not there, but I heard him. I — I was 
 sitting on the bank among the pine trees.* 
 
 * Why did you not come and sit with us ? It 
 would have been more ladylike than to hide your- 
 self behind the trees.' 
 
 Mary blushed crimson. 
 
 * I had been in the kennels with Maulevrier ; 
 I was not fit to be seen,' she said. 
 
 'Hardly a ladylike admission,' replied the 
 Fraulein, who felt that with Lady Mary her chief 
 duty was to reprove.
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 'OF ALL MEN ELSE I HAVE AVOIDED THEE.' 
 
 It was afternoon. The white hills yonder and 
 all the length of the valley were touched here'and 
 there with gleams of wintry sunlight, and Lady 
 Maulevrier was taking her solitary walk on the 
 terrace in front of her house, a stately figure 
 wrapped in a furred mantle, tall, erect, moving 
 with measured pace up and down the smooth, gravel 
 path. Now and then at the end of the walk the 
 dowager stopped for a minute or so, and stood as if 
 in deep thought, with her eyes dreamily contempla- 
 ting the landscape. An intense melancholy shadowed 
 her face, as she thus gazed with brooding eyes on 
 the naked monotony of those wintry hills. So had 
 she looked in many and many a winter, and it 
 seemed to her that her life was of a piece with 
 those bleak hills, where in the dismal winter time
 
 'OF ALL MEN ELSE I HAVE AVOIDED THEE.' 281 
 
 nothing living trod. She stood gazing at the sinking 
 sun, a fiery ball shining at the end of a long gallery 
 of crag and rock, like a lamp at the end of a 
 corridor: and as she gazed the red round orb dropped 
 suddenly behind the edge of a crag, as if she had 
 been an enchantress and had dismissed it with a 
 wave of her wand. 
 
 ' Lord, how long, how long ? ' she said. ' How 
 many^times have I seen that sun go down from this 
 spot, in winter and summer, in spring and autumn. 
 And now that the one being I loved and cared for 
 is far away, I feel all the weariness and emptiness 
 of my life.' 
 
 As she turned to resume her walk she heard 
 the muffled sound of wheels in the road below, 
 that road which was completely hidden by foliage in 
 summer, but which was now visible here and there 
 between the leafless trees. A carriage with a pair of 
 horses was coming along the road from Ambleside. 
 
 Lady Maulevrier stood aud watched until the 
 carriage drew up at the lodge gate, and then, when 
 the gate had been opened, slowly ascended the 
 winding drive to the house.
 
 282 * OF ALL MEN ELSE I HAVE AVOIDED THEE.' 
 
 She expected no visitor ; indeed, there was no 
 one likely to come to her from the direction of 
 Ambleside. Her heart began to beat heavily, with 
 the apprehension of coming evil. What kind of 
 evil she knew not. Bad news about her grand- 
 daughter, perhaps, or about Maulevrier. And yet 
 that could hardly be. Evil tidings of that kind 
 would have reached her by telegram. Perhaps it 
 was Maulevrier himself. His movements were 
 generally erratic. 
 
 Lady Maulevrier hurried back to the house. 
 She went through the conservatory, where the 
 warm whiteness of azalia, and spirea, and arum 
 lilies contrasted curiously with the cold white 
 snow out of doors, to the hall, where a stranger 
 was standing talking to the butler. 
 
 He was a man of foreign appearance, wearing a 
 cloak lined with sables, and a sable cap, which he 
 removed as Lady Maulevrier approached. He was 
 thin and small, with a clear olive complexion, 
 olive inclining to pale bronze, sleek raven hair, 
 and black almond-shaped eyes. At the first glance 
 Lady Maulevrier knew that he was an Oriental.
 
 * OF ALL MEN ELSE I HATE AVOIDaD THEE.' 283 
 
 Her heart sank within her, and seemed to grow 
 chill as death at sight of him. Anything associated 
 with India was horrible to her. 
 
 The stranger came forward to meet her, bowing 
 deferentially. He had those lithe, gliding move- 
 ments which she remembered of old, when she had 
 seen princes and dignitaries of the East creeping 
 shoeless to her husband's feet. 
 
 *Will your ladyship do me the honour to grant 
 me an interview ? ' he said in very good English. 
 * I have travelled . from London expressly for that 
 privilege.' 
 
 ' Then I fear you have wasted your time, sir, 
 whatever your mission may be,' the dowager 
 answered haughtily. 'However, I am willing to 
 hear anything you may have to say, if you will 
 be good enough to come this way.' 
 
 She moved towards the library, the butler pre- 
 ceding her to open the door, and the stranger 
 followed her into the spacious room, where coals 
 and logs were heaped high upon the wide dog 
 stove, deeply recessed beneath the old English 
 mantelpiece.
 
 284 *0F ALL MEN ELSE I HAVE AVOIDED THEE.' 
 
 It was one of the handsomest rooms of the 
 house, furnished with oak bookcases about seven 
 feet high, above which vases of Oriental ware and 
 varied colouring stood boldly out against the dark 
 oak wall. Eichly bound books in infinite variety 
 testified to the wealth and taste of the owner ; while 
 one side of the room was absorbed by a wide 
 Gothic window, beyond which appeared the pano- 
 rama of lake and mountain, beautiful in every 
 season. A tawny velvet curtain divided this room 
 from the drawing-room ; but there was also a strong 
 oak door behind the curtain, which was generally 
 closed in cold weather. 
 
 Lady Maulevrier went over to this door, and 
 took the precaution to draw the bolt, before 
 she seated herself in her arm-chair by the hearth. 
 She had her own particular chair in all the rooms 
 she occupied — a chair which was sacred as a 
 throne. 
 
 She drew off her sealskin gloves, and motioned 
 with a slender white hand to the stranger to be 
 seated. 
 
 * To whom have I the honour of speaking ? '
 
 'OF ALL MEN ELSE I HAVE AVOIDED THEE.' 285 
 
 she asked, looking him through and through with 
 an unflinching gaze, as she would have looked at 
 Death himself, had the grim skeleton figure come 
 to beckon her. 
 
 He handed her a visiting card on which was 
 engraved — 
 
 'Louis Asoph, Eajah of Bisnagar.' 
 
 'If my memory does not deceive me as to the 
 history of modern India, the territory from which 
 you take your title has been absorbed into the 
 English dominion,' said Lady Maulevrier. 
 
 'It was trafficked away forty-three years ago, 
 stolen, filched from my father ; but so long as I 
 have power to think and to act I will maintain 
 my claim to that land; yes, if only by the empty 
 mockery of a name on a visiting card. It is a 
 duty I owe to myself as a man, which I owe still 
 more to my murdered father.' 
 
 ' Have you come all the way from London, and 
 in such weather, only to tell me this story ? ' 
 
 She had twisted his card between her fingers 
 as she listened to him, and now, with an action 
 at once careless and contemptuous, she flung it
 
 286 'OF ALL MEN ELSE I HAVE AVOIDED THEE.' 
 
 upon the burning logs. Slight as the action was 
 it was eloquent of scorn for the man. 
 
 ' No, Lady Maulevrier, my mention of this story, 
 with which you are no doubt perfectly familiar, is 
 only a preliminary. I have come to claim my 
 own, and to appeal to you as a woman of honour 
 to do me justice. Nay, I will say as a woman of 
 common honesty; since there is no nice point of 
 honour in question, only the plain laws of mine 
 and thine, which I believe are the same among all 
 nations and creeds. I come to you, Lady Maulevrier, 
 to ask you to restore to me the wealth which your 
 husband stole from my father.' 
 
 • You come to my house, to me, an old woman, 
 helpless, defenceless, in the absence of my grand- 
 son, the present Earl, to insult me, and insult the 
 dead,' said Lady Maulevrier, white as statuary 
 marble, and as cold and calm. 'You come to rake 
 up old lies, and to fling them in the face of a 
 solitary woman, old enough to be your mother. Do 
 you think that is a noble thing to do? Even in 
 your barbarous Eastern code of morals and manners 
 is that the act of a gentleman ? '
 
 * OF ALL MEN ELSE I HAVE AVOIDED THEE.' 287 
 
 *We are no barbarians in the East, Lady 
 Maulevrier. I come from the cradle of civilisation, 
 the original fount of learning. We were scholars 
 and gentlemen, priests and soldiers, two thousand 
 years before your British ancestors ran wild in their 
 woods, and sacrificed to their unknown gods on 
 rocky altars reeking with human blood. I know 
 the errand upon which I have come is not a pleasant 
 one, either for you or for me ; but I come to "you 
 strong in the right of a son to claim the heritage 
 which was stolen from him by an infamous mother 
 and her more infamous paramour ' 
 
 'I will not hear another word/ cried Lady 
 Maulevrier, starting to her feet, livid with 
 passion. *Do not dare to pronounce that 
 name in my hearing — the name of that abominable 
 woman who brought disgrace and dishonour upon 
 my husband and his race.' 
 
 'And who brought your husband the wealth 
 of my murdered father,' answered the Indian 
 defiantly. ' Do not ignore that fact, Lady 
 Maulevrier. What has become of that fortune 
 — two hundred thousand pounds in money and
 
 288 'OF ALL MEN ELSE I HAVE AVOIDED THEE.' 
 
 jewels. It was known to have passed into Lord 
 Maulevrier's possession after my father was put 
 away by his paid instruments/ 
 
 'How dare you bring that vile charge against 
 the dead ? ' 
 
 'There are men living in India who know 
 the truth of that charge, men who were at 
 Bisnagar when my father, sick and heart-broken, 
 was shut up in his deserted harem, hemmed in 
 by spies and traitors, men with murder in their 
 faces. There are those who know that he was 
 strangled by one of those wretches, that a grave 
 was dug for him under the marble Hoor of his 
 Zenana, a grave in Vv^hich his bones were found 
 less than a year ago in my presence, and fitly 
 entombed at my bidding. He was said to have 
 disappeared of his own free will — to have left his 
 palace under cover of night, and sought refuge 
 from possible treachery in another province ; but 
 there were those, and not a few, who knew the 
 real history of his disappearance — who knew, 
 and at the time were ready to testify in any 
 court of justice, that he had been got rid of by
 
 ' OF ALL MEN ELSE I HAVE AVOIDED THEE.' 289 
 
 the Eanee's agents, and at Lord Maulevrier's 
 
 instigation, and that his possessions in money 
 
 and jewels had been conveyed in the palankins 
 
 that carried the Eanee and her women to his 
 
 lordship's summer retreat near Madras. The 
 
 Ranee died at that retreat six months after her 
 
 husband's murder, not without suspicion of poison, 
 
 and the wealth which she carried with her when 
 
 she left Bisnagar passed into his lordship's 
 
 possession. Had your husband lived, Lady 
 
 Maulevrier, this story must have been brought 
 
 to light. There were too many people in Madras 
 
 interested in sifting the facts. There must have been 
 
 a public inquiry. It was a happy thing for you and 
 
 your race that Lord Maulevrier died before that 
 
 inquiry had been instituted, and that many 
 
 animosities died with him. Lucky too for you 
 
 that I was a helpless infant at that time, and 
 
 that the Mahratta adventurer to whom my 
 
 father's territory had been transferred in the 
 
 shuffling of cards at the end of the war was 
 
 deeply concerned in hushing up the story.' 
 
 *And pray, why have you nursed your wrath 
 VOL. h u
 
 290 *0F ALL MEN ELSE I HAVE AVOIDED THEE.' 
 
 in all these years ? Why do you intrude upon 
 me after nearly half a century, with this legend 
 of rapine and murder ? ' 
 
 'Because for nearly half a century I have 
 been kept in profound ignorance of my father's 
 fate — in ignorance of my race. Lord Maulevrier's 
 jealousy banished me from my mother's arms 
 shortly after my father's death. I was sent to 
 the south of France under the care of an Ayah. 
 My first memories are of a Monastery near 
 Marseilles, where I was reared and educated by 
 a Jesuit community, where I was baptised and 
 brought up in the Eoman Catholic faith. By 
 the influence of the Jesuit Fathers I was placed 
 in a house of commerce at Marseilles. Funds 
 to provide for my education and establishment 
 in life, under very modest conditions, were sent 
 periodically by an agent at Madras. It was 
 known that I was of East Indian birth, but 
 little more was known about me. It was only 
 when years had gone by and I was a merchant 
 on my own account and could afford to go to 
 India on a voyage of discovery — yes, as much
 
 'OF ALL MEN ELSE I HAVE AVOIDED THEE.' 291 
 
 a voyage of discovery as that of Vasco de Gama 
 or of Drake — that I got from the Madras agent the 
 clue which enabled me, at the cost of infinite 
 patience and infinite labour, to unravel the mystery 
 of my birth. There is no need to enter now 
 upon the details of that story. I have over- 
 whelming documentary evidence — a cloud of 
 witnesses — to convince the most sceptical as to 
 who and what I am. The documents are some 
 of them in my valise, at your ladyship's service. 
 Others are at my hotel in London, ready for the 
 inspection of your ladyship's lawyers. I do not 
 think you will desire to invite a public inquiry, 
 or force me to recover my birthright in a court 
 of justice. I believe that you will take a broader 
 and nobler view of the case, and that you will 
 restore to the wronged and abandoned son the 
 fortune stolen from his murdered father.' 
 
 ' How dare you come to me with this tissue of 
 lies ? How dare you look me in the face and charge 
 my dead husband with treachery and dishonour ? I 
 believe neither in your story nor in you, and I defy 
 you to the proof of this vile charge against the dead!'
 
 292 ' OF ALL MEN ELSE I HAVE AVOIDED THEE.' 
 
 ' In other words you mean that you will keep 
 the money and jewels which Lord Maulevrier 
 stole from my father ? ' 
 
 ' I deny the fact that any such jewels or 
 money ever passed into his lordship's possession. 
 That vile woman, your mother, whose infamy 
 cast a dark cloud over Lord Maulevrier's honour, 
 may have robbed her husband, may have emptied 
 the public treasury. But not a rupee or a jewel 
 belonging to her ever came into my possession. 
 I will not bear the burden of her crimes. Her 
 existence spoiled my life — banished me from 
 India, a widow in all but the name, and more 
 desolate than many widows.' 
 
 ' Lord Maulevrier was known to leave India 
 carrying with him two large chests — supposed to 
 contain books — but actually containing treasure. 
 A man who was in the Governor's confidence, 
 and who had been the go-between in his intrigues, 
 confessed on his death-bed that he had assisted 
 in removing the treasure. Now, Lady Maulevrier, 
 since your husband died immediately after his 
 arrival in England, and before he could have
 
 ' OF ALL MEN ELSE I HAVE AVOIDED THEE.' 293 
 
 had any opportunity of converting or making 
 away with the valuables so appropriated, it stands 
 to reason that those valuables must have passed 
 into your possession, and it is from your honour 
 and good feeling that I claim their restitution. 
 If you deny the claim so advanced, there remains 
 but one course open to me, and that is to make 
 my ^Tongs public, and claim my right from the 
 law of the land.' 
 
 'And do you suppose that any English judge 
 or any English jury would believe so wild a story 
 — or countenance so vile an accusation against the 
 defenceless dead ? ' demanded Lady Maulevrier, 
 standing up before him, tall, stately, with flash- 
 ing eye and scornful lip, the image of proud 
 defiance. ' Bring forward your claim, produce your 
 documents, your witnesses, your death-bed confes- 
 sions. I defy you to injure my dead husband or 
 me by your wild lies, your foul charges ! Go to 
 an English lawyer, and see what an English 
 law court will do for you and your claim. I 
 will hear no more of either.' 
 
 She rang the bell once, twice, thrice, with
 
 294 ' OF ALL MEN ELSE I HAVE AVOIDED THEE.' 
 
 passionate hand, and a servant flew to answer 
 that impatient summons. 
 
 Show this gentleman to his carriage instantly/ 
 she said, imperiously. 
 
 The gentleman who called himself Louis 
 Asoph bowed, and retired without another word. 
 
 As the door closed upon him, Lady Maul- 
 evrier stood, with clenched hands and frowning 
 brow, staring into vacancy. Her right arm was 
 outstretched, as if she would have waved the 
 intruder away. Suddenly, a strange numbness 
 crept over that uplifted arm, and it sank help- 
 less at her side. From her shoulder down 
 to her foot, that proud form grew cold and 
 feelingless and dead, and she, who had so long 
 carried herself as a queen among women, sank 
 in a senseless heap upon the floor.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 *HER FACE RESIGNED TO BLISS OR BALE.' 
 
 Lady Mary and the Fraulein had been sitting 
 in the drawing-room all this time waiting for 
 Lady Maulevrier to come to tea. They heard 
 her come in from the garden ; and then the 
 footman told them that she was in the library 
 with a stranger. Xot even the muffled sound 
 of voices penetrated the heavy velvet curtain and 
 the thick oak door. It was only by the loud 
 ringing of the bell and the sound of footsteps 
 in the hall that Lady Mary knew of the guest's 
 departure. She went to the door between the 
 two rooms, and was surprised to find it bolted. 
 * Grandmamma, won't you come to tea ? ' she 
 asked timidly, knockiag on the oaken panel, but 
 there was no reply.
 
 296 * HER FACE RESIGNED TO BLISS OR BALE.' 
 
 She knocked again, and louder. Still no 
 reply. 
 
 * Perhaps her ladyship is going to take tea 
 in her own room,' she said, afraid to be officious. 
 
 Attendance upon her grandmother at afternoon 
 tea had been one of Lesbia's particular duties ; 
 but Mar)'' felt that she was an unwelcome 
 substitute for Lesbia. She wanted to get a little 
 nearer her grandmother's heart if she could ; but 
 she knew that her attentions were endured rather 
 than liked. 
 
 She went into the hall, where the footman 
 on duty was staring at the light snowfiakes 
 dancing past the window, perhaps wishing he 
 were a snowflake himself, and enjoying himself 
 in that white whirligig. 
 
 *Is her ladyship having tea in the morning- 
 room ? ' asked Mary. 
 
 The footman gave a little start, as if 
 awakened out of a kind of trance. The sheer 
 vacuity of his mind might naturally slide into 
 mesmeric sleep. 
 
 lie told Lady Mary that her ladyship had
 
 'HER FACE RESIGNED TO BLISS OR BALE.' 297 
 
 not left the library, and Mary went in timidly, 
 wondering why her grandmother had not joined 
 them in the drawing-room when the stranger 
 was gone. 
 
 The sky was dark outside the wide windows, 
 white hills and valleys shrouded in the shades 
 of night. The library was only lighted by the 
 glow of the logs on the hearth, and in that 
 ruddy light the spacious room looked empty. 
 Mary was turning to go away, thinking the 
 footman had been mistaken, when her eye 
 suddenly lighted upon a dark figure l}^ng 
 on the ground. And then she heard an 
 awful stertorous breathing, and knew that her 
 grandmother was lying there, stricken and 
 helpless. 
 
 Mary shrieked aloud, with a cry that pierced 
 curtains and doors, and brought Fraulein and 
 half-a-dozen servants to her help. One of the 
 men brought a lamp, and among them they 
 lifted the smitten figure. Oh, God ! how ghastly 
 the face looked in the lamplight I — the features 
 drawn to one side, the skin livid.
 
 298 *HER FACE RESIGNED TO BLISS OR BALE.* 
 
 *Her ladyship has had a stroke,' said the 
 butler. 
 
 ' Is she dying ? ' faltered Mary, white as 
 ashes. ' Oh, grandmother, dear grandmother, 
 don't look at ns like that ! ' 
 
 One of the servants rushed off to the stables 
 to send for the doctor. Of course, being an 
 indoor man, he no more thought of going out 
 himself into the snowy night on such an errand 
 than Noah thought of going out of the ark to 
 explore the face of the waters in person. 
 
 They carried Lady Maulevrier to her bed and 
 laid her there, like a figure carved out of stone. 
 She was not unconscious. Her eyes were open, 
 and she moaned every now and then as if in 
 bodily or mental pain. Once she tried to speak, 
 but had no power to shape a syllable aright, 
 and ended with a shuddering sigh. Once she 
 lifted her left arm and waved it in the air, as 
 if waving some one off in fear or anger. The 
 right arm, indeed the whole of the right side, 
 was lifeless, motionless as a stone. It was a 
 piteous sight to see the beautiful features drawn
 
 'HER FACE DESIGNED TO BLISS OR BALE.' 299 
 
 and distorted, the lips so accustomed to command 
 mouthing the broken syllables of an unknown 
 tongue. Lady Mary sat beside the bed with 
 clasped hands, praying dumbly, with her eyes 
 fixed on her grandmother's altered face. 
 
 Mr. Horton came, as soon as his stout moun- 
 tain pony could bring him. He did not seem 
 surprised at her ladyship's condition, and accepted 
 the situation with professional calmness. 
 
 * A marked case of hemiplegia,' he said, when 
 he had observed the symptoms. 
 'Will she die?' asked Mary. 
 *0h, dear, no. She will want great care for 
 a little while, but we shall bring her round 
 easily. A splendid constitution, a noble frame ; 
 but I think she has overworked her brain a little, 
 reading Huxley and Darwin, and the German 
 physiologists upon whom Huxley and Darwin have 
 built themselves. Metaphysics too. Schopenhauer, 
 and the rest of them. A wonderful woman. Very 
 few brains could hold what hers has had poured 
 into it in the last thirty years. The conducting 
 nerves between the brain and the spinal marrow
 
 300 * HER FACE RESIGNED TO BLISS OR BALE.' 
 
 have been overworked: too much activity, too 
 constant a strain. Even the rails and sleepers on 
 the railroad wear out, don't you know, if there's 
 excessive traffic' 
 
 Mr, Horton had known Mary from her child- 
 hood, had given her Gregory's powder, and seen 
 her safely through measles and other infantine ail- 
 ments, so he was quite at home with her, and at 
 Fellside generally. Lady Maulevrier had given him 
 a good deal of her confidence during those thirty 
 years in which he had practised as his fathers' 
 partner and successor at Grasmere. He used to 
 tell people that he owed the best part of his 
 education to her ladyship, who condescended to 
 talk to him of the new books she read, and 
 generally gave him a volume to put in his pocket 
 when he was leaving her. 
 
 ^ Don't be downhearted, Lady Mary,' he said ; ' I 
 shall come in two or three times a day and see how 
 things are going on, and if I see the slightest 
 difficulty in the case I'll telegraph for Jenner.' 
 
 Mary and the Fraulein sat up with the invalid 
 all that night Lady Maulevrier's maid was also
 
 • HER FACE RESIGNED TO BLISS OR BALE.' 301 
 
 ill attendance, and one of the men-servants slept 
 in his clothes on a couch in the corridor, ready 
 for any emergency. But the night passed peace- 
 fully, the patient slept a good deal, and next 
 day there was evident improvement. 
 
 The stroke which had prostrated the body, 
 which reduced the vigorous, active frame to an 
 awful statue-like stillness — a quietude as of death 
 itself — had not overclouded the intellect. Lady 
 Maulevrier lay on her bed in her luxurious room, 
 with wide Tudor windows commanding half the 
 circle of the hills, and was still the ruling spirit 
 of the house, albeit powerless to move that slender 
 hand, the lightest wave of which had been 
 as potent to command in her little world as royal 
 sign-manual or sceptre in the great world outside. 
 
 Now there remained only one thing unimpaired 
 by that awful shock which had laid the stately 
 frame low, and that was the will and sovereign 
 force of the woman's nature. Voice was altered, 
 speech was confused and difficult; but the strength 
 of will, the supreme power of mind seemed un- 
 diminished.
 
 302 ' HER FACE RESIGNED TO BLISS OR BALE.' 
 
 When Lady Maulevrier was asked if Lesbia 
 should be telegraphed for, she replied no, not 
 unless she was in danger of sudden death. 
 
 * I should like to see her before I go,' she 
 said, labouring to pronounce the words. 
 
 'Dear grandmother,' said Mary tenderly, *Mr. 
 Horton says there is no danger.' 
 
 ' Then do not send for her ; do not even tell 
 her what has happened; not yet.' 
 
 ' But she will miss your letters.' 
 
 ' True. You must write twice a week at 
 my dictation. You must tell her that I have 
 hurt my hand, that I am well but cannot use 
 a pen. I would not spoil her pleasure for the 
 world.' 
 
 * Dear grandmother, how unselfish you are ! 
 And Maulevrier, shall he be sent for? He is not 
 so far away,' said Mary, hoping her grandmother 
 would say yes. 
 
 What a relief, what an unspeakable solace 
 Maulevrier's presence would be in that dreary 
 house, smitten to a sudden and awful stillness, as 
 if by the Angel of Death I
 
 ' IIEH FACE RESIGNED TO BLISS OR BALE.' 303 
 
 * No, I do not want Maulevrier ! ' answered her 
 ladyship impatiently. 
 
 'May I sit here and read to you, grand- 
 mother ? ' Mary asked, timidly. ' Mr. Horton 
 said you were to be kept very quiet, and that 
 we were not to let you talk, or talk much 
 to you, but that we might read to you if you 
 like.' 
 
 * I do not wish to be read to. I have my 
 thoughts for company,' said Lady Maulevrier. 
 
 Mary felt that this implied a wish to be 
 alone. She bent over the invalid's pillow and 
 kissed the pale cheek, feeling as if she were 
 taking a liberty in venturing so much. She 
 would hardly have done it had Lesbia been at 
 home; but she had a feeling that in Lesbia's 
 absence Lady Maulevrier must want somebody's 
 love — even hers. And then she crept away, 
 leaving Halcott the maid in attendance, sitting 
 at her work at the window furthest from the 
 bed. 
 
 * Alone with my thoughts,' mused Lady 
 Maulevrier, looking out at the panorama of
 
 304 'HER FACE RESIGNED TO BLISS OK BALE.' 
 
 wintry hills, white, ghost-like against an iron 
 sky. ' Pleasant thoughts, truly !' Walled in by 
 the hills — walled in and hemmed round for ever. 
 This place has always felt like a grave : and 
 now I know that it is my grave.' 
 
 Fraulein, and Lady Mary, and the maid 
 Halcott, a sedate personage of forty summers, had 
 all been instructed by the doctor that Lady 
 Maulevrier was to be kept profoundly quiet. 
 She mast not talk much, since speech was likely 
 to be a painful effort with her for some little 
 time ; she must not be talked to much by anyone, 
 least of all must she be spoken to upon any 
 agitating topic. Life must be made as smooth 
 and easy for her as for a new-born infant, l^o 
 roush breath from the outer world must come 
 near her. She was to see no one but her maid 
 and her granddaughter. Mr. Horton, a plain 
 family man, took it for granted that the grand- 
 daughter was dear to her heart, and likely to 
 exercise a soothing influence. Thus it happened 
 that although Lady Maulevrier asked repeatedly
 
 ' HER FACE RESIPtNED TO BLTSS OR BALE.' 305 
 
 that James Steadman should be brought to her 
 she was not allowed to see him. She whose will 
 had been paramount in that house, whose w^ord 
 had been law, was now treated as a little child, 
 while the will was still as strong, the mind as 
 keen as ever. 
 
 * She would talk to him of business,' said 
 Mr. Horton, when he was told of her ladyship's 
 desire to see Steadman, *and that cannot be 
 allowed, not for some little time at least.' 
 
 *She is very angry with us for refusing to 
 obey her,' said Lady Mary. 
 
 'Naturally, but it is for her own welfare she 
 is disobeyed. She can have nothing to say to 
 Steadman which will not keep till she is better. 
 This establishment goes by clockwork.' 
 
 Mary wished it was a little less like clock- 
 work. Since Lady Maulevrier had been lying 
 upstairs — the voice which had once ruled over 
 the house muffled almost to dumbness — the 
 monotony of life at Fellside had seemed all the 
 more oppressive. The servants crept about with 
 
 stealthier tread. Mary dared not touch either 
 VOL. I. X
 
 306 'HER FACE RESIGNED TO BLISS OK BALE.' 
 
 piano or billiard balls, and was naturally seized 
 with a longing to touch both. The house had 
 a darkened look, as if the shadow of doom 
 overhung it. 
 
 During this regimen of perfect quiet Lady 
 Maulevrier was not allowed to see the news- 
 papers ; and Mary was warned that in reading 
 to her grandmother she was to avoid all exciting 
 topics. Thus it happened that the account of a 
 terrible collision between the Scotch express and 
 a luggage train, a little way beyond Preston, an 
 accident in which seven people were killed and 
 about thirty seriously hurt, was not made known 
 to her ladyship : and yet that fact would have 
 been of intense interest and significance to her, 
 since one of those passengers whose injuries 
 were fatal bore the name of Louis Asoph.
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 'AND THE SPRING COMES SLOWLY TP THIS WAY.' 
 
 The wintry weeks glided smootlily by in a dull 
 monotony, and now Lady Maulevrier, still helpless, 
 still compelled to lie on her bed or her invalid 
 couch, motionless as marble, had at least recovered 
 her power of speech, was allowed to read and 
 to talk, and to hear what was going on in that 
 metropolitan world which she seemed unlikely ever 
 to behold again. 
 
 Lady Lesbia was still at Cannes, whence she 
 wrote of her pleasures and her triumphs, of flowers 
 and sapphire sea, and azure sky, of all things 
 which were not, in the grey bleak mountain 
 world that hemmed in Fellside. She was meet- 
 ing many of the people whom she was to meet 
 again next season in the London world. She 
 had made an informal d6hut in a very select
 
 308 'THE SPRING COMES SLOWLY UP THIS WAY.' 
 
 circle, a circle in which everybody was more or 
 less ehiCy or cliien, or zinCy and she was tasting 
 all the sweets of success. But in none of her 
 letters was there any mention of Lord Hartfield. 
 He was not in the little great world by the 
 blue tideless sea. 
 
 There was no talk of Lesbia's return. She was 
 to stay till the carnival : she was to stay till 
 the week before Easter. Lady Kirkbank insisted 
 upon it ; and both Lesbia and Lady Kirkbank 
 upbraided Lady Maulevrier for her cruelty in 
 not joining them at Cannes. 
 
 So Lady Maulevrier had to resign herself to 
 that solitude which had become almost the habit 
 of her life, and to the society of Mary and the 
 Fraulein. Mary was eager to be of use, to sit 
 with her grandmother, to read to her, to write 
 for her. The warm young heart was deeply 
 moved by the spectacle of this stately woman 
 stricken into helplessness, chained to her couch, 
 immured within four walls. To Mary, who so 
 loved the hills and the streams, the sun and 
 the wind, this imprisonment seemed unspeakable
 
 'THE SPRIXG COMES SLOWLY UP THIS WAY.' 309 
 
 woe. In her pity for such a martyrdom she 
 would have done anything to give pleasure or 
 solace to her grandmother. Unhappily there 
 was very little Mary could do to increase the 
 invalid's sura of pleasure. Lady Maulevrier was 
 a woman of strong feeling, not capable of loving 
 many people. She had concentrated her affection 
 upon Lesbia : and she could not open her heart to 
 Mary all at once, because Lesbia was out of the way. 
 
 'If I had a dog I loved, and he were to 
 die, I would never have another in his place/ 
 Lady Maulevrier said once ; and that speech 
 was the keynote of her character. 
 
 She was very courteous to Mary, and seemed 
 grateful for her attentions ; but she did not 
 cultivate the girl's society. Mary wrote all her 
 letters in a fine bold hand, and with a rapid 
 pen; but when the letter- writing was over 
 Lady Maulevrier always dismissed her. 
 
 'My dear, you want to be out in the air, 
 riding your pony, or scampering about with your 
 dogs,' she said, kindly. 'It would be a cruelty 
 to keep you indoors.'
 
 310 'THE SPRING COMES SLOWLY UP THIS WAY.* 
 
 ' No, indeed, dear grandmother, I should like 
 to stay. May I stop and read to you?' 
 
 *'No, thank you, Mary. I hate being read 
 to. I like to devour a book. Beading aloud 
 is such slow work.' 
 
 'But I am afraid you must sometimes feel 
 lonely,' faltered Mary. 
 
 ' Lonely,' echoed the dowager, with a sigh. 
 * I have been lonely for the last forty years — I 
 have been lonely all my life. Those I loved 
 never gave me back love for love — never — 
 not even your sister. See how lightly she cuts 
 the link that bound her to me. How happy she 
 is among strangers ! Yes, there was one who 
 loved me truly, and fate parted us. Does fate 
 part all true lovers, I wonder?' 
 
 *You parted Lesbia and Mr. Hammond,' said 
 Mary, impetuously. *I am sure they loved each 
 other truly.' 
 
 ' The old and the worldly-wise are Fate, Mary,' 
 answered the dowager, not angry at this daring 
 reproach. * I know your sister ; and I know she 
 is not the kind of woman to be happy in an
 
 * THE SPRING COMES SLOWLY UP THIS WAY.* 311 
 
 ignoble life — to bear poverty and deprivation. If 
 it had been you, now, whom Mr. Hammond had 
 chosen, I might have taken the subject into my 
 consideration.' 
 
 Mary flamed crimson. 
 
 * Mr. Hammond never gave me a thought,' she 
 said, * unless it was to think me contemptible. 
 He is worlds too good for ^ such a Tomboy. 
 Maulevrier told him about the fox-hunt, and they 
 both laughed at me — at least I have no doubt 
 Mr. Hammond laughed, though I was too much 
 ashamed to look at him.' 
 
 *Poor Mary, you are beginning to find out 
 that a young lady ought to be ladylike,' said 
 Lady Maulevrier ; ' and now, my dear, you may 
 go. I was only joking with you. Mr. Hammond 
 would be no match for any granddaughter 
 of mine. He is nobody, and has neither 
 friends nor interest. If he had gone 
 
 into the church Maulevrier could have helped 
 him ; but I daresay his ideas are too broad for 
 the church; and he will have to starve at the 
 bar, where nobody can help him. I hope you
 
 312 ' THE SPEING COMES SLOWLY UP THIS WAY.' 
 
 will bear this in mind, Mary, if Maulevrier should 
 ever bring him here again.' 
 
 - He is never likely tx) come back again. He 
 sujffered too much ; he was treated too badly in 
 this house.* 
 
 *Lady Mary, be good enough to remember to 
 whom you are speaking,' said her ladyship, with 
 a frown. * And now please go, and tell some one 
 to send Steadman to me.' 
 
 Mary retired without a word, gave Lady 
 Maulevrier's message to a footman in the corridor, 
 slipped off to her room, put on her sealskin hat 
 and jacket, took her staff and went out for a 
 long ramble. The hills and valleys were still 
 white. Tt had been a long, cold winter, and 
 spring was still far off — February had only just 
 begun. 
 
 Lady Maulevrier's couch had been wheeled 
 into the morning-room — that luxurious room which 
 was furnished with all things needful to her quiet 
 life, her books, her favourite colours, her favourite 
 flowers, every detail studiously arranged for her 
 pleasure and comfort. She was wheeled into this
 
 'THE SPKIXG COMES SLOWLY UP THIS WAY.' oLo 
 
 room every day at noon. When the day was 
 bright and sunny her couch was placed near the 
 window : and when the day was dull and grey 
 the couch was drawn close to the low hearth, 
 which flashed and glittered with brightly coloured 
 tiles and artistic brass. 
 
 To-day the sky was dull, and the velvet couch 
 stood beside the hearth. Halcott sat at work in 
 the adjoining bed-chamber, and came in every 
 now and then to replenish the fire : a footman 
 was always on duty in the corridor. A spring 
 bell stood among the elegant trifles upon her 
 ladyship's table ; and the lightest touch of her 
 left hand upon the bell brought her attendants to 
 her side. She resolutely refused to have any one 
 sitting with her all day long. Solitude was a 
 necessity of her being, she told Mr. Horton, 
 when he recommended that she should have 
 some one always in attendance upon her. 
 
 As the weeks wore on her features had been 
 restored to their proud calm beauty, her articula- 
 tion was almost as clear as of old : yet, now and 
 then, there would be a sudden faltering, the
 
 314 ' THE SPRING COMES SLOWLY UP THIS WAY.* 
 
 tongue and lips would refuse their office, or she 
 would forget a word, or use a wrong word un- 
 consciously. But there was no recovery of power 
 or movement on that side of the body which 
 had been stricken. The paralysed limbs were still 
 motionless, lifeless as marble ; and it was clear 
 that Mr. Horton had begun to lose heart about 
 his patient. There was nothing obscure in the 
 case, but the patient's importance made the 
 treatment a serious matter, and the surgeon 
 begged to be allowed to summon Sir William 
 Jenner. This, however, Lady Maulevrier refused. 
 
 * I don't want any fuss made about me,' she 
 said. *I am content to trust myself to your 
 skill, and I beg that no other doctor may be 
 summoned.* 
 
 Mr. Horton understood his patient's feelings 
 on this point. She had a sense of humiliation in 
 her helplessness, and, like some wounded animal 
 that crawls to its covert to die, she would fain 
 have hidden her misery from the eye of strangers. 
 She had allowed no one, not even Maulevrier, 
 to be informed of the nature of her illness.
 
 ' THE SPRIXG COMES SLOWLY UP THIS WAY.' 315 
 
 ' It will be time enough for him to know 
 all about me when he comes here,' she said. 
 'I shall be obli^ced to see him whenever he does 
 come.' 
 
 Maulevrier had spent Christmas and New Year 
 in Paris, Mr. Hammond still his companion. Her 
 ladyship commented upon this with a touch of 
 scorn. 
 
 ' Mr. Hammond is like the Umbra you were 
 reading about the other day in Lord Lytton's 
 *' Last Days of Pompeii," she said to Mary. * It 
 must be very nice for him to go about the world 
 with a friend who franks him everywhere.' 
 
 'But we don't know that Maulevrier franks 
 him,' protested Mary, blushing. 'We have no 
 right to suppose that Mr. Hammond does not pay 
 his own expenses.' 
 
 ' My dear child, is it possible for a young man 
 who has no private means to go gadding about the 
 world on equal terms with a spendthrift like 
 Maulevrier — to pay for moors in Scotland and 
 apartments at the Bristol ? * 
 
 ' But they are not staying at the Bristol,'
 
 316 ' THE SPUING COMES SLOWLY UP THIS WAY.' 
 
 exclaimed Mary. ' They are staying at an old- 
 established French hotel on the left side of the 
 Seine. They are going about amongst the students 
 and the workmen, dining at popular restaurants, 
 hearing people talk. Maulevrier says it is 
 delightfully amusing — ever so much better than 
 the beaten track of life in Anglo-American Paris.' 
 'I daresay they are leading a Bohemian life, 
 and will get into trouble before they have done,' 
 said her ladyship, gloomily. ' Maulevrier is as wild 
 as a hawk.' 
 
 * He is the dearest boy in the world,' exclaimed 
 Mary. 
 
 She was deeply grateful for her brother's con- 
 descension in writing her a letter of two pages 
 long, letting her into the secrets of his life. She 
 felt as if Mr. Hammond were ever so much nearer 
 to her now she knew where he was, and how 
 he was amusing himself. 
 
 * Hammond is such a queer fellow,' wrote 
 Maulevrier, * the strangest things interest him. He 
 sits and talks to the workmen for hours ; he pokes 
 his nose into all sorts of places — hospitals, work-
 
 ' THE SPiaXG COMES SLOWLY UP THIS WAY.' 317 
 
 shops, poverty-stricken dens — and people are always 
 civil to him. He is what Lesbia calls symjpatico. 
 Ah ! what a mistake Lesbia and my grandmother 
 made when they rejected Hammond ! What a 
 pearl above price they threw away I But you see 
 neither my lady nor Lesbia could appreciate a gem, 
 unless it was richly set.' 
 
 And now Lady Maulevrier lay on her couch by 
 the fire waiting for James Stead man. She had 
 seen him several times since the day of her seizure, 
 but never aloue. There was an idea that Steadman 
 must necessarily talk to her of business matters, 
 or cause her mind to trouble itself about business 
 matters : so there had been a well-intentioned 
 conspiracy in the house to keep him out of her 
 way ; but now she was much better, and her 
 desire to see Steadman need no longer be 
 thwarted. 
 
 He came at her bidding, and stood a little way 
 within the door, tall, erect, square-shouldered, 
 resolute-looking, with a quiet force of character 
 expressed in every feature. He was very much 
 the same man that he had been forty years ago,
 
 318 'THE SPRING COMES SLOWLY UP THIS WAY.' 
 
 when he went with her ladyship to Southampton, 
 and accompanied his master and mistress on that 
 tedious journey which was destined to be Lord 
 Maulevrier's last earthly pilgrimage. Time had 
 done little to Steadman in those forty years, except 
 to whiten his hair and beard, and imprint some 
 thoughtful lines upon his sagacious forehead. Time 
 liad done something for him mentally, insomuch 
 as he had read a great many books and cultivated 
 his mind in the monotonous quiet of Fellside. 
 Altogether he was a superior man for the passage 
 of those forty years. 
 
 He had married within the time, choosing for 
 himself the buxom daughter of a lodgekeeper, 
 wtose wife had long been laid at rest in Grasmere 
 Churchyard. The buxom girl had grown into a 
 bulky matron, but she was a colourless personage, 
 and her existence made hardly any difference in 
 James Steadman's life. She had brought him no 
 children, and their fireside was lonely; but 
 Steadman seemed to be one of those self-contained 
 personages to whom a solitary life is no affliction. 
 
 'I hope I see you in better health, my lady,'
 
 ' THE SPRING COMES SLOWLY UP THIS WAY.' 319 
 
 he said, standing straight and square, like a soldier 
 on parade. 
 
 *I am better, thank you, Steadman; better, 
 but a poor lifeless log chained to this sofa. I 
 sent for you because the time has come when I 
 must talk to you upon a matter of business. 
 You heard, I suppose, that a stranger called 
 upon me just before I had my attack ? ' 
 
 * Yes, my lady.* 
 
 ' Did you hear who and what he was ? ' 
 ' Only that he was a foreigner, my lady.' 
 'He is of Indian birth. He claims to be the 
 son of the Eanee of Bisnagar.' 
 
 ' He could do you no harm, my lady, if he 
 were twenty times her son.' 
 
 *I hope not. Now, I want to ask you a 
 question. Among those trunks and cases and 
 packages of Lord Maulevrier's which were sent 
 here by heavy coach, after they were landed 
 at Southampton, do you remember two cases of 
 books ? ' 
 
 * There are two large cases among the luggage, 
 my lady; very heavy cases, iron clamped. I
 
 320 'THE SPKING COMES SLOWLY UP THIS WAY.' 
 
 should not be surprised if the}^ were full of 
 books.' 
 
 'Have they never been opened?' 
 
 ' Not to my knov/ledge.' 
 
 ' Are they locked ? ' 
 
 'Yes, my lady. There are two padlocks on 
 each chest.' 
 
 ' And are the keys in your possession ? ' 
 
 ' !N"o, my lady.' 
 
 ' Where are the cases ? ' 
 
 ' In the Oak Eoom, with the rest of the Indian 
 luggage.' 
 
 ' Let them remain there. No doubt those 
 cases contain the books of which I have been 
 told. You have not heard that the person calling 
 himself Eajah of Bisnagar has been here since 
 my iUness, have you?' 
 
 * No, my lady ; I am sure he has not been 
 here.' 
 
 Lady Maulevrier gave him a scrutinising look. 
 
 ' He might have come, and my people might 
 have kept the knowledge from me, out of con- 
 sideration for my infirmity,' she said. ' I should
 
 •the spring comes slowly up this way.' 321 
 
 be very angry if it were so. I should hate to be 
 treated like a child.' 
 
 *You shall not be so treated, my lady, while 
 I am in this house; but I know there is no 
 member of the household who would presume so 
 to treat you.' 
 
 ' They might do it out of kindness ; but I 
 should loathe such kindness/ said Lady Maulevrier, 
 impatiently. 'Though I have been smitten down, 
 though I lie here like a log, I have a mind to 
 think and to plan; and I am not afraid to meet 
 danger, face to face. Are you telling me the 
 truth, Steadman? Have there been no visits 
 concealed from me, no letters kept from me since 
 I have been ill?' 
 
 ' I am teUing you nothing but the truth, my 
 lady. No letter has been kept from you; no 
 visitor has been to this house whose coming you 
 have not been told of.' 
 
 'Then I am content,' said her ladyship, with 
 a sigh of relief. 
 
 After this there followed some conversation 
 upon business matters. James Steadman was 
 
 VOL. L Y
 
 S22 'THE SPKING COMES SLOWLY UP THIS WAY.' 
 
 trusted with the entire management of the 
 dowager's income, the investment of her savings. 
 His honesty was above all suspicion. He was a 
 man of simple habits, his wants few. He had 
 saved money in every year of his service; and 
 for a man of his station was rich enough to be 
 unassailable by the tempter. 
 
 He had reconciled his mind to the monoto- 
 nous course of life at Fellside in the beginning 
 of things ; and, as the years glided smoothly by, 
 his character and wants and inclinations had, as 
 it were, moulded themselves to fit that life. 
 He had easy duties, a comfortable home, supreme 
 authority in the household. He was looked up 
 to and made much of in the village whenever 
 he condescended to appear there; and by the 
 rareness of his visits to the Inn or the Eeading- 
 room, and his unwillingness to accept hospitality 
 from the tradesmen of Grasmere and Ambleside, 
 he maintained his dignity and exaggerated his 
 importance. He had his books and his news- 
 papers, his evening leisure, which no one ever 
 dared to disturb* He had the old wing of the
 
 ' THE SPRING COMES SLOWLY UP THIS WAY.' 32.') 
 
 house for his exclusive occupation ; and no one 
 ventured to intrude upon him in his privacy. 
 There was a bell in the corridor which com- 
 municated with his rooms, and by this bell 
 he was always summoned. There were servants 
 who had been ten years at Fcllside, and who had 
 never crossed the threshold of the red cloth 
 door which was the only communication between 
 the new house and the old one. Steadman's 
 wife performed all household duties of cooking 
 and cleaning in the south wing, where she and 
 her husband took all their meals, and lived 
 entirely apart from the other servants, an ex- 
 clusiveness which was secretly resented by the 
 establishment. 
 
 * Mr. Steadman may be a very superior man,' 
 said the butler, 'and I know that in his own 
 estimation the Premier isn't in it compared with 
 him ; but I never was fond of people who set 
 themselves upon pinnacles, and I'm not fond of 
 the Steadmans.' 
 
 'Mrs. Steadman's plain and homely enough,' 
 replied the housekeeper, 'and I know she'd like
 
 324 ' THE SPRING COMES SLOWLY UP THIS WAY.' 
 
 to be more sociable, and drop into my room for 
 a cup of tea now and then ; but Steadman 
 do so keep her under his thumb : and because 
 he's a misanthrope she's obliged to sit and mope 
 alone.' 
 
 If Steadman wanted to drive, there was a 
 dog-cart and horse at his disposal; but he did not 
 often leave Fellside. He seemed in his humble 
 way to model his life upon Lady Maulevrier's 
 secluded habits. 
 
 It was growing dusk when Steadman left 
 his mistress, and she lay for some time looking 
 at the landscape over which twilight shadows 
 were stealing, and thinking of her own life. 
 Over that life, too, the shadows of evening were 
 creeping. She had begun to realise the fact 
 that she was an old woman ; that for her all 
 personal interest in life was nearly over. She 
 had never felt her age w^hile her activity was 
 unimpaired. She had been obliged to remind 
 herself very often that the afternoon and evening of 
 life had slipped away unawares in that tranquil 
 retirement, and that the night was at hand.
 
 ' THE SPRING COMES SLOWLY UP THIS WAY.' 325 
 
 For her the close of earthly life meant actual 
 night. No new dawn, no mysterious after-life 
 shone upon her with magical gleams of an 
 unknown light upon the other side of the dark 
 river. She had accepted the Materialist's bitter 
 and barren creed, and had taught herself that 
 this little life was all. She had learned to scorn 
 the idea of a great Artificer outside the universe, 
 a mighty Spirit riding amidst the clouds, and 
 ruling the course of nature and the fate of man. 
 She had schooled herself to think that the idea of 
 a blind unconscious Nature, working automatic- 
 ally through infinite time and space, was ever 
 so much grander than that old-world notion of 
 a personal God, a Being of infinite power and 
 inexhaustible beneficence, mighty to devise and 
 direct the universe, with knowledge reaching to 
 the farthest confines of space, with ear to listen 
 to the prayer of His lowest creatures. Her 
 belief stopped short even of the Deist's faith in 
 an Almighty Will. She saw in creation nothing 
 but the inevitable development of material 
 laws ; and it seemed to her that there was
 
 326 'THE SPRING COMES SLOWLY UP THIS WAT.' 
 
 quite as much hope of a heavenly world after 
 death for the infusoria in the pool as for man 
 in his pride and power. 
 
 She read her Bible as diligently as she read 
 her Shakespeare, and the words of the Eoyal 
 Preacher in some measure embodied her own dreary 
 creed. And now, in the darkening winter day, 
 she watched the gloomy shadows creep over the 
 rugged breast of Xabb Scar, and she thought how 
 there was a time for all things, and that her day 
 of hope and ambition v/as past. 
 
 Of late years she had lived for Lesbia, looking 
 forward to the day when she was to introduce 
 this beloved grandchild to the great world of 
 London ; and now that hope was gone for ever. 
 What could a helpless cripple do for a fashionable 
 beauty ? What good would it be for her to be 
 conveyed to London, and to lie on a couch in May- 
 fair, while Lesbia rode in the Eow and went to 
 three or four parties every night with a more 
 active chaperon? 
 
 She had hoped to go everywhere with her 
 darling, to glory in all her successes, to sliield her
 
 ' TflE SPRING COMES SLOWLY UP THIS WAY.' 327 
 
 from all possibility of failure. And now Lesbia 
 must stand or fall alone. 
 
 It was a hard thing : but perhaps the hardest 
 part of it all was that Lesbia seemed so very well 
 able to get on without her. The girl wrote in 
 the highest spirits ; and although her letters were 
 most affectionately worded, they were all about 
 self. That note was dominant in every strain. Her 
 triumphs, her admirers, her bonnets, her gowns. 
 She had had more money from her grandmother, 
 and more gowns from Paris. 
 
 'You have no idea how the people dress in 
 this place,' she wrote. ' I should have been quite 
 out in the cold without my three new frocks from 
 Worth. The little Princess bonnets I wear are the 
 rage. Worth recommended me to adopt special 
 flowers and colours ; so I have worn nothing but 
 primroses since I have been here, and my little 
 primrose bonnets are to be seen everj'-where, some- 
 times on hideous old women. Lady Kirkbank 
 hopes you will be able to go to London directly 
 after Easter. She says I must be presented at the 
 May drawing-room that is imperative. People
 
 32S ' THE SPRING COMES SLOWLY UP THIS WAY.' 
 
 have begun to talk about me ; and unless I make 
 my dehut while their interest is fresh I shall be a 
 failure. There is an American beauty here, and I 
 believe she and I are considered rivals, and young 
 men make bets about us, as to which will look 
 best at a ball, or a regatta, what colours we shall 
 wear, and so on. It is immense fun. I only wish 
 you were here to enjoy it. The American girl is 
 a most insolent person, but I have had the pleasure 
 of crushing her on several occasions in the calmest 
 way. In the description of the concert in last week's 
 newspaper I was called VAnglaise de Marhre. I 
 certainly had the decency to hold my tongue while 
 Faure was singing. Miss Bolsover's voice was heard 
 ever so many times above the music. According to 
 our English ideas she has most revolting manners, and 
 the money she spends on her clothes would make 
 your hair stand on end. Now do, dearest grand- 
 mother, make all your arrangements for beginning 
 the campaign directly after Easter. You must take 
 a house in the very choicest quarter — Lady Kirk- 
 bank suggests Grosvenor-place — and it must be a 
 large house, for of course you will give a ball.
 
 'THE SPRING COMES SLOWLY UP THIS WAY.' 329 
 
 I.ady K. says we might have Lord Porlock's house 
 — poor Lady Porlock and her baby died a few 
 weeks ago, and he has gone to Sweden quite 
 broken-hearted. It is one of the new houses, 
 exquisitely furnished, and Lady K. thinks you 
 might have it for a song. AVill you get Steadman 
 to write to his lordship's steward, and see what 
 can be done ? 
 
 'I hope the dear hand is better. You have 
 never told me how you hurt it. It is very sweet 
 of Mary to write me such long letters, and quite 
 a pleasant surprise to find she can spell ; but I 
 want to see your own dear hand once more.'
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 *AND COME AGEN BE IT BY NIGHT OR DAY.' 
 
 Those winter months were unutterably dreary 
 for Lady Mary Haselden. She felt weighed 
 down by a sense of death and woe near at 
 hand. The horror of that dreadful moment in 
 which she found her grandmother lying senseless 
 on the ground, the terror of that distorted 
 countenance, those starting eyes, that stertorous 
 breathing, was not easily banished from a vivid 
 girlish imagination ; seeing how few distractions 
 tliere were to divert Mary's thoughts, and how the 
 sun sank and rose again upon the same inevitable 
 surroundings, the same monotonous routine. 
 
 Her grandmother was kinder than she had 
 been in days gone by, less inclined to find 
 fault ; but Mary knew that her society gave 
 Lady Maulevrier very little pleasure, that she
 
 ' AND COME AGEX I3E IT BY NIGHT OK DAY.' o31 
 
 could do hardly anything towards filling the gap 
 made by Lesbia's absence. There was no one 
 to scold her, no one to quarrel mth her. 
 Friiulein Miiller lectured her mildly from time 
 to time ; but that stout German was too lazy 
 to put any force or fire into her lectures. Her 
 reproofs w^ere like the fall of waterdrops on a 
 stone, and infinite ages would have been needed 
 to cause any positive impression. 
 
 February came to an end without sign or 
 token from the outer w^orld to disturb the even 
 tenor of life at Fellside. Mary read, and read, 
 and read, till she felt she was made up of the 
 contents of books, crammed with other people's 
 ideas. She read history, or natural science, or 
 travels, or German poetry in the morning, and 
 novels or English poetry in the evening. She 
 had pledged herself to devote her morning in- 
 door hours to instructive literatur.% and to 
 accomplish some portion of study iu every day 
 She was carrying on her education on. parole, 
 as before stated ; and she was too honourable 
 to do less than was expected from her.
 
 332 * AND COME AGEN BE IT BY NIGHT OR DAY.' 
 
 March came in with its most leonine aspect, 
 howling and blustering ; north-east winds shriek- 
 ing along the gorges and wailing from height 
 to height. 
 
 * I wonder the lion and the lamb are not 
 blown into the lake,' said Mary, looking at 
 Helm Crag from the library window. 
 
 She scampered about the gardens in the 
 very teeth of those bitter blasts, and took her 
 shivering terriers for runs on the green slopes 
 of the Fell. The snow had gradually melted 
 from the sides of the lowermost range of hills, 
 but the mountain peaks were still white and 
 ghostly, the ground was still hard and slippery 
 in the early mornings. Mary had to take her 
 walks alone in this bleak weather. Fraulein 
 had a convenient bronchial affection which for- 
 bade her to venture so much as the point of 
 her nose outside the house in an east wind, 
 and which justified her in occasionally taking 
 her breakfast in bed. She spent her days for the 
 most part in her arm-chair, drawn close to 
 the fireplace, which she still insisted upon calling
 
 ' AND COME AGEX BE IT BY NIGHT OR DAY.' 333 
 
 the oven, knitting diligently, or reading Klatter- 
 dasch or the Bicndschcm. Even music, which 
 had once been her strong point, was neglected 
 in this trying weather. It was such a cold 
 journey from the oven to the piano. 
 
 Mary played a good deal in her desultory 
 manner, now that she had the drawing-room 
 all to herself, and no fear of Lady Maulevrier's 
 critical ear or Lesbia's superior smile. The 
 Fraulein was pleased to hear her pupil ramble 
 on with her favourite bits from Eaff, and Hensel, 
 and Schubert, and Mendelssohn, and Mozart, and 
 was very well content to let her play just what 
 she liked, and to escape the trouble of training 
 her to that exquisite perfection into which Lady 
 Lesbia had been drilled. Lesbia was not a 
 genius, and the training process had been quite 
 as hard for the governess as for the pupil. 
 
 Thus the slow days wore on till the first 
 week in March ; and on one bleak bitter after- 
 noon, when Fraulein Miiller stuck to the oven 
 even a little closer than usual, Mary felt she 
 must go out, in the face of the east wind,
 
 334'AISD COME AGEN BE IT BY NIGHT OBx DAY.' 
 
 which was tossing the leafless branches in the 
 valley below until the trees looked like an 
 angry crowd, hurling its arms ia the air, fighting, 
 struggling, writhing. She must leave that dreary 
 house for a little while, were it even to be 
 lashed and bruised and broken by that fierce 
 wind. So she told Fraulein that she really 
 must have her constitutional ; and after a feeble 
 remonstrance Fraulein let her go, and subsided 
 luxuriously into the pillowed depth of her arm- 
 chair. 
 
 There had been a hard frost, and all the 
 mountain ways were perilous, so Mary set out 
 upon a steady tramp along the road leading 
 towards the Langdales. The wind seemed to 
 assail her from every side, but she had accustomed 
 herself to defy the elements, and she only hugged 
 her sealskin jacket closer to her, and quickened 
 her pace, chirruping and whistling to Ahab and 
 Ariadne, the two fox-terriers which she had 
 selected for the privilege of a walk. 
 
 The terriers raced along the road, and Mary, 
 seeinfif that she had the road all to herself, raced
 
 'AND GOME AGEV BE IT BY NIGHT OR DAY.' 33-5 
 
 after them. A light snow shower, large feathery 
 flakes flying wide apart, fell from the steel -grey 
 sky; but Mary minded the snow no more than 
 she minded the wind. She raced on, the terriers 
 scampering, rushing, flying before her, until, just 
 where the road took a curve, she almost ran into 
 a horse, which was stepping along at a tremen- 
 dous pace, with a light, high dogcart behind him. 
 
 ' Hi ! ' cried the driver, ' where are you coming, 
 young woman? Have you never seen a horse 
 till to-day ? ' 
 
 Some one beside the driver leapt out, and ran 
 to see if Mary was hurt. The horse had 
 swerved to one side, reared a little, and then 
 spun on for a few yards, leaving her standing in 
 the middle of the road. 
 
 ' Why, it's Molly ! ' cried the drivei', who was no 
 less distinguished a whip than Lord Maulevrier, 
 and who had recognised the ten-iers. 
 
 ' I hope you are not hurt,' said the gentleman 
 who had alighted, Maulevi'ier's friend and shadow, 
 John Hammond. 
 
 Mary was covered with confusion by her
 
 336 'AND COME AGEN BE IT BY NIGHf OR DAY.' 
 
 exploit, and could hardly answer Mr. Hammond's 
 very simple question. 
 
 She looked up at him piteously, trying to 
 speak, and he took alarm at her scared expression. 
 
 *I am sure you are hurt,' he said earnestly, 
 ' the horse must have struck you, or the shaft 
 perhaps, which was worse. Is it your shoulder 
 that is hurt, or your chest ? Lean on me, if you 
 feel faint or giddy. Maulevrier, you had better 
 drive your sister home, and get her looked after.' 
 
 ' Indeed, I am not hurt ; not the least little 
 bit,' gasped Mary, who had recovered her senses 
 by this time. 'I was only frightened, and it 
 was such a surprise to see you and Maulevrier.' 
 
 A surprise — yes — a surprise which had set her 
 heart throbbing so violently as to render her 
 speechless. Had horse or shaft-point struck her 
 ever so, she would have hardly been more 
 tremulous than she felt at this moment. Never 
 had she hoped to see him again. He had set 
 his all upon one cast — loved, wooed, and lost her 
 sister. Why should he ever come again ? What 
 was there at Fellside worth coming for ? And
 
 'AND COME AGEX BE IT BY NIGHT OR DAY.' 337 
 
 then she remembered what her grandmother 
 thought of him. He was a hanger-on, a sponge, 
 a led captain. He was Maule\Tier's Umbra, and 
 must go where his patron went. It was a hard 
 thing so to think of Mm, and Mai-y's heart sank 
 at the thought that Lady Maulevrier's worldly 
 wisdom might have reckoned aright. 
 
 'It was very foolish of me to run into the 
 horse,' said Mary, while ^Ir. Hammond stood 
 waiting for her to recover herself. 
 
 ' It was very foolish of Maulevrier to run into 
 you. If he didn't drive at such a break-neck 
 pace it wouldn't have happened.' 
 
 Umbra was very plain-spoken, at any rate. 
 
 ' There's rank ingratitude,' cried Maulevrier, 
 
 who had turned back, and was looking down at 
 
 them from his elevated perch. * After my coming 
 
 all the way round by Langdale to oblige you 
 
 with a view of Elterwater. Molly's all safe and 
 
 sound. She wouldn't have minded if I'd run 
 
 over her. Come along, child, get up beside me, 
 
 Hammond wiU take the back seat.* 
 
 This was easier said than done, for the back 
 VOL. I. z
 
 338 'AND COME AGEN BE IT BY NIGHT OR DAY.' 
 
 of the dogcart was piled with Gladstone bags, 
 fishing-rods, and hat-boxes; but Umbra was ready 
 to oblige. He handed Mary up to the seat 
 by the driver, and clambered up at the back, 
 where he hooked himself on somehow among the 
 luggage. 
 
 'Dear Maulevrier, how delicious of you to 
 come ! ' said Mary, when they were rattling on 
 towards Fellside ; ' I hope you are going to stay 
 for ages.' 
 
 'Well, I dare say, if you make yourself very 
 agreeable, I may stay till after Easter.' 
 
 Mary's countenance fell. 
 
 'Easter is in three weeks,' she said, de- 
 spondingly. 
 
 'And isn't three weeks an age, at such a 
 place as Fellside? I don't know that I should 
 have come at all on this side of the August 
 sports, only as the grandmother was ill, I 
 thought it a duty to come and see her. A 
 fellow mayn't care much for ancestors when 
 they're well, you know ; but when a poor old 
 lady is down on her luck, her people ought to
 
 *AND COME AGEN BE IT BY NIGHT OR DAY.' 339 
 
 look after her. So, here I am ; and as I knew 
 I should be moped to death here ' 
 
 * Thank you for the compliment,' said Mary. 
 
 * I brought Hammond along with me. Of 
 course, I knew Lesbia was safe out of the way,' 
 added Maulevrier in an undertone. 
 
 * It is very obliging of Mr. Hammond always 
 to go where you wish,' returned Mary, who 
 could not help a bitter feeling when she remem- 
 bered her grandmother's cruel suggestion. ' Has 
 he no tastes or inclinations of his own?' 
 
 'Yes, he has, plenty of them, and much 
 loftier tastes than mine, I can tell you. But 
 he's kind enough to let me hang on to him, 
 and to put up with my frivolity. There never 
 were two men more different than he and I are; 
 and I suppose that's why we get on so well 
 together. When we were in Paris he was always 
 up to his eyes in serious work — lectures, public 
 libraries, workmen's syndicates, Mary Anne, the 
 International — heaven knows what, making himself 
 master of the political situation in France; while 
 I was rigolant and chaloujpant at the Bal Bullier.'
 
 340 'AND COME AGEN BE IT BY NIGHT OR DAY/ 
 
 It was generous of Maulevrier to speak of 
 his hanger-on thus ; and no doubt the society 
 of a well-informed earnest young man was a 
 great good for Maulevrier, a good far above the 
 price of those pounds, shillings, and pence which 
 the Earl might spend for his dependent's benefit; 
 but "when a girl of Mary's ardent temper has 
 made a hero of a man, it galls her to think 
 that her hero's dignity should be sacrificed, his 
 honour impeached, were it by the merest tittle. 
 
 Maulevrier made a good many inquiries about 
 his grandmother, and seemed really full of kind- 
 ness and sympathy ; but it was with a feeling 
 of profound awe, nay, of involuntary reluctance 
 and shrinking that he presently entered her 
 ladyship's sitting-room, ushered in by Mary, who 
 had been to her grandmother beforehand to 
 announce the grandson's arrival. 
 
 The young man had hardly ever been in a 
 sick room before. He half expected to see 
 Lady Maulevrier in bed, with a crowd of medi- 
 cine bottles and a cut orange on a table by 
 her side^ and a sick nurse of the ancient-crone
 
 'AND COME AGE.Y BE IT BY XlGHT OR DAY.* 341 
 
 species cowering over the fire. It was an infinite 
 relief to him to find his grandmother lying on 
 a sofa by the fire in her pretty morning room. 
 A little tea-table was drawn close up to her 
 sofa, and she was taking her afternoon tea. It 
 was rather painful to see her lifting her tea-cup 
 slowly and carefully with her left hand, but 
 that was all. The dark eyes still flashed with 
 the old eagle glance, the lines of the lips were 
 as proud and firm as ever. All sign of con- 
 traction or distortion had passed away. In hours 
 of calm her ladyship's beauty was unimpaired; 
 but with any strong emotion there came a 
 convulsive working of the features, and the face 
 was momentarily drawn and distorted, as it 
 had been at the time of the seizure. 
 
 Maulevrier's presence had not an unduly 
 agitating effect on her ladyship. She received 
 him with tranquil graciousness, and thanked him 
 for his coming. 
 
 * I hope you have spent your winter profitably 
 in Paris,' she said. 'There is a great deal to be 
 learnt there if you go into the right circles.'
 
 342 'AND COME AGEN BE IT BY NIGHT OR DAY.' 
 
 Maulevrier told her that he had found much 
 to learn, and that he had gone into circles where 
 almost everything was new to hira. Whereupon 
 his grandmother questioned him about certain 
 noble families in the Faubourg Saint Germain 
 who had been known to her in her own day 
 of power, and whose movements she had observed 
 from a distance since that time ; but here she 
 found her grandson dark. He had not happened 
 to meet any of the people she spoke about : 
 the plain truth being that he had lived altogether 
 as a Bohemian, and had not used one of the 
 letters of introduction that had been given to 
 him. 
 
 'Your friend Mr. Hammond is with you, I 
 am told,' said Lady Maulevrier, not altogether 
 with delight. 
 
 ' Yes, I made him come ; but he is quite 
 safe. He will bolt like a shot at the least hint 
 of Lesbia's return. He doesn't want to meet 
 that young lady again, I can assure you.' 
 
 * Pray don't talk in that injured tone. Mr. 
 Hammond is a gentlemanlike person, very well
 
 •and come agen be it by xight or day.' 343 
 
 informed, very agreeable. I have never denied 
 that. But you could not expect me to allow 
 my granddaughter to throw herself away upon 
 the first adventurer who made her an offer.' 
 * Hammond is not an adventurer.' 
 'Very well, I will not call him so, if the 
 term offends you. But Mr. Hammond is — Mr. 
 Hammond : and I cannot allow Lesbia to marry 
 Mr. Hammond or Mr. Anybody, and I am very 
 sorry you have brought him here again. There 
 is Mary, a silly, romantic girl. I am very 
 much afraid he has made an impression upon 
 her. She colours absurdly when she talks of 
 him, and flew into a passion with me the other 
 day when I ventured to hint that he is not a 
 Kothschild, and that his society must be 
 expensive to you.' 
 
 'His society does not cost me anything. 
 Hammond is the soul of independence. He 
 worked as a blacksmith in Canada for three 
 months, just to see what life was like in a wild 
 district. There never was such a fellow to rough 
 it. And as for Molly, well, now, really, if he
 
 344 'AND COME AGEN BE IT BY NIGHT OR DAY.' 
 
 happened to take a fancy to her, and if she 
 happened to like him, I wouldn't burke the 
 business, if I were you, grandmother. Take 
 my word for it, Molly might do worse.' 
 
 * Of course. She might marry a chimney 
 sweep. There is no answering for a girl of that 
 erratic nature. She is silly enough and romantic 
 enough for anything ; but I shall not countenance 
 her if she wants to throw herself away on a 
 person without prospects or connections ; and I 
 look to you, Maulevrier, to take care of her, 
 now that 1 am a wretched log chained to this room.' 
 
 * You may rely upon me, grandmother. Molly 
 shall come to no harm, if I can help it.' 
 
 'Thank you,' said her ladyship, touching her 
 bell twice. 
 
 The two clear silvery strokes were a summons 
 for Halcott, the maid, who appeared immediately. 
 
 'Tell Mrs. Power to get his lordship's rooms 
 ready immediately, and to give Mr. Hammond 
 the room he had last summer,' said Lady 
 Maulevrier, with a sigh of resignation. 
 
 While Maulevrier was with his grandmother
 
 'AND COME AGEN BE IT BY NIGHT OR DAY.' 345 
 
 John Hammond was smoking a solitary cigar 
 on the terrace, contemplating the mountain 
 landscape in its cold March greyness, and 
 wondering very much to find himself again at 
 Fellside. He had gone forth from that house 
 full of passionate indignation, shaking off the 
 dust from his feet, sternly resolved never again 
 to cross the threshold of that fateful cave, where 
 he had met his cold-heai'ted Circe. And now, 
 because Circe was safe out of the way, he had 
 come back to the cavern ; and he was feeling 
 all the pain that a man feels who beholds 
 again the scene of a great past sorrow. 
 
 Was this the old love and the old pain again, 
 he wondered; or was it only the sharp thrust of 
 a bitter memory ? He had believed himself cured 
 of his useless love — a great and noble love, wasted 
 on a smaller nature than his own. He had 
 thought that because his eyes were opened, and 
 he understood the character of the girl he loved, 
 his cure must needs be complete. Yet now, 
 face to face with the well-remembered landscape, 
 looking down upon that dull grey lake which he
 
 346 -AND COME AGEN BE IT BY NIGHT OR DAY.' 
 
 had seen smiling in the sunshine, he began to 
 doubt the completeness of his cure. He recalled 
 the lovely face, the graceful form, the sweet, 
 low voice—the perfection of gracious womanhood, 
 manner, dress, movements, tones, smiles, all 
 faultless ; and in the absence of that one figure, 
 it seemed to him as if he had come back to a 
 tenantless, dismantled house, where there was 
 nothing that made life worth living. 
 
 The red sun went down — a fierce and lurid 
 face that seemed to scowl through the grey — and 
 Mr. Hammond felt that it was time to arouse 
 himself from gloomy meditation and go in to 
 dress for dinner. Maulevrier's valet was to 
 arrive by the coach with the heavier part of the 
 luggage, and Maulevrier's valet did that very 
 small portion of valeting which was ever required 
 by Mr. Hammond. A man who has worked at 
 a forge in the backwoods is not likely to be 
 finicking in his ways, or dependent upon servants 
 for looking after his raiment. 
 
 Despite Mr. Hammond's gloomy memories of 
 past joys and disillusions, he contrived to make
 
 'AND COME AGEN BE. IT BY NIGHT OK DAY.' 347 
 
 himself very agreeable, by-and-by, at dinner, 
 and in the drawing-room after dinner, and the 
 evening was altogether gay and sprightly. Maul- 
 evrier was in high spirits, full of his Parisian 
 experiences, and talking slang as glibly as a 
 student of the Quartier Latin. He would talk 
 nothing but French, protesting that he had almost 
 forgotten his native tongue ; and his French was 
 the language of Larchey's Dictionary of Argot, in 
 which nothing is called by its right name. ]Mary 
 was enchanted with this new vocabulary, and 
 wanted to have every word explained to her; but 
 Maulevrier confessed that there was a good deal 
 that was unexplainable. 
 
 The evening was much livelier than those 
 summer evenings when the dowager and Lady 
 Lesbia w^ere present. There was something less 
 of refinement, perhaps, and Fraulein remonstrated 
 now and then about some small violation of the 
 unwritten laws of 'Anstand,' but there was more 
 mirth. Maulevrier felt for the first time as if he 
 were master at Fellside. They all went to the 
 bilKard room soon after dinner, and Fiiiulein and
 
 348 'AND COJVIE AGEN BE IT BY NIGHT OR DAY.' 
 
 Mary sat by the fire looking on, while the two 
 young men played. In such an evening there 
 was no time for bitter memories : and John 
 Hammond was surprised to find how little he 
 had missed that enchantress whose absence had 
 made the house seem desolate to him when he 
 re-entered it. 
 
 He was tired with his journey and the varying 
 emotions of the day, for it was not without strong 
 emotion that he had consented to return to Fell- 
 side — and he slept soundly for the earlier part of 
 the night. But he had trained himself long ago 
 to do with a very moderate portion of sleep, and 
 he was up and dressed while the dawn was still 
 slowly creejDing along the edges of the hills. He 
 went quietly down to the hall, took one of the 
 bamboos from a collection of canes and mountain 
 sticks, and set out upon a morning ramble over 
 the snowy slopes. The snow showers of yesterday 
 had only sprinkled the greensward upon the lower 
 ground, but in the upper regions the winter snows 
 still lingered, giving an Alpine character to the 
 landscape.
 
 'AND COME AGEN BE IT BY XIGHT OK DAY." 349 
 
 John Hammond was too experienced a moim- 
 taineer to be deterred by a little snow. He went 
 up Silver Howe, and from the rugged breast of 
 the mountain saw the sun leap up from amidst 
 a chaos of hill and crag, in all his majesty, while 
 the grey mists of night slowly floated up from 
 the valley that had lain hidden below them, and 
 Grasmere Lake sparkled and flashed in the light 
 of the newly-risen sun. 
 
 The church clock was strikinoj eight as 
 Hammond came at a brisk pace down to the 
 valley. There was still an hour before breakfast, 
 so he took a circuitous path to Fellside, and 
 descended iipon the house from the Fell, a.s 
 he had done that summer morning when lie 
 saw James Steadnian sauntering about in his 
 garden. 
 
 Within about a quarter of a mile of Lady 
 Maulevrier's shrubberies Mr. Hammond encountered 
 a pedestrian, who was evidently like himself 
 taking a constitutional ramble in the morning air, 
 but on a much less extended scale, for this person 
 did not look capable of going far afield.
 
 350 'AND COME AGEN BE IT BY NIGHT OK DAY.' 
 
 He was an old man, something under middle 
 height, but looking as if he had once been taller ; 
 for his shoulders were much bent, and his head 
 was sunk on his chest. His whole form looked 
 wasted and shrunken, and John Hammond thought 
 he had never seen so old a man — or at any rate 
 any man who was so deeply marked with all 
 the signs of extreme age ; and yet in the 
 backwoods of America he had met ancient 
 settlers who remembered Franklin, and who 
 had been boys when the battle of Bunker's Hill 
 was fresh in the memory of their fathers and 
 mothers. 
 
 The little old man was clad in a thick grey 
 overcoat of some shaggy kind of cloth which looked 
 like homespun. He wore a felt hat, and carried a 
 thick oak stick, and there was nothing in his appear- 
 ance to indicate that he belonged to any higher 
 grade than that of the shepherds and guides with 
 whom Hammond had made himself familiar during 
 his previous visit. And yet there was something 
 distinctive about the man, Hammond thought, 
 something wild and uncanny, which made him
 
 'AND COME AGEN BE IT BY NIGHT OR DAY.' 351 
 
 unlike any of those hale and hearty-looking dales- 
 men on whom old age sate so lightly. No, John 
 Hammond could not fancy this man, wifch his pallid 
 countenance and pale crafty eyes, to be of the same 
 race as those rugged and honest-looking descendants 
 of the Norsemen. 
 
 Perhaps it was the man's exceeding age, for 
 John Hammond made up his mind that he must 
 be a centenarian, which gave him so strange 
 and unholy an air. He had the aspect of a man 
 who had been buried and brought back to 
 life again. 
 
 So might look one of those Indian Fakirs who 
 have the power to suspend life by some mysterious 
 process, and to lie in the darkness of the grave for 
 a given period, and then at their own will to resume 
 the functions of the living. His long white hair 
 fell upon the collar of his grey coat, and would have 
 given him a patriarchal appearance had the face 
 possessed the dignity of age : but it was a counte- 
 nance without dignity, a face deeply scored with 
 the liijes of evil passions and guilty memories — the 
 face of the vulture, with a touch of the ferret —
 
 352 'AND COME AGEN BE IT BY NIGHT OR DAY.' 
 
 altogether a most unpleasant face, Mr. Hammond 
 thought. 
 
 And yet there was a kind of fascination 
 about that bent and shrunken figure, those feeble 
 movements, and shuffling gait. John Hammond 
 turned to look after the old man when he had 
 passed him, and stood to watch him as he went 
 slowly up the Fell, planting his crutch stick upon 
 the ground before every footstep, as if it were a 
 third leg, and more serviceable than either of the 
 other two. 
 
 Mr. Hammond watched him for two or three 
 minutes, but, as the old man's movements had an 
 automatic regularity, the occupation soon palled, 
 and he turned and walked towards Fellside. A 
 few yards nearer the grounds he met James 
 Steadman, walking briskly, and smoking his morn- 
 ing pipe. 
 
 'You are out early this morning,' said Ham- 
 mond, by way of civility. 
 
 ' I am always pretty early, sir. I like a 
 mouthful of morning air.' 
 
 ' So do I. By-the-bye, can you tell me any-
 
 'AND COME AGEN BE IT BY XIGHT OR DAY. OOO 
 
 thing about a queer-looking old man I passed just 
 now a little higher up the Fell ? Such an old, 
 old man, with long white hair.' 
 
 'Yes, sir. I believe I know him.' 
 ' Who is he ? Does he live in Grasmere ? ' 
 Steadman looked puzzled. 
 
 ' Well, you see, sir, your description might 
 apply to a good many ; but if it's the man I 
 think you mean he lives in one of the cottages 
 behind the church. Old Barlow, they call 
 him.' 
 
 'There can't be two such men — he must be 
 at least a century old. If any one told me he 
 were a hundred and twenty I shouldn't be in- 
 clined to doubt the fact. I never saw such a 
 shrivelled, wrinkled visage, bloodless, too, as if 
 the poor old wretch never felt your fresh moun- 
 tain air upon his hollow cheeks. A dreadful face. 
 It will haunt me for a month.' 
 
 'It must be old Barlow,' replied Steadman. 
 * Good day, sir.' 
 
 He walked on with his swinging step, and at 
 such a pace that he was up the side of the Fell 
 VOL. I. 2 A
 
 354 ' AND COME AGEN BE IT BY NIGHT Oil DAY.' 
 
 and close upon old Barlow's heels when Hammond 
 turned to look after him five minutes later. 
 
 'There's a man who shows few traces of age, 
 at any rate/ thought Hammond. ' Yet her lady- 
 ship told me that he is over seventy.' 
 
 END OF VOLUME I. 
 
 WILLIAM KIDER AND. SON, PRINTERS, LONDON.
 
 i)